Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 6

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The next morning Betsy was the first one up as usual. It was a very few minutes after six and not a sound was heard from the kitchens, and in the stables only the clucking of chickens and the lowing of cattle. By half-past six she was bathed and dressed and her hair had been brushed into a pleasant enough order. She hurried out into the sunshine, carrying a bonnet in her hand.

The dogs heard her at once. They swarmed out from their sleeping quarters under the porch and began to dash along madly at her heels, barking furiously. The hutch in the stable door was open but it was several moments before the almost benign face of William Pitt was framed in it.

He gave her a low bow. “ ’Mawnin’, Mees Bess,” he said.

Before proceeding further it will be necessary to cast back for a quick survey of the domestic household. There were half a dozen servants in all and technically they were slaves, although they enjoyed much freedom of action and habit. Sarah and Mantee had been left on the island by a slaver captain because of illnesses both had developed on the voyage from Africa, and William Balcombe had bought them at a nominal figure. After they had been with the family for a few years, Sarah had raised the point that they should have a surname to demonstrate further the solidity of their marriage, and Mantee, with complete indifference, had agreed. Sarah had often heard nostalgic references at table to the beautiful home the Balcombes had once enjoyed on the Thames and she selected the name of that river as suitable for herself and the phlegmatic Tee. Gradually the name was corrupted to Timms, which suited her just as well.

The stable man had been close to death when he was put ashore from a slaver. He was an extremely tall man, perhaps as much as six feet eight, and William Balcombe was interested in him despite his deplorable condition. “There is a race of very tall Negroes somewhere in the central part of Africa,” he said. “From the Mountains of the Moon, I think. I’m sure this poor fellow comes from there. We should take him in.” The purchase was made for a pound and the tall captive recovered with surprising speed. From the very first he had a manner about him. He carried his small head on his long arched neck as though it were birth and merit which elevated him so much above other men, and not a matter of bones. “I think he must have been a chief or at least a medicine man,” commented his owner. They gave him the name of Caesar, and then fell into the habit of calling him Caesaraugustus.

He was assigned to the care of the horses and he seemed to be very happy in the stable and in the company of his four-footed charges. But one day Betsy, who often acted as a go-between, came to her parents with a request from him.

“Caesaraugustus thinks he should have a surname too. Like Sarah and Mantee.”

“What name does the old chieftain want?” asked her father.

“One day he heard you talking to the curate and he made out enough of what you were saying to know it was about a very great man.”

“Which curate?”

“The Rev. Godefroi Eustace Stodgkin.”

“Oh, that one.” Mr. Balcombe had small liking for the opinionated Mr. Stodgkin. “Who were we talking about?”

“William Pitt. Caesaraugustus says he was head man in his country just as Mr. Pitt was head man in England. He seems to think he’s entitled to the name.”

“Why, that uppish old rascal!” William could not refrain from smiling, however. He pondered the point for several moments. “I don’t suppose the Great Commoner, if he were alive, would have any objections to this use of his name. He might even be pleased.” He nodded to Betsy. “Well, William Pitt it is. I’ll be glad to have a shorter name.”

“Not shorter, Papa. We are not to call him William. It must always be William Pitt. He makes quite a point of that.”

It was clear that William Pitt did not approve of dogs. He scowled at the noisy pups and shooed them away from the entrance into the stables with a hint of impatience. Betsy was disturbed by his appearance. His eyes were heavy and his feet seemed to drag.

“Are you ill, William Pitt?” she asked.

The tall slave nodded his head slowly. “Not well, Mees Bess. Not sleep.”

She turned her attention to the dogs. “Now see here. You can’t come in, any of you. You’ll waken the whole household. Down, down! Yes, Snooky, I mean you too. Play with your brothers for a change and don’t be such a mope.” She turned back to the stable man. “Is my old Tom in a good humor this morning?”

“Ole Tom eat slow. If ole Tom eat slow, ole Tom in bad ’ummer.”

The pony was not quite finished with his morning ration of hay and did not deign to look up when Betsy reached his stall. He even struck the boards behind him with one hoof, as though to say: “Have a care. I am in no mood for being petted or any such nonsense.”

In the meantime the family of dogs had found another way of getting in. They came scrambling around her, fighting and yelping madly to let their mistress see how smart they were. The pony’s whole face wrinkled with disapproval. “Is it right,” he seemed to ask, “for a gentleman to be interrupted at his meal by a pack of silly dogs?”

“My fine Thomas Didymus,” said the girl, insisting on running a hand over his long nose, “you are not to be so cross. When I get up this early so you can have your morning exercise, you should be grateful to me and not surly. If you belonged to some people I could mention, you would soon find out how well off you are here. Isn’t that so, William Pitt?”

“Thas so, Mees Bess,” answered the tall native. He peered over the side of the stall. “You eat hay fast, you Tom.” Then he addressed the girl. “Does I lam ’im fum behin’ or does I coax him wi’ ca’att?”

“Please, William Pitt, don’t hit poor Tom. Offer him a carrot.”

Tom lost all interest in his hay when he saw William Pitt appear in front of his stall with a carrot in his hand. He nickered with delight and came out as soon as the bars were lowered. He gobbled the carrot and he even made no protest when the towering native saddled him.

The ride which followed was a particularly pleasant one. The pony found it to his liking to stretch his legs and went up over the hilly trails at a brisk pace. When they returned half an hour later, he put on a whirlwind finish down the slope to the stable door, where William Pitt waited with a bucket of water.

“Betsy, Betsy, Betsy!” cried Mrs. Balcombe, appearing on the side porch of the house. “How many times must I warn you not to ride so fast? Some day you’ll be thrown and they’ll carry you in with every bone in your body broken.”

“Oh, pshaw, Mamma,” called the girl, in her gayest mood. “I won’t get thrown. I’m a pretty good rider, you know. Besides, I’m in such a hurry.”

She did not mention her reason for hurry. Without further explanation of any kind, she took the path which skirted the other side of the house, and the next glimpse her mother had of her she was walking briskly down the steep road to the main drive. She had seen a spot of color at the gates which resembled the red coat of a soldier.

She was whistling exuberantly as she went down to investigate, reaching all the high notes with a sure sweetness. Betsy had a low-pitched voice and thus did not sing so well as Jane, who was a soprano of limited range. But her whistling was much commented on by the islanders, being such an unusual accomplishment in a girl.

It turned out that she had been right. The wearer of the scarlet tunic was standing outside the gate, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He was gazing up the road with the immobility of a British soldier on sentry duty.

Betsy said to herself, “I knew this was going to be an important day.”

The Briars, a mile and a half up the road from Jamestown, was one of the prides of the island. The property of William Balcombe was like a strip of old England, scooped up from somewhere in Kent or Sussex, carried over thousands of miles of water by magic carpets or some such means, and then dropped into a narrow niche between the bare, black, forbidding rocks of St. Helena. Everywhere else the prospect was bleak and chilling and the soil was as unyielding as a steel buckler. But at the Briars it was always green. The land ran back to what would have been a grim background of volcanic rock except for a waterfall which came down the cliffside and was generally blown into foam before it reached the ground.

Although this quiet home, where an English merchant lived with his family, had an avenue of banyan trees and the orchard produced oranges, lemons, pomegranates, and mangoes, there was a preponderance of the shrubs and flowers and fruits of England, roses and hollyhocks and geranium, even some of the trees so familiar at home, willow, oak, and many varieties of fruit. The grass lacked the spongy quality of the native matgrass, it was healthy and very green and as Anglo-Saxon as white cliffs and cool rains.

The house was of frame construction and in height two stories only, with a covered porch extended across the full front. It was wide enough to hint at comfort and spaciousness within, but the number of rooms could not have exceeded eight or ten. Behind it were stables and domestic outhouses. At first glance, however, one did not see the main house. The eye traveled inevitably to a wooden pavilion standing at one side and on higher ground. This was approached through terraced gardens which gave an impression of lavishness and a well-screened privacy. At some points of view only the peaked roof was visible. This had been used by the Balcombes as a guest house and many notables had stopped there while waiting over for ships, even the now illustrious Duke of Wellington.

It did not take Betsy long to reach the stone pillars which carried the single word BRIARS. She peered out through the severe pattern of the wrought-iron gates, finding her view completely blocked by the soldier’s stiff red back.

“Good morning,” said Betsy. “What are you doing here?”

The sentry was taken by surprise. He turned his head and studied her through the metal bars.

“On sentry duty, miss.” He ran a forefinger under his tight collar. “Road’s being guarded for miles. I’ll be here most of the day.”

Betsy jumped to a conclusion. “Then he is going to pass. The emperor.”

“General Bonaparte, miss.”

“Oh, dear, yes. I forgot. It’s an order, isn’t it? Could I be sent to jail for calling him that?”

“I won’t be reporting you, miss.”

“Do you mind stepping a little to one side? I’m coming out. No order against that, is there?”

The sentry grinned. “Not as I knows of.”

She stepped through and let the gate swing to behind her. For a moment she studied the tall and motionless figure in its uncomfortable and uncompromising red cloth.

“I’m going to stay here and see him pass.”

“Well, I suppose it’s awright. But sort of make yourself scarce when you see Johnny Craps coming—excuse me, miss. I mean the gen’ral.”

Betsy was beginning to feel thoroughly at home with this new acquaintance. She asked, “What’s your name, please?”

“Private Knock, miss.”

“Knock? Isn’t that a rather odd name?”

“Never heard anyun else as had it, miss. Don’t ast me how we got it. I don’t know. My father didn’t know. His father didn’t know. We just had it give us. Some of these noddies I’m sojering with laugh at me. And these fussocks of officers grin when they gives me orders. Gal-go-raily, I’d like to bash in a head or two! Some day I may up and do it.”

After a moment the soldier stared down at her over the barrel of his gun. “What’s your name, miss? If ye don’t mind telling me, that is.”

“Not at all, Private Knock. My name is Lucia Elizabeth Balcombe. But I’m always called Betsy.”

Betsy seated herself on a mound of grass at the side of the road and proceeded to ask him all the questions which came into her mind, which were many. The sentry, watching her out of the corner of an eye, answered her as best he could. Sometimes she was puzzled by what he told her, chiefly because his vocabulary was strangely different from anything she had ever encountered. “What do you mean by that?” she would have to ask, or she would say, “You do use the oddest words, Private Knock.”

She had picked some ripe plums the day before, tearing a rent in her skirt in the course of climbing the tree, and she now found they were still in her pocket. She tossed them up to him and he crunched them gratefully in his strong teeth.

“Coo!” he said. “They’re banging good. I never got much in the way of fruit in Lunnon. ’Cept as I was able to steal some off the barrows.”

What interested Betsy most was that he had seen the emperor the night before at rather close range. She questioned him eagerly about his impressions.

“Yus, he passed as close as ten feet. Never looked at anyun. I got the idea he’d have been pleased to order us strung up, all in rows. Ev’y mother’s son of us. If you get a look at him now, miss, you’ll see what I mean.”

“Oh, I’m going to stay and see him, you may be sure.”

He indulged in a grin. “You know your mind, I can see. You know, miss, I’ve been looking for’ard to when they’ll transfer us some’re out of this banging heat. But there’s one thing I’d like to stay long enough to see. I’d like to see you when you grows up into a young leddy, Miss Betsy.”

At this point the sentry came abruptly to attention. He clicked his gun into proper position on his shoulder and stared straight ahead of him.

“Here they come,” he whispered. “Get back ahind that pillar so they won’t see you talking to me. ’Gainst orders. Keep your eyes wide open, Miss Betsy. There he is, Gen’ral Bonaparte, old Johnny Craps hisself!”

And so Betsy Balcombe saw Napoleon Bonaparte for the first time, by peering cautiously from behind the stone gatepost. He did not see her. His gaze seemed to be fixed with a surprising intentness on the Balcombe domain.

She watched him until the mounted party with him passed out of sight on the road which led up to Longwood.

“I’m not afraid of him,” was the thought which took possession of her mind. “He has a strange look, but very sad.”