*CHAPTER III*
*A FIGHT IN LUSCOMBE MARKET*
Jack was accompanied to the gate in quite a friendly way by Comely. Hesmiled as he heard the click of the lock and bolts behind him, andthought a good deal about Joe Gumley as he made his way down the steepcliff path to the fishing village below. It was quite a small village:a few cottages clustered about a cobbled square, with others climbingthe cliff, each with its little bit of garden.
The harbor was protected by a natural breakwater of rock running out tosea, and forming an excellent defense against the southwest gales. A fewbrawny fishermen were lounging about in jerseys and sou'westers, handsin pockets, pipe in mouth. Jack tried to enter into conversation withthem, but found them strangely taciturn. They looked hard at him beforeanswering his questions, used few words, and gave him very littleinformation. Mr. Bastable laughed when, meeting Jack at luncheon, helearned how he had spent the morning.
"They're not a talkative set," he said, "and were probably somewhatovercome by the presence of a king's officer."
"But how did they know I'm a king's officer, cousin? We fellows don'tgo blabbing about: I didn't tell 'em, and only Gumley and old Gudgeonknow, besides you and my cousins."
"Perhaps it was Kate that told them. Ladies are great gossips, theysay."
"I'm sure Kate doesn't go gossiping with fishermen; do you, Kate?"
"Indeed, no," said Kate, "'tis a shame to say so, father."
"I didn't say so, now did I, Jack? I said 'perhaps.' You don't supposeI went and boasted of having a king's officer as my guest, Mr.Midshipman Hardy; and Mr. Gudgeon and Gumley keep themselves tothemselves, as they told you, my boy."
"Well, I can't make it out, and it doesn't matter."
"Probably they won't know you again in your uniform, Jack."
"Do you wear a dirk, cousin, and a belt with pistols in it?" askedArthur eagerly.
"You may be sure he does," said Mr. Bastable; "looks a regular bucaneer,I've no doubt. You'll give old Gudgeon the flutters if he sees you inall your war-paint, Jack."
"Oh, come now, cousin!" protested Jack. "Our fellows don't look half sofierce as you yeomen. Boney will be terrified if he catches sight ofyour big hats and red coats."
"De uniform of de yeomen is ver' fine," said Monsieur de Fronsac,smiling. "It is quite beautiful. Dat is vat I say to Monsieur Arthur;dat de Monstair Bonaparte vill tr-r-emble ven he see de brave Englishyeomen."
Jack was interested in Monsieur de Fronsac. He had never met a Frenchmanbefore, and he studied him as he might have studied a strange animal.After lunch he spent some time with the tutor, and learned something ofhis history. It appeared that on leaving France, a few years before, hehad gone to live on his estates in Martinique, hoping there to escapethe dangers to which, as a royalist, he would be exposed at home. Buton the advent of Napoleon Bonaparte to power his property had beenconfiscated by the Bonapartist governor. He himself had beenproscribed; he fled to Jamaica, thence to London. It was hard for poor_emigres_ to pick up a living. Happening to hear that a school inWynport required a teacher of mathematics he had come down from London,only to find that the place had been filled. But luckily Mr. Bastablewas at the time in search of a tutor for his son. De Fronsac heard ofit from the master of Wynport school: he applied and was accepted.
"But I hope vun day to get back my estates, ven dat Monstair, datimpertinent from Corsica, lose his life, or ven he shall be reject fromde throne he goes so impudent to seize."
Jack became a little tired of Monsieur de Fronsac's references to theMonstair. He never spoke of Bonaparte without tacking on the epithet.Of course, he had good reason for hating the First Consul if he had lostall his property and been compelled to teach for a living; but it wasnot the English way to call names--and always the same name. Jack setit down as one of the peculiarities of Frenchmen.
That evening, after dinner, the conversation once more came back to thesubject which was then discussed more often than any other among thegood people of the south coast--the expected landing of the French. Mr.Bastable was inclined to think that with so long a coast-line open tohim, and so many possible landing-places, Bonaparte would only have tochoose his time carefully to be able, with any kind of luck, to make hisdescent. But Jack scoffed at the idea.
"What about Nelson, and Collingwood, and Keith, cousin? They'd smashhim before he got half-way across."
"But Nelson is away in the Mediterranean, isn't he? He can't beeverywhere at once, Jack."
"And every one can't be a Nelson, but we can do our best."
"I wonder where Boney would think of landing. Somewhere west, notPevensey like the Conqueror: too near London. The Conqueror sailed fromBoulogne, didn't he?"
"Don't think so, cousin: Boulogne isn't in Normandy."
"Still, I'm pretty sure it was Boulogne. Monsieur will know. We'll askhim."
"I'll go and find him; hope I shan't interrupt his flow of poetry."
Jack hurried off, and learned that the tutor had gone out some littletime before.
"He said he were gwine fur a promenade," said the servant whom Jackasked.
"Which way did he go?"
"Down along by Congleton's Hollow, sir."
"Well, I'll go after him. Tell your master I'll be back soon."
A footpath over the fields led to Congleton's Hollow, about a mile and ahalf from the Grange. Jack had visited the spot in the afternoon withhis cousin Arthur. They had climbed over the half-ruined wall, andwandered about in the dense plantation. Under the trees it was quitedim, even in daylight; and where there were no large trees the groundwas thickly covered with a tangle of bushes and ferns. Blackberries andnuts grew in abundance, and the boys had gathered them by handfuls,regardless of scratches, or rents in their clothes. Rabbits scurriedacross the path from patches of tall brake; squirrels blinked out of thefoliage. The place had a wild beauty of its own--the romantic charm ofa spot seldom visited by men.
Delightful as it had been in the afternoon sunlight, it seemed to Jackmore delightful still in the dusk of this beautiful September evening.The moon was just rising, throwing pale shafts of light through thetrees, deepening the shadows. An owl hooted from the top of the Folly;as Jack picked his way through the brake he heard the whisk of scaredrabbits. By the time he reached a part of the ruined wall whence hecould look over a stretch of open country he had almost forgotten hiserrand. He sat on the wall, dangling his legs. There, across thefields to his right, the moonbeams shone on the weathercock on Gudgeon'sroof. Luscombe was out of sight in the dip of the cliffs, but hefancied he could hear the grinding of the surf on the shingle.
Suddenly he started. The light southeast breeze blowing toward himbrought the sound of low voices a little way ahead. Was it Monsieur deFronsac speaking? Jack thought he recognized the low smooth tones.Should he go on? That would be to risk overhearing the speakers. Hehesitated; he heard another voice, deeper, rougher; then both voicestogether, as if in altercation.
"This won't do!" thought Jack. "I'd better clear out." So he spranglightly down from his perch and began to retrace his steps, walkingslowly as he had come, and looking back every now and again to seewhether the tutor was following. At last, just as he reached the firstof half a dozen stiles between himself and the Grange, he saw Monsieurde Fronsac's figure come into the moonlight from the shade of the treeshalf a mile behind. He was alone. Jack sat on the stile and waited.
The Frenchman walked with downcast eyes and for a few moments did notperceive him. Catching sight of him at length, he seemed to be startled,for he halted and made a strange upward movement of the right hand. Buthis pause was only momentary. He came on again, and as soon as he wasnear enough to see clearly who was sitting on the stile, he showed histeeth in a brilliant smile, and called softly:
"Hi! Monsieur Jack, I see you."
"Well, I'm pretty solid, Monsieur," returned Jack with a smile. "Theplace looks lonely enough for a gho
st, don't it? I'd come to meet you;got a question to ask."
"Ah! truly de place is romanesque. It demand poesy. Often do I comehere, in evenings ven de moon is bright, to compose poesy. It pleaseme, it console me in my miseries. I come dis minute from composing apoem about de moon. Vill I declaim it? Is Monsieur interested?"
"Oh, fire away!" said Jack. He thought he might as well humor thissingular Frenchman. "Stop a bit, is it in French or English? If it's inFrench it'll be clean over my head."
"No, it is in English. I compose alvays in English since dat Monstairhave maltreat me. I recite it: listen:
"'_De moon, she shine in de sky_ _O lovely! O sharming!_ _Ven I look, vat can I? I sigh._ _Vat fine zing for farming!_'
"I explain dat: Your so difficult language have not good rhymes: anddere needs one for 'sharming.' I recollect myself to have seen defarmers making hay by de moonlight. Dat also vas sharming sight, so Iput him in my verse."
"First-rate," said Jack. "Go on; I like that bit."
"I have no more complete at present. It take so much to seek yourEnglish rhymes. Now in my language--"
And Monsieur de Fronsac began a long course on French poetry, keeping upa steady flow of talk which lasted till they reached the Grange. Nottill they were entering the drawing-room together did Jack remember thequestion he had gone to ask.
"Well, Jack, I'm right, eh?" called Mr. Bastable.
"'Pon my life, cousin, I forgot to ask. Monsieur has been entertainingme with poetry and things, and drove the question clean out of my head.Where did William the Conqueror sail from, Monsieur?"
"I do not know, I regret to say."
Mr. Bastable laughed.
"Well, we're none the wiser. Come, Jack, take a hand at cards. We'vebeen waiting this half-hour."
When Jack was alone in his bedroom, and thought of his meeting with DeFronsac, he felt vaguely uneasy. Why had the tutor been so anxious toexplain his walk? Why had he talked on and on so glibly about such adull subject as French poetry, with the evident desire to prevent Jackfrom talking? Why had he made no reference to his companion in theHollow? His friends, his private business, were, of course, no concernof Jack's; but the position of De Fronsac in the Bastable householdscarcely seemed consistent with stealthy meetings in retired spots, andJack, without knowing why, did not like it. But he slept none the lesssoundly, and had almost forgotten it by the morning.
The third day of his visit Jack had pretty much to himself. The ladiesdrove early into Wynport to see a dressmaker, and would not return tilllate; Arthur was engaged with his tutor; and Mr. Bastable had to go tothe county town on yeomanry business. Jack spent part of the day inroaming about the cliffs, and in the afternoon went down to the shore,to bathe and watch the fishing-boats go out. Dinner had been put backan hour, so that he delayed his return to the Grange somewhat later thanusual.
As he made his way up the hill, turning off through a narrow lane to theleft, he tripped over a cord that had suddenly been drawn tight in frontof him. There had been rain during the morning, and the place had beencarefully chosen by the practical jokers, who betrayed their presence bya subdued chuckle from an alley-way on Jack's right as he fell headforward into a pool of mud.
Jack had served an apprenticeship in the art of practical joking in the_Ariadne_. Not for nothing had he been for two years a "youngster" in amidshipman's mess. He knew that the best way to discourage the gentlesport in others was to take summary vengeance on the joker--if he couldget at him. He picked himself up in a trice, dashed into thealley-way--so narrow that there was scarcely room for more than one topass at a time--and saw before him the back of a hulking formdisappearing into the dusk, and hiding, as Jack judged from the clumpingof heavy boots, a number of his fellow conspirators in front.
The fugitive was tall, but his clumsy body seemed too heavy for hisshort legs, and he moved slowly. Jack was upon him just as he emergedfrom the narrow alley into the open square of the village. Catchingsight, with the readiness of one accustomed to use his eyes, of aconvenient muck-heap--there were always convenient muck-heaps in town orcountry a hundred years ago, when sanitary inspection was stillundreamed of--Jack neatly tripped the burly figure into its soft andodorous embrace. There was a great yell from the other fugitives, whostopped their flight when they found that they were not in immediatedanger; and as they closed in toward the spluttering victim, now slowlyraising himself, Jack saw that they were some of the boys and youths ofthe village, whose eyes he had often noticed upon him as he passedthrough. And there was something strangely familiar in the attitude ofthe hobbledehoy struggling clumsily to his feet. He was not a fisherlad; where had Jack seen him before? The cries of the crowd enlightenedhim.
"Fight un, Bill Gudgeon!"
"Heave un into midden, Billy."
"Black his eyes!"
"Give un a nobbier!"
But Bill Gudgeon, like his father, was inclined to keep himself tohimself.
"Not if I knows it," he said slowly, as he sheered off. "Maister and mebe quits now."
"Chok' it all!" cried one of his companions, a sturdily built,black-browed, bullet-headed fisher youth of some eighteen years. "If sobe you woan't fight, Billy Gudgeon, I will, so there then. Be youafeard, maister?"
"No, I don't think I'm afraid of you," said Jack, "but I don't see whatwe've got to fight about. As your friend yonder said, we're quits. AndI'm in a hurry. Good night."
"Boo! boo!" yelled the rest, encouraged by this seeming display of thewhite feather. "Rare plucked un to fight Boney! Afeard of Jan Lamiger!Boo! boo!"
Jan Lamiger slouched forward as Jack was turning away, and as an earnestof battle cleverly flicked off his hat. Jack was round in an instant.
"Very well, Jan, or whatever your name is, if you're set on fighting, Isuppose I must oblige you."
He took off his coat, folded it, and placed it carefully on a stonepillar hard by: then he picked up his hat, set it on top, and rolled uphis shirt-sleeves. The young fisherman meanwhile divested himself ofhis jersey, and listened with a smug smile to the encouraging hints andpractical instructions of his mates.
Jack felt a trifle bored. It was much beneath his dignity as amidshipman of his Majesty King George to be fighting fisher lads in theopen fish-market of Luscombe, but it would have been still more beneathhis dignity to refuse the challenge and have the pack of fisher lads athis heels. He was relieved to find that the Square was quite desertedsave for the group about him. A few seconds earlier he had had animpression that there were a number of fisher folk about. The peoplehad, in fact, hastily retired into their cottages when they saw what wasafoot. They had no objection to the lad's trouncing a king's officer,but when that officer happened to be a relative of Squire Bastable atthe Grange it was perhaps just as well not to countenance the fightopenly. For they had no doubt that Jan Lamiger would win. He stoodhalf a head higher than the midshipman, and was probably three stoneheavier. And, moreover, he had some little reputation in theneighborhood as a boxer and wrestler. Had he not thrown all comers atWickham Fair? And knocked Tom Buggins, the light-weight, clean out oftime at Casterbridge only last month?
It was a somewhat rough battle-ground; the cobbles of the Square wouldmake a hard fall; but neither of the combatants had chosen the spot, nordid it occur to them to seek a more convenient place for theirencounter.
Those were the days in which skill in the use of the fists was a realtitle to consideration among all classes, high and low. And fortunatelyfor Jack, it was an art cultivated with great perseverance by the younggentlemen of H.M.S. _Ariadne_. A new midshipman had to fight his wayinto the right to call anything his own. So frequent were the battleson board, that the art had reached a very high degree of perfection.Even the muscular heroes of the prize-ring might have envied thequickness of eye, the wariness, the nimbleness of movement, the skill infeint, of these young warriors.
The group had become by this time enlarged by the addition of severalother
boys, big and small, eager to see the fight and the imminentdiscomfiture of the king's officer. They drew away to give theprincipals fighting room. The two at once got to work. In the firsthalf-minute Jack found that he had no novice to deal with, and that insheer physical strength he was hopelessly outmatched. But the biglumbering fisher had nothing like the quickness of wit or the science ofthe slighter midshipman. Hitherto he had won his bouts by staying poweradded to a certain rudimentary knowledge of fisticuffs that might passfor skill among the yokels at a country fair. But in all his previousbattles he had never met an opponent who forced the pace like this one.Where was he? He seemed to be on all sides at once. Jan dealt what hefirmly believed was a staggering right-hander, only to hit air and tofeel a smart tap on the left side of his chin. He flung out his lefthand, and before he knew what was happening, he felt a similar tap onthe right side. This kept things even, but it spoilt Jan's temper. Heforgot his science in his irritation, and lurched forward to give fulleffect to his weight and height. The result was disastrous. Where didthat whack in the left eye come from? He had hardly realized that hecould not see quite so well as usual, when something very hard andknobby came into his right eye, and while the stars were still dancingbefore him a neat left-hander from Jack sent him reeling back on to thecobblestones, where he sat up and peered about him dazedly.
It was clear that the battle was over in a single round. There was nofight left in Jan. The crowd was silent now. Several were assistingJan to rise, and Jack quickly rolled down his sleeves, put on his hatand coat, and walked away, leaving the Square by the alley through whichhe had entered it. Perfect stillness reigned in the village; but Jackwas conscious that the windows and doorways were now filled with faceswatching the scene. He smiled as he left the village behind him.
Jack Hardy: A Story of English Smugglers in the Days of Napoleon Page 3
