Читать книгу In Clive's Command - Herbert Strang - Страница 9

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One warm October afternoon, some ten days after the night of his visit to the Four Alls, Desmond was walking along the tow path of the Thames, somewhat north of Kingston. As he came to the spot where the river bends round towards Teddington, he met a man plodding along with a rope over his shoulder, hauling a laden hoy.

"Can you tell me the way to the Waterman's Rest?" asked Desmond.

"Ay, that can I," replied the man without stopping. "'Tis about a quarter mile behind me, right on waterside. And the best beer this side o' Greenwich."

Thanking him, Desmond walked on. He had not gone many yards farther before there fell upon his ear, from some point ahead, the sound of several rough voices raised in chorus, trolling a tune that seemed familiar to him. As he came nearer to the singers, he distinguished the words of the song, and remembered the occasion on which he had heard them before: the evening of Clive's banquet at Market Drayton--the open window of the Four Alls, the voice of Marmaduke Diggle.

"Sir William Norris, Masulipatam"--these were the first words he caught; and immediately afterwards the voices broke into the second verse:

"Says Governor Pitt, Fort George, Madras,

'I know what you are: an ass, an ass,

An ass, an ass, an ASS, an ASS,'

Signed 'Governor Pitt, Fort George, Madras.'"

And at the conclusion there was a clatter of metal upon wood, and then one voice, loud and rotund, struck up the first verse once more--"Says Billy Norris, Masulipatam"--The singer was in the middle of the stave when Desmond, rounding a privet hedge, came upon the scene. A patch of greensward, sloping up from a slipway on the riverside; a low, cozy-looking inn of red brick covered with a crimson creeper; in front of it a long deal table, and seated at the table a group of some eight or ten seamen, each with a pewter tankard before him. To the left, and somewhat in the rear of the long table, was a smaller one, at which two seamen, by their garb a cut above the others, sat opposite each other, intent on some game.

Desmond's attention was drawn towards the larger table. Rough as was the common seaman of George the Second's time, the group here collected would have been hard to match for villainous looks. One had half his teeth knocked out, another a broken nose; all bore scars and other marks of battery.

Among them, however, there was one man marked out by his general appearance and facial expression as superior to the rest. In dress he was no different from his mates; he wore the loose blouse, the pantaloons, the turned-up cloth hat of the period. But he towered above them in height; he had a very large head, with a very small squab nose, merry eyes, and a fringe of jet-black hair round cheeks and chin.

When he removed his hat presently he revealed a shiny pink skull, rising from short, wiry hair as black as his whiskers. Alone of the group, he wore no love locks or greased pigtail. In his right hand, when Desmond first caught sight of him, he held a tankard, waving it to and fro in time with his song. He had lost his left hand and forearm, which were replaced by an iron hook projecting from a wooden socket, just visible in his loose sleeve.

He was halfway through the second stanza when he noticed Desmond standing at the angle of the hedge a few yards away. He fixed his merry eyes on the boy, and, beating time with his hook, went on with the song in stentorian tones:

"An ass, an ass, an Ass, an ASS,

Signed 'Governor Pitt, Fort George, Madras.'"

The others took up the chorus, and finally brought their tankards down upon the deal with a resounding whack.

"Ahoy, Mother Wiggs, more beer!" shouted the big man.

Desmond went forward.

"Is this the Waterman's Rest?"

"Ay, ay, young gen'leman, and a blamed restful place it is, too, fit for watermen what en't naught but landlubbers, speaking by the book, but not fit for the likes of us jack tars. Eh, mateys?"

His companions grunted acquiescence.

"I have a message for Mr. Toley; is he here?"

"Ay, that he is. That's him at the table yonder.

"Mr. Toley, sir, a young gen'leman to see you."

Desmond advanced to the smaller table. The two men looked up from their game of dominoes. One was a tall, lean fellow, with lined and sunken cheeks covered with iron-gray stubble, a very sharp nose, and colorless eyes; the expression of his features was melancholy in the extreme. The other was a shorter man, snub-nosed, big-mouthed; one eye was blue, the other green, and they looked in contrary directions. His hat was tilted forward, resting on two bony prominences above his eyebrows.

"Well?" said Mr. Toley, the man of melancholy countenance.

"I have a message from Captain Barker," said Desmond. "I am to say that he expects you and the men at Custom House Quay next Wednesday morning, high tide at five o'clock."

Mr. Toley lifted the tankard at his left hand, drained it, smacked his lips, then said in a hollow voice:

"Bulger, Custom House Quay, Wednesday morning, five o'clock."

A grunt of satisfaction and relief rolled round the company, and in response to repeated cries for more beer a stout woman in a mob cap and dirty apron came from the inn with a huge copper can, from which she proceeded to fill the empty tankards.

"Is the press still hot, sir?" asked Mr. Toley.

"Yes. Four men, I was told, were hauled out of the Good Intent yesterday."

"And four bad bargains for the king," put in the second man, whose cross glances caused Desmond no little discomfort.

At this moment Joshua Wiggs, the innkeeper, came up, carrying three fowling pieces.

"There be plenty o' ducks today, mister," he said.

"Then we'll try our luck," said Mr. Toley, rising.

"Thank 'ee, my lad," he added to Desmond. "You'll take a sup with the men afore you go?

"Bulger, see to the gentleman."

"Ay, ay, sir.

"Come aboard, matey."

He made a place for Desmond at his side on the bench, and called to Mother Wiggs to bring a mug for the gentleman. Meanwhile, Mr. Toley and his companion had each taken a fowling piece and gone away with the landlord. Bulger winked at his companions, and when the sportsmen were out of earshot he broke into a guffaw.

"Rare sport they'll have! I wouldn't be in Mr. Toley's shoes for something. What's a cock-eyed man want with a gun in his hand, eh, mateys?"

Desmond felt somewhat out of his element in his present company; but having reasons of his own for making himself pleasant, he said, by way of opening a conversation:

"You seem pleased at the idea of going to sea again, Mr. Bulger."

"Well, we are and we en't, eh, mateys? The Waterman's Rest en't exactly the kind of place to spend shore leave; it en't a patch on Wapping or Rotherhithe. And to tell 'ee true, we're dead sick of it. But there's reasons; there mostly is; and the whys and wherefores, therefores and becauses, I dessay you know, young gen'lman, acomin' from Captain Barker."

"The press gang?"

"Ay, the press is hot in these days. Cap'n sent us here to be out o' the way, and the orficers to look arter us. Not but what 'tis safer for them too; for if Mr. Sunman showed his cock-eyes anywhere near the Pool, he'd be nabbed by the bailiffs, sure as he's second mate o' the Good Intent. Goin' to sea's bad enough, but the Waterman's Rest and holdin' on the slack here's worse, eh, mateys?"

"Ay, you're right there, Bulger."

"But why don't you like going to sea?" asked Desmond.

"Why? You're a landlubber, sir--meanin' no offense--or you wouldn't axe sich a foolish question. At sea 'tis all rope's end and salt pork, with Irish horse for a tit-bit."

"Irish horse?"

"Ay. That's our name for it. 'Cos why? Explain to the gen'lman, mateys."

With a laugh the men began to chant--

"Salt horse, salt horse, what brought you here?

You've carried turf for many a year.

From Dublin quay to Mallyack

You've carried turf upon your back."

"That's the why and wherefore of it," added Bulger. "Cooks call it salt beef, same as French mounseers don't like the sound of taters an' calls 'em pummy detair; but we calls it Irish horse, which we know the flavor. Accordingly, notwithstandin' an' for that reason, if you axe the advice of an old salt, never you go to sea, matey."

"That's unfortunate," said Desmond, with a smile, "because I expect to sail next Wednesday morning, high tide at five o'clock."

"Binks and barnacles! Be you a-goin' to sail with us?"

"I hope so."

"Billy come up! You've got business out East, then?"

"Not yet, but I hope to have. I'm going out as supercargo."

"Oh! As supercargo!"

Bulger winked at his companions, and a hoarse titter went the round of the table.

"Well," continued Bulger, "the supercargo do have a better time of it than us poor chaps. And what do Cap'n Barker say to you as supercargo, which you are very young, sir?"

"I don't know Captain Barker."

"Oho! But I thought as how you brought a message from the captain?"

"Yes, but it came through Mr. Diggle."

"Ah! Mr. Diggle?"

"A friend of mine--a friend of the captain. He has arranged everything."

"I believe you, matey. He's arranged everything. Supercargo! Well, to be sure! Never a supercargo as I ever knowed but wanted a man to look arter him, fetch and carry for him, so to say. How would I do, if I might make so bold?"

"Thanks," said Desmond, smiling as he surveyed the man's huge form. "But I think Captain Barker might object to that. You'd be of more use on deck, in spite of--"

He paused, but his glance at the iron hook had not escaped Bulger's observant eye.

"Spite of the curlin' tongs, you'd say. Bless you, spit it out; I en't tender in my feelin's."

"Besides," added Desmond, "I shall probably make use of the boy who has been attending to me at the Goat and Compasses--a clever little black boy of Mr. Diggle's."

"Black boys be hanged! I never knowed a Sambo as was any use on board ship. They howls when they're sick, and they're allers sick, and never larns to tell a marlinspike from a belayin' pin."

"But Scipio isn't one of that sort. He's never sick, Mr. Diggle says; they've been several voyages together, and Scipio knows a ship from stem to stern."

"Scipio, which his name is? Uncommon name, that."

There was a new tone in Bulger's voice, and he gave Desmond a keen and, as it seemed, a troubled look.

"Yes, it is strange," replied the boy, vaguely aware of the change of manner. "But Mr. Diggle has ways of his own."

"This Mr. Diggle, now; I may be wrong, but I should say--yes, he's short, with bow legs and a wart on his cheek?"

"No, no; you must be thinking of some one else. He is tall, rather a well-looking man; he hasn't a wart, but there is a scar on his brow, something like yours."

"Ah, I know they sort; a fightin' sort o' feller, with a voice like--which I say, like a nine pounder?"

"Well, not exactly; he speaks rather quietly; he is well educated, too, to judge by the Latin he quotes."

"Sure now, a scholard. Myself, I never had no book larnin' to speak of; never got no further than pothooks an' hangers!"

He laughed as he lifted his hook. But he seemed to be disinclined for further conversation. He buried his face in his tankard, and when he had taken a long pull, set the vessel on the table and stared at it with a preoccupied air. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of Desmond. The other men were talking among themselves, and Desmond, having by this time finished his mug of beer, rose to go on his way.

"Goodby, Mr. Bulger," he said; "we shall meet again next Wednesday."

"Ay, ay, sir," returned the man.

He looked long after the boy as he walked away.

"Supercargo!" he muttered. "Diggle! I may be wrong, but--"

Desmond had come through Southwark and across Clapham and Wimbledon Common, thus approaching the Waterman's Rest from the direction of Kingston. Accustomed as he was to long tramps, he felt no fatigue, and with a boy's natural curiosity he decided to return to the city by a different route, following the river bank. He had not walked far before he came to the ferry at Twickenham. The view on the other side of the river attracted him: meadows dotted with cows and sheep, a verdant hill with pleasant villas here and there; and, seeing the ferryman resting on his oars, he accosted him.

"Can I get to London if I cross here?" he asked.

"Sure you can, sir. Up the hill past Mr. Walpole his house; then you comes to Isleworth and Brentford, and a straight road through Hammersmith village--a fine walk, sir, and only a penny for the ferryman."

Desmond paid his penny and crossed. He sauntered along up Strawberry Hill, taking a good look at the snug little house upon which Mr. Horace Walpole was spending much money and pains. Wandering on, and preferring bylanes to the high road, he lost his bearings, and at length, fearing that he was going in the wrong direction, he stopped at a wayside cottage to inquire the way.

He was farther out than he knew. The woman who came to the door in answer to his knock said that, having come so far, he had better proceed in the same direction until he reached Hounslow, and then strike into the London road and keep to it.

Desmond was nothing loath. He had heard of Hounslow and those notorious "Diana's foresters," Plunket and James Maclean--highwaymen who a few years before had been the terror of night travelers across the lonely Heath. There was a fascination about the scene of their exploits. So he trudged on, feeling now a little tired, and hoping to get a lift in some farmer's cart that might be going towards London.

More than once as he walked his thoughts recurred to the scene at the Waterman's Rest. They were a rough, villainous-looking set, these members of the crew of the Good Intent! Of course, as supercargo he would not come into close contact with them; and Mr. Diggle had warned him that he would find seafaring men somewhat different from the country folk among whom all his life hitherto had been passed.

Diggle's frankness had pleased him. They had left the Four Alls early on the morning after that strange incident at the squire's. Desmond had told his friend what had happened, and Diggle, apparently surprised to learn of Grinsell's villainy, had declared that the sooner they were out of his company the better. They had come by easy stages to London, and were now lodging at a small inn near the Tower: not a very savory neighborhood, Diggle admitted, but convenient. Diggle had soon obtained for Desmond a berth on board the Good Intent bound for the East Indies, and from what he let drop, the boy understood that he was to sail as supercargo.

He had not yet seen the vessel; she was painting, and would shortly be coming up to the Pool. Nor had he seen Captain Barker, who was very much occupied, said Diggle, and had a great deal of trouble in keeping his crew out of the clutches of the press gang. Some of the best of them had been sent to the Waterman's Rest in charge of the chief and second mates. It was at Diggle's suggestion that he had been deputed to convey the captain's message to the men.

It was drawing towards evening when Desmond reached Hounslow Heath; a wide, bare expanse of scrubby land intersected by a muddy road. A light mist lay over the ground, and he was thankful that the road to London was perfectly direct, so that there was no further risk of his losing his way. The solitude and the dismal appearance of the country, together with its ill repute, made him quicken his pace, though he had no fear of molestation; having nothing to lose, he would be but poor prey for a highwayman, and he trusted to his cudgel to protect him from the attentions of any single footpad or tramp.

Striding along in the gathering dusk, he came suddenly upon a curious scene. A heavy traveling carriage was drawn half across the road, its forewheels perilously near the ditch. Near by was a lady, standing with arms stiff and hands clenched, stamping her foot as she addressed, in no measured terms, two men who were rolling over one another in a desperate tussle a few yards away on the heath. As Desmond drew nearer he perceived that a second and younger lady stood at the horses' heads, grasping the bridles firmly with both hands.

His footsteps were unheard on the heavy road, and the elder lady's back being towards him, he came up to her unawares. She started with a little cry when she saw a stranger move towards her out of the gloom. But perceiving at a second glance that he was only a boy, with nothing villainous about his appearance, she turned to him impulsively and, taking him by the sleeve, said:

"There! You see them! The wretches! They are drunk and pay no heed to me! Can you part them? I do not wish to be benighted on this heath. The wretch uppermost is the coachman."

"I might part them, perhaps," said Desmond dubiously. "Of course I will try, ma'am."

"Sure I wouldn't trust 'em, mamma," called the younger lady from the horses' heads. "The man is too drunk to drive."

"I fear 'tis so. 'Tis not our own man, sir. As we returned today from a visit to Taplow our coachman was trampled by a horse at Slough, and my husband stayed with him--an old and trusty servant--till he could consult a surgeon. We found a substitute at the inn to drive us home. But the wretch brought a bottle; he drank with the footman all along the road; and now, as you see, they are at each other's throats in their drunken fury. Sure we shall never get home in time for the rout we are bid to."

"Shall I drive you to London, ma'am?" said Desmond, "'Twere best to leave the men to settle their differences."

"But can you drive?"

"Oh, yes," replied Desmond, with a smile. "I am used to horses."

"Then I beg you to oblige us. Yes, let the wretches fight themselves sober.

"Phyllis, this gentleman will drive us; come."

The girl--a fair, rosy cheeked, merry-eyed damsel of fifteen or thereabouts--left the horses' heads and entered the carriage with her mother. Desmond made a rapid examination of the harness to see that all was right; then he mounted the box and drove off. The noise of the rumbling wheels penetrated the besotted intelligence of the struggling men; they scrambled to their feet, looked wildly about them, and set off in pursuit. But they had no command of their limbs; they staggered clumsily this way and that, and finally found their level in the slimy ditch that flanked the road.

Desmond whipped up the horses in the highest spirits. He had hoped for a lift in a farmer's cart; fortune had favored him in giving him four roadsters to drive himself. And no boy, certainly not one of his romantic impulses, but would feel elated at the idea of helping ladies in distress, and on a spot known far and wide as the scene of perilous adventure.

The carriage was heavy; the road, though level, was thick with autumn mud; and the horses made no great speed. Desmond, indeed, durst not urge them too much, for the mist was thickening, making the air even darker than the hour warranted; and as the roadway had neither hedge nor wall to define it, but was bounded on each side by a ditch, it behooved him to go warily.

He had just come to a particularly heavy part of the road where the horses were compelled to walk, when he heard the thud of hoofs some distance behind him. The sound made him vaguely uneasy. It ceased for a moment or two; then he heard it again, and realized that the horse was coming at full gallop. Instinctively he whipped up the horses. The ladies had also heard the sound; and, putting her head out of the window, the elder implored him to drive faster.

Could the two besotted knaves have put the horseman on his track, he wondered. They must believe that the carriage had been run away with, and in their tipsy rage they would seize any means of overtaking him that offered. The horseman might be an inoffensive traveler; on the other hand, he might not. It was best to leave nothing to chance. With a cheery word, to give the ladies confidence, he lashed at the horses and forced the carriage on at a pace that put its clumsy springs to a severe test.

Fortunately the road was straight, and the horses instinctively kept to the middle of the track. But fast as they were now going, Desmond felt that if the horseman was indeed pursuing he would soon be overtaken. He must be prepared for the worst. Gripping the reins hard with his left hand, he dropped the whip for a moment and felt in the box below the seat in the hope of finding a pistol; but it was empty.

He whistled under his breath at the discovery: if the pursuer was a "gentleman of the road" his predicament was indeed awkward. The carriage was rumbling and rattling so noisily that he had long since lost the sound of the horse's hoofs behind. He could not pause to learn if the pursuit had ceased; his only course was to drive on. Surely he would soon reach the edge of the heath; there would be houses; every few yards must bring him nearer to the possibility of obtaining help. Thus thinking, he clenched his teeth and lashed the reeking flanks of the horses, which plunged along now at a mad gallop.

Suddenly, above the noise of their hoofs and the rattling of the coach he heard an angry shout. A scream came from the ladies. Heeding neither, Desmond quickly reversed his whip, holding it halfway down the long handle, with the heavy iron-tipped stock outward. The horseman came galloping up on the right side, shouted to Desmond to stop, and without waiting drew level with the box and fired point blank.

But the rapid movement of his horse and the swaying of the carriage forbade him to take careful aim. Desmond felt the wind of the bullet as it whizzed past him. Next moment he leaned slightly sidewise, and, never loosening his hold on the reins with his left hand, he brought the weighty butt of his whip with a rapid cut, half sidewise, half downwards, upon the horseman's head. The man with a cry swerved on the saddle; almost before Desmond could recover his balance he was amazed to see the horse dash suddenly to the right, spring across the ditch, and gallop at full speed across the heath.

But he had no time at the moment to speculate on this very easy victory. The horses, alarmed by the pistol shot, were plunging madly, dragging the vehicle perilously near to the ditch on the left hand. Then Desmond's familiarity with animals, gained at so much cost to himself on his brother's farm, bore good fruit. He spoke to the horses soothingly, managed them with infinite tact, and coaxed them into submission. Then he let them have their heads, and they galloped on at speed, pausing only when they reached the turnpike going into Brentford. They were then in a bath of foam; their flanks heaving like to burst.

Learning from the turnpike man that he could obtain a change of horses at the "Bull" inn, Desmond drove there, and was soon upon his way again.

While the change was being made, he obtained from the lady the address in Soho Square where she was staying. The new horses were fresh; the carriage rattled through Gunnersbury, past the turnpike at Hammersmith and through Kensington, and soon after nine o'clock Desmond had the satisfaction of pulling up at the door of Sheriff Soames' mansion in Soho Square.

The door was already open, the rattle of wheels having brought lackeys with lighted torches to welcome the belated travelers. Torches flamed in the cressets on both sides of the entrance. The hall was filled with servants and members of the household, and in the bustle that ensued when the ladies in their brocades and hoops had entered the house, Desmond saw an opportunity of slipping away. He felt that it was perhaps a little ungracious to go without a word to the ladies; but he was tired; he was unaccustomed to town society, and the service he had been able to render seemed to him so slight that he was modestly eager to efface himself. Leaving the carriage in the hands of one of the lackeys, with a few words of explanation, he hastened on towards Holborn and the city.