THE SPLENDID SPUR
Being Memoirs of The Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, A Servant of His
Late Majesty King Charles I., In The Years 1642-3: Written by Himself:
Edited in Modern English by Q (Arthur T. Quiller Couch)
By Arthur T. Quiller Couch
1897
[Illustration: “I loved thee so, boy Jack.”]
TO
EDWARD GWYNNE EARDLEY-WILMOT.
_MY DEAR EDDIE,_
Whatever view a story-teller may take of his business, ’tis happy when
he can think, “This book of mine will please such and such a friend,”
and may set that friend’s name after the title page. For even if to
please (as some are beginning to hold) should be no part of his aim,
at least ’twill always be a reward: and (in unworthier moods) next to a
Writer I would choose to be a Lamplighter, as the only other that gets
so cordial a “God bless him!” in the long winter evenings.
To win such a welcome at such a time from a new friend or two would be
the happiest fortune for my tale. But to you I could wish it to speak
particularly, seeing that under the coat of JACK MARVEL _beats the
heart of your friend_
Q.
_Torquay, August 22d_, 1889.
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
“Q.”
A year or two ago it was observed that three writers were using the
curiously popular signature “Q.” This was hardly less confusing than
that one writer should use three signatures (Grant Allen, Arbuthnot
Wilson, and Anon), but as none of the three was willing to try another
letter, they had to leave it to the public (whose decision in such
matters is final) to say who is Q to it. The public said, Let him wear
this proud letter who can win it, and for the present at least it is
in the possession of the author of “The Splendid Spur” and “The Blue
Pavilions.” It would seem, too, as if it were his “to keep,” for “Q” is
like the competition cups that are only yours for a season, unless you
manage to carry them three times in succession. Mr. Quiller-Couch has
been champion Q since 1890.
The interesting question is not so much, What has he done to be the only
prominent Q of these years, as Is he to be the Q of all time? If so, he
will do better work than he has yet done, though several of his latest
sketches—and one in particular—are of very uncommon merit. Mr.
Quiller-Couch is so unlike Mr. Kipling that one immediately wants to
compare them. They are both young, and they have both shown such promise
that it will be almost sad if neither can write a book to live—as,
of course, neither has done as yet. Mr. Kipling is the more audacious,
which is probably a matter of training. He was brought up in India,
where one’s beard grows much quicker than at Oxford, and where you not
only become a man (and a cynic) in a hurry, but see and hear strange
things (and print them) such as the youth of Oxford miss, or, becoming
acquainted with, would not dare insert in the local magazine of the
moment. So Mr. Kipling’s first work betokened a knowledge of the world
that is by no means to be found in “Dead Man’s Rock,” the first book
published by Mr. Quiller-Couch. On the other hand, it cannot truly be
said that Mr. Kipling’s latest work is stronger than his first, while
the other writer’s growth is the most remarkable thing about him. It
is precisely the same Mr. Kipling who is now in the magazines that was
writing some years ago in India (and a rare good Mr. Kipling too), but
the Mr. Quiller-Couch of to-day is the Quiller-Couch of “Dead Man’s
Rock” grown out of recognition. To compare their styles is really to
compare the men. Mr. Kipling’s is the more startling, the stronger (as
yet), and the more mannered. Mark Twain, it appears, said he reads Mr.
Kipling for his style, which is really the same thing as saying you read
him for his books, though the American seems only to have meant that
he eats the beef because he likes the salt. It is a journalistic style,
aiming too constantly at sharp effects, always succeeding in getting
them. Sometimes this is contrived at the expense of grammar, as when (a
common trick with the author) he ends a story with such a paragraph as
“Which is manifestly unfair.” Mr. Quiller-Couch has never sinned in this
way, but his first style was somewhat turgid, even melodramatic, and,
compared with Mr. Kipling’s, lacked distinction. From the beginning Mr.
Kipling had the genius for using the right word twice in three
times (Mr. Stevenson only misses it about once in twelve), while
Mr. Quiller-Couch not only used the wrong word, but weighted it with
adjectives. The charge, however, cannot be brought against him to-day,
for having begun by writing like a Mr. Haggard not quite sure of himself
(if one can imagine such a Mr. Haggard), and changing to an obvious
imitation of Mr. Stevenson, he seems now to have made a style for
himself. It is clear and careful, but not as yet strong winged. Its
distinctive feature is that it is curiously musical.
“Dead Man’s Rock” is a capital sensational story to be read and at once
forgotten. It was followed by “The Astonishing History of Troy Town,”
which was humorous, and proved that the author owed a debt to Dickens.
But it was not sufficiently humorous to be remarkable for its humor, and
it will go hand in hand with “Dead Man’s Rock” to oblivion. Until “The
Splendid Spur” appeared Mr. Quiller-Couch had done little to suggest
that an artist had joined the ranks of the story-tellers. It is not in
anyway a great work, but it was among the best dozen novels of its year,
and as the production of a new writer it was one of the most notable.
About the same time was published another historical romance of the
second class (for to nothing short of Sir Walter shall we give a
first-class in this department), “Micah Clarke,” by Mr. Conan Doyle. It
was as inevitable that the two books should be compared as that he who
enjoyed the one should enjoy the other. In one respect “Micah Clarke” is
the better story. It contains one character, a soldier of fortune, who
is more memorable than any single figure in “The Splendid Spur.” This,
however, is effected at a cost, for this man is the book. It contains,
indeed, two young fellows, one of them a John Ridd, but no Diana Vernon
would blow a kiss to either. Both stories are weak in pathos, despite
Joan, but there are a score of humorous situations in “The Splendid
Spur” that one could not forget if he would—which he would not—as, for
instance, where hero and heroine are hidden in barrels in a ship, and
hero cries through his bunghole, “Wilt marry me, sweetheart?” to which
heroine replies, “Must get out of this cask first.” Better still is the
scene in which Captain Billy expatiates, with a mop and a bucket, on the
merits of his crew. But the passages are for reading, not for hearing
about. Of the characters, this same Captain Billy is not the worst, but
perhaps the best is Joan, Mr. Quiller-Couch’s first successful picture
of a girl. A capital eccentric figure is killed (some good things
are squandered in this book) just when we are beginning to find him a
genuine novelty. Anything that is ready to leap into danger seems to
be thought good enough for the hero of a fighting romance, so that Jack
Marvel will pass (though Delia, as is right and proper, is worth two of
him, despite her coming-on disposition). The villain is a failure, and
the plot poor. Nevertheless there are some ingenious complications in
it. Jack’s escape by means of the hangman’s rope, which was to send him
out of the world in a few hours, is a fine rollicking bit of sensation.
Where Mr. Quiller-Couch and Mr. Conan Doyle both fail as compared with
the great master of romance is in the introduction of historical figures
and episodes. Scott would have been a great man if he had written no
novel but “The Abbott” (one of his second best), and no part of
“The Abbott” but the scene in which Mary signs away her crown. Mr.
Quiller-Couch almost entirely avoids such attempts, and even Mr. Conan
Doyle only dips into them timidly. There is, one has been told, a theory
that the romancist has no right to picture history in this way. But he
makes his rights when he does it as Scott did it.
Since “The Splendid Spur,” Mr. Quiller-Couch has published nothing in
book form which can be considered an advance on his best novel, but
there have appeared by him a number of short Cornish sketches, which are
perhaps best considered as experiments. They are perilously slight, and
where they are successful one remembers them as sweet dreams or like a
bar of music. All aim at this effect, so that many should not be taken
at a time, and some (as was to be expected with such delicate work)
miss their mark. It might be said that in several of these melodies
Mr. Quiller-Couch has been writing the same thing again and again,
determined to succeed absolutely, if not this time then the next, and
if not the next time then the time after. In one case he has succeeded
absolutely. “The Small People,” is a prose “Song of the Shirt.” To my
mind this is a rare piece of work, and the biggest thing for its size
that has been done in English fiction for some years.
These sketches have been called experiments. They show (as his books
scarcely show) that Mr. Quiller-Couch can feel. They suggest that he may
be able to do for Cornwall what Mr. Hardy has done for Dorset—though
the methods of the two writers are as unlike as their counties. But that
can only be if in filling his notebook with these little comedies and
tragedies Mr. Quiller-Couch is preparing for more sustained efforts.
“Our hope and heart is with thee
We will stand and mark.”
J. M. BARRIE.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. THE BOWLING-GREEN OF THE “CROWN”
II. THE YOUNG MAN IN THE CLOAK OF AMBER SATIN
III. I FIND MYSELF IN A TAVERN BRAWL; AND BARELY ESCAPE
IV. I TAKE THE ROAD
V. MY ADVENTURE AT THE “THREE CUPS”
VI. THE FLIGHT IN THE PINE WOOD
VII. I FIND A COMRADE
VIII. I LOSE THE KING’S LETTER; AND AM CARRIED TO BRISTOL
IX I BREAK OUT OF PRISON
X. CAPTAIN POTTERY AND CAPTAIN SETTLE
XI. I RIDE DOWN INTO TEMPLE; AND AM WELL TREATED THERE
XII. HOW JOAN SAVED THE ARMY OF THE WEST; AND SAW THE FIGHT ON BRADDOCK
DOWN
XIII. I BUY A LOOKING GLASS AT BODMIN FAIR: AND MEET WITH MR. HANNIBAL
XIV. I DO NO GOOD IN THE HOUSE OF GLEYS
XV. I LEAVE JOAN AND RIDE TO THE WARS
XVI. THE BATTLE OF STAMFORD HEATH
XVII. I MEET WITH A HAPPY ADVENTURE BY BURNING OF A GREEN LIGHT
XVIII. JOAN DOES ME HER LAST SERVICE
XIX THE ADVENTURE OF THE HEARSE
XX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE LEDGE; AND HOW I SHOOK HANDS WITH MY COMRADE
THE SPLENDID SPUR.
CHAPTER I.
THE BOWLING-GREEN OF THE “CROWN.”
He that has jilted the Muse, forsaking her gentle pipe to follow the
drum and trumpet, shall fruitlessly besiege her again when the time
comes to sit at home and write down his adventures. ’Tis her revenge,
as I am extremely sensible: and methinks she is the harder to me, upon
reflection how near I came to being her lifelong servant, as you are to
hear.
’Twas on November 29th, Ao. 1642—a clear, frosty day—that the King,
with the Prince of Wales (newly recovered of the measles), the Princes
Rupert and Maurice, and a great company of lords and gentlemen, horse
and foot, came marching back to us from Reading. I was a scholar of
Trinity College in Oxford at that time, and may begin my history at
three o’clock on the same afternoon, when going (as my custom was) to
Mr. Rob. Drury for my fencing lesson, I found his lodgings empty.
They stood at the corner of Ship Street, as you turn into the Corn
Market—a low wainscoted chamber, ill-lighted but commodious. “He is off
to see the show,” thought I as I looked about me; and finding an easy
cushion in the window, sat down to await him. Where presently, being
tired out (for I had been carrying a halberd all day with the scholars’
troop in Magdalen College Grove), and in despite of the open lattice, I
fell sound asleep.
It must have been an hour after that I awoke with a chill (as was
natural), and was stretching out a hand to pull the window close, but
suddenly sat down again and fell to watching instead.
The window look’d down, at the height of ten feet or so, upon a
bowling-green at the back of the “Crown” Tavern (kept by John Davenant,
in the Corn Market), and across it to a rambling wing of the same inn;
the fourth side—that to my left—being but an old wall, with a
broad sycamore growing against it. ’Twas already twilight; and in the
dark’ning house, over the green, was now one casement brightly lit, the
curtains undrawn, and within a company of noisy drinkers round a table.
They were gaming, as was easily told by their clicking of the dice and
frequent oaths: and anon the bellow of some tipsy chorus would come
across. ’Twas one of these catches, I dare say, that woke me: only just
now my eyes were bent, not toward the singers, but on the still lawn
between us.
The sycamore, I have hinted, was a broad tree, and must, in summer, have
borne a goodly load of leaves: but now, in November, these were strewn
thick over the green, and nothing left but stiff, naked boughs. Beneath
it lay a crack’d bowl or two on the rank turf, and against the trunk a
garden bench rested, I suppose for the convenience of the players. On
this a man was now seated.
He was reading in a little book; and this first jogged my curiosity: for
’twas unnatural a man should read print at this dim hour, or, if he had
a mind to try, should choose a cold bowling-green for his purpose. Yet
he seemed to study his volume very attentively, but with a sharp look,
now and then, toward the lighted window, as if the revellers disturb’d
him. His back was partly turn’d to me; and what with this and the
growing dusk, I could but make a guess at his face: but a plenty of
silver hair fell over his fur collar, and his shoulders were bent a
great deal. I judged him between fifty and sixty. For the rest, he wore
a dark, simple suit, very straitly cut, with an ample furr’d cloak, and
a hat rather tall, after the fashion of the last reign.
Now, why the man’s behavior so engaged me, I don’t know: but at the
end of half an hour I was still watching him. By this, ’twas near
dark, bitter cold, and his pretence to read mere fondness: yet he
persevered—though with longer glances at the casement above, where the
din at times was fit to wake the dead.
And now one of the dicers upsets his chair with a curse, and gets on his
feet. Looking up, I saw his features for a moment—a slight, pretty boy,
scarce above eighteen, with fair curls and flush’d cheeks like a girl’s.
It made me admire to see him in this ring of purple, villainous faces.
’Twas evident he was a young gentleman of quality, as well by his
bearing as his handsome cloak of amber satin barr’d with black. “I think
the devil’s in these dice!” I heard him crying, and a pretty hubbub all
about him: but presently the drawer enters with more wine, and he sits
down quietly to a fresh game.
As soon as ’twas started, one of the crew, that had been playing but was
now dropp’d out, lounges up from his seat, and coming to the casement
pushes it open for fresh air. He was one that till now had sat in full
view—a tall bully, with a gross pimpled nose; and led the catches in
a bull’s voice. The rest of the players paid no heed to his rising; and
very soon his shoulders hid them, as he lean’d out, drawing in the cold
breath.
During the late racket I had forgot for a while my friend under the
sycamore, but now, looking that way, to my astonishment I saw him
risen from his bench and stealing across to the house opposite. I say
“stealing,” for he kept all the way to the darker shadow of the wall,
and besides had a curious trailing motion with his left foot as though
the ankle of it had been wrung or badly hurt.
As soon as he was come beneath the window he stopped and called softly—
“Hist!”
The bully gave a start and look’d down. I could tell by this motion he
did not look to find anyone in the bowling-green at that hour. Indeed he
had been watching the shaft of light thrown past him by the room behind,
and now moved so as to let it fall on the man that addressed him.
The other stands close under the window, as if to avoid this, and calls
again—
“Hist!” says he, and beckons with a finger.
The man at the window still held his tongue (I suppose because those
in the room would hear him if he spoke), and so for a while the two men
studied one another in silence, as if considering their next moves.
After a bit, however, the bully lifted a hand, and turning back into the
lighted room, walks up to one of the players, speaks a word or two and
disappears.
I sat up on the window seat, where till now I had been crouching for
fear the shaft of light should betray me, and presently (as I was
expecting) heard the latch of the back perch gently lifted, and spied
the heavy form of the bully coming softly over the grass.
Now, I would not have my readers prejudiced, and so may tell them this
was the first time in my life I had played the eavesdropper. That I
did so now I can never be glad enough, but ’tis true, nevertheless, my
conscience pricked me; and I was even making a motion to withdraw when
that occurred which would have fixed any man’s attention, whether he
wish’d it or no.
The bully must have closed the door behind him but carelessly, for
hardly could he take a dozen steps when it opened again with a scuffle,
and the large house dog belonging to the “Crown” flew at his heels with
a vicious snarl and snap of the teeth.
’Twas enough to scare the coolest. But the fellow turn’d as if shot, and
before he could snap again, had gripped him fairly by the throat. The
struggle that follow’d I could barely see, but I heard the horrible
sounds of it—the hard, short breathing of the man, the hoarse
rage working in the dog’s throat—and it turned me sick. The dog—a
mastiff—was fighting now to pull loose, and the pair swayed this way
and that in the dusk, panting and murderous.
I was almost shouting aloud—feeling as though ’twere my own throat thus
gripp’d—when the end came. The man had his legs planted well apart.
I saw his shoulders heave up and bend as he tightened the pressure of
his fingers; then came a moment’s dead silence, then a hideous gurgle,
and the mastiff dropped back, his hind legs trailing limp.
The bully held him so for a full minute, peering close to make sure he
was dead, and then without loosening his hold, dragged him across the
grass under my window. By the sycamore he halted, but only to shift his
hands a little; and so, swaying on his hips, sent the carcase with a
heave over the wall. I heard it drop with a thud on the far side.
During this fierce wrestle—which must have lasted about two
minutes—the clatter and shouting of the company above had gone on
without a break; and all this while the man with the white hair had
rested quietly on one side, watching. But now he steps up to where the
bully stood mopping his face (for all the coolness of the evening), and,
with a finger between the leaves of his book, bows very politely.
“You handled that dog, sir, choicely well,” says he, in a thin voice
that seemed to have a chuckle hidden in it somewhere.
The other ceased mopping to get a good look at him.
“But sure,” he went on, “’twas hard on the poor cur, that had never
heard of Captain Lucius Higgs—”
I thought the bully would have had him by the windpipe and pitched him
after the mastiff, so fiercely he turn’d at the sound of this name. But
the old gentleman skipped back quite nimbly and held up a finger.
“I’m a man of peace. If another title suits you better—”
“Where the devil got you that name?” growled the bully, and had half a
mind to come on again, but the other put in briskly—
“I’m on a plain errand of business. No need, as you hint, to mention
names; and therefore let me present myself as Mr. Z. The residue of the
alphabet is at your service to pick and choose from.”
“My name is Luke Settle,” said the big man hoarsely (but whether this
was his natural voice or no I could not tell).
“Let us say ‘Mr. X.’ I prefer it.”
The old gentleman, as he said this, popped his head on one side, laid
the forefinger of his right hand across the book, and seem’d to be
considering.
“Why did you throttle that dog a minute ago?” he asked sharply.
“Why, to save my skin,” answers the fellow, a bit puzzled.
“Would you have done it for fifty pounds?”
“Aye, or half that.”
“And how if it had been a _puppy_, Mr. X?”
Now all this from my hiding I had heard very clearly, for they stood
right under me in the dusk. But as the old gentleman paused to let
his question sink in, and the bully to catch the drift of it before
answering, one of the dicers above struck up to sing a catch——
“With a hey, trolly-lolly! a leg to the Devil,
And answer him civil, and off with your cap:
Sing—Hey, trolly-lolly! Good-morrow, Sir Evil,
We’ve finished the tap,
And, saving your worship, we care not a rap!”
While this din continued, the stranger held up one forefinger again, as
if beseeching silence, the other remaining still between the pages of
his book.
“Pretty boys!” he said, as the noise died away; “pretty boys! ’Tis
easily seen they have a bird to pluck.”
“He’s none of my plucking.”
“And if he were, why not? Sure you’ve picked a feather or two before now
in the Low Countries—hey?”
“I’ll tell you what,” interrupts the big man, “next time you crack one
of your death’s-head jokes, over the wall you go after the dog. What’s
to prevent it?”
“Why, this,” answers the old fellow, cheerfully. “There’s money to be
made by doing no such thing. And I don’t carry it all about with me. So,
as ’tis late, we’d best talk business at once.”
They moved away toward the seat under the sycamore, and now their words
reached me no longer—only the low murmur of their voices or (to be
correct) of the elder man’s: for the other only spoke now and then, to
put a question, as it seemed. Presently I heard an oath rapped out
and saw the bully start up. “Hush, man!” cried the other, and “hark-ye
now—”; so he sat down again. Their very forms were lost within the
shadow. I, myself, was cold enough by this time and had a cramp in
one leg—but lay still, nevertheless. And after awhile they stood up
together, and came pacing across the bowling-green, side by side, the
older man trailing his foot painfully to keep step. You may be sure I
strain’d my ears.
“—besides the pay,” the stranger was saying, “there’s all you can win
of this young fool, Anthony, and all you find on the pair, which I’ll
wager—”
They passed out of hearing, but turned soon, and came back again. The
big man was speaking this time.
“I’ll be shot if I know what game _you’re_ playing in this.”
The elder chuckled softly. “I’ll be shot if I mean you to,” said he.
And this was the last I heard. For now there came a clattering at the
door behind me, and Mr. Robert Drury reeled in, hiccuping a maudlin
ballad about “_Tib and young Colin, one fine day, beneath the haycock
shade-a_,” &c., &c., and cursing to find his fire gone out, and all in
darkness. Liquor was ever his master, and to-day the King’s health had
been a fair excuse. He did not spy me, but the roar of his ballad
had startled the two men outside, and so, while he was stumbling over
chairs, and groping for a tinder-box, I slipp’d out in the darkness, and
downstairs into the street.