Said Captain Pond: "Listen while I explain. You are my prisoner,
and it becomes my duty to send you back to Dartmoor under escort.
But you are exhausted; and notwithstanding my detestation of that
infernal tyrant, your master, I am a humane man. At all events, I'm
not going to expose two of my Die-hards to the risks of a tramp to
Dartmoor just now--I wouldn't turn out a dog in such weather.
It remains a question what I am to do with you in the meanwhile.
I propose that you give me your parole that you will make no attempt
to escape, let us say, for a month: and on receiving it I will at
once escort you to my house, and see that you are suitably clothed,
fed, and entertained."
"I give it willingly, M. le Capitaine. But how am I to thank you?"
"By playing the Dead March upon the _cornet-a-piston_ and teaching
others to do the like."
"That seems a singular way of showing one's gratitude. But why the
Dead March, monsieur? And, excuse me, there is more than one Dead
March. I myself, _par exemple_, composed one to the memory of my
adored Philomene but a week before Hippolyte came with his so sad
proposition."
"I doubt if that will do. You see," said Captain Pond, lifting his
voice for the benefit of the Die-hards, who by this time were quite
as sorely puzzled as their prisoner, "we are about to bury one of our
Company, Sergeant Fugler--"
"Ah! he is dead?"
"He is dying," Captain Pond pursued, the more quickly since he now
guessed, not without reason, that Fugler was the "good Cornishman" to
whose door M. Trinquier had been directed. "He is dying of a
hobnailed liver. It is his wish to have the Dead March played at his
burying."
"He whistled the tune over to me," said the Doctor; "but plague take
me if I can whistle it to you. I've no ear: but I'd know it again if
I heard it. Dismal isn't the word for it."
"It will be Handel. I am sure it will be Handel--the Dead March in
his _Saul_."
"In his what?"
"In his oratorio of _Saul_. Listen--_poum, poum, prrr, poum_--"
"Be dashed, but you've got it!" cried the Doctor, delighted; "though
you do give it a sort of foreign accent. But I daresay that won't be
so noticeable on the key-bugle."
"But about this key-bugle, monsieur? And the other instruments?--not
to mention the players."
"I've been thinking of that," said Captain Pond. "There's Butcher
Tregaskis has a key-bugle. He plays 'Rule Britannia' upon it when he
goes round with the suet. He'll lend you that till we can get one
down from Plymouth. A drum, too, you shall have. Hockaday's trader
calls here to-morrow on her way to Plymouth; she shall bring both
instruments back with her. Then we have the church musicians--Peter
Tweedy, first fiddle; Matthew John Ede, second ditto; Thomas
Tripconey, scorpion--"
"Serpent," the Doctor corrected.
"Well, it's a filthy thing to look at, anyway. Israel Spettigew,
bass-viol; William Henry Phippin, flute; and William Henry Phippin's
eldest boy Archelaus to tap the triangle at the right moment.
That boy, sir, will play the triangle almost as well as a man grown."
"Then, monsieur, take me to your house. Give me a little food and
drink, pen, ink, and paper, and in three hours you shall have _la
partition_."
Said the Doctor, "That's all very well, Pond, but the church
musicianers can't march with their music, as you told me just now."
"I've thought of that, too. We'll have Miller Penrose's covered
three-horse waggon to march ahead of the coffin. Hang it in black
and go slow, and all the musicianers can sit around inside and play
away as merry as grigs."
"The cover'll give the music a sort of muffly sound; but that,"
Lieutenant Clogg suggested, "will be all the more fitty for a
funeral."
"So it will, Clogg; so it will. But we're wasting time. I suppose
you won't object, sir, to be marched down to my house by the Company?
It's the regular thing in case of taking a prisoner, and you'll be
left to yourself as soon as you get to my door."
"Not at all," said M. Trinquier amiably.
"Then, gentlemen, fall in! The practice is put off. And when you
get home, mind you change your stockings, all of you. We're in
luck's way this morning, but that's no reason for recklessness."
So M. Trinquier, sometime Director of Periodical Festivities to the
Municipality of Dieppe, was marched down into East Looe, to the
wonder and delight of the inhabitants, who had just recovered from
the shock of Gunner Spettigew's false alarm, and were in a condition
to be pleased with trifles. As the Company tramped along the street,
Captain Pond pointed out the Town Hall to his prisoner.
"That will be the most convenient place to hold your practices.
And that is Fugler's house, just opposite."
"But we cannot practise without making a noise."
"I hope not, indeed. Didn't I promise you a big drum?"
"But in that case the sick man will hear. It will disturb his last
moments."
"Confound the fellow, he can't have everything! If he'd asked for
peace and quiet, he should have had it. But he didn't: he asked for
a Dead March. Don't trouble about Fugler. He's not an unreasonable
man. The only question is, if the Doctor here can keep him going
until you're perfect with the tune."
And this was the question upon which the men of Looe, and especially
the Die-hards, hung breathless for the next few days. M. Trinquier
produced his score; the musicianers came forward eagerly; Miller
Penrose promised his waggon; the big drum arrived from Plymouth in
the trader _Good Intent_, and was discharged upon the quay amid
enthusiasm. The same afternoon, at four o'clock, M. Trinquier
opened his first practice in the Town Hall, by playing over the air
of the "Dead Marching Soul"--(to this the popular mouth had converted
the name)--upon his cornet, just to give his pupils a general notion
of it.
The day had been a fine one, with just that suspicion of frost in the
air which indicates winter on the warm south-western coast.
While the musicians were assembling the Doctor stepped across the
street to see how the invalid would take it. Fugler--a
sharp-featured man of about fifty, good-looking, with blue eyes and a
tinge of red in his hair--lay on his bed with his mouth firmly set
and his eyes resting, wistfully almost, on the last wintry sunbeam
that floated in by the geraniums on the window-ledge. He had not
heard the news. For five days now he expected nothing but the end,
and lay and waited for it stoically and with calm good temper.
The Doctor took a seat by the bed-side, and put a question or two.
They were answered by Mrs. Fugler, who moved about the small room
quietly, removing, dusting and replacing the china ornaments on the
chimneypiece. The sick man lay still, with his eyes upon the
sunbeam.
And then very quietly and distinctly the notes of M. Trinquier's
key-bugle rose outside on the frosty air.
The sick man started, and made as if to raise himself on his elbow,
but quickly sank back again--perhaps from weakness, perhaps because
he caught the Doctor's eye and the Doctor's reassuring nod. While he
lay back and listened, a faint flush crept into his face, as though
the blood ran quicker in his weak limbs; and his blue eyes took a new
light altogether.
"That's the tune, hey?" the Doctor asked.
"That's the tune."
"Dismal, ain't it?"
"Ay, it's that." His fingers were beating time on the counterpane.
"That's our new bandmaster. He's got to teach it to the rest, and
you've got to hold out till they pick it up. Whew! I'd no idea music
could be so dismal."
"Hush 'ee, Doctor, do! till he've a-done. 'Tis like rain on
blossom." The last notes fell. "Go you down, Doctor, and say my
duty and will he please play it over once more, and Fugler'll gi'e
'em a run for their money."
The Doctor went back to the Town Hall and delivered this _encore_,
and M. Trinquier played his solo again; and in the middle of it Mr.
Fugler dropped off into an easy sleep.
After this the musicians met every evening, Sundays and weekdays, and
by the third evening the Doctor was able to predict with confidence
that Fugler would last out. Indeed, the patient was strong enough to
be propped up into a sitting posture during the hour of practice, and
not only listened with pleasure to the concerted piece, but beat time
with his fingers while each separate instrument went over its part,
delivering, at the close of each performance, his opinion of it to
Mrs. Fugler or the Doctor: "Tripconey's breath's failin'. He don't
do no sort o' justice by that sarpint." Or: "There's Uncle Issy
agen! He always do come to grief juss there! I reckon a man of
sixty-odd ought to give up the bass-viol. He ha'n't got the
agility."
On the fifth evening Mrs. Fugler was sent across to the Town Hall to
ask why the triangle had as yet no share in the performance, and to
suggest that William Henry Phippin's eldest boy, Archelaus, played
that instrument "to the life." M. Trinquier replied that it was
unusual to seek the aid of the triangle in rendering the Dead March
in _Saul_. Mr. Fugler sent back word that, "if you came to _that_,
the whole thing was unusual, from start to finish." To this M.
Trinquier discovered no answer; and the triangle was included, to the
extreme delight of Archelaus Phippin, whose young life had been
clouded for a week past.
On the sixth evening, Mr. Fugler announced a sudden fancy to "touch
pipe."
"Hey?" said the Doctor, opening his eyes.
"I'd like to tetch pipe. An' let me light the brimstone mysel'.
I likes to see the little blue flame turn yellow, a-dancin' on the
baccy."
"Get 'n his pipe and baccy, missis," the Doctor commanded. "He may
kill himself clean-off now: the band'll be ready by the funeral,
anyway."
On the three following evenings Mr. Fugler sat up and smoked during
band practice, the Doctor observing him with a new interest.
The tenth day, the Doctor was called away to attend a child-birth at
Downderry. At the conclusion of the cornet solo, with which M.
Trinquier regularly opened practice, the sick man said--
"Wife, get me out my clothes."
"WHAT!"
"Get me out my clothes."
"You're mad! It'll be your death."
"I don't care: the band's ready. Uncle Issy got his part perfect
las' night, an' that's more'n I ever prayed to hear. Get me out my
clothes an' help me downstairs."
The Doctor was far away. Mrs. Fugler was forced to give in.
Weeping, and with shaking hands, she dressed him and helped him to
the foot of the stairs, where she threw open the parlour door.
"No," he said, "I'm not goin' in there. I'll be steppin' across to
the Town Hall. Gi'e me your arm."
Thomas Tripconey was rehearsing upon the serpent when the door of the
Town Hall opened: and the music he made died away in a wail, as of a
dog whose foot has been trodden on. William Henry Phippin's eldest
son Archelaus cast his triangle down and shrieked "Ghosts, ghosts!"
Uncle Issy cowered behind his bass-viol and put a hand over his eyes.
M. Trinquier spun round to face the intruder, baton in one hand,
cornet in the other.
"Thank 'ee, friends," said Mr. Fugler, dropping into a seat by the
door, and catching breath: "you've got it very suent. 'Tis a
beautiful tune: an' I'm ha'f ashamed to tell 'ee that I bain't
a-goin' to die, this time."
Nor did he.
The East and West Looe Volunteer Artillery was disbanded a few weeks
later, on the last day of the year 1809. The Corporations of the Two
Boroughs entertained the heroes that evening to a complimentary
banquet in the East Looe Town Hall, and Sergeant Fugler had recovered
sufficiently to attend, though not to partake. The Doctor made a
speech over him, proving him by statistics to be the most wonderful
member of the most wonderful corps in the world. The Doctor granted,
however--at such a moment the Company could make concessions--that
the Die-hards had been singularly fortunate in the one foeman whom
they had been called upon to face. Had it not been for a gentleman
of France the death-roll of the Company had assuredly not stood at
zero. He, their surgeon, readily admitted this, and gave them a
toast, "The Power of Music," associating with this the name of
Monsieur Jean Alphonse Marie Trinquier, Director of Periodic
Festivities to the Municipality of Dieppe. The toast was drunk with
acclamation. M. Trinquier responded, expressing his confident belief
that two so gallant nations as England and France could not long be
restrained from flinging down their own arms and rushing into each
other's. And then followed Captain Pond, who, having moved his
audience to tears, pronounced the Looe Die-hards disbanded.
Thereupon, with a gesture full of tragic inspiration, he cast his
naked blade upon the board. As it clanged amid the dishes and
glasses, M. Trinquier lifted his arms, and the band crashed out the
"Dead Marching Soul," following it with "God Save the King" as the
clock announced midnight and the birth of the New Year.
"But hallo?" exclaimed Captain Pond, sinking back in his chair, and
turning towards M. Trinquier. "I had clean forgot that you are our
prisoner, and should be sent back to Dartmoor! And now the Company
is disbanded, and I have no one to send as escort."
"Monsieur also forgets that my parole expired a fortnight since, and
that my service from that hour has been a service of love!"
M. Trinquier did not return to Dartmoor. For it happened, one dark
night early in the following February, that Mr. Fugler (now restored
to health) set sail for the island of Guernsey upon a matter of
business. And on the morrow the music-master of Dieppe had become
but a pleasing memory to the inhabitants of the Two Looes.
And now, should you take up Mr. Thomas Bond's _History of East and
West Looe_, and read of the Looe Volunteers that "not a single man of
the Company died during the six years, which is certainly very
remarkable," you will be not utterly incredulous; for you will know
how it came about. Still, when one comes to reflect, it does seem an
odd boast for a company of warriors.