THE MAJOR LEAVES US.
Two minutes later the Vicar, staggering up to the hospital door with
Gunner Sobey on his back, came to a terrified halt as his ears caught
the _tramp, tramp_ of a body of men approaching from the direction of
Passage Slip, which is the landing-place of the Little Ferry. He had
scarce time to lower his burden upon the doorstep before the head of
the company swung into view around the street corner. With a gasp he
recognised them.
They were the Troy Gallants, and Major Hymen marched beside them.
But they came with no banners waving, without tuck of drum--a sadly
depleted corps, and by their countenances a sadly dejected one.
For the moment, however, in the revulsion of his feelings, the Vicar
failed to observe this. He ran forward with both arms extended to
greet the Major.
"My friend!" he cried tremulously. "You are alive!"
"Certainly," the Major answered. "Why not?" He was dishevelled,
unshaven, travel-stained, haggard, and at the same time flushed of
face. Also he appeared a trifle sulky.
"What has happened?"
"Well"--the Major turned on him almost viciously--"_you_ may call it
the Millennium!"
"But the French--?"
"Eh? Excuse me--I don't take your meaning. _What_ French?"
"I was given to understand--we have been taking certain precautions,"
stammered the Vicar, and gazed around, seeking Gunner Sobey (but
Gunner Sobey had dived into the hospital and was putting himself to
bed). "You don't tell me the alarm was false!"
"My good Vicar, I haven't a notion at what you're driving; and excuse
me again if in this hour of disgrace I find myself in no humour to
halt here and bandy explanations."
"Disgrace?"
"Disgrace," repeated the Major, gazing sternly back on his abashed
ranks. His breast swelled; he seemed on the point to say more; but,
indignation mastering him, mutely with a wave of the hand he bade the
Gallants resume their march. Mutely, contritely, with bowed heads,
they obeyed and followed him down the street, leaving the Vicar at
gaze.
What had happened? Why, this.--
After the fiasco in Talland Cove Captain Arbuthnot had formed up his
Dragoons and given the word to ride back to Bodmin Barracks, their
temporary quarters, whence Mr. Smellie had summoned them.
He was in the devil of a rage. From the Barracks to Talland Cove is
a good fourteen miles as the crow flies, and you may allow another
two miles for the windings of the road (which, by the way, was a
pestilently bad one). To ride sixteen miles by night, chafing all
the while under the orders of a civilian, and to return another
sixteen, smarting, from a fool's errand, is (one must admit)
excusably trying to the military temper. Smellie, to be sure, and
Smellie alone, had been discomfited. Smellie's discomfiture had been
so signally personal as to divert all ridicule from the Dragoons.
Smellie, moreover, had made himself confoundedly obnoxious.
Smellie had given himself airs during the ride from Bodmin; and
Captain Arbuthnot had with an ill grace submitted to them, because
the fellow knew the country. They were quit of him now; but how to
find the way home Captain Arbuthnot did not very well know. He rode
forward boldly, however, keeping his eyes upon the stars, and
steering, so far as the circuitous lanes would allow him, north by
west.
Bearing away too far to the right, as men are apt to do in the
darkness, he missed the cross-ways by Ashen-cross, whence his true
line ran straight through Pelynt; and after an hour or so of
blind-man's-buff in a maze of cornfields, the gates of which seemed
to hide in the unlikeliest corners, emerged upon a fairly good high
road, which at first deceived him by running west-by-north and then
appeared to change its mind and, receding through west, took a
determined southerly curve back towards the coast. In short, Captain
Arbuthnot had entirely lost his bearings.
Deciding once more to trust the stars, he left the high road, struck
due north across country again and by and by found himself entangled
in a valley bottom beside the upper waters of the same stream which
Gunner Sobey had forded two hours before and some miles below.
The ground hereabouts was marshy, and above the swamp an almost
impenetrable furze-brake clothed both sides of the valley.
The Dragoons fought their way through, however, and were rewarded, a
little before dawn, by reaching a good turf slope and, at the head of
it, a lane which led them to the small village of Lanreath.
The inhabitants of Lanreath, aroused from their beds by the tramp of
hoofs and with difficulty persuaded that their visitors were not the
French, at length directed Captain Arbuthnot to the village inn, the
"Punchbowl," where he wisely determined to bait and rest his horses,
which by this time were nearly foundered. Being heavy brutes, they
had fared ill in the morass, and the most of them were plastered with
mud to their girths.
The troopers, having refreshed themselves with beer, flung themselves
down to rest, some on the settles of the inn-kitchen, others on the
benches about the door, and others again in the churchyard across the
road, where they snored until high day under the curious gaze of the
villagers.
So they slept for two hours and more; and then, being summoned by
trumpet, mounted and took the road again, the most of them yet heavy
with slumber and not a few yawning in their saddles and only kept
from nodding off by the discomfort of their tall leathern stocks.
In this condition they had proceeded for maybe two miles, when from a
by-lane on their left a horseman dashed out upon the road ahead,
reined up, and, wheeling his horse in face of them, stood high in his
stirrups and waved an arm towards the lane by which he had come.
It took Captain Arbuthnot some seconds to recognise this apparition
for Mr. Smellie. But it was indeed that unfortunate man.
He had lost both hat and wig; his coat he had discarded, no doubt to
be rid of its noisome odour: and altogether he cut the strangest
figure as he gesticulated there in the early sunshine. But the man
was in earnest--so much in earnest that he either failed to note, or
noting, disregarded, the wrathful frown with which Captain Arbuthnot,
having halted his troop, rode forward at a walk to meet him.
"Back, Captain, back!" shouted Mr. Smellie, pointing down the lane.
"I beg your pardon, sir"--the Captain reined up and addressed him
with cold, incisive politeness--"but may I suggest that you have
played the fool with us sufficiently for one night, and that my men's
tempers are short?"
"Havers!" exclaimed the indomitable Smellie, rising yet higher in his
stirrups and lifting a hand for silence. "I ask ye to listen to the
racket down yonder. The drum, now!" (Sure enough Captain Arbuthnot,
pricking his ears, heard the tunding of a drum far away in the woods
to the southward.) "Man, they've diddled us! While they put that
trick on us at Talland Cove, their haill womankind was rafting the
true cargo up the river. I've ridden down, I tell you, and the clue
of their game I hold in my two hands here from start to finish.
The brandy's yonder in Sir Felix's woods, and the men are lying
around it fou-drunk as the Israelites among the pots. Man, if ye
would turn to-night's laugh, turn your troop and follow, and ye shall
cull them like gowans!"
"It is throwing the haft after the hatchet," hesitated Captain
Arbuthnot, impressed against his will by the earnestness of the
appeal. "You have misled us once to-night, I must remind you; and I
give you fair warning that my troopers will not bear fooling twice."
With all his faults the Riding Officer did not lack courage.
Disdaining the threat, he waved his hand to the Dragoons to follow
and put his horse at a canter down the leafy lane.
It is recorded in the High History of the Grail, of Sir Lohot, son of
King Arthur, that he had a marvellous weakness; which was, that no
sooner had he slain a man than he fell across his body. So it
happened this night to the valiant men of Troy.
The Dragoons, emerging from the woods of Pentethy into close view of
the house and its terrace and slope that falls from the terrace to
the river, found themselves intruders upon the queerest of domestic
dramas.
On the terrace among the leaden gods danced a little man, wigless, in
an orange-coloured dressing-gown and a fury of choler. At the head
of the green slope immediately under the balustrade Major Hymen,
surrounded by a moderately sober staff, faced the storm in an
attitude at once dignified and patient.
"An idea has occurred to me," he put in at length with stately
deliberation as Sir Felix paused panting for fresh words of
opprobrium. "It is, sir, that overlooking the few minutes by which
our salvoes were--er--antedated, you allow us to acclaim your
latest-born as Honorary-Colonel of our corps."
"But," almost shrieked Sir Felix, "damn your eyes, it's _twins_--and
both _girls_!"
The Major winced. A rosy flush of indignation mantled his cheeks,
and only his habitual respect for the landed gentry (whom he was
accustomed to call the backbone of England) checked him on the verge
of a severe retort. As it was, he answered with fine suavity.
"There is no true patriot, Sir Felix, but desires an accelerated
increase in our population just now, whether male or female. I trust
your good lady's zeal may be rewarded by a speedy recovery."
Sir Felix fairly capered. "Accelerated! Acc--" he began, and,
choking over the word, turned and caught sight of the Dragoons as
they emerged from the woods, the sunlight flashing on their
cuirasses.
He fell back against the pedestal of a leaden effigy of Julius Caesar
and plucked his dressing-gown about him with fumbling bewildered
hands. Was the whole British Army pouring into his peaceful park?
What had he done to bring down on his head the sportive mockery of
heaven, and at such a moment?
But in the act of collapsing he looked across the balustrade and saw
the Major's face suddenly lose its colour. Then in an instant he
understood and pulled himself together.
"Hey? A hunt breakfast, is it?" he inquired sardonically, and turned
to welcome the approaching troop. "Good morning, gentlemen! You
have come to draw my covers? Then let me suggest your beginning with
the plantation yonder to the right, where I can promise you good
sport."
It was unneighbourly; an action remembered against Sir Felix to the
close of his life, as it deserved to be. He himself admitted later
that he had given way to momentary choler, and made what amends he
could by largess to the victims and their families. But it was long
before he recovered his place in our esteem. Indeed, he never wholly
recovered it: since of many dire consequences there was one,
unforeseen at the time, which proved to be irreparable. Over the
immediate consequences let me drop the curtain. _Male, male feriati
Troes!_ . . . As a man at daybreak takes a bag and, going into the
woods, gathers mushrooms, so the Dragoons gathered the men of Troy.
. . . Mercifully the most of them were unconscious.
Even less heart have I to dwell on the return of the merrymakers:
"But now, ye shepherd lasses, who shall lead
Your wandering troops, or sing your virelays?"
Sure no forlorner procession ever passed down Troy river than this,
awhile so jocund, mute now, irresponsive to the morning's smile, the
cuckoo's blithe challenge from the cliff. To the Major, seated in
the stern sheets of the leading boat, no one dared to speak.
They supposed his pecuniary loss to be heavier than it actually was--
since the Dragoons had after all surprised but a portion of the
cargo, and the leafy woods of Pentethy yet concealed many scores of
tubs of _eau-de-vie_; but they knew that he brooded over no pecuniary
loss. He had been outraged, betrayed as a neighbour, as a military
commander, and again as a father of his people; wounded in the house
of his friends; scourged with ridicule in the very seat of his
dignity. Maidens, inconsolable for lovers snatched from them and now
bound for Bodmin Gaol, hushed their sorrow and wiped their tears by
stealth, abashed before those tragic eyes which, fixed on the river
reach ahead, travelled beyond all petty private woe to meet the end
of all things with a tearless stare.
So they returned, drew to the quays, and disembarked, unwitting yet
of worse discoveries awaiting them.
In the hospital Gunner Sobey, having dived into bed, with great
presence of mind fell asleep. The Vicar had fled the town by the
North, or Passage, Gate, and was by this time devouring a country
walk in long strides, heedless whither they led him, vainly
endeavouring to compose his thoughts and readjust his prophecies in
the light of the morning's events--a process which from time to time
compelled him to halt and hold his head between both hands.
The Major had slammed his front door, locked himself in his room, and
would give audience to no one.
It was in vain that the inhabitants besieged his porch, demanding to
know if the town were bewitched. Who had gutted their shops?
Why the causeways swam with strong liquor? How the churchyard came
to be full of cattle? What hand had fired Farmer Elford's ricks?
In short, what in the world had happened, and what was to be done?
They came contritely, conscious of their undeserving; but to each and
all Scipio, from the head of the steps, returned the same answer.
His master was indisposed.
Troy, ordinarily a busy town, did no business at all that day.
Tradesmen and workmen in small groups at every street-corner
discussed a mystery--or rather a series of mysteries--with which, as
they well knew, one man alone was competent to grapple. To his good
offices they had forfeited all right. Nevertheless, a crowd hung
about all day in front of the Mayor's house, nor dispersed until long
after nightfall. At eight o'clock next morning they reassembled,
word having flown through the town that Dr. Hansombody and Lawyer
Chinn had been summoned soon after daybreak to a private conference.
At eight-thirty the Vicar arrived and entered the house, Scipio
admitting him with ceremony and at once shutting the door behind him
with an elaborate show of caution.
But at a quarter to ten precisely the door opened again and the great
man himself stood on the threshold. He wore civilian dress, and
carried a three-caped travelling cloak on his left arm. His right
hand grasped a valise. The sight of the crowd for a moment seemed to
discompose him. He drew back a pace and then, advancing, cleared his
throat.
"My friends," said he, "I am bound on a journey. Your consciences
will tell you if I deserved yesterday's indignity, and how far you
might have obviated it. But I have communed with myself and decided
to overlook all personal offence. It is enough that certain of our
fellow-townsmen are in durance, and I go to release them. In short,
I travel to-day to Plymouth to seek the best legal advice for their
defence. In my absence I commit the good behaviour of Troy to your
keeping, one and all."
You, who have read how, when Nelson left Portsmouth for death and
victory, the throng pressed after him down the beach in tears, and
ran into the water for a last grasp of his hand, conceive with what
emotion we lined up and escorted our hero to the ferry; through what
tears we watched him from the Passage Slip as he waved back from the
boat tiding him over to the farther shore, where at length Boutigo's
Van--"The Eclipse," Troy to Torpoint, No Smoking Inside--received and
bore him from our straining eyes.