TRIBULATIONS OF A MAYOR
"Like the Mayor of Falmouth, who thanked God when the Town Jail
was enlarged."--_Old Byword_.
His nod was levelled at a horseman who had ridden down the street and
was pressing upon the outskirts of the crowd: and this was no less a
dignitary than the Mayor of Falmouth, preceded on foot by a beadle
and two mace-bearers, all three of them shouting "Way! Make way for
the Mayor!" with such effect that in less than half a minute the
crowd had divided itself to form a lane for them.
"Eh? eh? What is this? What is the meaning of all this?" demanded
his Worship, magisterially, as, having drawn rein, he fumbled in his
tail pocket, drew forth a pair of horn spectacles, adjusted them on
his nose, and glared round upon the throng.
"That, sir," answered my father, stepping forward, "is what we are
waiting to learn."
"Sir John Constantine?" The Mayor bowed from his saddle. "You will
pardon me, Sir John, that for the moment I missed to recognize you.
The fact is, I suffer, Sir John, from some--er--shortness of sight: a
grave inconvenience, at times, to one in my position."
"Indeed?" said my father, gravely. "And yet, as I have heard, 'tis a
malady most incident to borough magistrates."
"You don't say so?" The Mayor considered this for a moment.
"The visitations of Providence are indeed inscrutable, Sir John.
It would give me pleasure to discuss them with you, on some--er--more
suitable occasion, if I might have the honour. But as I was about to
say, I am delighted to see you, Sir John: your presence here will
strengthen my hands in dealing with this--er--unlawful assembly."
"_Is_ this an unlawful assembly?" my father asked.
"It is worse, Sir John; it is far worse. I have been studying the
law, and the law admits of no dubiety. It is unlawful assembly where
three or more persons meet together to carry out some private
enterprise in circumstances calculated to excite alarm. Mark those
words, Sir John--" some private enterprise. "When the enterprise is
not private but meant to redress a public grievance, or to reform
religion, the offence becomes high treason."
"Does the law indeed say so?"
"It does, Sir John. The law, let me tell you, is very fierce against
any reforming of religion. Nay more, Sir John, under the first of
King George the First, statute two--I forget what chapter--by the Act
commonly called the Riot Act, it is enacted that if a dozen or more
go about reforming of religion or otherwise upsetting the public
peace and refuse to go about their business within the space of one
hour after I tell 'em to, the same becomes felony without benefit of
clergy."
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Billy Priske, pulling off his hat and eyeing
the rose in its band.
"And further," his Worship continued, "any man wearing the badge or
ensign of the rioters shall himself be considered a rioter without
benefit of clergy."
All this while the crowd had been pressing closer and closer upon us,
under compulsion (as it seemed) of reinforcements from the waterside,
the purlieus of the Market Strand being, by now, so crowded that men
and women were crying out for room. At this moment, glancing across
the square, I was puzzled to see a woman leaning forth from a
first-floor window and dropping handfuls of artificial flowers upon
the heads of the throng. While I watched, she retired--her hands
being empty--came back with a band-box, and scattered its contents
broadcast, pausing to blow a kiss towards the Mayor.
I plucked my father's sleeve to call his attention to this; but he
and the Mayor were engaged in argument, his Worship maintaining that
the Methodists--and my father that their assailants--were the prime
disturbers of the peace.
"And how, pray," asked my father, "are these poor women to disperse,
if your ruffians won't let 'em?"
"As to that, sir, you shall see," promised the Mayor, and turned to
the town crier. "John Sprott, call silence. Make as much noise
about it as you can, John Sprott. And you, Nandy Daddo, catch hold
of my horse's bridle here."
He rose in his stirrups and, searching again in his tail-pocket, drew
forth a roll of paper.
"Silence!" bawled the crier.
"Louder, if you please, John Sprott: louder, if you can manage it!
And say 'In the name of King George,' John Sprott; and wind up with
'God save the King.' For without 'God save the King' 'tis no riot,
and a man cannot be hanged for it. So be very particular to say
'God save the King,' John Sprott, and put 'em all in the wrong."
John Sprott bawled again, and this time achieved the whole formula.
"That's better, John Sprott. And you--" his Worship turned upon the
Methodists, "you just listen to this, now--"
"_Our sovereign Lord the King--_"
Here, as the Methodists stood before him with folded hands, a lump of
filth flew past the Mayor's ear and bespattered the lamp-post.
"Damme, who did that?" his Worship demanded. "John Sprott, who threw
that muck?"
"I don't know the man's name, your Worship: but he's yonder, there,
in a striped shirt open at the neck, with a little round hat on the
back of his head; and, what's more, I see'd him do it."
"Then take down his description, John Sprott, and write that at the
words 'Our sovereign Lord' he shied a lump of muck."
John Sprott pulled out a note-book and entered the offence.
"And after 'muck,' John Sprott, write 'God save the King.' I don't
know that 'tis necessary, but you'll be on the safe side."
His Worship unfolded the proclamation again, cleared his throat, and
resumed:
"_Our sovereign Lord the King chargeth and commandeth all persons,
being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves and peacefully to
depart to their habitations or to their lawful business, upon the
pains contained in the Act made in the first year of George the First
for preventing--_"
A handful of more or less liquid mud here took him on the nape of the
neck and splashed over the paper which he held in both hands.
"Arrest that man!" he shouted, bouncing about in a fury. At the same
moment my father gripped my elbow as a volley of missiles darkened
the air, and we fell back--all the Company of the Rose--shoulder to
shoulder, to protect the Methodists, as a small but solid phalanx of
men came driving through the crowd with mischief in their faces.
"But wait awhile! wait awhile!" called out Billy Priske, as my
father plucked out his sword. "These be no enemies, master, to us or
the Methodists, but honest sea-fardingers--packet-men all--and, look
you, with roses in their hats!"
"Roses? Faith, and so they have!" cried my father, lowering his
guard. "But what the devil, then, is the meaning of it?"
He was answered on the moment. The official whom his Worship called
Nandy Daddo had made a rush into the crowd, charging it with his mace
as with a battering-ram, and was in the act of clutching the man who
had thrown the filth, when the phalanx of packet-men broke through
and bore him down. A moment later I saw his gold-laced hat fly
skimming over the heads of the throng, and his mace wrenched from him
and held aloft in the hands of a red-faced man, who flourished it
twice and rushed upon the Mayor, shouting at the same time with all
his lungs: "Townshends! This way, Townshends!" whereat the
packet-men cheered and pressed after him, driving the crowd of
Falmouth to right and left.
Clearly what mischief they meant was intended for the Mayor: and the
Mayor, for a short-sighted man, detected this very promptly. Also he
showed surprising agility in tumbling out of his saddle; which he had
scarcely done before the crupper resounded with a whack, of which one
of the borough maces bears an eloquent dent to this day.
The Mayor, catching his toe in the stirrup as he slipped off,
staggered and fell at our feet. But the body of his horse,
interposed between him and the rioters, protected him for an instant,
and in that instant my father and Nat Fiennes dragged him up and
thrust him to the rear while we faced the assault. For now, and
without a word said, the Methodists were forgotten, and we of the
Rose were standing for law and order against this other company of
the Rose, of whose quarrel we knew nothing at all.
Our attitude indeed, and the sight of drawn swords (to oppose which
they had no weapons but short cudgels), appeared to take them aback
for the moment. The press, however, closing on us, as we backed to
cover the Mayor's retreat, offered less and less occasion for sword
play; and, the seamen still advancing and outnumbering us by about
three to one, the whole affair began to wear an ugly look.
At this juncture relief came to us in the strangest fashion. I had
clean forgotten the little Methodist man in black; whom, to be sure,
I had no occasion to remember but for the quiet resolution of his
carriage as he had stood with the burst egg trickling over his face.
But now, to the surprise of us all, he sprang forward upon the second
mace-bearer, snatched the mace from his hand and laid about him in a
sudden frenzy; at the first blow, delivered at unawares, catching the
ringleader on the crown and felling him like an ox. For a second,
perhaps, he stared, amazed at his own prowess, and with that the lust
of battle seized him.
He rained blows; yet with cunning, running forth and back into our
ranks as each was delivered; and between the blows he capered,
uttering shrill inarticulate cries. This diversion indeed saved us.
For the rabble, pressing up to see the fun, left a space more or less
clear on the far side of the Market Strand, and for this space we
stampeded, dragging the Mayor along with us.
The next thing I remember was fighting side by side with Nat before a
door beneath the window where I had seen the woman throwing down her
handfuls of artificial flowers. The lower windows were barred, but
the door stood open; and we fought to defend it whilst my father
lifted the Mayor of Falmouth by his coat-collar and the seat of his
breeches and flung him inside. Then we too backed and, ducking
indoors under the arms of the little man in black--who stood on the
step swinging the borough mace as though to scythe off the head of
any one who approached within five feet of it--seized him by the
coat-tails, dragged him inside and, slamming to the door (which shut
with two flaps), locked and bolted it and leant against it with all
our weight.
Yet a common house-door is but a flimsy barricade against a mob,
especially if that mob be led by five-and-twenty stout-bodied seaman.
We had shut it merely to gain time, and when the cudgels outside
began to play tattoo upon its upper panels I looked for no more than
a minute's respite at the best.
It puzzled me therefore when--and immediately upon two ugly blows
that had well-nigh shaken the lock from its fastenings--the shouting
suddenly subsided into a confused hubbub of voices, followed by a
clang and rattle of arms upon the cobblestones. This last sound
appeared to hush the others into silence. I stood listening, with my
hip pressed against the lock to hold it firm against the next
concussion. None came: but presently some one rapped with his
knuckles on the upper panel and a voice, authoritative but civil
enough, challenged us in the name of King George to open.
To this I had almost answered bidding him go to the devil, when a
damsel put her head over the stair-rail of the landing above and
called down to us to obey and open at once: and looking up in the dim
light of the passage I recognized her for the one who had scattered
the flowers, just now, to the rioters.
"Pardon me," said I, "but how shall I know you are not playing us a
trick?"
"My good child," she replied, "open the door and don't stand arguing.
The riot is over and the square full of military. The person who
knocks is Captain Bright of the Pendennis Garrison. If you don't
believe me, step upstairs here and look out of window."
"My father--" I began.
"Your father is right enough, and so is that fool of a Mayor--or will
be when he has drunk down a glass of cordial."
Nevertheless I would not obey her until I had sent Nat Fiennes
upstairs to look; who within a minute called over the stair-head that
the woman told the truth and I had my father's leave to open.
Thereupon I pulled open the upper flap of the door, and stood
blinking at a tall officer in gorgeous regimentals.
"Hullo!" said he. "Good morning!"
"Good morning!" said I. "And forgive me that I kept you waiting."
"Don't mention it," said he very affably. "My fault entirely, for
coming late; or rather the Mayor's, who sent word that we weren't
needed. I took the liberty to doubt this as soon as my sentries
reported that a couple of boats' crews were putting ashore from the
_Townshend_ packet: and here we are in consequence. Got him safe?"
"The Mayor?" said I. "Yes, I believe he is upstairs at this moment,
drinking brandy-and-water and pulling himself together."
The Captain grinned amiably. "Sorry to disturb him," said he;
"but the mob is threatening to burn his house, and I'd best take him
along to read the Riot Act and put things ship-shape."
"He has read it already, or some part of it."
"Some part of it won't do. He must read the whole proclamation, not
forgetting 'God save the King.'"
"If you can find the paper," said I, "there's a lump of mud on it,
marking the place where he left off."
The Captain grinned again. "I doubt he'll have to begin afresh after
breaking off to drink brandy-and-water with Moll Whiteaway. For a
chief magistrate that will need some explaining. And yet," mused the
Captain, as he stepped into the passage, "you may have done him a
better turn than ever you guessed; for, when the mob sees the humour
of it, belike it'll be more for laughing than setting fire to his
house."
"But who is Moll Whiteaway?" I asked.
He stared at me. "You mean to say you didn't know?" he asked slowly.
"You didn't bring him here for a joke?"
"A joke?" I echoed. "A mighty queer joke, sir, you'd have thought
it, if your men had been five minutes earlier."
He leaned back against the wall of the passage. "And you brought him
here _by accident?_ Well, if this don't beat cock-fighting!"
"But who is this Moll Whiteaway?" I repeated.
The question again seemed to take his breath away. For answer he
could only point to a small brass plate in the lower flap of the
door; and, stooping, I read: _Miss Whiteaway, Milliner, Modes and
Robes_.
"Oh!" said I. "That accounts for the band-box of flowers."
"Does it?" he asked.
"She flung them out of window to the packet-men."
"Which, doubtless, seemed to you an everyday proceeding--just a
milliner's usual way of getting rid of her summer stock. My good
young sir, did you ever hear tell of a 'troacher'? Nay, spare that
ingenuous blush: Moll is a loose fish, but I mean less than your
modesty suspects. A 'troacher' is a kind of female smuggler that
disposes of the goods the packet-men bring home in their bunks; and
Moll Whiteaway is the head of the profession in Falmouth. Now, our
worthy Mayor took oath the other day to put down this smuggling on
board the packets; and he began yesterday with the _Townshend_.
He and the Port Searcher swept the ship, sir. They dug Portuguese
brandy in kegs out of the seamen's beds and parcels of silk out of
the very beams. They shook two case-bottles out of the chaplain's
breeches, which must have galled him sorely in his devotions.
They netted close on two hundred pounds' worth of contraband in the
fo'c's'le alone--"
"Good Heavens!" I interjected. "And as the riot began he was calling
himself short-sighted!"
Captain Bright laughed, clapped me on the shoulder and led the way
upstairs, where (strange to say) we found the Mayor again deploring
his defective vision. He lay in an easy-chair amid an army of
band-boxes, bonnet stands, and dummies representing the female
figure; and sipped Miss Whiteaway's brandy while he discoursed in
broken sentences to an audience consisting of that lady, my father,
Nat Fiennes, Mr. Fett, and the little man in black (who, by the way,
did not appear to be listening, but stood and pondered the borough
mace, which he held in his hands, turning it over and examining the
dents).
"It is a great drawback, Sir John--a great drawback," his Worship
lamented. "A man in my position, sir, should have the eye of an
eagle; instead of which on all public occasions I have to rely on
John Sprott. My good woman"--he turned to Miss Whiteaway--"would you
mind taking a glance out of window and telling me what has become of
John Sprott?"
"He's down below under protection of the soldiers," announced Miss
Whiteaway; "and no harm done but his hat lost and his gown split up
the back."
"I shall never have the same confidence in John Sprott. He takes
altogether too sanguine a view of human nature. Why, only last
November--you remember the great gale of November the 1st, Sir John?
I was very active in burying the poor bodies brought ashore next day
and for several days after; for, as you remember, a couple of
Indymen dragged their anchors and broke up under Pendennis Battery:
and John Sprott said to me in the most assured way, 'The town'll
never forget your kindness, sir. You mark my words,' he said,
'this here action will stand you upon the pinnacles of honour till
you and me, if I may respectfully say it, sit down together in the
land of marrow and fatness.' After that you'd have thought a man
might count on some popularity. But what happened? A day or two
later--that is to say, on November the 5th--I was sitting in my shop
with a magnifying glass in my eye, cleaning out a customer's watch,
when in walked half a dozen boys carrying a man's body between 'em.
You could tell that life was extinct by the way his head hung back
and his legs trailed limp on the floor as they brought him in, and
his face looked to me terribly swollen and discoloured.
'Dear, dear!' said I. 'What? Another poor soul? Take him up to the
mortewary, that's good boys,' I said; 'and you shall have twopence
apiece out of the poor-box.' How d'ye think they answered me?
They bust out a-laughing, and cries one: 'If you please, sir, 'tis
meant for _you!_ 'Tis the fifth of November, and we'm goin' to burn
you in effigy.' I chased 'em out of the shop, and later on in the
day I spoke to John Sprott about it. 'Well now,' said John Sprott,'
I passed a lot of boys just now, burning a guy at the top of the
Moor, and I had my suspicions; but the thing hadn't a feature of
yours to take hold on, barrin' the size of its feet.' And that's
what you call popularity!" wound up the Mayor with bitterness.
"That's what a man gets for rising early and lying down late to serve
his country!"
"Excuse me, Mr. Mayor," put in Captain Bright, "but they are
threatening to burn worse than your effigy fact I heard some talk of
setting fire to your house and shop. Nay," he went on as the Mayor
bounced up to his feet, "there's no real cause for alarm. I have
sent on my lieutenant with fifty men to keep the mob on the move, and
have stationed a dozen outside here to escort you home."
"The Riot Act--where's my Riot Act?" cried his Worship, searching his
pockets. "I never read out 'God save the King,' and without
'God save the King' a man may burn all my valybles and make turbulent
gestures and show of arms, and harry and murder to the detriment of
the public peace, and refuse to move on when requested, and all the
time in the eyes of the law be a babe unborn. Where's the Riot Act,
I say? for without it I'm a lost man and good-bye to Falmouth!"
"Then 'tis lucky that I came provided with a copy." Captain Bright
produced a paper from the breast of his tunic.
The Mayor took it with trembling hands. "Why, 'tis a duplicity!" he
cried. "A very duplicity! and, what's more, printed in the same
language word for word." He caught the mace from the little man in
black. "Lead the way, Captain!"