OF CORPORAL RUFUS SMITH AND HIS COMING TO CLOOMBER
In making this statement I have purposely couched it in bald and simple
language, for fear I should be accused of colouring my narrative for the
sake of effect. If, however, I have told my story with any approach to
realism, the reader will understand me when I say that by this time
the succession of dramatic incidents which had occurred had arrested
my attention and excited my imagination to the exclusion of all minor
topics.
How could I plod through the dull routine of an agent's work, or
interest myself in the thatch of this tenant's bothy or the sails of
that one's boat, when my mind was taken up by the chain of events which
I have described, and was still busy seeking an explanation for them.
Go where I would over the countryside, I could see the square, white
tower shooting out from among the trees, and beneath that tower this
ill-fated family were watching and waiting, waiting and watching--and
for what? That was still the question which stood like an impassable
barrier at the end of every train of thought.
Regarded merely as an abstract problem, this mystery of the Heatherstone
family had a lurid fascination about it, but when the woman whom I
loved a thousandfold better than I did myself proved to be so deeply
interested in the solution, I felt that it was impossible to turn my
thoughts to anything else until it had been finally cleared up.
My good father had received a letter from the laird, dated from Naples,
which told us that he had derived much benefit from the change, and that
he had no intention of returning to Scotland for some time. This was
satisfactory to all of us, for my father had found Branksome such an
excellent place for study that it would have been a sore trial to him
to return to the noise and tumult of a city. As to my dear sister and
myself, there were, as I have shown, stronger reasons still to make us
love the Wigtownshire moors.
In spite of my interview with the general--or perhaps I might say on
account of it--I took occasion at least twice a day to walk towards
Cloomber and satisfy myself that all was well there. He had begun by
resenting my intrusion, but he had ended by taking me into a sort of
half-confidence, and even by asking my assistance, so I felt that I
stood upon a different footing with him than I had done formerly, and
that he was less likely to be annoyed by my presence. Indeed, I met him
pacing round the inclosure a few days afterwards, and his manner towards
me was civil, though he made no allusion to our former conversation.
He appeared to be still in an extreme state of nervousness, starting
from time to time, and gazing furtively about him, with little
frightened, darting glances to the right and the left. I hoped that his
daughter was right in naming the fifth of October as the turning point
of his complaint, for it was evident to me as I looked at his gleaming
eyes and quivering hands, that a man could not live long in such a state
of nervous tension.
I found on examination that he had had the loose rails securely fastened
so as to block up our former trysting-place, and though I prowled round
the whole long line of fencing, I was unable to find any other place
where an entrance could be effected.
Here and there between the few chinks left in the barrier I could catch
glimpses of the Hall, and once I saw a rough-looking, middle-aged man
standing at a window on the lower floor, whom I supposed to be Israel
Stakes, the coachman. There was no sign, however, of Gabriel or of
Mordaunt, and their absence alarmed me. I was convinced that, unless
they were under some restraint, they would have managed to communicate
with my sister or myself. My fears became more and more acute as day
followed day without our seeing or hearing anything of them.
One morning--it was the second day of October--I was walking towards the
Hall, hoping that I might be fortunate enough to learn some news of my
darling, when I observed a man perched upon a stone at the side of the
road.
As I came nearer to him I could see that he was a stranger, and from his
dusty clothes and dilapidated appearance he seemed to have come from a
distance. He had a great hunk of bread on his knee and a clasp-knife
in his hand, but he had apparently just finished his breakfast, for he
brushed the crumbs off his lap and rose to his feet when he perceived
me.
Noticing the great height of the fellow and that he still held his
weapon, I kept well to the other side of the road, for I knew that
destitution makes men desperate and that the chain that glittered on
my waistcoat might be too great a temptation to him upon this lonely
highway. I was confirmed in my fears when I saw him step out into the
centre of the road and bar my progress.
“Well, my lad,” I said, affecting an ease which I by no means felt,
“what can I do for you this morning?”
The fellow's face was the colour of mahogany with exposure to the
weather, and he had a deep scar from the corner of his mouth to his ear,
which by no means improved his appearance. His hair was grizzled, but
his figure was stalwart, and his fur cap was cocked on one side so as to
give him a rakish, semi-military appearance. Altogether he gave me the
impression of being one of the most dangerous types of tramp that I had
ever fallen in with.
Instead of replying to my question, he eyed me for some time in silence
with sullen, yellow-shot eyes, and then closed his knife with a loud
snick.
“You're not a beak,” he said, “too young for that, I guess. They had me
in chokey at Paisley and they had me in chokey at Wigtown, but by
the living thunder if another of them lays a hand on me I'll make him
remember Corporal Rufus Smith! It's a darned fine country this, where
they won't give a man work, and then lay him by the heels for having no
visible means of subsistence.”
“I am sorry to see an old soldier so reduced,” said I. “What corps did
you serve in?”
“H Battery, Royal Horse Artillery. Bad cess to the Service and every
one in it! Here I am nigh sixty years of age, with a beggarly pension of
thirty-eight pound ten--not enough to keep me in beer and baccy.”
“I should have thought thirty-eight pound ten a year would have been a
nice help to you in your old age,” I remarked.
“Would you, though?” he answered with a sneer, pushing his
weather-beaten face forward until it was within a foot of my own.
“How much d'ye think that slash with a tulwar is worth? And my foot with
all the bones rattling about like a bagful of dice where the trail
of the gun went across it. What's that worth, eh? And a liver like a
sponge, and ague whenever the wind comes round to the east--what's the
market value of that? Would you take the lot for a dirty forty pound a
year--would you now?”
“We are poor folk in this part of the country,” I answered. “You would
pass for a rich man down here.”
“They are fool folk and they have fool tastes,” said he, drawing a black
pipe from his pocket and stuffing it with tobacco. “I know what good
living is, and, by cripes! while I have a shilling in my pocket I like
to spend it as a shilling should be spent. I've fought for my country
and my country has done darned little for me. I'll go to the Rooshians,
so help me! I could show them how to cross the Himalayas so that it
would puzzle either Afghans or British to stop 'em. What's that secret
worth in St. Petersburg, eh, mister?”
“I am ashamed to hear an old soldier speak so, even in jest,” said I
sternly.
“Jest, indeed!” he cried, with a great, roaring oath. “I'd have done it
years ago if the Rooshians had been game to take it up. Skobeloff
was the best of the bunch, but he's been snuffed out. However, that's
neither here nor there. What I want to ask you is whether you've ever
heard anything in this quarter of a man called Heatherstone, the same
who used to be colonel of the 41st Bengalis? They told me at Wigtown
that he lived somewhere down this way.”
“He lives in that large house over yonder,” said I, pointing to Cloomber
Tower. “You'll find the avenue gate a little way down the road, but the
general isn't over fond of visitors.”
The last part of my speech was lost upon Corporal Rufus Smith; for the
instant that I pointed out the gate he set off hopping down the road.
His mode of progression was the most singular I have ever seen, for he
would only put his right foot to the ground once in every half-dozen
strides, while he worked so hard and attained such a momentum with the
other limb that he got over the ground at an astonishing speed.
I was so surprised that I stood in the roadway gazing after this hulking
figure until the thought suddenly struck me that some serious result
might come from a meeting between a man of such blunt speech and the
choleric, hot-headed general. I therefore followed him as he hopped
along like some great, clumsy bird, and overtook him at the avenue gate,
where he stood grasping the ironwork and peering through at the dark
carriage-drive beyond.
“He's a sly old jackal,” he said, looking round at me and nodding his
head in the direction of the Hall. “He's a deep old dog. And that's his
bungalow, is it, among the trees?”
“That is his house,” I answered; “but I should advise you to keep a more
civil tongue in your head if you intend to speak with the general. He is
not a man to stand any nonsense.”
“Right you are. He was always a hard nut to crack. But isn't this him
coming down the avenue?”
I looked through the gate and saw that it was indeed the general, who,
having either seen us or been attracted by our voices, was hurrying down
towards us. As he advanced he would stop from time to time and peer at
us through the dark shadow thrown by the trees, as if he were irresolute
whether to come on or no.
“He's reconnoitering!” whispered my companion with a hoarse chuckle.
“He's afraid--and I know what he's afraid of. He won't be caught in a
trap if he can help it, the old 'un. He's about as fly as they make 'em,
you bet!”
Then suddenly standing on his tip-toes and waving his hand through the
bars of the gate, he shouted at the top of his voice:
“Come on, my gallant commandant! Come on! The coast's clear, and no
enemy in sight.”
This familiar address had the effect of reassuring the general, for he
came right for us, though I could tell by his heightened colour that his
temper was at boiling point.
“What, you here, Mr. West?” he said, as his eye fell upon me. “What is
it you want, and why have you brought this fellow with you?”
“I have not brought him with me, sir,” I answered, feeling rather
disgusted at being made responsible for the presence of the
disreputable-looking vagabond beside me. “I found him on the road here,
and he desired to be directed to you, so I showed him the way. I know
nothing of him myself.”
“What do you want with me, then?” the general asked sternly, turning to
my companion.
“If you please, sir,” said the ex-corporal, speaking in a whining voice,
and touching his moleskin cap with a humility which contrasted strangely
with the previous rough independence of his bearing, “I'm an old gunner
in the Queen's service, sir, and knowing your name by hearing it in
India I thought that maybe you would take me as your groom or gardener,
or give me any other place as happened to be vacant.”
“I am sorry that I cannot do anything for you, my man,” the old soldier
answered impressively.
“Then you'll give me a little just to help me on my way, sir,” said the
cringing mendicant. “You won't see an old comrade go to the bad for the
sake of a few rupees? I was with Sale's brigade in the Passes, sir, and
I was at the second taking of Cabul.”
General Heatherstone looked keenly at the supplicant, but was silent
to his appeal.
“I was in Ghuznee with you when the walls were all shook down by an
earthquake, and when we found forty thousand Afghans within gunshot of
us. You ask me about it, and you'll see whether I'm lying or not. We
went through all this when we were young, and now that we are old you
are to live in a fine bungalow, and I am to starve by the roadside. It
don't seem to me to be fair.”
“You are an impertinent scoundrel,” said the general. “If you had been a
good soldier you would never need to ask for help. I shall not give you
a farthing.”
“One word more, sir,” cried the tramp, for the other was turning away,
“I've been in the Tarada Pass.”
The old soldier sprang round as if the words had been a pistol-shot.
“What--what d'ye mean?” he stammered.
“I've been in the Tarada Pass, sir, and I knew a man there called
Ghoolab Shah.”
These last were hissed out in an undertone, and a malicious grin
overspread the face of the speaker.
Their effect upon the general was extraordinary. He fairly staggered
back from the gateway, and his yellow countenance blanched to a livid,
mottled grey. For a moment he was too overcome to speak. At last he
gasped out:
“Ghoolab Shah? Who are you who know Ghoolab Shah?”
“Take another look,” said the tramp, “your sight is not as keen as it
was forty years ago.”
The general took a long, earnest look at the unkempt wanderer in front
of him, and as he gazed I saw the light of recognition spring up in his
eyes.
“God bless my soul!” he cried. “Why, it's Corporal Rufus Smith.”
“You've come on it at last,” said the other, chuckling to himself. “I
was wondering how long it would be before you knew me. And, first
of all, just unlock this gate, will you? It's hard to talk through a
grating. It's too much like ten minutes with a visitor in the cells.”
The general, whose face still bore evidences of his agitation, undid the
bolts with nervous, trembling fingers. The recognition of Corporal Rufus
Smith had, I fancied, been a relief to him, and yet he plainly showed
by his manner that he regarded his presence as by no means an unmixed
blessing.
“Why, Corporal,” he said, as the gate swung open, “I have often wondered
whether you were dead or alive, but I never expected to see you again.
How have you been all these long years?”
“How have I been?” the corporal answered gruffly. “Why, I have been
drunk for the most part. When I draw my money I lay it out in liquor,
and as long as that lasts I get some peace in life. When I'm cleaned out
I go upon tramp, partly in the hope of picking up the price of a dram,
and partly in order to look for you.”
“You'll excuse us talking about these private matters, West,” the
general said, looking round at me, for I was beginning to move away.
“Don't leave us. You know something of this matter already, and may find
yourself entirely in the swim with us some of these days.”
Corporal Rufus Smith looked round at me in blank astonishment.
“In the swim with us?” he said. “However did he get there?”
“Voluntarily, voluntarily,” the general explained, hurriedly sinking his
voice. “He is a neighbour of mine, and he has volunteered his help in
case I should ever need it.”
This explanation seemed, if anything, to increase the big stranger's
surprise.
“Well, if that don't lick cock-fighting!” he exclaimed, contemplating me
with admiration. “I never heard tell of such a thing.”
“And now you have found me, Corporal Smith,” said the tenant of
Cloomber, “what is it that you want of me?”
“Why, everything. I want a roof to cover me, and clothes to wear, and
food to eat, and, above all, brandy to drink.”
“Well, I'll take you in and do what I can for you,” said the general
slowly. “But look here, Smith, we must have discipline. I'm the general
and you are the corporal; I am the master and you are the man. Now,
don't let me have to remind you of that again.”
The tramp drew himself up to his full height and raised his right hand
with the palm forward in a military salute.
“I can take you on as gardener and get rid of the fellow I have got.
As to brandy, you shall have an allowance and no more. We are not deep
drinkers at the Hall.”
“Don't you take opium, or brandy, or nothing yourself, sir?” asked
Corporal Rufus Smith.
“Nothing,” the general said firmly.
“Well, all I can say is, that you've got more nerve and pluck than I
shall ever have. I don't wonder now at your winning that Cross in the
Mutiny. If I was to go on listening night after night to them things
without ever taking a drop of something to cheer my heart--why, it would
drive me silly.”
General Heatherstone put his hand up, as though afraid that his
companion might say too much.
“I must thank you, Mr. West,” he said, “for having shown this man my
door. I would not willingly allow an old comrade, however humble, to go
to the bad, and if I did not acknowledge his claim more readily it
was simply because I had my doubts as to whether he was really what he
represented himself to be. Just walk up to the Hall, Corporal, and I
shall follow you in a minute.”
“Poor fellow!” he continued, as he watched the newcomer hobbling up the
avenue in the ungainly manner which I have described. “He got a gun over
his foot, and it crushed the bones, but the obstinate fool would not let
the doctors take it off. I remember him now as a smart young soldier in
Afghanistan. He and I were associated in some queer adventures, which I
may tell you of some day, and I naturally feel sympathy towards him, and
would befriend him. Did he tell you anything about me before I came?”
“Not a word,” I replied.
“Oh,” said the general carelessly, but with an evident expression of
relief, “I thought perhaps he might have said something of old times.
Well, I must go and look after him, or the servants will be frightened,
for he isn't a beauty to look at. Good-bye!”
With a wave of the hand the old man turned away from me and hurried
up the drive after this unexpected addition to his household, while I
strolled on round the high, black paling, peering through every chink
between the planks, but without seeing a trace either of Mordaunt or of
his sister.
I have now brought this statement down to the coming of Corporal Rufus
Smith, which will prove to be the beginning of the end.
I have set down soberly and in order the events which brought us to
Wigtownshire, the arrival of the Heatherstones at Cloomber, the many
strange incidents which excited first our curiosity and finally our
intense interest in that family, and I have briefly touched upon the
circumstances which brought my sister and myself into a closer and more
personal relationship with them. I think that there cannot be a better
moment than this to hand the narrative over to those who had means of
knowing something of what was going on inside Cloomber during the months
that I was observing it from without.
Israel Stakes, the coachman, proved to be unable to read or write, but
Mr. Mathew Clark, the Presbyterian Minister of Stoneykirk, has copied
down his deposition, duly attested by the cross set opposite to his
name. The good clergyman has, I fancy, put some slight polish upon the
narrator's story, which I rather regret, as it might have been more
interesting, if less intelligible, when reported verbatim. It still
preserves, however, considerable traces of Israel's individuality,
and may be regarded as an exact record of what he saw and did while in
General Heatherstone's service.