THE PUNCH-BOWL.
The Broom-Squire and the boy were on their way up the hill that
led towards the habitation of the former; or, to be more exact, it
led to the summit of the hill whence the Squire would have to
diverge at a sharp angle to the right to reach his home.
The evening had closed in. But that mattered not to them, for they
knew their way, and had not far to go.
The road mounted continuously, first at a slight incline, over
sand sprinkled with Scotch pines, and then more rapidly to the
range of hills that culminates in Hind Head, and breaks into the
singular cones entitled The Devil's Jumps.
This is one of the loveliest parts of fair England. The pine and
the oak and the Spanish chestnut luxuriate in the soil, the sand
tracts between the clumps are deep in heather, at intervals the
country is furrowed as by a mighty plough; but the furrowing was
done by man's hand to extract the metal of which the plough is
formed. From a remote antiquity this district of Surrey, as
well as the weald of Sussex, was the great centre of the iron
trade. The metal lies in masses in the sand, strangely smooth and
liver-colored, and going by the name of kidney iron. The forest of
Anderida which covered the weald supplied at once the ore and the
fuel for smelting.
In many places are "hammer ponds," pools of water artificially
constructed, which at one time served to turn wheels and work
mechanism for the beating out of the iron that had been won on
the spot.
The discovery of coal and iron together, or in close proximity,
in the North of England brought this industry of the counties of
Surrey and Sussex to an abrupt end. Now the deposits of ore are
no longer worked, no furnaces exist, only the traces of the old
men's mines and forges and smelting pits remain to attest that
from an age before Caesar landed in Kent, down to the close of
the last century, all the iron employed in England came from this
region.
Another singular feature of the district consists in the masses
of hard stone, gray with lichen, that lie about, here topping a
sandhill, there dropped at random in the plain. There was at one
time many more of these, but owing to their power of resisting
heat they were largely exploited as hearthstones. These masses,
there can be no doubt, are remains of superincumbent beds of hard
rock that have been removed by denudation, leaving but a few
fragments behind.
That superstition should attach to these blocks is not marvellous.
The parish in which lies the Punch-Bowl and rises Hind Head,
comprises one such Thors-stone, named perhaps after the Scandinavian
Thunder god. One of these strange masses of stone formerly occupied
a commanding position on the top of Borough Hill. On this those in
need knocked, whereupon the "Good People" who lived under it lent
money to the knockers, or any utensil desired in loan, on condition
that it was returned. One night, a petitioner, who was going to
give a feast at the baptism of his child, went to the stone, and
knocked, and asked in a loud voice for the loan of a cauldron.
This was at once thrust out from under the stone, and was carried
away and used for the christening feast. Unhappily, the applicant
for the cauldron neglected to return it at the time appointed, and
since then no more loans have been made. The cauldron, which is of
copper, is now preserved in Frensham parish church. It is two feet
in diameter, and stands on an iron trivet.
After the road had ascended some way, all trees disappeared. The
scenery was as wild and desolate as any in Scotland. On all sides
heathery slopes, in the evening light a broken patch of sand
showed white, almost phosphorescent, through contrast with the
black ling. A melancholy bird piped. Otherwise all was still. The
richly-wooded weald, with here and there a light twinkling on it,
lay far below, stretching to Lewes. When the high-road nearly
reached the summit, it was carried in a curve along the edge of
a strange depression, a vast basin in the sand-hills, sinking
three hundred feet to a marshy bottom full of oozing springs.
This is termed the Devil's Punch-Bowl. The modern road is carried
on a lower level, and is banked up against the steep incline. The
old road was not thus protected and ran considerably higher.
The night was gathering in, fold on fold, and obscuring all. The
Punch-Bowl that the Broom-Squire and the boy had on their right
was a bowl brimming with naught save darkness. Its depths could
not be fathomed by the eye at that time of night, nor did any
sound issue from it save a hissing as though some fluid were
seething in the bowl; yet was this produced solely by the wind
swirling in it among the harsh branches of the heather.
"So your mother don't like your drawing and painting," said the
Broom-Squire.
"No, Bideabout, she and father be terrible on at me to become a
publican, and carry along with the Ship, after father's got old
and gived up. But I don't fancy it; in fact, I hate the thought
of it. Of course," added the boy; "if they forces me to it, I must.
But anyhow I wouldn't like to have that there Ship sign at our door
so bad painted as she be. I could do better if I had the paints."
"Oh! drinkers don't care for beautiful pictures at the door, but
for good ale within."
"I don't like that there ship, and I wouldn't stand it--if the
inn were mine."
"You're a fool," said the Broom-Squire contemptuously. "Here's
the spot where the turn comes off the road to my house. Mind
where you walk, and don't roll over down the Punch-Bowl; it's all
a bog at the bottom."
"There's no light anywhere," observed the boy.
"No--no winders look this way. You can't say if a house is alive
or dead from here."
"How long have you had your place in the Punch-Bowl, Bideabout?"
"I've heard say my grandfather was the first squatter. But the
Rocliffes, Boxalls, Snellings, and Nashes will have it they're
older. What do I care so long as I have the best squat in the lot."
That the reader may understand the allusions a word or two must
be allowed in explanation of the settlements in the Punch-Bowl.
This curious depression in the sand range is caused by a number
of springs welling up several hundred feet below the summit of
the range. The rain that falls on the hills sinks through the sand
until it reaches an impervious bed of clay, when it breaks forth
at many orifices. These oozing springs in course of vast ages have
undermined and washed away the superincumbent sand and have formed
the crater called the Devil's Punch-Bowl. The bottom is one
impassable swamp, and the water from the springs flows away to
the north through an opening in the sand-hills.
At some unknown date squatters settled in the Punch-Bowl, at a
period when it was in as wild and solitary a region as any in
England. They enclosed portions of the slopes. They built themselves
hovels; they pastured their sheep, goats, cattle on the sides of
the Punch-Bowl, and they added to their earnings the profits of a
trade they monopolized--that of making and selling brooms.
On the lower slopes of the range grew coppices of Spanish chestnut,
and rods of this wood served admirably for broom-handles. The
heather when long and wiry and strong, covered with its harsh
leafage and myriad hard knobs, that were to burst into flower,
answered for the brush.
On account of this manufacture, the squatters in the Punch-Bowl
went by the designation of Broom-Squires. They provided with
brooms every farm and gentleman's house, nay, every cottage for
miles around. A wagon-load of these besoms was often purchased,
and the supply lasted some years.
The Broom-Squires were an independent people. They used the turf
cut from the common for fuel, and the farmers were glad to carry
away the potash as manure for their fields.
Another business supplemented farming and broom-making. That was
holly-cutting and getting. The Broom-Squires on the approach of
Christmas scattered over the country, and wherever they found holly
trees and bushes laden with berries, without asking permission,
regardless of prohibition, they cut, and then when they had a
cartload, would travel with it to London or Guildford, to attend
the Christmas market.
Not only did they obtain their fuel from the heaths, but much of
their victual as well. The sandy hills abound in rabbits, and the
lagoons and morasses at the foot of the hills in the flat land
teem with fish and wild fowl. At the present day the ponds about
Frensham are much in request for fishing--at the time of our tale
they were netted by the inhabitants of the neighborhood when they
felt a hankering after fish, and the "moors," as marshes are
locally termed, were prowled over for ducks, and the sand burrows
watched for rabbits, all without let and hindrance.
At the present date there are eight squatter families in the
Punch-Bowl, three belong to the branches of the clan of Boxall,
three to that of Snelling, and two to the less mighty clan of
Nash. At the time of which I write one of the best built houses
and the most fertile patches of land was in the possession of
the young man, Jonas Kink, commonly known as Bideabout.
Jonas was a bachelor. His father and mother were dead, and his
sister had married one of the Rocliffe's. He lived alone in his
tolerably substantial house, and his sister came in when she was
able to put it tidy for him and to do some necessary cooking.
He was regarded as close-fisted though young; his age about
twenty-three years. Hitherto no girl had caught his fancy, or had
caught it sufficiently to induce him to take one to wife.
"Tell'y what," said his sister, "you'll be nothing else but an old
hudger (bachelor)."
This was coming to be a general opinion. Jonas Kink had a heart
for money, and for that only. He sneered at girls and flouted them.
It was said that Jonas would marry no girl save for her money,
and that a monied girl might pick and choose for herself, and
such as she would most assuredly not make election of Bideabout.
Consequently he was foredoomed to be a "hudger."
"What's that?" suddenly exclaimed the Broom-Squire, who led the
way along a footpath on the side of the steep slope.
"It's a dead sheep, I fancy, Bideabout."
"A dead sheep--I wonder if it be mine. Hold hard, what's that
noise?"
"It's like a babe's cry," said the boy. "Oh, lawk! if it be dead
and ha' become a wanderer! I shu'd never have the pluck to go
home alone."
"Get along with your wanderers. It's arrant nonsense. I don't
believe a word of it."
"But there is the crying again. It is near at hand. Oh, Bideabout!
I be that terrified!"
"I'll strike a light. I'm not so sure about this being a dead
sheep."
Something lay on the path, catching what little light came from
the sky above.
Jonas stooped and plucked some dry grass. Then he got out his
tinderbox and struck, struck, struck.
The boy's eyes were on the flashing sparks. He feared to look
elsewhere. Presently the tinder was ignited, and the Broom-Squire
blew it and held dry grass haulms to the glowing embers till a
blue flame danced up, became yellow, and burst into a flare.
Cautiously Jonas approached the prostrate figure and waved the
flaming grass above it, whilst sparks flew about and fell over it.
The boy, shrinking behind the man, looked timidly forward, and
uttered a cry as the yellow flare fell over the object and illumined
a face.
"I thought as much," said the Broom-Squire. "What else could he
expect? Them three chaps ha' murdered him. They've robbed and
stripped him."
"Oh--Bideabout!"
"Aye. What other could come o' such companions. They've gone off
wi' his clothes--left his shirt--have they? That's curious, as
one of the blackguards had none."
Then the child's wailing and sobbing sounded more continuously
than before.
"The baby ain't far off," said Jonas. "I suppose we can't leave it
here. This is a pretty awkward affair. Tell'y what, Iver. You bide
by the dead man and grope about for that there baby, and I'll go
down to the houses and get help."
"Oh, Bideabout! I dursn't."
"Dursn't what?"
"Not be left alone--here--in the Punch-Bowl with a dead man."
"You're a fool," said Jonas, "a dead man can't hurt nobody, and
them rascals as killed him are for sure a long way off by this
time. Look here, Iver, you timid 'un, you find that squalling brat
and take it up. I don't mind a brass fardin' being here wi' a
corpse so long as I can have my pipe, and that I'll light. But I
can't stand the child as well. You find that and carry it down,
and get the Boxalls, or someone to take it in. Tell 'em there's a
murdered man here and I'm by the body, and want to get home and
can't till someone comes and helps to carry it away. Cut along
and be sharp. I'd ha' given a shilling this hadn't happened. It
may cost us a deal o' trouble and inconvenience--still--here it
is--and--you pick about and find that creature squealin' its
bellows out."
There was callousness unusual and repulsive in so young a man.
It jarred with the feelings of the frightened and nervous boy.
Tears of alarm and pity were in his eyes. He felt about in the
heather till he reached the infant. It was lying under a bush.
He took the poor little creature up, and the babe, as though
content to feel itself with strong arms under it, ceased to cry.
"What shall I do, Bideabout?"
"Do--cut along and raise the Boxalls and the Snellings, and bid
them come and remove the body, and get someone to take the child.
Confound the whole concern. I wish they'd done it elsewhere--or I
hadn't come on it. But it's like my ill-luck."