our hero finds food for reflection.
It was four o'clock, and Tuesday afternoon--the day before the Good
Intent was to sail from the Pool. Desmond was kicking his heels in his
inn, longing for the morrow. Even now he had not seen the vessel on which
he was to set forth in quest of his fortune. She lay in the Pool, but
Diggle had found innumerable reasons why Desmond should not visit her
until he embarked for good and all. She was loading her cargo; he would
be in the way. Captain Barker was in a bad temper; better not see him in
his tantrums. The press gangs were active; they thought nothing of
boarding a vessel and seizing on any active young fellow who looked a
likely subject for his Majesty's navy. Such were the reasons alleged.
And so Desmond had to swallow his impatience and fill in his time as best
he might; reading the newspapers, going to see Mr. Garrick and Mistress
Kitty Clive at Drury Lane, spending an odd evening at Ranelagh Gardens.
On this Tuesday afternoon he had nothing to do. Diggle was out; Desmond
had read the newspapers and glanced at the last number of the World; he
had written to his mother--the third letter since his arrival in London;
he could not settle to anything. He resolved to go for a walk as far as
St. Paul's, perhaps, and take a last look at the busy streets he was not
likely to see again for many a day.
Forth then he issued. The streets were muddy; a mist was creeping up from
the river, promising to thicken into a London fog, and the link boys were
already preparing their tow and looking for a rich harvest of coppers ere
the night was old. Desmond picked his way through the quagmires of John
Street, crossed Crutched Friars, and went up Mark Lane into Fenchurch
Street, intending to go by Leadenhall Street and Cornhill into Cheapside.
He had just reached the lower end of Billiter Street, the narrow
thoroughfare leading into Leadenhall, when he saw Diggle's tall figure
running amain towards him, with another man close behind, apparently in
hot pursuit. Diggle caught sight of Desmond at the same moment, and his
eyes gleamed as with relief. He quickened his pace.
"Hold this fellow behind me," he panted as he passed, and before Desmond
could put a question he was gone.
There was no time for deliberation. Desmond had but just perceived that
the pursuer was in the garb of a gentleman and had a broad patch of
plaster stretched across his left temple, when the moment for action
arrived. Stooping low, he suddenly caught at the man's knees. Down he
came heavily, mouthing hearty abuse, and man and boy were on the ground
together.
Desmond was up first. He now saw that a second figure was hurrying on
from the other end of the street. He was not sure what Diggle demanded of
him; whether it was sufficient to have tripped up the pursuer, or whether
he must hold him still in play. But by this time the man was also on his
feet; his hat was off, his silk breeches and brown coat with lace ruffles
were all bemired. Puffing and blowing, uttering many a round oath such as
came freely to the lips of the Englishman of King George the Second's
time, he shouted to his friend behind to come on, and, disregarding
Desmond, made to continue his pursuit.
Desmond could but grapple with him.
"Let go, villain!" cried the man, striving to free himself.
Desmond clung on; there was a brief struggle, but he was no match in size
or strength for his opponent, who was thick-set and of considerable
girth. He fell backwards, overborne by the man's weight. His head struck
on the road; dazed by the blow he loosened his clutch, and lay for a
moment in semi-consciousness while the man sprang away.
But he was not so far gone as not to hear a loud shout behind him and
near at hand, followed by the tramp of feet.
"Avast there!" The voice was familiar: surely it was Bulger's. "Fair
play! Fourteen stone against seven en't odds. Show a leg, mateys."
The big sailor with a dozen of his mates stood full in the path of the
irate gentleman, who, seeing himself beset, drew his rapier and prepared
to fight his way through. A moment later he was joined by his companion,
who had also drawn his rapier. Together the gentlemen stood facing the
sailors.
"This is check, Merriman," said the last comer, as the seamen,
flourishing their hangers menacingly, pressed forward past the prostrate
body of Desmond. "The fellow has escaped you; best withdraw at
discretion."
"Come on," shouted Bulger, waving his hook. "Bill Bulger en't the man to
sheer off from a couple of landlubbers."
As with his mates in line he steadily advanced, the two gentlemen, their
lips set, their eyes fixed on the assailants, their rapiers pointed,
backed slowly up the street. The noise had brought clerks and merchants
to the doors; someone sprang a rattle; there were cries for the watchmen;
but no one actively interfered.
Meanwhile Desmond had regained his senses, and, still feeling somewhat
dizzy, had sat down upon a doorstep, wondering not a little at the
pursuit and flight of Diggle and the opportune arrival of the sailors.
Everything had happened very rapidly; scarcely two minutes had elapsed
since the first onset.
He was still resting when there was a sudden change in the quality of the
shouts up street. Hitherto they had been boisterous rallying cries; now
they were unmistakably hearty British cheers, expressing nothing but
approval and admiration. And they came not merely from the throats of the
sailors, but from the now considerable crowd that filled the street. A
few moments afterwards he saw the throng part, and through it Bulger
marching at the head of his mates, singing lustily. They came opposite to
the step on which he sat, and Bulger caught sight of him.
"Blest if it en't our supercargo!" he cried, stopping short.
A shout of laughter broke from the sailors. One of them struck up a song.
"Oho! we says goodby,
But never pipes our eye,
Tho' we leaves Sue, Poll, and Kitty all behind us;
And if we drops our bones
Down along o' Davy Jones,
Why, they'll come and axe the mermaids for to find us."
"And what took ye, Mister Supercargo, to try a fall with the fourteen
stoner?"
"Oh, I was helping a friend."
"Ay, an' a friend was helpin' him, an' here's a dozen of us a-helpin' of
one supercargo."
"And I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Bulger. But what were you cheering
for?"
"Cheerin'! Why, you wouldn't guess. 'Twas General Clive, matey."
"General Clive!"
"Ay, General Clive, him what chased the mounseers out o' Fort St. George
with a marlinspike. I didn't know him at fust, comin' up behind t'other
chap; but when I seed that purple coat with the gold lace and the face of
him above it I knowed him. In course there was no more fight for us then;
'twas hip-hip hurray and up with our hangers. Clive, he smiled and
touched his hat. 'Bulger,' says he, 'you en't much fatter--'"
"Does he know you, then?"
"Know me! In course he does. Wasn't I bo'sun's mate on board the Indiaman
as took him east twelve year ago or more? That was afore I got this here
button hook o' mine. Ay, I remember him well, a-trampin' up an' down deck
with his hands in his pockets an' his mouth set tight an' his chin on his
stock, never speakin' to a soul, in the doldrums if ever a lad was. Why,
we all thought there was no more spirit in him than in the old wooden
figurehead--leastways, all but me.
"'I may be wrong,' says I to old Tinsley the bo'sun, 'I may be wrong,'
says I, 'but I be main sure that young sad down-in-the-mouth have got a
blazin' fire somewhere in his innards.'
"Ay, and time showed it. There was a lot of cadets aboard as poked fun at
the quiet chap an' talked him over, a-winkin' their eyes. From talkin' it
got to doin'. One day, goin' to his bunk, he found it all topsyversy,
hair powder on his pillow, dubbin in his shavin' cup, salt pork wropt up
in his dressin' gown. Well, I seed him as he comed on deck, an' his face
were a sight to remember, pale as death, but his eyes a-blazin' like live
coals in the galley fire. Up he steps to the cadet as was ringleader; how
he knowed it I can't tell you, but he was sure of it, same as I always
am.
"'Sir,' says he, quiet as a lamb, 'I want a word with you.'
"'Dear me!' says the cadet, 'have Mr. Clive found his voice at last?'
"'Yes, sir,' says Clive, 'he has, an' something else.'
"Cook happened to be passin' with a tray; a lady what was squeamish had
been having her vittles on deck. Mr. Clive cotched up a basin o' pea soup
what was too greasy for madam, and in a twink he sets it upside down on
the cadet's head. Ay, 'twas a pretty pictur', the greasy yellow stuff
runnin' down over his powdered hair an' lace collar an' fine blue coat.
My eye! there was a rare old shindy, the cadet cursin' and splutterin',
the others laughin' fit to bust 'emselves. The cadet out with his fists,
but there, 'twas no manner o' use. Mr. Clive bowled him over like a
ninepin till he lay along deck all pea soup an' gore. There was no more
baitin' o' Mr. Clive that voyage.
"'Bo'sun,' says I, 'what did I tell you? I may be wrong, but that young
Mr. Bob Clive'll be a handful for the factors in Fort St. George.'"
While this narrative had been in progress, Desmond was walking with
Bulger and his mates back towards the river.
"How was it you happened to be hereabouts so early?" asked Desmond. "I
didn't expect to see you till tomorrow."
Bulger winked.
"You wouldn't axe if you wasn't a landlubber, meanin' no offense," he
said. "'Tis last night ashore. We sailor men has had enough o' Waterman's
Rests an' such like. To tell you the truth, we gave Mr. Toley the slip,
and now we be goin' to have a night at the Crown an' Anchor."
"What about the press gang?"
"We takes our chance. They won't press me, sartin sure, 'cos o' my
tenterhook here, and I'll keep my weather eye open, trust me for that."
Here they parted company. Desmond watched the jolly crew as they turned
into the Minories, and heard their rollicking chorus:
"Ho! when the cargo's shipped,
An the anchor's neatly tripped,
An' the gals are weepin' bucketfuls o' sorrer,
Why, there's the decks to swab,
An' we en't a-goin' to sob,
S'pose the sharks do make a meal of us tomorrer."
At the Goat and Compasses Diggle was awaiting him.
"Ha! my friend, you did it as prettily as a man could wish. Solitudo
aliquid adjuvat, as Tully somewhere hath it, not foreseeing my case,
when solitude would have been my undoing. I thank thee."
"Was the fellow attacking you?" asked Desmond.
"That to be sure was his intention. I was in truth in the very article of
peril; I was blown; my breath was near gone, when at the critical moment
up comes a gallant youth--subvenisti homini jam perdito--and with
dexterous hand stays the enemy in his course."
"But what was it all about? Do you know the man?"
"Ods my life! 'twas a complete stranger, a man, I should guess, of hasty
passions and tetchy temper. By the merest accident, at a somewhat crowded
part, I unluckily elbowed the man into the kennel, and though I
apologized in the handsomest way, he must take offense and seek to cut
off my life, to extinguish me in primo aevo, as Naso would say. But
Atropos was forestalled, my thread of life still falls uncut from
Clotho's shuttle; still, still, my boy, I bear on the torch of life
unextinguished."
Desmond felt that all this fine phrasing, this copious draft from
classical sources, was intended to quench the ardor of his curiosity.
Diggle's explanation was very lame; the fury depicted on the pursuer's
face could scarcely be due to a mere accidental jostling in the street.
And Diggle was certainly not the man to take to his heels on slight
occasion. But, after all, Diggle's quarrels were his own concern. That
his past life included secrets Desmond had long suspected, but he was not
the first man of birth and education who had fallen into misfortune, and
at all events he had always treated Desmond with kindness. So the boy put
the matter from his thoughts.
The incident, however, left a sting of vexation behind it. In agreeing to
accompany Diggle to the East, Desmond had harbored a vague hope of
falling in with Clive and taking service, in however humble a capacity,
with him. It vexed him sorely to think that Clive, whose memory for
faces, as his recognition of Bulger after twelve years had shown, was
very good, might recognize him, should they meet, as the boy who had
played a part in what was almost a street brawl. Still, it could not be
helped. Desmond comforted himself with the hope that Clive had taken no
particular note of him, and, if they should ever encounter, would
probably meet him as a stranger.