Two days later there were few people situated more uncomfortably than
Oliver Charlock, of the “Mariner’s Rest.” For he was in a hamper, a
variety of sail-cloth, and oddments of material packed on the top of
him, and his knees into his chin. Scant air, no place for shifting,
sometimes knocked this way, sometimes bundled that; shoved, huddled,
bumped, and stowed, wherever man’s hand chose to shove him, or in
whatever direction the ship rolled.
The discomfort grew to such sickening pain that his senses almost
left him, while his partial suffocation threatened momentarily to be
complete.
But at last he was on the Boulogne Quay; he knew it, for the bale had
been left quiet. He cut his way through the cords and fastenings; he
loosed his sacking and finally threw open the hamper lid. The fresh
sea-wind fanned his forehead; at first that seemed all he needed, or
knew. To move was such agony, it must be done only by degrees. And
it was good to lie still with the air on his face, and to see the
clouds float by.
It was about five or six o’clock in the morning. Looking towards the
town he saw evidence of the fish-market of Boulogne. Women walked
here and there with shrimp baskets on their shoulders, and some
trawlers and fishing-smacks were coming in. The high French houses of
the old town looked like ghosts of houses in the grey dawn, and the
sands stretched away unbrokenly, in opalescent light.
Oliver stepped out freed from his prison, and walked lamely towards
the town. He knew his work pretty well; he had no need to think about
it. He had merely to walk about on the quay, or mingle among the
people in the fish-market, and sooner or later the man he knew as
Lambkin would come up and take from him the written rag. The message
was written on a rag, because had he been searched, no letter would
have been found upon him, and this rag was wrapped round his finger
or his wrist as it might be, and generally had some stray drops of
blood on it, as if it bound up a slight wound.
But on this occasion the hours passed, and there appeared no Lambkin;
and now the Boulogne fish-market was in full activity. Groups of
peasants chattering, old women gesticulating, everybody talking,
nobody listening, bargaining, chaffering, dealing, and vending, going
on among a vivid crowd. Look at the picture, and you will see this
busy scene. Oliver wandered among the throng for a little, buying
some food at an old woman’s gingerbread stall, for Crumblejohn had
provided him with a few French coins. Now that his stiffness was
lessened and his hunger appeased, he was enjoying himself. It was
good not to be cleaning boots, and mopping the stone floors of the
Mariner’s Tavern; laying the fires, and opening the windows to let
out the spent air of last night’s company, the fumes of stale tobacco
and spilt beer; now, all the scent of the morning was about him, and
the tang of the sea breeze.
Soon his eyes were attracted by a small hunchbacked boy who was
sitting at a little table. He had a pointed wicker cage with a pair
of doves in it, and on his table were many simple contrivances of
home-made nature. These were set out on a small square of red baize.
The people smiled at the hunchback as they passed him, and soon
Oliver saw that he was preparing to give a show. The fish-market
was now over, and some people from the town were walking on
the quay. For these the hunchback waited, and soon he had a small
crescent-shaped crowd.
[Illustration: THE FISH MARKET, BOULOGNE]
He took the doves out of their cage, and spoke lovingly to them,
kissing their soft necks. They pattered with pink feet over the table
cooing and bowing, and he put some peas before them, which they
picked up eagerly with slender bills.
“These doves, ladies and gentlemen,” the hunchback began in French,
“are the celebrated Joli and Jou-Jou of Boulogne. Long have they
been the delight of visitors to our pretty town. Once more they bow
before you, and beg you, in all courtesy to watch their well-known
performance in the chaise, in the ring, and on the pole.”
With a bow he finished his speech to the onlookers, and commenced
with deft fingers to arrange a small trapeze. He placed a dove on
it, and then attaching the upright posts so that they could not
turn over, he set the bird swinging on the bar. Nothing could have
exceeded the innocence of the performance, for the birds did nothing
at all wonderful, or in any sense trained, but the air of the showman
and the simplicity of the performance must have endeared it to any
one of feeling in the crowd.
“Joli, now wilt thou attend to thy master, and place thy pink feet
firmly upon the ring? Thou knowest it is but a little time, my Joli,
and thou shalt be, once more, pecking the peas.”
He lifted the dove from the table, while it made every movement of
revolt, but only foolish feathered revolt, swiftly quelled. Slowly
round and round the bird revolved in the ring, staying there simply
because it had not the wit or will to flutter out of it, and the
hunchback swung the ring quicker and quicker so that the onlookers
murmured applause.
Then it was Jou-Jou’s turn to be harnessed to a tiny charette made
from a wooden box, painted in red and blue. Joli sat within while
Jou-Jou pattered round drawing it, guided by the hunchback’s hand.
Soon Oliver heard an English voice among the spectators.
“Oh, look at those doves, Papa,” it said. “I want to stop and look.”
A very smartly dressed little girl pressed forward, brushing aside
other people. She had an eager face, and looked discontented.
“What do you call the doves, boy?” she asked in French, in a sharp
voice.
“Joli and Jou-Jou, mademoiselle.”
“Who taught them to do their tricks, boy?”
“It is I who taught them, mademoiselle.”
“I want to buy them; will you tell me how much money they would cost?”
“They are not for sale, mademoiselle.”
“But if I want them?” said the little girl imperiously; “and if I
give gold for them, of course they will be for sale. Here, Papa,” she
cried out suddenly.
“I want these doves, please; you know you said you would give me my
birthday present in advance, and I don’t want the goat-carriage now.
I’m sure the little boy will be glad to get two gold pieces; we will
give him one for each dove; look how ill and starved he appears! and
his clothes, I never saw such tatters. You can send the doves round
to the Hotel d’Angleterre, do you hear, boy? and we shall give you
two, perhaps three, whole gold pieces.”
She opened her eyes very wide, and nodded her head at him, so busy in
her shrill speech that she was quite blind to the expression on the
face before her. You have no doubt read the Fairchild Family? Well,
when I tell you she was first cousin to Miss Augusta Noble, and very
like her too, wearing the same kind of clothes in the same arrogant
manner, you will be able to conjure her before the mind’s eye very
accurately indeed.
“You will get perhaps three whole gold pieces!” she repeated, “but be
sure to be there before to-morrow at noon, for we leave on the day
following.
“Papa,” she cried, springing towards her father, “I’m sure to get
them, I know I shall: and they can go in my nice, new, great, big
aviary.”
In a turmoil of noisy, selfish conversation, she took her excited
little person off the scene, bustling through the crowd, and taking
her own world with her, in the manner of children who will sometimes
burst into a room speaking, never thinking to see if people are
talking, or reading aloud within.
And so she went away down the quay, leaving a sense of disturbance
behind her. Evidently bound to grow up, poor thing, into one of those
people who cause every one to live in a draught around them.
Oliver stood for some time listening. He had no further orders than
to remain on the quay in such a manner as that he might readily
be seen. He decided he would stay here at all events till sunset,
should the French agent by some chance have been delayed. So he stood
watching the little hunchback’s quick movements as he caged his
doves, packed his tressle-table, and walked away towards the town.
And now Oliver was left to watch the clouds and sea-gulls, and to
wonder what life would feel like, if it were happy and free.
The slow hours passed, and he grew hungrier and thirstier. He sought
through his pockets and found a crust. And then because he had
passed such an uncomfortable night, and he was tired, he lay down,
with his head on a coil of rope, and looked drowsily at the wide and
glimmering sea.
Here and there, hidden away in his memory, there lingered some stray
phrases and couplets learnt long ago. These he treasured, though he
hardly knew he did so, for the sense of comfort they bestowed--
“Thou whose nature cannot sleep
On my temples sentry keep.
While I rest my soul advance,
Make my sleep a holy trance.
These are my drowsy days, in vain,
I do but wake to sleep again.
O, come that hour when I shall never
Sleep again, but wake for ever.”
The light faded. Grey clouds banked themselves where the sun was
westering, prodigal of his gold.
Oliver slept.
He was woken by a hand laid upon his shoulder, and stumbling to his
feet, he saw the man Thurot, standing beside him.