CONCERNING THE FATE OF BLACK GEORGE
A broad, white road; on either hand some half-dozen cottages with roofs
of thatch or red tile, backed by trees gnarled and ancient, among which
rises the red conical roof of some oast-house. Such, in a word, is
Sissinghurst.
Now, upon the left-hand side of the way, there stands a square,
comfortable, whitewashed building, peaked of roof, bright as to
windows, and with a mighty sign before the door, whereon you shall
behold the picture of a bull: a bull rolling of eye, astonishingly
curly of horn and stiff as to tail, and with a prodigious girth of neck
and shoulder; such a snorting, fiery-eyed, curly-horned bull as was
never seen off an inn-sign.
It was at this bull that I was staring with much apparent interest,
though indeed, had that same curly-horned monstrosity been changed by
some enchanter's wand into a green dragon or griffin, or swan with two
necks, the chances are that I should have continued sublimely
unconscious of the transformation.
Yet how should honest Silas Hoskins, ostler, and general factotum of
"The Bull" inn, be aware of this fact, who, being thus early at work,
and seeing me lost in contemplation, paused to address me in all good
faith?
"A fine bull 'e be, eh, Peter? Look at them 'orns, an' that theer
tail; it's seldom as you sees 'orns or a tail the like o' them, eh?"
"Very seldom!" I answered, and sighed.
"An' then—'is nose-'oles, Peter, jest cast your eye on them nose'oles,
will ye; why, dang me! if I can't 'ear 'im a-snortin' when I looks at
'em! An' 'e were all painted by a chap—a little old chap wi' gray
whiskers—no taller 'n your elber, Peter! Think o' that—a little chap
no taller 'n your elber! I seen 'im do it wi' my two eyes—a-sittin'
on a box. Drored t' bull in wi' a bit o' chalk, first; then 'e outs
wi' a couple o' brushes; dab 'e goes, an' dab, dab again, an'—by
Goles! theer was a pair o' eyes a-rollin' theirselves at me—just a
pair o' eyes, Peter. Ah! 'e were a wonder were that little old chap wi'
gray whiskers! The way 'e went at that theer bull, a-dabbin' at 'im
'ere, an' a-dabbin' at 'im theer till 'e come to 'is tail—'e done 'is
tail last of all, Peter. 'Give un a good tail!' says I. 'Ah! that I
will,' says 'e. 'An' a good stiff un!' says I. 'Ye jest keep your eye
on it, an' watch!' says 'e. Talk about tails, Peter! 'E put in that
theer tail so quick as nigh made my eyes water, an'—as for
stiffness—well, look at it! I tell 'ee that chap could paint a bull
wi' 'is eyes shut, ah, that 'e could! an' 'im such a very small man wi'
gray whiskers. No, ye don't see many bulls like that un theer, I'm
thinkin', Peter?"
"They would be very hard to find!" said I, and sighed again. Whereupon
Silas sighed, for company's sake, and nodding, went off about his many
duties, whistling cheerily.
So I presently turned about and crossed the road to the smithy. But
upon the threshold I stopped all at once and drew softly back, for,
despite the early hour, Prudence was there, upon her knees before the
anvil, with George's great hand-hammer clasped to her bosom, sobbing
over it, and, while she sobbed, she kissed its worn handle. And
because such love was sacred and hallowed that dingy place, I took off
my hat as I once more crossed the road.
Seeing "The Bull" was not yet astir, for the day was still young (as I
say), I sat me down in the porch and sighed.
And after I had sat there for some while, with my chin sunk upon my
breast, and plunged in bitter meditation, I became aware of the door
opening, and next moment a tremulous hand was laid upon my head, and,
looking round, I beheld the Ancient.
"Bless 'ee, Peter—bless 'ee, lad!—an' a old man's blessin' be no
light thing—'specially such a old, old man as I be—an' it bean't
often as I feels in a blessin' sperrit—but oh, Peter! 'twere me as
found ye, weren't it?"
"Why, to be sure it was, Ancient, very nearly five months ago."
"An' I be allus ready wi' some noos for ye, bean't I?"
"Yes, indeed!"
"Well, I got more noos for 'ee, Peter—gert noos!"
"And what is it this time?"
"I be allus full up o' noos, bean't I?" he repeated.
"Yes, Ancient," said I, and sighed; "and what is your news?"
"Why, first of all, Peter, jest reach me my snuff-box, will 'ee?—'ere
it be—in my back 'ind pocket—thankee! thankee!" Hereupon he knocked
upon the lid with a bony knuckle. "I du be that full o' noos this
marnin' that my innards be all of a quake, Peter, all of a quake!" he
nodded, saying which, he sat down close beside me.
"Peter."
"Yes, Ancient?"
"Some day—when that theer old stapil be all rusted away, an' these old
bones is a-restin' in the churchyard over to Cranbrook, Peter—you'll
think, sometimes, o' the very old man as was always so full o' noos,
won't 'ee, Peter?"
"Surely, Ancient, I shall never forget you," said I, and sighed.
"An' now, Peter," said the old man, extracting a pinch of snuff, "now
for the noos—'bout Black Jarge, it be."
"What of him, Ancient?" The old man shook his head.
"It took eight on 'em to du it, Peter, an' now four on 'em's a-layin'
in their beds, an' four on 'em's 'obblin' on crutches—an' all over a
couple o' rabbits—though theer be some fules as says they was
pa'tridges!"
"Why—what do you mean?"
"Why, ye see, Peter, Black Jarge be such a gert, strong man (I were
much such another when I were young)—like a lion, in 'is wrath, 'e
be—ah!—a bull bean't nothin' to Black Jarge! An' they keepers come
an' found 'im under a tree, fast asleep—like David in the Cave of
Adullam, Peter, wi' a couple o' rabbits as 'e'd snared. An' when they
keepers tried to tak' 'im, 'e rose up, 'e did, an' throwed some on 'em
this way an' some on 'em that way—'twere like Samson an' the
Philistines; if only 'e'd 'appened to find the jaw-bone of a ass lyin'
'andy, 'e'd ha' killed 'em all an' got away, sure as sure. But it
weren't to be, Peter, no; dead donkeys be scarce nowadays, an' as for
asses' jaw-bones—"
"Do you mean that George is taken—a prisoner?"
The Ancient nodded, and inhaled his pinch of snuff with much evident
relish.
"It be gert noos, bean't it, Peter?"
"What have they done with him? Where is he, Ancient?" But, before the
old man could answer, Simon appeared.
"Ah, Peter!" said he, shaking his head, "the Gaffer's been tellin' ye
'ow they've took Jarge for poachin', I suppose—"
"Simon!" cried the Ancient, "shut thy mouth, lad—hold thy gab an' give
thy poor old feyther a chance—I be tellin' 'im so fast as I can! As I
was a-sayin', Peter—like a fur'us lion were Jarge wi' they
keepers—eight on 'em, Peter—like dogs, a-growlin' an' growlin', an'
leapin', and worryin' all round 'im—ah!—like a lion 'e were—"
"Waitin' for a chance to use 'is 'right, d'ye see, Peter!" added Simon.
ANCIENT. Wi' 'is eyes a-rollin' an' flamin', Peter, an' 'is mane all
bristlin'—
SIMON. Cool as any cucumber, Peter—
ANCIENT. A-roarin' an' a-lashin' of 'is tail—
SIMON. And sparrin' for an openin', Peter, and when 'e sees
one—downin' 'is man every time—
ANCIENT. Leapin' in the air, rollin' in the grass, wi' they keepers
clingin' to 'im like leeches—ah! leeches—
SIMON. And every time they rushed, tap 'ud go 'is "left," and bang 'ud
go 'is "right"—
ANCIENT. An' up 'e'd get, like Samson again, Peter, an' give 'isself a
shake; bellerin'—like a bull o' Bashan—
SIMON. Ye see, they fou't so close together that the keepers was
afear'd to use their guns—
ANCIENT (indignantly). Guns!—who's a-talkin' o' guns? Simon, my
bye—you be allus a-maggin' an' a-maggin'; bridle thy tongue, lad,
bridle thy tongue afore it runs away wi' ye.
SIMON (sheepishly). All right, Old Un—fire away!
But, at this juncture, Old Amos hove in view, followed by the
Apologetic Dutton, with Job and sundry others, on their way to work,
and, as they came, they talked together, with much solemn wagging of
heads. Having reached the door of "The Bull," they paused and greeted
us, and I thought Old Amos's habitual grin seemed a trifle more
pronounced than usual.
"So poor Jarge 'as been an' gone an' done for 'isself at last, eh? Oh,
my soul! think o' that, now!" sighed Old Amos.
"Allus knowed as 'e would!" added Job; "many's the time I've said as 'e
would, an' you know it—all on you."
"It'll be the Barbadies, or Austrayley!" grinned Amos; "transportation,
it'll be—Oh, my soul! think o' that now—an' 'im a Siss'n'urst man!"
"An' all along o' a couple o'—rabbits!" said the Ancient, emphasizing
the last word with a loud rap on his snuff-box.
"Pa'tridges, Gaffer!—they was pa'tridges!" returned Old Amos.
"I allus said as Black Jarge'd come to a bad end," reiterated Job, "an'
what's more—'e aren't got nobody to blame but 'isself!"
"An' all for a couple o'—rabbits!" sighed the Ancient, staring Old
Amos full in the eye.
"Pa'tridges, Gaffer, they was pa'tridges—you, James Dutton—was they
pa'tridges or was they not—speak up, James."
Hereupon the man Dutton, all perspiring apology, as usual, shuffled
forward, and, mopping his reeking brow, delivered himself in this wise:
"W'ich I must say—meanin' no offence to nobody, an' if so be,
apologizin'—w'ich I must say—me 'avin' seen 'em—they
was—leastways," he added, as he met the Ancient's piercing eye,
"leastways—they might 'ave been, w'ich—if they ain't—no matter!"
Having said which, he apologetically smeared his face all over with his
shirt-sleeve, and subsided again.
"It do wring my 'eart—ah, that it do! to think o' pore Jarge a convic'
at Bot'ny Bay!" said Old Amos, "a-workin', an' diggin', an' slavin' wi'
irons on 'is legs an' arms, a-jinglin', an' a-janglin' when 'e walks."
"Well, but it's Justice, aren't it?" demanded Job—"a poacher's a
thief, an' a thief's a convic'—or should be!"
"I've 'eerd," said Old Amos, shaking his head, "I've 'eerd as they ties
they convic's up to posts, an' lashes an' lashes 'em wi' the
cat-o'-nine-tails!"
"They generally mostly deserves it!" nodded Job.
"But 'tis 'ard to think o' pore Jarge tied up to one o' them
floggin'-posts, wi' 'is back all raw an' bleedin!" pursued Old Amos;
"crool 'ard it be, an' 'im such a fine, strappin' young chap."
"'E were allus a sight too fond o' pitchin' into folk, Jarge were!"
said Job; "it be a mercy as my back weren't broke more nor once."
"Ah!" nodded the Ancient, "you must be amazin' strong in the back, Job!
The way I've seed 'ee come a-rollin' an' awallerin' out o' that theer
smithy's wonnerful, wonnerful. Lord! Job—'ow you did roll!"
"Well, 'e won't never do it no more," said Job, glowering; "what wi'
poachin' 'is game, an' knockin' 'is keepers about, 't aren't likely as
Squire Beverley'll let 'im off very easy—"
"Who?" said I, looking up, and speaking for the first time.
"Squire Beverley o' Burn'am 'All."
"Sir Peregrine Beverley?"
"Ay, for sure."
"And how far is it to Burnham Hall?"
"'Ow fur?" repeated Job, staring; "why, it lays 't other side o'
Horsmonden—"
"It be a matter o' eight mile, Peter," said the Ancient.
"Nine, Peter!" cried old Amos—"nine mile, it be!"
"Though I won't swear, Peter," continued the Ancient, "I won't swear as
it aren't—seven—call it six an' three quarters!" said he, with his
eagle eye on Old Amos.
"Then I had better start now," said I, and rose.
"Why, Peter—wheer be goin'?"
"To Burnham Hall, Ancient."
"What—you?" exclaimed Job; "d'ye think Squire'll see you?"
"I think so; yes."
"Well, 'e won't—they'll never let the likes o' you or me beyond the
gates."
"That remains to be seen," said I.
"So you 'm goin', are ye?"
"I certainly am."
"All right!" nodded Job, "if they sets the dogs on ye, or chucks you
into the road—don't go blamin' it on to me, that's all!"
"What—be ye really a-goin', Peter?"
"I really am, Ancient."
"Then—by the Lord!—I'll go wi' ye."
"It's a long walk!"
"Nay—Simon shall drive us in the cart."
"That I will!" nodded the Innkeeper.
"Ay, lad," cried the Ancient, laying his hand upon my arm, "we'll up
an' see Squire, you an' me—shall us, Peter? There be some fules,"
said he, looking round upon the staring company, "some fules as talks
o' Bot'ny Bay, an' irons, an' whippin'-posts—all I says is—let 'em,
Peter, let 'em! You an' me'll up an' see Squire, Peter, sha'n't us?
Black Jarge aren't a convic' yet, let fules say what they will; we'll
show 'em, Peter, we'll show 'em!" So saying, the old man led me into
the kitchen of "The Bull," while Simon went to have the horses put to.