SALTASH FERRY.
Apparently the hackney coachman was accustomed to difficulties with
the toll-gate; for he rested on the box in profoundest slumber,
recumbent, with his chin sunk on his chest; and only woke up--with a
start which shook the vehicle--when a black hearse with plumes waving
went rattling by us and back towards Plymouth.
A minute later Mr. Jope reappeared at the coach door, perspiring
copiously, but triumphant.
"Oh, it's been heavinly!" he announced. "Why, hallo! Where's his
Reverence?"
"He couldn't wait, sir. He--he preferred to walk."
"Eh? I didn't see 'en pass the toll-bar. That's a pity, too; for
I wanted to take his opinion. Oh, my son, it's been heavinly!
First of all I tried argyment and called the toll-man a son of a
bitch; and then he fetched up a constable, and, as luck would have
it, Nan--she's in the second coach--knew all about _him_; leastways,
she talked as if she did. Well, the toll-man stuck to his card of
charges and said he hadn't made the law, but it was threepence for
everything on four wheels. 'Four wheels?' I said. 'Don't talk so
weak! We brought nothing into the world and we can't take it out;
but you'd take the breeches off a Highlander,' I says. 'He's on four
wheels,' says the fellow, stubborn as ever. 'So was Elijah,' says I;
'but if you're so mighty particular, we'll try ye another way.'
I paid off the crew of the hearse, gave the word to cast loose, and
down we dumped poor Bill slap in the middle of the roadway.
'Now,' says I, 'we'll leave talking of wheels. What's your charge
for 'en on the flat?' 'Eight bearers at a ha'penny makes fourpence,'
he says. 'No, no, my son,' I says, 'there ain't a-going to be no
bearers. _He's_ happy enough if he stops here all night. You may
charge 'en as a covered conveyance, as I see you've a right to; but
the card says nothing about rate of drivin', except that it mustn't
be reckless; and, you may lay to it, Bill won't be that.' At first
the constable talked big about obstructing the traffic: but Nan was
telling the crowd such terrible things about his past that for very
shame he grew quiet, and the pair agreed that, by lashin' Bill a-top
of the first coach, we might pass him through _gratis_ as personal
luggage--Why, what's the boy cryin' for? It's all over now; and a
principle's a principle."
But still, as the squadron got under way again and moved on amid the
cheers of the populace, I sat speechless, dry-eyed, shaken with
dreadful sobs.
"Easy, my lad--don't start the timbers. In trouble--hey?"
I nodded.
"I thought as much, when I shipped ye. Sit up, and tell me; but
first listen to this. All trouble's big to a boy, but one o' your
age don't often do what's past mendin', if he takes it honest.
That's comfort, hey? Very well: now haul up and inspect damages, and
we'll see what's to be done."
"It's about a Jew, sir," I stammered at length.
He nodded. "Now we're making headway."
"He--he was murdered. I saw him--"
"Look here," said Mr. Jope, very grave but seemingly not astonished:
"hadn't you best get under the seat?"
"I--I didn't do it, sir. Really, I didn't."
"I'm not suggestin' it," said Mr. Jope. "Still, all circumstances
considered, I'd get under the seat."
"If you wish it, sir."
"I wouldn't go so far as to say _that_: but 'tis my advice." And
under the seat I crawled obediently. "Now, then," said he, with an
absurd air of one addressing vacancy; "if you didn' do it, who did?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Then where's your difficulty?"
"But I saw a man staring in at the window--it was upstairs in a room
close to the roof; and afterwards I found him on the roof, and he was
all of a tremble, and in two minds, so he said, about pitching me
over. I showed him the way down. If you please, sir," I broke off,
"you're not to tell anyone about this, whatever happens!"
"Eh? Why not?"
"Because--" I hesitated.
"Friend of yours?"
"Not a friend, sir. He's a young man, in the Army; and his aunt--she
used to be very kind to me. I ran away at first because I was
afraid: but they can't do anything to me, can they? I didn't find
the--the--the--Mr. Rodriguez, I mean--until he was dead. But if they
catch me I shall have to give evidence, and Mr. Archie--though I
don't believe he did it--"
"Belay there!" commanded Mr. Jope! "I'm beginning to see things
clearer, though I won't say 'tis altogether easy to follow ye yet.
Far as I can make out, you're not a bad boy. You ran away because
you were scared. Well, I don't blame ye for that. I never seen a
dead Jew myself, though I often wanted to. You won't go back if you
can help it, 'cos why? 'Cos you don't want to tell on a man: 'cos
his aunt's a friend o' yourn: and 'cos you don't believe he's guilty.
What's your name?"
"Harry, sir: Harry Revel."
"Well, then, my name's Ben Jope, and as such you'll call me.
I'm sorry, in a way, that it rhymes with 'rope,' which it never
struck me before in all these years, and wouldn't now but for
thinkin' 'pon that ghastly godson o' mine and how much better I
stomach ye. I promise nothing, mind: but if you'll keep quiet under
that seat, I'll think it over."
Certainly, having made my confession, I felt easier in mind as I lay
huddled under the seat, though it seemed to me that Mr. Jope took
matters lightly. For the squadron ahead had resumed the singing of
_Tom Bowling_ and he sat humming a bar or two here and there with
evident pleasure, and paused only to bow out of window and
acknowledge the cheers of the passers-by.
At the end of five minutes, however, he spoke aloud again.
"The first thing," he announced, "is to stay where you are.
Let me think, now--Who seen you? There's the parson: he's gone.
And there's the jarvey: he's drunk as a lord. Anyone else?"
"There was one of the young ladies that looked out of window."
"True: then 'tis too risky. When the company gets out, you'll have
to get out. Let the jarvey see you do it: the rest don't matter.
You can pretend to walk with us a little way, then slip back and
under the seat again--takin' care that this time the jarvey _don't_
see you. That's easy enough, eh?"
I assured him I could manage it.
"Then leave the rest to me, and bide still. I got to think of Bill,
now; and more by token here's the graveyard gate!"
He thrust the door open and motioned me to tumble out ahead of him.
As the rest of the funeral guests alighted, he worked me very
skilfully before him into the driver's view, having taken care to set
the coach door wide on the off side.
"It's understood that you wait, all o' ye?" said Mr. Jope to the
driver.
The man lifted a lazy eye. "Take your time," he said: "don't mind
me. I hope "--he stiffened himself suddenly--"I knows a gentleman
when I sees one."
Mr. Jope turned away and from that moment ignored my existence.
The coffin was unlashed and lowered from the leading coach; the
clergyman at the gate began to recite the sacred office, and the
funeral train, reduced to decorum by his voice, followed him as he
turned, and trooped along the path towards the mortuary chapel.
I moved with the crowd to its porch, drew aside to make way for a
lady in rouge and sprigged muslin, and slipped behind the chapel
wall. The far end of it hid me from the view of the coaches, and
from it a pretty direct path led to a gap in the hedge, and a stile.
Reaching and crossing this, I found myself in a by-lane leading back
into the high road. There were no houses with windows to overlook
me. I sauntered around at leisure, took the line of coaches in the
rear, and crawled back to my hiding-place--it astonished me with what
ease. Every driver sat on his box, and every driver slumbered.
The mystery of this was resolved when--it seemed an hour later; but
actually, I dare say, Bill's obsequies took but the normal twenty
minutes or so--Mr. Jope shepherded his flock back through the gates
and, red-eyed, addressed them while he distributed largess along the
line of jarveys.
"I thank ye, friends," said he in a muffled voice which at first I
attributed to emotion. "The fare home is paid to the foot of George
Street--I arranged that with the jobmaster, and this here little gift
is private, between me and the drivers, to drink Bill's health. And
now I'll shake hands." Here followed sounds of coughing and choking,
and he resumed in feeble gasping sentences, "Thank ye, my dear; I've
brought up the two guineas, but you've a-made me swallow my quid o'
baccy. Hows'ever, you meant it for the best. And that's what I had
a mind to say to ye all." His voice grew firmer--"You're a pleasant
lot, and we've spent the time very lively and sociable, and you done
this here last service to Bill in a way that brings tears to my eyes.
Still, if you won't mind my saying it, a little of ye lasts a long
time, and I'm going home to live clean. So here's wishing all well,
and good-bye!"
Not one of the party seemed to resent this dismissal. The women
laughed hilariously and called him a darling. There was a smacking
exchange of kisses; and the coaches, having been packed at length,
started for home to the strains of the cornet and a chorus of cheers.
Mr. Jope sprang in beside me, and leaning out of the farther window,
waved his neckerchief for a while, then pensively readjusted it, and
called to the driver--
"St. Budeaux!"
The driver, after a moment, turned heavily in his seat, and answered,
"Nonsense!"
"I tell ye, I want to drive to St. Budeaux, by Saltash Ferry."
"And _I_ tell _you_, 'Get out!' St. Budeaux? The idea!"
"Why, what's wrong with St. Budeaux?"
"Oh, I'm not goin' to _argue_ with you," said the driver. "I'm goin'
home."
And he began to turn his horse's head. Mr. Jope sprang out upon the
roadway. The driver, with sudden and unexpected agility, dropped
off--on the other side.
"Look here, it's grindin' the faces of the poor!" he pleaded,
breathing hard.
"It _will_ be," assented Mr. Jope grimly.
"I been up all night: at a ball."
"If it comes to that, so've I: at Symonds's."
"Mine was at Admiralty House," said the driver. "I wasn' dancin'."
"What about the horse?"
"The horse? the ho--Oh, I take your meanin'! The horse is all right:
he's a fresh one. Poor I may be," he announced inconsecutively,
"but I wouldn' live the life of one of them there women of fashion,
not for a million of money." He ruminated for a moment. "Did I
say a million?"
"You did."
"Well I don't wishaggerate. I don't, if you understand me,
wish--to--exaggerate: so we'll put it at half a million."
"All right: jump up!"
To my astonishment, no less than to Mr. Jope's (who had scarcely time
to skip back into the coach), the man scrambled up to his seat
without more ado, flicked his whip, and began to urge the horse
forward. At the end of five minutes or so, however, he pulled up
just as abruptly.
"Eh?" Mr. Jope put forth his head. "Ah, I see--public-house!"
He alighted, and entered; returned with a pot of porter in one hand
and a glass of brandy in the other; dexterously tipped half the
brandy into the porter, and handed up the mixture. The driver took
it down at one steady draught.
The pot and glass were returned and we jogged on again. We were now
well beyond the outskirts of Stoke and between dusty hedges over
which the honeysuckle trailed. Butterflies poised themselves and
flickered beside us, and the sun, as it climbed, drew up from the
land the fragrance of freshly mown hay and mingled it with the stuffy
odour of the coach. By and by we halted again, by another roadside
inn, and again Mr. Jope fetched forth and administered insidious
drink.
"If this is going to last," said the charioteer dreamily, "may I have
strength to see the end o't!"
I did not catch this prayer, but Mr. Jope reported it to me as he
resumed his seat, with an ill-timed laugh. The fellow, who had been
gathering up his reins, lurched round suddenly and gazed in through
the glass front.
"You was sayin'?" he demanded.
"Nothing," answered Mr. Jope hastily. "I was talking to myself,
that's all."
"The point is, Am I, or am I not, an objic of derision?"
"If you don't drive on this moment, I'll step around and punch your
head."
"Tha's all right. Tha's right as ninepence. It's not much I arsk--
only to have things clear." He drove on.
We halted at yet another public-house--I remember its name, the Half
a Face--and must have journeyed a mile or so beyond it when the end
came. We had locked wheels in the clumsiest fashion with a
hay-wagon; and the wagoner, who had quartered to give us room and to
spare, was pardonably wroth. Mr. Jope descended, pacified him, and
stepped around to the back of the coach, the hinder axle of which, a
moment later, I felt gently lifted beneath me and slewed clear of the
obstruction.
"My word, mister, but you've a tidy strength!" exclaimed the wagoner.
"No more than you, my son--if so much: 'tain't the strength, but the
application. That's 'Nelson's touch.' Ever heard of it?"
"I've heard of _him_, I should hope. Look y' here, mister, did you
ever know him? Honour bright, now!"
"Friends, my son: dear, dear friends! And the gentleman 'pon the
box, there, drunk some of the very rum he was brought home in.
He's never recovered it."
"And to think of my meeting you!"
"Ay, 'tis a small world," agreed Mr. Jope cheerfully: "like a cook's
galley, small and cosy and no time to chat in it. Now then, my
slumb'ring ogre!"
The driver, who from the moment of the mishap had remained comatose,
shook his reins feebly and we jogged forward. But this was his last
effort. At the next sharp bend in the road he lurched suddenly,
swayed for a moment, and toppled to earth with a thud. The horse
came to a halt.
Mr. Jope was out in a moment. He glanced up and down the road.
"Tumble out, youngster! There's no one in sight."
"Is--is he hurt?"
"Blest if _I_ know." He stooped over the prostrate body. "Hurt?" he
asked, and after a moment reported, "No, I reckon not: talkin' in his
sleep, more like--for the only word I can make out is 'Jezebel.'
That don't help us much, do it?" He scanned the road again.
"There's only one thing to do. I can't drive ye: I never steered yet
with the tiller lines in front--it al'ays seemed to me un-Christian.
We must take to the fields. I used to know these parts, and by the
bearings we can't be half a mile above the ferry. Here, through that
gate to the left!"
We left the man lying and his horse cropping the hedgerow a few paces
ahead; and struck off to the left, down across a field of young corn
interspersed with poppies. The broad estuary shone at our feet, with
its beaches uncovered--for the tide was low--and across its crowded
shipping I marked and recognised (for Mr. Trapp had often described
them to me) a line of dismal prison-hulks, now disused, moored head
to stern off a mudbank on the farther shore.
"Plain sailing, my lad," panted Mr. Jope, as the cornfield threw up
its heat in our faces. "See, yonder's Saltash!" He pointed up the
river to a small town which seemed to run toppling down a steep hill
and spread itself like a landslip at the base. "I got a sister
living there, if we can only fetch across; a very powerful woman;
widowed, and sells fish."
We took an oblique line down the hillside, and descended, some two or
three hundred yards below the ferry, upon a foreshore firm for the
most part and strewn with flat stones, but melting into mud by the
water's edge. A small trading ketch lay there, careened as the tide
had left her; but at no great angle, thanks to her flat-bottomed
build. A line of tattered flags, with no wind to stir them, led down
from the truck of either mast, and as we drew near I called Mr.
Jope's attention to an immense bunch of foxgloves and pink valerian
on her bowsprit end.
"Looks like a wedding, don't it?" said he; and turning up his clean
white trousers he strolled down to the water's edge for a closer
look. "Scandalous," he added, examining her timbers.
"What's scandalous?"
He pointed with his finger. "Rotten as touch"; and he pensively drew
out an enormous clasp-knife. "A man ought to be fined for treating
human life so careless. See here!"
He drove the knife at a selected spot, and the blade sank in to the
hilt.
From the interior, prompt on the stroke, arose a faint scream.