This is the story of Thatcher Ellery as it was told to me after his
death, which happened one night a few weeks before I came home from
school on my first summer holidays.
His father, in the early years of the century, had kept the mill up at
Trethake Water, two miles above Gantick. There were two sons, of whom
Reub, the elder, succeeded to the mill. Nat had been apprenticed to
the thatching. Accident of birth assigned to the two these different
walks of life but by taking thought their parents could not have
chosen more wisely, for Nat was born clever, with an ambition to cut a
figure in man's eyes and just that sense of finish and the need of it
which makes the good workman. Whereas his brother went the daily round
at home as contentedly as a horse at a cider press. But Nat made the
mistake of lodging under his father's roof, and his mother made the
worse mistake of liking her first-born the better and openly showing
it. Nat, jealous and sensitive by nature, came to imagine the
whole world against him, and Reub, who had no vice beyond a large
thick-witted selfishness, seemed to make a habit of treading on his
corns. At length came the explosion: a sudden furious assault which
sent Reub souse into the paternal mill-leat.
The mother cursed Nat forth from the door, and no doubt said a great
deal more than she meant. The boy--he was just seventeen--carried
his box down to the Ring of Bells. Next morning as he sat viciously
driving in spars astride on a rick ridge, whence he could see far
over the Channel, there came into sight round Derryman's Point a
ship-of-war, running before the strong easterly breeze with piled
canvas, white stun-sails bellying, and a fine froth of white water
running off her bluff bows. Another ship followed, and another--at
length a squadron of six. Nat watched them from time to time until
they trimmed sails and stood in for Falmouth. Then he climbed down
from the rick and put on his coat.
Two years later he landed at Portsmouth, heartily sick of the sea and
all belonging to it. He drank himself silly that night and for ten
nights following, and one morning found himself in the streets without
a penny. Portsmouth just then (July, 1808) was filled with troops
embarking under Sir John Moore for Portugal. One regiment especially
took Nat's eye--the 4th or King's Own, and indeed the whole service
contained no finer body of men. He sidled up to a corporal and gave
a false name. Varcoe had been his mother's maiden name, and it came
handy. The corporal took him to a recruiting sergeant and handed him
over with a wink. The recruiting sergeant asked a few convenient
questions, and within the hour Nat was a soldier of King George.
To his disgust, however, they did not embark him for Portugal, but
marched him up the length of England to Lancaster, to learn his drill
with the second battalion.
Seventeen months later they marched him back through the length of
England--outwardly a made soldier--and shipped him on a transport for
Gibraltar. In the meanwhile he had found two friends, the only two
real ones he ever found in his life. They were Dave McInnes and
Teddy Butson, privates of the 4th Regiment of Foot, 2nd Battalion, C
Company. Dave McInnes came from somewhere to the west of Perth and
drank like a fish when he had the chance. Teddy Butson came from the
Lord knew where, with a tongue that wagged about everything except
his own past. It did indeed wag about that, but told nothing but lies
which were understood and accepted for lies and by consequence didn't
count. These two had christened Nat Ellery "Spuds." He had no secret
from them but one.
He was the cleverest of the three, and they admired him for it. He
admired them in return for possessing something he lacked. It seemed
to him the most important, almost the only important, thing in the
world.
For (this was his secret) he believed himself to be a coward. He
was not really a coward, though he carried about in his heart the
liveliest fear of death and wounds. He was always asking himself
how he would behave under fire, and somehow he found the odds heavy
against his behaving well. He put roundabout questions to Dave and
Teddy with the aim of discovering what they felt about it. They
answered in a careless, matter-of-fact way, as men to whom it had
never occurred to have any doubt about themselves. Nat was desperately
afraid they might guess his reason for asking. Just here, when their
friendship might have been helpful, it failed altogether. He felt
angry with them for not understanding, while he prayed that they might
not understand. He took to observing other men in the regiment, and
found them equally cheerful, concerned only with the moment. He became
secretly religious after a fashion. He felt that he was the one and
only coward in the King's Own, and prayed and planned his behaviour
day and night to avoid being found out.
In this state of mind he landed at Gibraltar. When the order came for
the 4th to move up to the front, he cheered with the rest, watching
their faces.