STITCHING A BUTTON-HOLE.
After the family had retired to rest, the doctor and I lighted our
cigars, and discoursed of the events of the evening.
“Such men as Jehu Judd,” he said, “do a monstrous deal of mischief in
the country. By making the profession of piety a cloak for their
knavery, they injure the cause of morality, and predispose men to
ridicule the very appearance of that which is so justly entitled to
their respect, a sober, righteous, and godly life. Men lose their
abhorrence of fraud in their distrust of the efficacy of religion. It
is a duty we owe to society to expose and punish such fellows.”
“Well then, I will do _my_ duty,” said I, laughing, “he has fired into
the wrong flock this time, I’ll teach him not to do it again, or my
name is not Sam Slick. I will make that goney a caution to sinners, _I_
know. He has often deceived others so that they didn’t know him, I will
now alter him so he shan’t know himself when he wakes up.”
Proceeding to my bed-room, which, as I said before, adjoined the
parlour, I brought out the box containin’ my sketchin’ fixins, and
opening of a secret drawer, showed him a small paper of bronze-coloured
powder.
“That,” said I,” is what the Indians at the Nor-west use to disguise a
white man, when he is in their train, not to deceive their enemies, for
you couldn’t take in a savage for any length of time, no how you could
fix it, but that his pale face might not alarm the scouts of their
foes. I was stained that way for a month when I was among them, for
there was war going on at the time.”
Mixing a little of it with brandy I went to the sofa, where Mr Jehu
Judd was laid out, and with a camel’s hair brush ornamented his upper
lip with two enormous and ferocious moustachios, curling well upwards,
across his cheeks to his ears, and laid on the paint in a manner to
resist the utmost efforts of soap and water. Each eye was adorned with
an enormous circle to represent the effect of blows, and on his
forehead was written in this indelible ink in large print letters, like
those on the starn-board of a vessel, the words “Jehu of Quaco.”
In the morning we made preparations for visiting the Bachelor Beaver.
The evangelical trader awoke amid the general bustle of the house, and
sought me out to talk over the sale of his mackarel.
“Fa is tat,” said Peter, who first stared wildly at him, and then put
himself in a posture of defence. “Is she a deserter from the garishon
of Halifax?”
“I am a man of peace,” said Jehu (who appeared to have forgotten the
aberrations of the last evening, and had resumed his usual
sanctimoniouslyfied manner). “Swear not, friend, it is an abomination,
and becometh not a Christian man.”
Peter was amazed, he could not trust his eyes, his ears, or his memory.
“Toctor,” said he, “come here for heaven’s sake, is she hern ainsel or
ta tevil.”
The moment the doctor saw him, his hands as usual involuntarily
protected his sides, and he burst out a laughing in his face, and then
describing a circle on the grass, fell down, and rolled over, saying,
“Oh, oh, that man will be the death of me.” The girls nearly went into
hysterics, and Cutler, though evidently not approving of the practical
joke, as only fit for military life, unable to contain himself, walked
away. The French boy, Etienne, frightened at his horrible expression of
face, retreated backwards, crossed himself most devoutly, and muttered
an Ave Maria.
“Friend Judd,” said I, for I was the only one who retained my gravity,
“thee ought not to wear a mask, it is a bad sign.”
“I wear no mask, Mr Slick,” he said, “I use no disguises, and it does
not become a professing man like you to jeer and scoff because I
reprove the man Peter for his profaneness.”
Peter stamped and raved like a madman, and had to resort to Gaelic to
disburden his mind of his effervescence. He threatened to shoot him; he
knew him very well, he said, for he had seen him before on the
prairies. He was a Kentucky villain, a forger, a tief, a Yankee spy
sent to excite the Indians against the English. He knew his false
moustachios, he would swear to them in any court of justice in the
world. “Deil a bit is ta loon Jehu Judd,” he said, “her name is prayin’
Joe, the horse-stealer.”
For the truth of this charge he appealed to his daughters, who stood
aghast at the fearful resemblance his moustachios had given him to that
noted borderer.
“That man of Satan,” said Jehu, looking very uncomfortable, as he saw
Peter flourishing a short dirk, and the doctor holding him back and
remonstrating with him. “That man of Satan I never saw before
yesterday, when I entered his house, where there was _fiddling and
dancing, and serving the devil._ Truly my head became dizzy at the
sight, my heart sunk within me at beholding such wickedness, and I fell
into a swoon, and was troubled with dreams of the evil one all night.”
“Then he visited thee, friend,” I said, “in thy sleep, and placed his
mark upon thee—the mark of the beast, come and look at it in the
glass.”
When he saw himself, he started back in great terror, and gave vent to
a long, low, guttural groan, like a man who is suffering intense agony.
“What in the world is all this?” he said. He again approached the glass
and again retreated with a look of unspeakable despair, groaning like a
thousand sinners, and swelled out about the head and throat like a
startled blauzer-snake. After which he put his hand to his lip and
discovered there was no hair. He then took courage and advanced once
more, and examined it carefully, and rubbed it, but it did not remove
it.
“He has burned it into the skin,” I said, “he hath made thee the image
of the horse-stealer, and who knoweth whom else thou resemblest. Thee
art a marked man verily. Thee said thee never used disguises.”
“Never,” he said, “never, Mr Slick.”
“Hush,” I said, “thee hast worn three disguises. First, thee wore the
disguise of religion; secondly, thee were disguised in liquor; and
thirdly, thee art now disguised with what fighting men call the
moustachio.”
“Oh, Mr Slick,” said he, leaving off his cant, and really looking like
a different man, “dod drot it, it is a just punishment. I knock under,
I holler, I give in, have mercy on me. Can you rid me of this horrid
mark, for I can’t flunk out in the street in this rig.”
“I can,” sais I, “but I will do it on one condition only, and that is,
that you give over canting that way, and coverin’ tricks with long
faces and things too serious to mention now, for that is doubly wicked.
Cheatin’ ain’t pretty at no time, though I wouldn’t be too hard on a
man for only gettin’ hold of the right eend of the rope in a bargain. I
have done it myself. Or puttin’ the leak into a consaited critter
sometimes for fun. But to cheat, and cant to help you a doin’ of it, is
horrid, that’s a fact. It’s the very devil. Will you promise, if I take
down that ornamental sign-board, that you will give up that kind o’
business and set up a new shop?”
“I will,” said he, “upon my soul—I’ll be d—d if I don’t. That ain’t
cant now, is it?”
“Well, now you never said a truer word,” said I, “you will be d—d if
you don’t, that’s a fact. But there is no use to run to the other
extreme, neither.”
“Are you a preacher?” said he, and I thought he gave me a sly look out
of the corner of his eye, as much as to say, “how good we are, ain’t
we,” as sin said when the devil was rebukin’ of him. The fact is, the
fellow was a thunderin’ knave, but he was no fool, further than being
silly enough to be a knave.
“No,” sais I, “I ain’t, I scorn a man dubbin’ himself preacher, without
the broughtens up to it, and a lawful warrant for being one. And I
scorn cant, it ain’t necessary to trade. If you want that proved to
you, wait till I return to-morrow, and if you get to winderd of me in a
bargain, I’ll give you leave to put the moustachios on me, that’s a
fact. My maxim is to buy as low and sell as high as I can, provided the
article will bear a large profit. If not, I take a moderate advance,
turn the penny quick, and at it again. I will compound something that
will take out your false hair, for I don’t think it will be easy to
shave it off. It all came of pretence. What in the world was the reason
you couldn’t walk quietly into the cantecoi, where people were enjoying
themselves, and either join them, or if you had scruples, keep them to
yourself and sit by. Nobody would have molested you. Nothing but cant
led you to join temperance societies. A man ought to be able to use,
not abuse liquor, but the moment you obligate yourself not to touch it,
it kinder sets you a hankering after it, and if you taste it after
that, it upsets you, as it did last night. _It ain’t easy to wean a
calf that takes to suckin’ the second time, that’s a fact._ Your
pretence set folks agin you. They didn’t half like the interruption for
one thing, and then the way you acted made them disrespect you. So you
got a most an all-fired trick played on you. And I must say it sarves
you right. Now, sais I, go on board and—”
“Oh, Mr Slick,” said he, “oh now, that’s a good fellow, don’t send me
on board such a figure as this, I’d rather die fust, I’d never hear the
last of it. The men would make me the laughing-stock of Quaco. Oh, I
can’t go on board.”
“Well,” sais I, “go to bed then, and put a poultice on your face, to
soften the skin.” That warn’t necessary at all, but I said it to punish
him. “And when I come back, I will give you a wash, that will make your
face as white and as smooth as a baby’s.”
“Oh, Mr Slick,” said he, “couldn’t you—” but I turned away, and didn’t
hear him out.
By the time I had done with him, we were all ready to start for the
Bachelor Beaver. Peter borrowed an extra horse and waggon, and drove
his youngest daughter. Cutler drove Jessie in another, and the doctor
and I walked.
“We can travel as fast as they can,” he said, “for part of the road is
full of stumps, and very rough, and I like the arrangement, and want to
have a talk with you about all sorts of things.”
After travelling about two miles, we struck off the main highway into a
wood-road, in which stones, hillocks, and roots of trees so impeded the
waggons, that we passed them, and took the lead.
“Are you charged?” said the Doctor, “if not, I think we may as well do
so now.”
“Perhaps it would be advisable,” said I. “But where is your gun?”
“I generally am so well loaded,” he replied, “when I go to the woods, I
find it an encumbrance. In addition to my other traps, I find forty
weight of pemican as much as I can carry.”
“_Pemican_,”1 sais I, “what in natur is that?” I knew as well as he did
what it was, for a man that don’t understand how to make that, don’t
know the very abeselfa of wood-craft. But I tell you what, Squire,
unless you want to be hated, don’t let on you know all that a feller
can tell you. The more you _do_ know, the more folks are afeared to be
able to tell you something new. It flatters their vanity, and it’s a
harmless piece of politeness, as well as good policy to listen; for who
the plague will attend to you if you won’t condescend to hear them?
_Conversation is a barter, in which one thing is swapped for another,
and you must abide by the laws of trade._ What you give costs you
nothing; and what you get may be worth nothing; so, if you don’t gain
much, you don’t lose, at all events. “So,” sais I, “what in natur is
pemican?”
1 See Dunn’s “Oregon.”
“Why,” sais he, “it is formed by pounding the choice parts of venison
or other meat very small, dried over a slack fire, or by the frost, and
put into bags, made of the skin of the slain animal, into which a
portion of melted fat is poured. The whole being then strongly pressed,
and sewed up in bags, constitutes the best and most portable food
known; and one which will keep a great length of time. If a dainty man,
like you, wishes to improve its flavour, you may spice it.”
“What a grand thing that would be for soldiers during forced marches,
wouldn’t it. Well, Doctor,” sais I, “that’s a wrinkle, ain’t it? But
who ever heard of a colonial minister knowing anything of colony
habits?”
“If we have a chance to kill a deer,” he said, “I will show you how to
make it,” and he looked as pleased to give me that information as if he
had invented it himself. “So I use this instead of a gun,” he
continued, producing a long, thick-barreled pistol, of capital
workmanship, and well mounted. “I prefer this, it answers every
purpose: and is easy to carry. There are no wolves here, and bears
never attack you, unless molested, so that the gun-barrel is not needed
as a club; and if Bruin once gets a taste of this, he is in no hurry to
face it again. The great thing is to know how to shoot, and where to
hit. Now, it’s no use to fire at the head of a bear, the proper place
to aim for is the side, just back of the fore leg. Are you a good
shot?”
“Well,” said I, “I can’t brag, for I have seen them that could beat me
at that game; but, in a general way, I don’t calculate to throw away my
lead. It’s scarce in the woods. Suppose though we have a trial. Do you
see that blaze in the hemlock tree, there? try it.”
Well, he up, and as quick as wink fired, and hit it directly in the
centre.
“Well,” sais I, “you scare me. To tell you the truth, I didn’t expect
to be taken up that way. And so sure as I boast of a thing, I slip out
of the little eend of the horn.” Well, I drew a bead fine on it, and
fired.
“That mark is too small,” said he (thinking I had missed it), “and
hardly plain enough.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if I had gone a one side or the other,” said I, as
we walked up to it, “I intended to send your ball further in; but I
guess I have only turned it round. See, I have cut a little grain of
the bark off the right side of the circle.”
“Good,” said he, “these balls are near enough to give a critter the
heart-ache, at any rate. You are a better shot than I am; and that’s
what I have never seen in this province. Strange, too, for you don’t
live in the woods as I do.”
“That’s the reason,” said I, “I shoot for practice, you, when you
require it. Use keeps your hand in, but it wouldn’t do it for me; so I
make up by practising whenever I can. When I go to the woods, which
ain’t as often now as I could wish, for they ain’t to be found
everywhere in our great country, I enjoy it with all my heart. I enter
into it as keen as a hound, and I don’t care to have the Clockmaker run
rigs on. A man’s life often depends on his shot, and he ought to be
afraid of nothin’. Some men, too, are as dangerous as wild beasts; but
if they know you can snuff a candle with a ball, hand runnin’, why,
they are apt to try their luck with some one else, that ain’t up to
snuff, that’s all. It’s a common feeling, that.
“The best shot I ever knew, was a tailor at Albany. He used to be very
fond of brousin’ in the forest sometimes, and the young fellows was apt
to have a shy at Thimble. They talked of the _skirts_ of the forest,
the _capes_ of the Hudson, laughing in their _sleeve,_ giving a fellow
a _bastin,_ having a _stitch_ in the side, _cuffing_ a fellow’s ears,
taking a _tuck-in_ at lunch, or calling mint-julip an _inside lining,_
and so on; and every time any o’ these words came out, they all laughed
like anything.
“Well, the critter, who was really a capital fellow, used to join in
the laugh himself, but still grinnin’ is no proof a man enjoys it; for
a hyena will laugh, if you give him a poke. So what does he do, but
practise in secret every morning and evening at pistol-shooting for an
hour or two, until he was a shade more than perfection itself. Well,
one day he was out with a party of them same coons, and they began to
run the old rig on him as usual. And he jumps up on eend, and in a
joking kind o’ way, said: ‘Gentle_men_, can any of you _stitch a
button-hole,_ with the button in it?’ Well, they all roared out at that
like mad.
“‘No, Sir_ree_,’ sais they, ‘but come, show us _Thimble,_ will you?
that’s a good fellow. Tom, fetch the _goose_ to press it when it’s
done. Dick, _cabbage_ a bit of cloth for him to try it upon. Why, Tom,
you are as _sharp as a needle_.’
“‘Well,’ sais he, ‘I’ll show you.’
“So he went to a tree, and took out of his pocket a fip-penny bit, that
had a hole in the centre, and putting in it a small nail, which he had
provided, he fastened it to the tree.
“‘Now,’ said he, taking out a pair of pistols, and lots of ammunition,
from the bottom of his prog-basket, where he had hid them. ‘Now,’ said
he, ‘gentle_men_, the way to stitch a buttonhole, is to put balls all
round that button, in a close ring, and never disturb them; that’s what
we tailors call workmanlike:’ and he fired away, shot after shot, till
he had done it.
“‘Now,’ said he,’ gentle_men_, that button has to be fastened;’ and he
fired, and drove the nail that it hung on into the tree. ‘And now,
gentle_men_,’ said he, ‘I have stood your shots for many a long day,
turn about is fair play. The first man that cracks a joke at me, on
account of my calling, must stand my shot, and ‘if I don’t stitch his
button-hole for him, I am no tailor; that’s all.’
“Well, they all cheered him when he sat down, and they drank his
health; and the boss of the day said: ‘Well, Street (afore that he used
to call him Thimble), well, Street,’ said he, ‘you _are_ a _man_.’
“‘There you are again,’ said Street, ‘that is a covered joke at a
tailor being only the ninth part of one. I pass it over this time, but
let’s have no more of it.’
“‘No, Sir_ree_, no,’ said boss, ‘on honour now, I didn’t mean it. And I
say, too, let there be no more of it.’”
“Not a bad story!” said the doctor. “A man ought to be able to take his
own part in the world; but my idea is we think too much of guns. Do you
know anything of archery?”
“A little,” sais I, “at least folks say so; but then they really give
me credit for what I don’t deserve; they say I draw a thunderin’ long
bow sometimes.”
“Oh! oh!” he said laughing, “posi_tive_ly, as the fellow said to the
tailor, you’ll give me a stitch in _my_ side. Well, that’s better than
being ‘_sewed_ up,’ as Jehu was last night. But, seriously, do you ever
use the bow?”
“Well, I have tried the South American bow, and it’s a powerful weapon
that; but it takes a man to draw it, I tell you.”
“Yes,” said he, “it requires a strong arm; but the exercise is good for
the chest. It’s the one I generally use. The bow is a great weapon, and
the oldest in the world. I believe I have a tolerable collection of
them. The Indian bow was more or less excellent, according to the wood
they had; but they never could have been worth much here, for the
country produces no suitable material. The old English long-bow perhaps
is a good one; but it is not so powerful as the Turkish. That has
immense power. They say it will carry an arrow from four hundred and
fifty to five hundred yards. Mine perhaps is not a first-rate one, nor
am I what I call a skilful archer; but I can reach beyond three hundred
yards—though that is an immense distance. The gun has superseded them;
but though superior in many respects, the other has some qualities that
are invaluable. In skirmishing, or in surprising outposts, what an
advantage it is to avoid the alarm and noise occasioned by firearms.
All troops engaged in this service in addition to the rifle ought to
have the bow and the quiver. What an advantage it would have been in
the Caffre war, and how serviceable now in the Crimea. They are light
to carry and quickly discharged. When we get to my house I will prove
it to you. We will set up two targets, at one hundred yards, say. You
shall fire from one to the other, and then stand aside, and before you
can reload I will put three arrows into yours. I should say four to a
common soldier’s practice; but I give even you three to one. If a man
misses his first shot at me with a gun, he is victimized, for I have
three chances in return before he gets his second, and if I don’t pink
him with one or the other—why, I deserve to be hit. For the same
reason, what a glorious cavalry weapon it is, as the Parthians knew.
What a splendid thing for an ambush, where you are neither seen nor
heard. I don’t mean to say they are better than fire-arms; but,
occasionally used with them they would be irresistible. If I were a
British officer in command I would astonish the enemy.”
“You would astonish the Horse-Guards, too, _I_ know,” said I. “It would
ruin you for ever. They’d call you old ‘bows and arrows,’ as they did
the general that had no flints to his guns, when he attacked Buonus
Ayres; they’d have you up in ‘Punch;’ they’d draw you as Cupid going to
war; they’d nickname you a _Bow_-street officer. Oh! they’d soon teach
you what a _quiver_ was. They’d play the devil with you. They’d beat
you at your own game; you’d be stuck full of poisoned arrows. You could
as easily introduce the queue again, as the bow.”
“Well, Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt were won with the bow,” he
said, “and, as an auxiliary weapon, it is still as effective as ever.
However that is not a mere speculation. When I go out after cariboo, I
always carry mine, and seldom use my gun. It don’t alarm the herd; they
don’t know where the shaft comes from, and are as likely to look for it
in the lake or in the wild grass as anywhere else. Let us try them
together. But let us load with shot now. We shall come to the brook
directly, and where it spreads out into still water, and the flags
grow, the wild fowl frequent; for they are amazin’ fond of
poke-lokeins, as the Indians call those spots. We may get a brace or
two perhaps to take home with us. Come, let us push ahead, and go
warily.”
After awhile a sudden turn of the road disclosed to us a flock of
blue-winged ducks, and he whispered, “Do you fire to the right, and I
will take the left.” When the smoke from our simultaneous discharges
cleared away, we saw the flock rise, leaving five of their number as
victims of their careless watch.
“That is just what I said,” he remarked, “the gun is superior in many
respects; but if we had our bows here, we would have had each two more
shots at them, while on the wing. As it is, we can’t reload till they
are out of reach. I only spoke of the how as subordinate and auxiliary;
but never as a substitute. Although I am not certain that, with our
present manufacturing skill, metallic bows could not now be made, equal
in power, superior in lightness, and more effective than any gun when
the object to be aimed at is not too minute, for in that particular the
rifle will never be equalled—certainly not surpassed.”
The retriever soon brought us our birds, and we proceeded leisurely on
our way, and in a short time were overtaken by the waggons, when we
advanced together towards the house, which we reached in about an hour
more. As soon as we came in sight of it, the dogs gave notice of our
approach, and a tall, straight, priggish-looking man marched, for he
did not hurry himself, bareheaded towards the bars in the pole fence.
He was soon afterwards followed by a little old woman at a foot amble,
or sort of broken trot, such as distinguishes a Naraganset pacer. She
had a hat in her hand, which she hastily put on the man’s head. But, as
she had to jump up to do it, she effected it with a force that made it
cover his eyes, and nearly extinguish his nose. It caused the man to
stop and adjust it, when he turned round to his flapper, and, by the
motion of his hand, and her retrogade movement, it appeared he did not
receive this delicate attention very graciously. Duty however was
pressing him, and he resumed his stately step towards the bars.
She attacked him again in the rear, as a goose does an intruder, and
now and then picked something from his coat, which I supposed to be a
vagrant thread, or a piece of lint or straw, and then retreated a step
or two to avoid closer contact. He was compelled at last to turn again
on his pursuer, and expostulate with her in no gentle terms. I heard
the words “mind your own business,” or something of the kind, and the
female voice more distinctly (women always have the best of it), “You
look as if you had slept in it. You ain’t fit to appear before
gentlemen.” Ladies she had been unaccustomed of late to see, and
therefore omitted altogether. “What would Colonel Jones say if he saw
you that way?”
To which the impatient man replied: “Colonel Jones be hanged. He is not
my commanding officer, or you either—take that will you, old ooman.” If
the colonel was not there his master was, therefore pressing forward he
took down the bars, and removed them a one side, when he drew himself
bolt upright, near one of the posts, and placing his hand across his
forehead, remained in that position, without uttering a word, till the
waggons passed, and the doctor said, “Well, Jackson, how are you?”
“Hearty, Sir! I hope your Honour is well? Why, Buscar, is that you,
dog; how are you, my man?” and then he proceeded very expeditiously to
replace the poles.
“What are you stopping for?” said the doctor to me, for the whole party
was waiting for us.
“I was admirin’ of them bars,” said I.
“Why, they are the commonest things in the country,” he replied. “Did
you never see them before?” Of course I had, a thousand times, but I
didn’t choose to answer.
“What a most beautiful contrivance,” said I, “they are. First, you
can’t find them, if you don’t know beforehand where they are, they look
so like the rest of the fence. It tante one stranger in a thousand
could take them down, for if he begins at the top they get awfully
tangled, and if he pulls the wrong way, the harder he hauls the tighter
they get. Then he has to drag them all out of the way, so as to lead
the horse through, and leave him standin’ there till he puts them up
agin, and as like as not, the critter gets tired of waitin’, races off
to the stable, and breaks the waggon all to flinders. After all these
advantages, they don’t cost but a shilling or so more than a gate. Oh,
it’s grand.”
“Well, well,” said the doctor, “I never thought of that afore, but you
are right after all,” and he laughed as good humouredly as possible.
“Jackson,” said he.
“Yes, your Honour.”
“We must have a gate there.”
“Certainly,” said the servant, touching his hat. But he honoured me
with a look, as much as to say, “Thank you for nothing, Sir. It’s a
pity you hadn’t served under Colonel Jones, for he would have taught
you to mind your own business double quick.”
We then proceeded to the door, and the doctor welcomed the party to the
“Bachelor Beaver’s-dam,” as he called it. In the mean time, the
bustling little old woman returned, and expressed great delight at
seeing us. The place was so lonesome, she said, and it was so pleasant
to see ladies there, for they were the first who had ever visited the
doctor, and it was so kind of them to come so far, and she hoped they
would often honour the place with their presence, if they could put up
with their accommodation, for she had only heard from the doctor the
night before; and she was so sorry she couldn’t receive them as she
could wish, and a whole volume more, and an appendix longer than that,
and an index to it, where the paging was so jumbled you couldn’t find
nothin’.
Jackson joined in, and said he regretted his commissariat was so badly
supplied. That it was a poor country to forage in, and that there was
nothing but the common rations and stores for the detachment stationed
there. But that nothing should be wanting on his part, and so on. The
housekeeper led the way to the apartments destined for the girls. Peter
assisted the boy to unharness the horses, and the doctor showed Cutler
and myself into the hall, where the breakfast table was set for us.
Seeing Jackson marching to the well, as if he was on parade, I left the
two together in conversation, and went out to talk to him. “Sergeant,”
sais I.
“Yes, your Honour,” said he, and he put down the pail, and raised his
hand to his forehead.
“I understand you have seen a great deal of service in your time.”
“Yes, Sir,” said he, looking well pleased, and as if his talking tacks
were all ready. I had hit the right subject. “I ave gone through a deal
of soldiering in my day, and been in many a ard fight, Sir.”
“I see you have the marks on you,” I said. “That is a bad scar on your
face.”
“Well, Sir,” said he, “saving your presence, I wish the devil had the
Frenchman that gave me that wound. I have some I am proud of having
received in the service of my king and country. I have three balls in
me now, which the doctors couldn’t extract, and nothin’ but death will
bring to the light of day again, if they can be said to be seen in the
grave. But that scar is the only disgraceful mark I ever received since
I first joined in 1808.
“When we were laying siege to Badajoz, Sir, I was in the cavalry, and I
was sent with a message to a brigade that was posted some distance from
us. Well, Sir, as I was trotting along, I saw a French dragoon, well
mounted, leading a splendid spare orse, belonging to some French
hofficer of rank, as far as I could judge from his happearance and
mountings. Instead of pursuing my course, as I ought to have done, Sir,
I thought I’de make a dash at the rascal, and make prize of that are
hanimal. So I drew my sword, raised myself in my saddle (for I was
considered a first-rate swordsman, as most Hinglishmen hare who have
been used to the single-stick), and made sure I ad him. Instead of
turning, he kept steadily on, and never as much as drew his sabre, so
in place of making a cut hat him, for I’de scorn to strike han hunarmed
man, my play was to cut is reins, and then if he wanted a scrimmage, to
give him one, and if not, to carry off that hare orse.
“Well, Sir, he came on gallantly, I must say that, and kept his eye
fixed steadily on me, when just as I was going to make a cut at his
reins, he suddenly seized his eavy-mounted elmet, and threw it slap at
my face, and I’ll be anged if it didn’t stun me, and knock me right off
the orse flat on the ground, and then he galloped off as ard as he
could go. When I got up, I took his elmet under my harm, and proceeded
on my route. I was ashamed to tell the story straight, and I made the
best tale I could of the scrimmage, and showed the elmet in token that
it was a pretty rough fight. But the doctor, when he dressed the wound,
swore it never was made with a sword, nor a bullet, nor any instrument
he knew hon, and that he didn’t think it was occasioned by a fall, for
it was neither insised, outsised, nor contused—but a confusion of all
three. He questioned me as close as a witness.
“‘But,’ sais I, ‘doctor, there is no telling what himplements Frenchmen
ave. They don’t fight like us, they don’t. It was a runnin’ scrimmage,
or _handicap_ fight.’ Yes, Sir, if it was hanywhere helse, where it
wouldn’t show, it wouldn’t be so bad, but there it is on the face, and
there is no denyin’ of it.”
Here the little woman made her appearance again, with the hat in her
hand, and said imploringly:
“Tom, doee put your hat on, that’s a good soul. He don’t take no care
of himself, Sir,” she said, addressing herself to me. “He has seen a
deal of service in his day, and has three bullets in him now, and he is
as careless of hisself as if he didn’t mind whether I was left alone in
the oulin’ wilderness or not. Oh, Sir, if you heard the wild beastesis
here at night, it’s dreadful. It’s worse than the wolves in the Pyreen,
in Spain. And then, Sir, all I can do, I can’t get him to wear is at,
when he knows in is eart he had a stroke of the sun near Badajoz, which
knocked him off his orse, and see how it cut his face. He was so
andsome before, Sir.”
“Betty,” said the sergeant, “the doctor is calling you. Do go into the
ouse, and don’t bother the gentleman. Oh, Sir,” said he, “I have had to
tell a cap of lies about that are scar on my face, and that’s ard, Sir,
for a man who has a medal with five clasps; ain’t it?”
Here the doctor came to tell me breakfast was ready.
“I was admiring, Doctor,” said I, “this simple contrivance of yours for
raising water from the well. It is very ingenious.”
“Very,” he said, “but I assure you it is no invention of mine. I have
no turn that way. It is very common in the country.”
I must describe this extraordinary looking affair, for though not
unusual in America, I have never seen it in England, although the happy
thought doubtless owes its origin to the inventive genius of its
farmers.
The well had a curb, as it is called, a square wooden box open at the
top, to prevent accident to the person drawing the water. A few paces
from this was an upright post about twelve feet high, having a crotch
at the top. A long beam lies across this, one end of which rests on the
ground at a distance from the post, and the other projects into the air
with its point over the well. This beam is secured in the middle of the
crotch of the upright post by an iron bolt, on which it moves, as on an
axle. To the aerial end is attached a few links of a chain, that hold a
long pole to which the bucket is fastened, and hangs over the well. The
beam and its pendent apparatus resembles a fishing-rod and its line
protruding over a stream. When a person wishes to draw water, he takes
hold of the pole, and as he pulls it down, the bucket descends into the
well, and the heavy end of the beam rises into the air, and when the
pail is filled the weight of the butt end of the beam in its descent
raises the bucket.
“Now,” said I, “Doctor, just observe how beautiful this thing is in
operation. A woman (for they draw more nor half the water used in this
country) has to put out all her strength, dragging down the pole, with
her hands over her head (an attitude and exercise greatly recommended
by doctors to women), in order to get the bucket down into the well. If
she is in too big a hurry, the lever brings it up with a jerk that
upsets it, and wets her all over, which is very refreshing in hot
weather, and if a child or a dog happens to be under the heavy end of
the beam, it smashes it to death, which after all ain’t no great
matter, for there are plenty left to them who have too many and don’t
care for ’em. And then if it ain’t well looked after and the post gets
rotten at the bottom, on a stormy day it’s apt to fall and smash the
roof of the house in, which is rather lucky, for most likely it wanted
shingling, and it is time it was done. Well, when the bucket swings
about in the wind, if a gall misses catching it, it is apt to hit her
in the mouth, which is a great matter, if she has the tooth-ache, for
it will extract corn-crackers a plaguey sight quicker than a dentist
could to save his soul.”
“Well,” said he, “I never thought of that before. I have no turn for
these things, I’ll have it removed, it is a most dangerous thing, and I
wouldn’t have an accident happen to the sergeant and dear old Betty for
the world.”
“God bless your Honour for that,” said Jackson.
“But, Doctor,” said I, “joking apart, they are very picturesque, ain’t
they, how well they look in a sketch, eh! nice feature in the
foreground.”
“Oh,” said he, patting me on the back, “there you have me again, Slick.
Oh, indeed they are, I can’t part with my old well-pole, oh, no, not
for the world: Jackson, have an eye to it, see that it is all safe and
strong and that no accident happens, but I don’t think we need take it
away. Come, Slick, come to breakfast.”
Thinks I to myself, as I proceeded to the hall, “there are two classes
only in this world. Those who have genius, and those who have common
sense. They are like tailors, one can cut a coat and do nothin’ else,
for he is an artist. The other can put the parts together, for he is a
workman only. Now the doctor is a man of talent and learning, an
_uncommon_ man, but he don’t know _common_ things at all. He can _cut
out_ a garment, but he can’t _stitch a button-hole_.”