UNCLE
Everybody in Nether-Applewhite called Habakkuk Mucklow Uncle.
In all villages remote from what we call civilisation there may be found
men like him, loose-limbed, loose-tongued, easy, pleasure-loving,
quick-witted in what concerns others, strangely slow to grapple with
their own opportunities, always at the mercy of their wives and genially
dependent upon them. Uncle was the best thatcher in the countryside. He
might have been busy all the time, but it was known that he refused
disdainfully the more primitive forms of his work; he never touched
barns or stacks. On the other hand, he was artistically eager to tackle
the decorative thatching which is still to be found in Wiltshire.
Although he was older than his sister, Mrs. Yellam, and past sixty, he
still ran afoot with the hounds, and earned handsome tips as an
independent harbourer of deer. During many years, also, he had been
"beater" to old Captain Davenant, who took out a Forest License from the
Crown which afforded him three days' rough shooting a week, from October
till the end of January. Nobody, in those parts, knew the northern half
of the New Forest better than Habakkuk Mucklow.
Like all his family, he was an upstanding fellow, a six-footer, and
finely proportioned, with a cheerful red face, cleanly-shaven save for a
wisp of grey whisker which he sported high on his cheek after the
fashion adopted by the Iron Duke, whom Habakkuk venerated as the
greatest of Englishmen. Had you told him that his hero came from
Ireland, he would not have believed it.
Uncle loved creature comforts, and could carry more strong ale without
showing it than any man in the parish. Very wisely he had married Jane
Rockley who, in her time, had served a long apprenticeship at Pomfret
Court as scullery-maid and then kitchen-maid, becoming, finally, cook in
that handsome establishment. Jane Mucklow ruled Habakkuk through his
stomach, and he was well aware of this, and rebelled constantly against
what he considered to be an abuse of power.
"Womenfolk," he would remark, "don't wage honourable warfare. They hits
below the belt, they do. When my old 'ooman gets miffed wi' me, I
notices a tremenjous difference in my victuals."
Uncle had pipeclay in his marrow. During his hot youth he had taken the
Queen's shilling after a poaching affair, and served some five years
with the colours of the county regiment. He had not seen active service,
but he allowed strangers to believe that he was a great warrior.
Possibly, the discipline of the parade ground had made him swear to take
life easily for the rest of his days.
Captain Davenant spoke of him as a "character." The word "card" was not
known in Nether-Applewhite.
Uncle loved two persons nearly as much as himself--his sister, Susan,
and his nephew, Alfred. When the news of Alfred's engagement became
known to him, he expressed great interest and pleasure, drinking the
health of prospective groom and bride in much ale and cider. Alfred
brought the blushing Fancy to Uncle's cottage, and received the
felicitations which the good looks of the young woman warranted.
Uncle had sentimental views about the married state not shared by his
wife. As he kissed Fancy, he said solemnly:
"'Tis a great venture. We all likes a dip into the lucky bag. And it do
seem to me, Alferd, as you've pulled a prize."
Mrs. Mucklow sniffed. She, too, kissed Fancy, but uttered a warning
note:
"Marriage ain't what some folks crack it up to be, my girl. But I've not
a word agen courtship. Your uncle, as is to be, follered me about like a
dog for three years, and I own up truthful 'twas the happiest time o' my
life."
Uncle laughed cheerily.
"I be your old dog still, Jane, and allers ready for a bone."
Mrs. Mucklow nodded, looking whimsically at Fancy.
"You hear that, my girl? 'Tis the bone they look for. A man's heart lies
in his stomach. Feed up Alferd so long as he behaves himself. I says
nothing about the power o' prayer, seein' as generally speaking my most
powerful prayers ain't been answered as I could wish, but fasting do
wonnerful work, especially wi' men."
Uncle laughed again.
Marriage, however, seemed reasonably remote. Fancy wished to "make good"
in her new place. Alfred, very comfortable at home, intended to work
hard for a year at least, laying the solid foundations of a business
likely to be bigger than he had ever dreamed it to be. Mrs. Yellam,
moreover, had spoken plainly and sensibly to her son.
"She be a sweet maid, Alferd, but tarribly spindlin', a slip o' muslin,
and young for her years."
"Twenty-two, Mother."
"I knows that. And I minds that her mother died, pore soul, when Fancy
was born. A bottle-baby; and I never did hold wi' that. Don't 'ee look
so glum. She be plumper a'ready. Pa'son give his maids good plain food,
and our air blowing over downs be better nor strong ale for such as
she."
"You do love her, Mother?"
"In course I do, and I'm doing my duty by her and you when I tells 'ee
that she ain't marriage-ripe, nor likely to be for many months to come.
If I was only thinking o' myself, my son, I'd be laying out your wedding
sheets this day. Squire and me has many things in common, and this afore
all: we likes to see red-cheeked little 'uns coming on."
"You're a wonderful, farseeing woman. Fair aching I am for her, the
pretty dear, but wait we must for matrimonial joys, and wait we shall.
That's certain."
To his surprise, she laid her strong hands upon his shoulder and kissed
him solemnly: demonstrations rare indeed with her, which provoked
surprise.
"Why, Mother!"
She said slowly:
"You be all I have, Alferd, and a son to be proud of as never was. I be
farseein'. 'Tis a gift o' God. Biding for happiness, in the right
Christian spirit, generally brings it, but not allers, not allers."
With a sigh she turned to her daily work, and he went, thoughtfully, to
his.
July glided away peacefully. Wars and rumours of wars reached few ears
in Nether-Applewhite. The possibility of civil war in Ireland disturbed
Mr. Hamlin and provoked to wrath Sir Geoffrey Pomfret; the villagers
remained blandly indifferent to anything outside the sphere of their own
interests and activities.
With the one exception of Uncle.
Perhaps that old war-horse--for so he deemed himself to be--nosed from
afar the coming battles. More than likely, he picked up chance words
dropped by Captain Davenant, once a Guardsman, who rented two miles of
fishing on the Avon, preserves under Uncle's watchful eye. The Captain
predicted war with Germany as inevitable. Uncle, like his wife, could be
trusted to repeat what he heard with sundry additions peculiarly his
own. In the ale-house, he told his cronies what he knew and much more.
"'Twill be a nice bloody how-dy-do; and it mads me to think that time,
as the saying goes, have laid me by the heels. The Kayser be bent on the
job, and have been ever since they ancient days, which I recalls right
well, when he licked the Frenchies. A rare doin' he give 'em, to be
sure."
An old gaffer answered promptly, voicing, unwittingly, the general
opinion:
"'Tain't none of our affair. I be sick to my stomach wi' such
flustratious talk. We English be the mightiest people on earth because
we minds our own business. I don't think nothing o' foreigners; they be,
one and all, so wonderful peevish."
Uncle smiled genially.
"Minds our own business, do us? I bain't so cocky-sure o' that, old
friend. Speaking up for myself, and bigger fools have spoken in this
ale-house, I be sartain sure that good money comes my way through
minding other folks' business. I was never one to think of myself."
"What a tale!"
"The Captain be a dry old stick, but cracklin' wi' ripe wisdom, as I be.
And he's seen the world, as I have. Stay-at-home folk never look further
than their back-yards. I takes a very wide view. Me and Lord Roberts
have sized up this yere Kayser for what he be, a very bumptious,
slambang, bold pirate, a Grab-all as must be put in his place by we. And
why? Because 'tis our duty and privilege to keep proper order. We had to
down Krooger." He trolled out lustily:
"Good old Krooger's dead.
He cut 'is throat
Wi' a piece o' soap.
Good old Krooger's dead."
"I'll drink one more glass o' ale afore I go homealong. Yes, my
respectable, church-goin' friends, we be on the eve o' such battles as
never was. And I couldn't hold up head amongst proper men, if I thought
old England'd keep out o' the scrap. I practises what I preaches. I've
three big sons--fair whoppers. If wanted, I'll see to it that they be
amongst the first to go, and wi' all my honest, generous soul I wish I
could go along wi' en."
The publican, William Saint, who served the ale, said sharply:
"Your sons, Uncle, may have something to say about that."
Uncle stared at him disdainfully. William Saint was of
Nether-Applewhite, but he had begun a prosperous career as a footman at
Pomfret Court. Uncle despised lackeys in his heart. And he detested what
he termed "quality talk" from people who were not quality. William Saint
spoke mincingly, which indicated cant and prosperity. He was accused,
not without reason, of holding radical views, although, being a
time-server, he voted Conservative in accordance with the Squire's
wishes. Nevertheless, Saint was not a man to be ignored or taken
lightly. His tavern, the _Sir John Barleycorn_, did not engross all his
activities. He had many small irons in the fire, bought and sold horses,
dealt in corn and hay, and farmed a few acres of land. In appearance, he
somewhat resembled Napoleon: the same massive jaw, the thin lips, the
pale complexion and brooding brow. Under his management a small
ale-house was becoming a rival of the principal inn, the _Pomfret Arms_.
He catered for a better class of customer than his predecessor. And he
saw possibilities in a tavern, happily situated in the middle of the
village, overlooking the Avon, a comfortable house of call, clean
outwardly and within, heavily-thatched, picturesque enough to catch the
eye and beguile the fancy of the ubiquitous motorist.
Uncle drank his ale before he answered Saint. The mighty draught
restored his good-humour.
"May be. I listens to all men, and suffers fools and knaves as gladly as
King Solomon. The Kayser be spoiling for a big fight wi' we. You be on
the side o' peace, William Saint, and there's many to keep 'ee company.
I don't blame 'ee. 'Tis your ignorance. The country be full o' just such
men as you, wi' their eyes glued to their own tills, and counters,
mindin' their own business, pore souls! and puffed up wi' conceit." He
paused and concluded impressively: "We be tee-totally unprepared, and
there be millions over yonder a-waiting and a-longing to stick us like
so many fat hogs. I wish 'ee, one and all, good-night."
Uncle cocked his bowler--a genuine Billy Coke hat, with Lock's
historical name on a much-soiled lining (the bowler had belonged to
Captain Davenant)--at a martial angle, and strode to his cottage,
whistling Garryowen. When out with the fox-hounds, he wore a stained red
coat, another sometime hartog of the Captain's, surmounting well-cut
breeches and gaiters, once again part of a generous employer's wardrobe.
He was wearing the breeches and gaiters to-day, but his mind had
wandered from sport to war. Tremendous military ardour possessed him. By
the luck of things, on leaving the ale-house, he encountered Lionel
Pomfret returning from fishing. Lionel had a great affection for Uncle,
although he knew him to be a poacher on the sly. Uncle hailed him with
respectful geniality, reasonably assured that five minutes' talk with
t'young Squire meant more war news and a shining half-crown. On such
occasions he employed a formula, rarely known to fail to open either
hearts or purses.
"How well 'ee look, Master Lionel! And Lard bless 'ee, I was thinkin' of
'ee as you turned carner. Any fish this fine evening?"
Lionel Pomfret opened his creel and displayed a nice brace and a half.
But Uncle was in no mood to talk of trout. He had more notable fish to
fry.
"What be they Frenchies doing, sir?"
Lionel answered gravely:
"I hear that twenty thousand Germans have been repulsed at Nancy, but I
don't believe it, Uncle."
"No more don't I, Master Lionel. These be troublous times."
Lionel nodded.
"Be we coming in?"
"Damn it, we can't keep out."
"What I says exzactly. The Rads be kickin' up a fine hullabaloo--a very
dirty, timorsome lot. And bound to crawl down the pole bimeby."
"France is invaded," said Lionel.
"Quick work, sir."
"Quick? After forty years' elaborate preparation? This thing is horribly
serious, Uncle. I'm wondering what they think about it in the village."
"I can tell 'ee, no man better. 'Tis none o' their business, they
thinks. Such shameless ignerunce makes wiser folk value their wisdom. I
happened into the _Sir John Barleycorn_ just afore seein' you, sir. I'd
a matter o' business wi' William Saint."
Not for wealth untold would Uncle have admitted that he visited an
ale-house to drink ale. Lionel smiled. He knew his man.
"Very thirsty evening, too, Uncle."
"I bain't denying that, Master Lionel. And I did take a glass o' what
they calls ale there for the good o' the house. We fell to talkin'. I
made bold to tell 'em what me and Lord Roberts felt about that there
Kayser. And it miffed 'em. I could see that. And the less they pore
souls says the more they thinks. They be chewin' my cud now. But what do
'ee really think, sir?"
Lionel laughed, not wholeheartedly. He was a six months' bridegroom.
"I think, Uncle, that inside of a fortnight I shall be at my depot in
Winchester, drilling recruits."
"Lard save us! And you wi' so young and be-utiful a wife!"
"Sir Geoffrey thinks as I do. There is going to be a terrific strain on
the manhood of this country. Will it stand that strain?"
"I thinks it will, Master Lionel, so be as they chin-wobblin'
politicians keeps their dirty fingers out o' pie. I'd like to march wi'
'ee to Winchester, and overseas, too, by Jo'!"
Lionel nodded. A minute later Uncle strode on his way with the expected
half-crown snug in his breeches' pocket. He told himself that he had
earned it.
When he reached his cottage, he found George, the youngest of his three
sons, just back from the woods, where he worked as a hurdler at this
time of year. The other sons were married and established in cottages of
their own. Jane Mucklow was busy preparing the eight o'clock hot supper.
An agreeable odour filled the kitchen. Uncle kicked the dust off his
boots and entered the house, with George at his heels. The good smell of
baked pork provoked, as usual, a pleasant word. Indeed, Habakkuk Mucklow
had discovered very early in life that soft words do butter parsnips.
"Well, Mother, you looks very sanitary, and what a colour!"
"Got, as you well knows, from stewin' over a fire. Been painting your
nose wi' ale, or worse, I reckons."
Uncle stroked his nose.
"'Tis a very handsome feature, Jane, and allers a true friend to your
good cookin'. I met Master Lionel in village street, and let 'un know
what a wise man was thinking about the times. Agreed wi' every word, he
did. I told 'un he'd be called to jine up again in Winchester inside o'
fortnit. Like as not Garge here'll be wearin' out shoe-leather in some
barrack-yard afore he's much older."
Mrs. Mucklow stared at him, paralysed by astonishment. George, being the
most interested party, said heavily:
"Not if I knows meself."
"I say, Garge, as you'll enlist if they want 'ee."
"They won't want the likes o' me."
Jane Mucklow said sharply:
"Don't you go upsettin' the boy wi' your ridiculous war-talk, Father. He
come nigh on leavin' us to freeze to death in Canady. Why should we
fight to save they Frenchies?"
Uncle grinned and chuckled.
"Ah-h-h! I've a notion about that. I told 'un to the old Captain, and he
said 'twas a very notable remark. Fight we shall and must to save our
own souls and bodies."
George opened a wide mouth; his mother laughed scornfully.
"Never heard o' the British Fleet, I suppose?"
Uncle smiled. Such a smile might have been seen upon the face of Ulysses
after his wanderings, when Penelope asked foolish question.
"Mother, I've seen they mighty ships o' war, which is what you can't
brag on. But more'n our Fleet were wanted afore, in the days o'
Bonaparty, and will be again. You mind that bit o' pork, and leave young
Garge to me."
He gave undivided attention to George; the pleasant smile faded from his
face. His likeness to his sister came out.
"Be you afeard, Garge?"
George pulled himself together.
"I be bold as brass, except wi' maids."
"That any son o' mine should own up to that! Afeard wi' maids! What a
gert booby! I be afeard _for_ maids, if so be as they Proosians come
rampin' into France. And 'tis true they be over the line a'ready."
"How do 'ee know that?" asked his wife.
"Never you mind, Mother. I picks up my information as you does, here and
there. I told Master Lionel as how France was invaded, and he gave me
half-a-crown, he did."
Uncle produced the half-crown as confirmation strong. George was much
impressed.
"You earns money in wondersome ways, Father."
"I do. Now, Garge, I tell 'ee, fair and square, the likes o' you'll be
wanted bad, and, mark my words, my lad, if you don't go willin' they'll
take 'ee whether or no. I forgot to mention it to Master Lionel, but
talk o' conscription be in the air."
"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Mucklow.
Uncle, fully alive to the advantage of leaving people to chew the cud of
his wisdom, went outside to smoke a pipe before supper. He walked down
the village street, carrying a high head and assuming the port of Mars.
Bugles sounded in his ears, and the steady tramp of marching men. He had
picked up the significant and terrifying word "conscription" from
Captain Davenant, who asked for nothing better. Uncle had agreed with
the Captain heartily, being very sensible of what drill had accomplished
for himself, much as he hated it at the time. He thought of George as
clay to the hand of a sergeant, not as cannon fodder. "Afeard wi'
maids!" What a confession!
He was not in the mood to engage others in talk, lumping all his
neighbours together as a flock of silly snivelling sheep, sadly in need
of a shepherd. For the first time in his life he paid the penalty of
being a prophet, and felt strangely alone and unhonoured.
Suddenly he bethought him of his sister Susan. He had half-an-hour to
spare before supper. She would be busy in her kitchen, but never too
busy to exchange a word with him. Alfred would be still on the road. He
strode along more briskly. Susan was the one person living with whom
Uncle was really himself, at best or worst a very simple,
straightforward soul. He had never posed before her and--what a tribute
to her character!--in her rather austere presence he avoided those
whimsical perversions of the truth which so exasperated his wife. To a
woman of brains he bowed the knee. Also, he was gratefully aware of
Susan's enduring affection for him.
He wondered how she would take his news, for news it would be, that the
Squire and Master Lionel were grimly confronting the certainty of
England declaring war upon Germany. Susan read her _Daily Mail_, but not
with any great faith in what newspaper men said. Having a singularly
retentive memory, she prided herself upon collating contradictory
statements made by irresponsible writers. Such critical powers were not
exercised upon the Bible. Apparent discrepancies in the Holy Book could
be, and were (so she held) reconciled by surpliced commentators.
Susan, so Uncle reflected, would deal out strong doses of commonsense,
which her brother, after due absorption, could in his turn distribute
generously amongst the weak-kneed. There were moments when pity for his
fellow-men overbrimmed in Uncle's heart, and filled him with an
amorphous, inherent melancholy. He could rise to giddy heights of mirth
and fall from them into unplumbed depths of depression. Susan, as he
knew, stood solidly between these extremes.
He was in the melancholy mood when he entered her kitchen.
"Well, Susan, there be a nice bit o' pork frizzlin' in our oven, but I
be in sore need o' spiritual nourishment."
"Whatever ails 'ee, Habakkuk?"
"'Tis the crool thought o' weepin' maids and mothers throughout the
land, as robs me o' my appetite."
For the moment Uncle spoke with absolute sincerity. The thought of a
nation in mourning had not entered his mind till he crossed the
threshold of the Yellam cottage. But he accepted it as illuminating.
And, instantly, his imagination draped the idea in deepest crepe.
"Be you speaking o' French maids and mothers?"
"Being the man I am, I counts 'em all in wi' us. 'Tis cut-and-dried, as
the saying goes. Old England takes the field."
Susan Yellam said drily:
"Old England takes the field. Well, dearie, you take a chair and tell us
all about it."
Incredulity was written plain upon her face. Uncle opened fire at
point-blank range.
"Sir Gaffrey says so, Susan. Master Lionel be hot-foot for Winchester,
to drill recruities."
The shot went home. Mrs. Yellam's florid face paled. She had
deliberately put from her the dreadful possibility. But if Sir Geoffrey
said so, it was so. The blood left her face, because her first thought
had been for the gracious lady of the Manor, and the young wife, two
women very dear to her. As the colour came back to her cheeks, she
reflected that she, personally, was not involved in these fearful
issues. Mr. Lionel was a professional soldier. Wife or no wife, a
Pomfret would do his duty. England's army might have to fight side by
side with the French, and England's army was invincible.
She said gravely:
"We be in God A'mighty's hands."
Uncle sat down, assuming a funereal expression which sat oddly upon his
somewhat comical countenance. He did not share his sister's faith in an
All-wise and Merciful Providence. Strong ale, perhaps, had weakened it,
and over-indulgence in flesh-pots. But he dared not contradict his
sister.
He fired another shot.
"Captain Davenant be sartain sure that our noble army be too small for
such a tremenjous affair. He goes further than that, Susan. I wouldn't
deceive 'ee or try to frighten 'ee for a barrel o' ale, but he be
flustratingly positive that we be drawn into the bloodiest war as never
was, and he do say that God A'mighty fights on the side o' the biggest
army. His tarr'ble words, Susan, not mine. There be millions o'
Proosians marchin' into France this very day, and the Captain says they
Frenchies bain't ready for 'em."
He expected a cooling stream of comfort and a rebuttal of what the
Captain said. If anybody could stand up against so redoubtable a
personage it would be Susan Yellam. She said slowly:
"The Captain says that our army be too small! The King'll have to call
for--millions?"
Uncle nodded dolorously. To his utter amazement and confounding, Susan
raised her apron, and covered her face with it.
The abomination of coming desolation overwhelmed both of them.