COMPTON RENNEL.
When I awoke, the pleasant rustle of the green foliage above me and
the bright gleams of sunlight that flashed through the waving
branches, with the songs of the birds that twittered from hedge to
tree, excited a momentary astonishment; but the booming of the
adjacent sea, as it rolled on the shelving beach, recalled all the
adventures of the last night, and the complete desolation of my
position. I clambered up a sloping bank, and for a time lay there
under the shady chesnut-trees, gazing on the sunlit sea, and idly
listening to the long rolling billows that broke in white foam and in
endless succession on the sandy shore, abandoning myself "to the
supreme happiness of doing nothing;" but soon came bitter
reflections, and with them the necessity for action.
Seaward I saw a long white line of foam. That was the _Sandridge_; a
few black stumps appeared above its snowy line. These were the piles
whereon the beacon had stood. I shuddered and turned away, resolving
to be wary of whom I trusted now, for already I had been (as they say
in Australia) twice bound and free within a week--bound by the
aggression of others, and free by my own energy.
As I proceeded and quitted the coppice for a highway that lay between
thick green hedgerows, the influence of the beautiful morning and the
fertility of the scenery raised my spirit. I was in a strange place,
true--and without a penny; yet, boylike, the joyous novelty of
perfect freedom--the memory of dangers dared and escaped (_for I
might have been left_ to perish amid the flames of the beacon), made
me thankful and lighthearted, as I walked towards the red-brick
English town, on the old grey Norman church tower of which the
morning sun shone merrily.
Passing one or two manor-houses of quaint aspect, with oriel windows
and clustered chimnies, that stood in lawns as flat and green as a
billiard table; and by the wayside, a few rustic cottages, buried
under arbours of honeysuckle and woodbine, a road that was so thickly
arched over by oak, chesnut and plum trees in full foliage, as to
resemble a leafy tunnel, brought me to the town, among the red-brick
and square modern houses of which were many gable-ended, galleried
and quaint old mansions of the Elizabethan age.
I paused at the head of the principal street, for I felt myself
without friends, and what was still worse, without money. The
morning seemed early, for few persons were yet abroad, and the almost
grassy vista of the street, which was paved with little round
pebbles, was silent and empty. Close by me were the parish stocks,
and thereon I sat for a time to reflect on my loneliness. A man
passed me, a bumpkin going afield. He had a pitchfork on his
shoulder, and his face expressed that well-fed air of content which
is as peculiar to England as his little round hat, his canvass frock,
and hobnailed shoes.
"Good morning, measter," said he, passing thoughtlessly on.
"What town is this?" I asked.
"Where be you come from, not to ha' heerd o' Compton Rennel afore,
eh? The best market town in any o' the Ridings o' Yorkshire," he
replied, and passed on, singing merrily.
"Yorkshire!" I reiterated, while the name of the town caused an
emotion of alarm. I remembered the press-gang, of which Mother
Snatchblock and Dick Knuckleduster had spoken. I was afraid of being
questioned as a stranger, and of being in some way implicated in the
destruction of the lighthouse; or, by my involuntary residence
therein, being deemed a comrade of those whose conversation and
dealings proved them to be murderers and wreckers.
While these and many other unpleasant thoughts occurred to me, a
large placard, surmounted by the royal arms and running somewhat in
the following terms, caught my eye:--
"ALL GENTLEMEN VOLUNTEERS!
"That are willing to serve His Gracious Majesty King George III., in
the Royal Scots Fusiliers, now commanded by Major-General the
Honourable James Murray, of Elibank, lately Governor of Quebec, may
apply to Sergeant Drumbirrel, at the Chequers, or the 'Maid and the
Magpie,' in Compton Rennel, as twenty brave fellows are wanted to
complete the strength of the battalion, which is about to sail for
the West Indies, to fight the rascally French, Dutch, and Spaniards,
and lick them right out of the world.
"Every gentleman enlisting shall receive pay at once, with two
guineas to drink the very good healths of His Gracious Majesty and
the noble General Murray, of Elibank,--not forgetting the Earl of
Kildonan, Lieutenant-Colonel of the said regiment.
"God save the King! Hurrah!
"DUNCAN DRUMBIRREL, Sergt., R.S.F."
My heart beat lightly as I read this rather grandiloquent document.
The Fusiliers were my father's old regiment--"_the_ regiment," _par
excellence_, of Lotty and me, and an emotion of joy came over me.
Then, as if to supplement this invitation to glory, pipeclay, and
gunpowder, I heard the sound of drums and fifes in the town. Anon a
crowd of hobnailed rustics and other people appeared debouching into
the main street, and amid them I saw the tall black bearskin caps and
white feathers, the long streaming ribbons, the drawn swords and red
coats of the recruiting party.
_Then_ I felt that I was not without friends in Compton Kennel, and
pressing forward, I joined the gaping crowd. I was weary, hungry,
and harassed; but the stirring sound of the sharply-braced drums and
the notes of the shrill fife filled my heart with a new glow of joy
and energy. I elbowed a passage to the sergeant, who, with his pike
on his shoulder, erect and stiff as its shaft, marched at the head of
his party, which consisted only of an Irish corporal, a private, two
drums and fifes, and eight or ten cockaded recruits, straight to the
"Maid and the Magpie," in front of which, after beating the _Point of
War_, all took off their caps and gave three cheers for the king and
the gallant General Murray.
Wistfully I gazed at the seven soldiers in their red coats, faced
with blue,--once so familiar to my boyish eyes; but they seemed "new
hands;" at least, I failed to recognize them. Amid the hubbub about
the inn door, I seized the arm of the halberdier, and inquired,--
"Are you Sergeant Drumbirrel?"
"Yes, my lad. What do you want with me?"
"To volunteer," said I.
"For the Twenty-first Foot?"
"Yes."
"All right, boy. What age are you?"
"Seventeen years."
"We don't reckon our time in the army by years, but by the enjoyments
we have," replied Drumbirrel, who was quite master of the noble art
of trepanning. "In his Majesty's name," he added, slipping the
mystical coin into my hand; "and now, come into the bar for our
morning glass, and to pass you under the standard."
And thus it was that I became a Royal Fusilier!