The Adventures of Harry Revel

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

  CHAPTER VIII.

  POOR TOM BOWLING.

  Master Archibald's advice to me--to escape down to the water-side andconceal myself on shipboard--though acute enough in its way, took noaccount of certain difficulties none the less real because a soldierwould naturally overlook them. To hide in a ship's hold you mustfirst get on board of her unobserved, which in broad daylight is nextto impossible. Moreover, to reach Cattewater I must either fetch acircuit through purlieus where every householder knew me and everyurchin was a nodding acquaintance, or make a straight dash close bythe spot where by this time Mr. Trapp would be getting anxious--ifindeed Southside Street and the Barbican were not already resoundingwith the hue and cry. No: if friendly vessel were to receive andhide me, she lay far off, across the heart of the town, amid theshipping of the Dock. Yonder, too, Miss Plinlimmon resided.

  If you think it absurd that my thoughts turned to her, whose weakarms could certainly shield no one from the clutches of the law, Ibeg you to remember my age, and that I had never known anotherprotector. She, at least, would hear me and never doubt myinnocence. She must hear, too, of Archie's danger.

  That to reach her, even if I eluded pursuit to the Hospital gate, Imust run the gauntlet of Mr. George--who would assuredly askquestions--and possibly of Mr. Scougall, scarcely occurred to me.To reach her--to sob out my story in her arms and hear her voicesoothing me--this only I desired for the moment; and it seemed thatif I could only hear her voice speaking, I might wake and feel thesehorrors dissolve like an evil dream. Meanwhile I ran.

  But at the end of a lane leading into Treville Street, and as I leaptaside to avoid colliding with the hind-wheels of a hackney-coachdrawn in there and at a standstill close by the kerb, to myunspeakable fright I felt myself gripped by the jacket-collar.

  "Hi! Bring-to and 'vast kicking, young coal-dust! Where're yebound, hey? Answer me, and take your black mop out of a gentleman'sweskit."

  "To--to Dock, sir," I stammered. "Let me go, please: I'm in ahurry."

  My captor held me out at arm's length and eyed me. He was a sailor,and rigged out in his best shore-going clothes--tarpaulin hat, bluecoat and waistcoat, and a broad leathern belt to hold up his ducktrousers, on which my sooty head had left its mark. He grinned at megood-naturedly. I saw that he had been drinking.

  "In a hurry? And what's your hurry about? Business?"

  "Ye--es, sir."

  "'Stonishing what spirit boys'll put into work nowadays! I've seenboys run for a leg o' mutton, and likewise I've seen 'em run whenthey've broken ship; but on the path o' duty, my sonny, you've thelegs of any boy in my ex-perience. Well, for once, you'll putpleasure first. I'm bound for Dock or thereabouts myself, and underconvoy." He waved his hand up the street, where twelve or fifteenhackney-coaches stood in line ahead.

  "If you please, sir--"

  He threw open the coach door. "Jump in. The frigate sets the rateo' sailing. That's Bill."

  I hesitated, rebellious.

  "That's Bill. Messmate o' mine on the _Bedford_, and afore that onthe _Vesuvius_ bomb. There, sonny--don't stand gaping at me like astuck pig: I never expected ye to _know_ him! And now the time'spast, and ye'll go far afore finding a better. Bill Adams his namewas; but Bill to me, always, and in all weathers." Here for a momenthe became maudlin. "Paid off but three days agone, same as myself,and now--cut down like a flower! He's the corpse, ahead, in thefirst conveyance."

  "Is this a funeral, sir?"

  "Darn your eyes, don't it look like one? And after the expense I'vebeen to!" He paused, eyed me solemnly, opened his mouth, and pointeddown it with his forefinger. "Drink done it." His voice wasimpressive. "Steer you wide of the drink, my lad; or else drop downon it gradual. If drink must be your moorings, don't pick 'em up toorash. 'A boiled leg o' mutton first,' says I, persuasive; '_and_turnips,' and got him to Symonds's boarding-house for the verypurpose, Symonds being noted. And Symonds--I'll do him thatjustice--says the same. Symonds says--"

  But at this point a young woman--and pretty, too, though daubed withpaint--thrust her hat and head out of a window, three carriages away,and demanded to know what in the name of Moses we were waiting for.

  "Signals, my dear. The flagship's forra'd; and keep your eye liftingthat way, _if_ you please. I'm main glad you fell in with us," hewent on affably, turning to me; "because you round it up nicely.Barring the sharks in black weepers, you're the only mourning-card inthe bunch, and I'll see you get a good position at the grave."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Don't mention it. We're doin' our best. When poor Bill droppeddown in Symonds's"--he jerked his thumb towards the boarding-housedoor--"Symonds himself was for turning everyone out. Very nicefeeling he showed, I will say. 'Damn it, here's a go!' he says;'and the man looked healthy enough for another ten year, with propercare!'--and went off at once to stop the fiddlers and put up theshutters. But, of course, it meant a loss to him, the place beingfull at the time; and I felt a sort of responsibility for havingintroduced Bill. So I went after him and says I, 'This is a mostunforeseen occurrence.' 'Not a bit,' says he; 'accidents willhappen.' I told him that the corpse had never been a wet blanket;it wasn't his nature; and I felt sure he wouldn't like the thought.'If that's the case, says Symonds, 'I've a little room at the backwhere he'd go very comfortable--quite shut off, as you might say.We must send for the doctor, of course, and the crowner can sit onhim to-morrow--that is, if you feel sure deceased wouldn' think itany disrespect.' 'Disrespect?' says I. 'You don't know Bill.Why, it's what he'd arsk for!' So there we carried him, and I sentfor the undertaker same time as the doctor, and ordered it of oak;and next morning, down I tramped to Dock and chose out a grave,brick-lined, having heard him say often, 'Plymouth folk for wasting,but Dock folk for lasting.' I won't say but what, between whiles,we've been pretty lively at Symonds's; and I won't say--Hallo!Here's more luck! Your servant, sir!"

  He stepped forward--leaving me shielded and half hidden by the coachdoor--and accosted a stranger walking briskly up the pavement towardsus with a small valise in his hand; a gentlemanly person of aboutthirty-five or forty, in clerical suit and bands.

  "Eh? Good-morning!" nodded the clergyman affably.

  "Might I arsk where you're bound?" Then, after a pause, "My name'sJope, sir; Benjamin Jope, of the _Bedford_, seventy-four, bo'sun'smate--now paid off."

  The clergyman, at first taken aback by the sudden question, recoveredhis smile. "And mine, sir, is Whitmore--the Reverend John Whitmore--bound just now in the direction of Dock. Can I serve youthereabouts?"

  Mr. Jope waved his hand towards the coach door. "Jump inside! Oh,you needn't be ashamed to ride behind Bill!"

  "But who is Bill?" The Rev. Mr. Whitmore advanced to the coach doorlike a man in two minds. "Ah, I see--a funeral!" he exclaimed as amute advanced--assailed from each coach window, as he passed, withindecorous obloquy--to announce that the _cortege_ was ready tostart. For the last two minutes heads had been popping out at thesewindows--heads with dyed ringlets and heads with artificiallycoloured noses--and their owners demanding to know if Ben Jope meantto keep them there all day, if the corpse was expected to lead offthe ball, and so on; and I, cowering by the coach step, had shrunkfrom their gaze as I flinched now under Mr. Whitmore's.

  "Hallo!" said he, and gave me (as I thought) a searching look."What's this? A chimney-sweep?"

  "If your Reverence will not object?"

  I turned my eyes away, but felt that this clergyman was studying me."Not at all," said he quietly after a moment's pause. "Is he boundfor Dock, too?"

  "He said so."

  "Eh? Then we'll see that he gets there. After you, youngster!"To my terror the words seemed charged with meaning, but I dared notlook him in the face. I clambered in and dropped into a seat with myback to the driver. He placed himself opposite, nursing the valiseon his knees. Ben Jope came last and slammed-to the door after him.

  "Way-ho!" he shouted. "Easy canvas!" and with that plumpe
d downbeside me, and took off his tarpaulin hat, extracted a handkerchief,and carefully wiped his brow and the back of his neck.

  "Well!" he sighed. "Bill's launched, anyhow."

  "Shipmate?" asked the clergyman.

  "Messmate," answered Mr. Jope; and, opening his mouth, pointed downit with his forefinger. "Not that a better fellow ever lived."

  "I can quite believe it," said Mr. Whitmore sympathetically. He hada pleasant voice, but somehow I did not want to catch his eye.Instead I kept my gaze fastened upon the knees of his well-fittingpantaloons. No divine could have been more correctly attired, andyet there was a latent horsiness about his cut. I set him down for asporting parson from the country, and wondered why he wore clothes somuch superior to those of the Plymouth parsons known to me by sight.

  "Just listen to that now!" exclaimed Mr. Jope. A cornet in one ofthe coaches ahead had struck up _Tom Bowling_, and before we reachedthe head of the street from coach after coach the funeral party brokeinto song:

  "Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of his crew-ew; No more he'll hear the te--empest how--wow--ling, For death has broach'd him to. His form was of the--e ma--hanliest beau--eau--ty--"

  "I wouldn't say that, quite," observed Mr. Jope pensively. "To beginwith, he'd had the small-pox."

  "_De gustibus nil nisi bonum_," Mr. Whitmore observed soothingly.

  "What's that?"

  "Latin."

  "Wonderful! Would ye mind saying it again?"

  The words were obligingly repeated.

  "Wonderful! And what might be the meaning of it, making so bold?"

  "It means 'Speak well of the dead.'"

  "Well, we're doing of it, anyhow. Hark to 'em ahead there!"

  The _cortege_, in fact, was attracting general attention. Folks onthe pavement halted to watch and grin as we went by: one or two,catching sight of familiar faces within the coaches, waved theirhandkerchiefs or shouted back salutations: and as we crawled out ofOld Town Street and past St. Andrew's Church a small crowd raisedthree cheers for us. And still above it the cornet blared and themourners' voices rose uproarious:

  "His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair; And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melanchol--ol--y-- For Tom is gone aloft."

  "Bill couldn't sing a note," Mr. Jope murmured: "but as you say,sir--Would you oblige us again?" Again the Latin was repeated, andhe swung round upon me. "Think of that, now! Be you a scholar,hey?--read, write and cipher? How would you spell 'sojer' forinstance?"

  The question knocked the wind out of me, and I felt my face whiteningunder the clergyman's eyes.

  "Soldier--S.O.L.D.I.E.R," I managed to answer, but scarce above awhisper.

  "Very good: now make a rhyme to it."

  "I--please, sir, I don't know any rhymes."

  "Well, that's honest, anyway. Now I'll tell you why I asked."He turned and addressed Mr. Whitmore. "I'm Cornish born, sir; fromSaltash, up across the river. Afore I went to sea there was a maidlivin' next door to us that wanted to marry me. Well, when she foundI wasn't to be had, she picked up with a fellow from the VictuallingYard and married he, and came down to Dock to live. Man's name wasBabbage, and they hadn't been married six months afore he tumbledinto a brine-vat and was drowned. 'That's one narrow escape to me,'I said. Next news I had was a letter telling me she'd a boy born,and please would I stand godfather? I didn't like to say no, out ofrespect to her family. So I wrote home from Gibraltar that I wasagreeable, only it must be done by proxy and she mustn't make it noprecedent. That must be ten years back; and what with one thing andanother I never set eyes 'pon mother or child till yesterday when--having to run down to Dock to order Bill's grave--I thought 'twouldbe neighbourly to drop 'em a visit. I found the boy growed to be aterrible plain child, about the size of this youngster. I didn'tlike the boy at all. So I says to his mother, 'I s'pose he'sclever?'--for dang it! thinks I, he must be clever to make up forbeing so plain-featured as all that. 'Benjy'--she'd a-called himBenjamin after me--'Benjy's the cleverest child for his age that everyou see,' she says. 'Why,' says she, 'he'll pitch-to and make up arhyme 'pon anything!' 'Can he so?' I says, pulling a greatcrown-piece out of my pocket (not that I liked the cut of his jib,but the woman had been hinting about my being his godfather):'Now, my lad, let's see if you're so gifted as your mother makes out.There's a sojer now passin' the window. Make a rhyme 'pon he, andyou shall have the money.' What d'ye think that ghastly boy did?'Aw, that's easy,' he says--"

  'Sojer, sojer, Diddy, diddy, dodger!'

  "'Now hand me over the money,' he says. I could have slapped hisear."

  Almost as he ended his simple story, the procession came to a halt:the strains of _Tom Bowling_ changed into noisy--and, on the part ofthe ladies, very unladylike--expostulations. Mr. Jope startedforward and leaned out of the window.

  "I think," said the Rev. Mr. Whitmore, "we have arrived at thetoll-gate."

  "D'ye mean to say the sharks want to take toll on Bill?"

  "Likely enough."

  "On Bill? And him a-going to his long home? Here--hold hard!"Mr. Jope leapt out into the roadway and disappeared.

  Upon us two, left alone in the coach, there fell a dreadful silence.Mr. Whitmore leaned forward and touched my knee; and I met his eye.

  The face I looked into was thin and refined; clean-shaven and atrifle pale as if with the habit of study. A slight baldness by thetemples gave the brow unusual height. His eyes I did not like atall: instead of soothing the terror in mine they seemed to bedrinking it in and tasting it and calculating.

  "I passed by the Barbican just now," said he; "and heard someinquiries about a small chimney-sweep."

  He paused, as if waiting. But I had no speech in me.

  "It was a very strange story they were telling--a very dreadful andstrange story: still when I came upon you I saw, of course, it wasincredible. Boys of your size"--he hesitated and left the sentenceunfinished. "Still, you may have seen something--hey?"

  Again I could not answer.

  "At any rate," he went on, "I gave you the benefit of the doubt andresolved to warn you. It was a mistake to run away: but themischief's done. How were you proposing to make off?"

  "You--you won't give me up, sir?"

  "No, for I think you must be innocent--of what they told me, atleast. I feel so certain of it that, as you see, my conscienceallows me to warn you. In the first place, avoid the Torpoint Ferry.It will without doubt be watched. I should make for the docks, hideuntil night, and try to stow myself on shipboard. Secondly"--he putout a hand and softly unfastened the coach door--"I am going to leaveyou. Our friend Mr. Jope is engaged, I see, in an altercation withthe toll-keeper. He seems a good-natured fellow. The driver(it may help you to know) is drunk. Of course, if by ill-luck theytrace me out, to question me, I shall be obliged to tell what I know.It amounts to very little: still--I have no wish to tell it.One word more: get a wash as soon as you can, and by some meansacquire a clean suit of clothes. I may be then unable to swear toyou: may be able to say that your face is as unfamiliar to me as itwas--or as mine was to you--when Mr. Jope introduced us. Eh?"His look was piercing.

  "Thank you, sir."

  He picked up his valise, nodded, and after a swift glance up thestreet and around at the driver, to make sure that his head wasturned, stepped briskly out upon the pavement and disappeared aroundthe back of the coach.