Читать книгу Blenden Hall - John Gilbert Lockhart - Страница 4
ОглавлениеGRAVESEND
About three miles west of Dartford lies the little town of Bexley, which, a hundred years ago, was no more than a village; and nearly a mile to the north of it is Blenden Hall.[1] Like so many old houses, the Hall gives the impression of having grown up rather than of having been built, each century adding something to it, haphazard and after the fashion of its day, and yet, by an instinctive good taste or through the kindly assimilation of the English countryside, without marring the whole. So, while parts of the house may be traced to the middle years of the seventeenth century, or even earlier, and parts perhaps to the reign of Queen Anne, the fine front is indisputably Georgian. Although to-day the surrounding lanes have become motor roads, and building schemes have spawned new villas almost at its gates, the place itself remains unspoilt, at the edge of a little lake in a park of splendid trees.
At an early hour on a fine May morning in 1821, a travelling-carriage rumbled slowly down the long avenue that led to Blenden Hall.[2] At the entrance to the house a boy of seventeen was waiting among strapped valises.[3] With him were his father, also dressed for a journey, and his mother, to whom he had now to bid good-bye. It was a painful parting for mother and son. Young Greig was about to leave for India, having obtained a commission in the army of the Honourable East India Company. In those days such a separation was the business almost of a lifetime. You went to India, and there very often you stayed, until at the end of years, with a handsome fortune and an impaired liver, you returned to enjoy a peaceful old age at home. By comparison with to-day there was no coming and going when the trooping season began, no six months’ leave every two years or so, no mail bringing you news that was only three weeks old. So we may picture to ourselves that Mrs. Greig parted from her son in the knowledge that in this life she was unlikely ever to see him again. For a moment they clung to each other, but the horses were stamping, and the Captain, though kindly, was becoming impatient, thinking, doubtless, of the breakfast he was to eat at Dartford and of a certain tall ship waiting for him off Gravesend. So at length Alexander tore himself free almost by force and flung himself sobbing into the carriage. The door slammed, the whip cracked, and they were off, pounding clumsily down the avenue and through the village, to take the Dartford road; each dear, familiar landmark swimming past Alexander’s eyes as he gulped down his sobs and strained forward to take a last long view of his home.
The journey had come all of a hurry. It had been arranged that Alexander should sail in his father’s own ship, the Blenden Hall, chartered for the voyage by the East India Company and due to leave at the end of June or thereabouts. Alexander went north to pay farewell visits in Scotland—one in particular to his old grandfather at Arbroath; while the Captain himself took his wife and the rest of his family to his house at Brighton. Suddenly fresh orders arrived from the Company. The Blenden Hall was to sail with as little delay as possible. She was lying at Gravesend, and luckily her loading was well forward. When this news came, Alexander was only two days back from Scotland, and while his father and mother hurried back to Blenden to join him, he plunged feverishly into his last preparations, completing his kit, packing his trunks, his clothes, his books, his fowling-pieces, crowding into a few days the work of weeks, and leaving himself no time even to take leave of his brothers and sisters at Brighton. As for his father the Captain, who was to command his own ship, he might and did grumble at the change of the sailing-date, but there was no arguing with the orders of the Honourable Directors.
For a space Alexander sat in silence beside his father. He describes his sensations, which were those we might expect from a boy of seventeen just parted from a fond parent and a happy home. He describes, too, how quickly his reflections took a more cheerful form; how he began to muse upon the adventure of the voyage that lay in front of him, on the novelty of life in India, and even on the prospect of his return home, many years on, full of honour and perhaps of substance.
The carriage had not rumbled very far, however, when Alexander had a foretaste of adventures to come and a rough awakening from his pleasant dreams. After leaving Bexley the Dartford road ran east across Bexley Heath. To-day the Heath is a golf course; a hundred years ago it was still a haunt of footpads and petty highwaymen—in Alexander’s words, ‘one of the most notorious places in all England for such adventures.’
‘We had not proceeded above one-third of the way across Bexley Heath,’ he wrote, ‘when suddenly I was startled from my reverie by my father’s exclamation, “Open the pistol-case, my boy, and throw that bag under the seat!” He gave me at the same time a small bag of gold with one hand, while with the other he let down the fore-glass and, putting his body half out of the window, called to the postilion to drive as fast as he could.’
It was five o’clock in the morning, and though in full daylight, the Heath was almost deserted; almost, but not quite, for when Alexander, having quickly got out the pistols, himself took a look out of the window, he saw two horsemen spurring across the Heath towards the carriage. They were, beyond doubt, highwaymen. A stern chase began. The postilion had whipped his horses into a gallop, the heavy carriage rocking and plunging in its headlong career. But the strangers came up fast. Presently they were within hailing distance, and called loudly to the postilion to pull up. The Captain shouted to him to drive on and told Alexander to cover with his pistol the horseman on the left, while he tackled the man on the right; “for,” he added, “we will give them a warm reception at any rate.”
‘I was about to follow this advice when I fancied that the men allowed us to gain ground and were out of pistol shot, as I could distinctly see them curbing in their horses, while consulting together, in all probability, upon the prudence of relinquishing the pursuit. It was fortunate for them that they did so, for most assuredly one would have received the contents of my Joe Manton,[4] as I was resolved not to fire till he came so close upon the carriage that I could make sure of my man; and the other would have stood but a poor chance with my father, who was an excellent shot.’
The highwaymen may have been taken aback by the resolute bearing of the Greigs; they were further discouraged by the appearance of a man mounted on a pony who was trotting towards them. They had evidently no stomach for a fight with the odds against them, for they now reined in their horses, turned and galloped back the way they had come. By the time the coach had drawn alongside the man on the pony these faint-hearted ruffians were almost out of sight. The new arrival was as peaceful a traveller as the Greigs. He explained to them that his wife had been taken ill in the night and that he was off to fetch a doctor. When they told him of their late encounter he whipped a brace of pistols out of his holster and jogged his spurs into his pony, ‘nowise intimidated at the odds he was likely to encounter.’
The Greigs continued their journey at a gentler pace to Dartford, which they reached without further misadventure. Scarcely had they alighted at the inn where they were to breakfast and change horses than two patrols rode up, to whom the Greigs at once reported their meeting on the Heath.
‘They requested us to describe the men with more precision, which I was enabled to do, having watched them during the pursuit through the glass at the back of the carriage. Upon my statement, that one had on what appeared to me to be a red waistcoat with white stripes, buttoned up to the throat, the senior officer instantly exclaimed, “Jem Turner, by the Lord Harry!” “Aye, as sure as fate!” said the other, and after enquiring which road the men took, away scampered these two worthies as fast as their horses could lay feet to the ground.’
Such zeal and activity were most impressive, and Captain Greig was commenting favourably upon them when the landlord of the inn came up and joined in the conversation. He shrugged his shoulders at the Captain’s tributes and presented him with two proverbs—‘Set a thief to catch a thief’ and ‘There were six of one and half a dozen of the other.’ In his opinion the horse-patrols were not such disinterested messengers of justice as the Greigs supposed. They were, in fact, themselves gentlemen of dubious character—the poachers turned gamekeepers of tradition. Their present zeal, by the innkeeper’s account, was not for the apprehension of evil-doers but for the winning of a reward of two hundred pounds offered by a gentleman in the neighbourhood for the capture of one Jem Turner. This Turner, it seemed, had lately burgled the gentleman’s house, and being surprised in the thick of his operations, had made off in a hurry, leaving a hat, knife, saw, or some such object behind him. Very carelessly too, for he had been identified as the owner, and a hue and cry started. Jem, however, had abandoned his old haunts and disappeared, so that no more was heard of him until Alexander mentioned the red waistcoat with white stripes. We are not told, and probably Alexander never heard, if the information brought the man to justice.
After breakfast the Greigs resumed their journey, covering the last eight miles to Gravesend. Here they put up at the Falcon Hotel, where they found, already assembled, some of the passengers for the Blenden Hall, which was lying in the river just off the town. None of them showed any anxiety to go on board until the last minute, and all were delighted to hear from Captain Greig that they were not to sail before the following morning. With a view to becoming better acquainted, the whole party arranged to dine together at the hotel.
‘An invitation was sent on board to such of the officers as could be spared; and the Captain ordered the cutter to be sent off with the ship’s band, to play under the dining-room window, which overlooked the river.’
From that window the passengers could plainly see the ship herself.
‘The Blenden Hall was riding at anchor in the middle of the stream, looking in the most complete order; and many were the praises bestowed on her appearance. At half past five o’clock (the chapter concludes) the band struck up “The Roast Beef of Old England,” when we sat down to a most sumptuous dinner, and the evening passed in the enjoyment of all that good feeling by which persons are generally animated when spending the last few hours together in their native country; the hilarity of the scene being considerably augmented by the lively airs of the band, while the certainty that, for months to come, we should have to look to one another for amusement to beguile the weary hours of shipboard, caused each to feel anxious to make himself as agreeable as possible.’
| [1] | To-day it is spelt Blendon Hall. |
| [2] | The existing avenue is quite short, and emerges on to the road from Bexley to Eltham, but there are traces of an earlier and longer avenue, running north-east to the hamlet of Blendon. This may have been the ‘long avenue’ described by Alexander. |
| [3] | Although Alexander never mentions his home by name, we are justified in finding it in Blenden Hall. His description of the house itself and of the journey to Dartford supports this view, and it is confirmed by the fact that his father’s ship was named Blenden Hall. There is no trace, however, of the family of Greig in the Parish Registers of Bexley, and they were certainly never the owners of Blenden Hall. It was an estate which passed through many hands. In 1644 the Wroths held it; they were succeeded in 1673 by the Bretts, and later by a General James Pattison. His nephew sold it in 1809 to a Mr. John Smith, who appears to have been the owner in 1821. We may guess that the Greigs were relatives of Mr. Smith; possibly Mrs. Greig was his daughter, but against this Alexander speaks of the house as ‘my father’s residence’; or possibly the Greigs were Mr. Smith’s tenants for a term of years. The point is only worth mentioning because everyone likes a starting-place for a story. |
| [4] | A make of pistol. |
