‘What salmon, Sir?’ interrupted the lieutenant. ‘Why, salmon’s not in season, Sir.’
‘None iv yer flummery, you schamin’ scoundrel; but jest come here and give yourself up, for so sure as you don’t, or dar to stir an inch from that spot, I’ll blow you to smithereens!’
‘Captain Cluffe is drowned, Sir; and I’m Lieutenant Puddock,’ rejoined the officer.
‘Tare-an-ouns, an’ is it yerself, Captain Puddock, that’s in it?’ cried the man. ‘I ax yer pardon; but I tuk you for one of thim vagabonds that’s always plundherin’ the fish. And who in the wide world, captain jewel, id expeck to see you there, meditatin’ in the middle of the river, this time o’ night; an’ I dunna how in the world you got there, at all, at all, for the planking is carried away behind you since yistherday.’
‘Give an alarm, if you please, Sir, this moment,’ urged Puddock. ‘Captain Cluffe has gone over this horrid weir, not a minute since, and is I fear drowned.’
‘Dhrownded! och! bloody wars.’
‘Yes, Sir, send some one this moment down the stream with a rope— ‘
‘Hollo, Jemmy?’ cried the man, and whistled through his crooked finger.
‘Jemmy,’ said he to the boy who presented himself, ‘run down to Tom Garret, at the Millbridge, and tell him Captain Cluffe’s dhrownded over the weir, and to take the boat-hook and rope — he’s past the bridge by this time — ay is he at the King’s House — an’ if he brings home the corpse alive or dead, before an hour, Captain Puddock here will give him twenty guineas reward.’ So away went the boy.
‘’Tis an unaisy way you’re situated yourself, I’m afeard,’ observed the man.
‘Have the goodness to say, Sir, by what meanth, if any, I can reach either bank of the river,’ lisped Puddock, with dignity.
‘’Tis thrue for you, captain, that’s the chat — how the divil to get you alive out o’ the position you’re in. Can you swim?’
‘No, Thir.’
‘An’ how the dickens did you get there?’
‘I’d rather hear, Sir, how I’m to get away, if you please,’ replied Puddock, loftily.
‘Are you bare-legged?’ shouted the man.
‘No, Sir,’ answered the little officer, rather shocked.
‘An’ you’re there wid shoes on your feet.
‘Of course, Sir,’ answered Puddock.
‘Chuck them into the water this instant minute,’ roared the man.
‘Why, there are valuable buckles, Sir,’ remonstrated Puddock.
‘Do you mane to say you’d rather be dhrownded in yer buckles than alive in yer stockin’ feet?’ he replied.
There were some cross expostulations, but eventually the fellow came out to Puddock. Perhaps the feat was not quite so perilous as he represented; but it certainly was not a pleasant one. Puddock had a rude and crazy sort of banister to cling to, and a rugged and slippery footing; but slowly and painfully, from one post to another, he made his way, and at last jumped on the solid, though not dry land, his life and his buckles safe.
‘I’ll give you a guinea in the morning, if you come to my quarterth, Mr. —— Thir,’ and, without waiting a second, away he ran by the footpath, and across the bridge, right into the Phœnix, and burst into the club-room. There were assembled old Arthur Slowe, Tom Trimmer, from Lucan, old Trumble, Jack Collop, Colonel Stafford, and half-a-dozen more members, including some of the officers — O’Flaherty among the number, a little ‘flashy with liquor’ as the phrase then was.
Puddock stood in the wide opened door, with the handle in his hand. He was dishevelled, soused with water, bespattered with mud, his round face very pale, and he fixed a wild stare on the company. The clatter of old Trimmer’s backgammon, Slowe’s disputations over the draftboard with Colonel Stafford, Collop’s dissertation on the points of that screw of a horse he wanted to sell, and the general buzz of talk, were all almost instantaneously suspended on the appearance of this phantom, and Puddock exclaimed —
‘Gentlemen, I’m thorry to tell you, Captain Cluffe ith, I fear, drowned!’
‘Cluffe?’ ‘Drowned?’ ‘By Jupiter!’ ‘You don’t say so? and a round of such ejaculations followed this announcement.
Allow me here to mention that I permit my people to swear by all the persons of the Roman mythology. There was a horrible profanity in the matter of oaths in those days, and I found that without changing the form of sentences, and sacrificing idioms, at times, I could not manage the matter satisfactorily otherwise.
‘He went over the salmon weir — I saw him — Coyle’s — weir — headlong, poor fellow! I shouted after him, but he could not anthwer, so pray let’s be off, and— ‘
Here he recognised the colonel with a low bow and paused. The commanding officer instantaneously despatched Lieutenant Brady, who was there, to order out Sergeant Blakeney and his guard, and any six good swimmers in the regiment who might volunteer, with a reward of twenty guineas for whoever should bring in Cluffe alive, or ten guineas for his body; and the fat fellow all the time in his bed sipping sack posset!
So away ran Brady and a couple more of the young fellows at their best pace — no one spared himself on this errand — and little Puddock and another down to the bridge. It was preposterous.
By this time Lillyman was running like mad from Cluffe’s lodgings along Martin’s Row to the rescue of Puddock, who, at that moment with his friends and the aid of a long pole, was poking into a little floating tanglement of withered leaves, turf, and rubbish, under the near arch of the bridge, in the belief that he was dealing with the mortal remains of Cluffe.
Lillyman overtook Toole at the corner of the street just in time to hear the scamper of the men, at double-quick, running down the sweep of the road to the bridge, and to hear the shouting that arose from the parade-ground by the river bank, from the men within the barrack precincts.
Toole joined Lillyman running.
‘What the plague’s this hubbub and hullo?’ he cried.
‘Puddock’s drowned,’ panted Lillyman.
‘Puddock! bless us! where?’ puffed Toole.
‘Hollo! you, Sir — have they heard it — is he drowned?’ cried Lillyman to the sentry outside the gate.
‘Dhrownded? yes, Sir,’ replied the man saluting.
‘Is help gone?’
‘Yes, Sir, Lieutenant Brady, and Sergeant Blakeney, and nine men.’
‘Come along,’ cried Lillyman to Toole, and they started afresh. They heard the shouting by the river bank, and followed it by the path round the King’s House, passing the Phœnix; and old Colonel Stafford, who was gouty, and no runner, standing with a stern and anxious visage at the door, along with old Trumble, Slowe, and Trimmer, and some of the maids and drawers in the rear, all in consternation.
‘Bring me the news,’ screamed the colonel, as they passed.
Lillyman was the better runner. Toole a good deal blown, but full of pluck, was labouring in the rear; Lillyman jumped over the stile, at the river path; and Toole saw an officer who resembled ‘poor Puddock,’ he thought, a good deal, cross the road, and follow in Lillyman’s wake. The doctor crossed the stile next, and made his best gallop in rear of the plump officer, excited by the distant shouting, and full of horrible curiosity and goodnature.
Nearly opposite Inchicore they fished up an immense dead pig; and Toole said, to his amazement, he found Puddock crying over it, and calling it ‘my brother!’ And this little scene added another very popular novelty to the doctor’s stock of convivial monologues.
Toole, who loved Puddock, hugged him heartily, and when he could get breath, shouted triumphantly after the more advanced party, ‘He’s found, he’s found!’
‘Oh, thank Heaven!’ cried little Puddock, with upturned eyes; ‘but is he really found?’
The doctor almost thought that his perils had affected his intellect.
‘Is he found — are you found?’ cried the doctor, resuming that great shake by both hands, which in his momentary puzzle he had sus
pended.
‘I — a — oh, dear! — I don’t quite understand — is he lost? for mercy’s sake is Cluffe lost?’ implored Puddock.
‘Lost in his bed clothes, maybe,’ cried Lillyman, who had joined them.
‘But he’s not — he’s not drowned?’
‘Pish! drowned, indeed! unless he’s drowned in the crock of hot water he’s clapt his legs into.’
‘Where is he — where’s Cluffe?’
‘Hang it! — he’s in bed, in his lodging, drinking hot punch this half-hour.’
‘But are you certain?’
‘Why, I saw him there myself,’ answered Lillyman, with an oath.
Poor little Puddock actually clasped his hands, looked up, and poured forth a hearty, almost hysterical, thanksgiving; for he had charged Cluffe’s death altogether upon his own soul, and his relief was beyond expression.
In the meantime, the old gentlemen of the club were in a thrilling suspense, and that not altogether disagreeable state of horror in which men chew the cud of bitter fancy over other men’s catastrophes. After about ten minutes in came young Spaight.
‘Well,’ said the colonel, ‘is Cluffe safe or — eh?’
‘Cluffe’s safe — only half drowned; but poor Puddock’s lost.’
‘What!’
‘Drowned, I’m afraid.’
‘Drowned! who says so?’ repeated the colonel.
‘Cluffe — everybody.’
‘Why, there it is!’ replied the colonel, with a great oath, breaking through all his customary reserve and stiffness, and flinging his cocked-hat on the middle of the table, piteously, ‘A fellow that can’t swim a yard will go by way of saving a great — a large gentleman, like Captain Cluffe, from drowning, and he’s pulled in himself; and so — bless my soul! what’s to be done?’
So the colonel broke into a lamentation, and a fury, and a wonder. ‘Cluffe and Puddock, the two steadiest officers in the corps! He had a devilish good mind to put Cluffe under arrest — the idiots — Puddock — he was devilish sorry. There wasn’t a more honourable’ — et cetera. In fact, a very angry and pathetic funeral oration, during which, accompanied by Doctor Toole, Lieutenant Puddock, in person, entered; and the colonel stopped short with his eyes and mouth very wide open, and said the colonel very sternly.
‘I — I’m glad to see, Sir, you’re safe: and — and — I suppose, I shall hear now that Cluffe’s drowned?’ and he stamped the emphasis on the floor.
While all this was going on, some of the soldiers had actually got into Dublin. The tide was in, and the water very high at ‘Bloody Bridge.’ A hat, near the corner, was whisking round and round, always trying to get under the arch, and always, when on the point, twirled round again into the corner — an image of the ‘Flying Dutchman’ and hope deferred. A watchman’s crozier hooked the giddy thing. It was not a military hat; but they brought it back, and the captive was laid in the guardroom — mentioned by me because we’ve seen that identical hat before.
CHAPTER LI.
HOW CHARLES NUTTER’S TEA, PIPE, AND TOBACCO-BOX WERE ALL SET OUT FOR HIM IN THE SMALL PARLOUR AT THE MILLS; AND HOW THAT NIGHT WAS PASSED IN THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD.
Mrs. Nutter and Mrs. Sturk, the wives of the two men who most hated one another within the vicinage of Chapelizod — natural enemies, holding aloof one from another, and each regarding the other in a puzzled way, with a sort of apprehension and horror, as the familiar of that worst and most formidable of men — her husband — were this night stricken with a common fear and sorrow.
Darkness descended on the Mills and the river — a darkness deepened by the umbrageous trees that grouped about the old gray house in which poor Mrs. Nutter lay so ill at ease. Moggy carried the jingling tray of teathings into Nutter’s little study, and lighted his candles, and set the silver snuffers in the dish, and thought she heard him coming, and ran back again, and returned with the singing ‘tea-kitchen,’ and then away again, for the thin buttered toast under its china cover, which our ancestors loved.
Then she listened — but ’twas a mistake — it was the Widow Macan’s step, who carried the ten pailfuls of water up from the river to fill the butt in the backyard every Tuesday and Friday, for a shilling a week, and ‘a cup o’ tay with the girls in the kitchen.’
Then Moggy lighted the fire with the stump of a candle, for the night was a little chill, and she set the small round table beside it, and laid her master’s pipe and tobacco-box on it, and listened, and began to wonder what detained him.
So she went out into the sharp still air, and stood on the hall-door step, and listened again. Presently she heard the Widow Macan walking up from the garden with the last pail on her head, who stopped when she saw her, and set down the vessel upon the corner of the clumsy little balustrade by the doorstep. So Moggy declared her uneasiness, which waxed greater when Mrs. Macan told her that ‘the masther, God bless him, wasn’t in the garden.’
She had seen him standing at the river’s edge, while she passed and repassed. He did not move a finger, or seem to notice her, and was looking down into the water. When she came back the third or fourth time, he was gone.
At Moggy’s command she went back into the garden, though she assured her, solemnly— ‘’twas nansince lookin’ there’ — and called Mr. Nutter, at first in a deferential and hesitating way; but, emboldened and excited by the silence, for she began to feel unaccountably queer, in a louder and louder a key, till she was certain that he was neither in the garden nor in the orchard, nor anywhere near the house. And when she stopped, the silence seemed awful, and the darkness under the trees closed round her with a supernatural darkness, and the river at the foot of the walk seemed snorting some inarticulate story of horror. So she locked the garden door quickly, looking over her shoulder for she knew not what, and ran faster than she often did along the sombre walk up to the hall door, and told her tale to Moggy, and begged to carry the pail in by the hall-door.
In they came, and Moggy shut the hall-door, and turned the key in it. Perhaps ’twas the state in which the poor lady lay up stairs that helped to make them excited and frightened. Betty was sitting by her bedside, and Toole had been there, and given her some opiate, I suppose, for she had dropped into a flushed snoring sleep, a horrid counterfeit of repose. But she had first had two or three frightful fits, and all sorts of wild, screaming talk between. Perhaps it was the apparition of Mary Matchwell, whose evil influence was so horribly attested by the dismal spectacle she had left behind her, that predisposed them to panic; but assuredly each anticipated no good from the master’s absence, and had a foreboding of something bad, of which they did not speak; but only disclosed it by looks, and listening, and long silences. The lights burning in Nutter’s study invited them, and there the ladies seated themselves, and made their tea in the kitchen tea-pot, and clapped it on the hob, and listened for sounds from Mrs. Nutter’s chamber, and for the step of her husband crossing the little courtyard; and they grew only more nervous from listening, and there came every now and then a little tapping on the window-pane. It was only, I think, a little sprig of the climbing-rose that was nailed by the wall, nodding at every breath, and rapping like unseen finger-tops, on the glass. But, as small things will, with such folk, under such circumstances, it frightened them confoundedly.
Then, on a sudden, there came a great yell from poor Mrs. Nutter’s chamber, and they both stood up very pale. The Widow Macan, with the cup in her hand that she was ‘tossing’ at the moment, and Moggy, all aghast, invoked a blessing under her breath, and they heard loud cries and sudden volleys of talk, and Biddy’s voice, soothing the patient.
Poor Mrs. Nutter had started up, all on a sudden, from her narcotic doze, with a hideous scream that had frightened the women down stairs. Then she cried —
‘Where am I?’ and ‘Oh, the witch — the witch!’
‘Oh! no, Ma’am, dear,’ replied Betty; ‘now, aisy, Ma’am, darling.’
‘I’m going mad.’
‘No,
Ma’am, dear? — there now — sure ’tis poor Betty that’s in it — don’t be afear’d, Ma’am.’
‘Oh, Betty, hold me — don’t go — I’m mad — am I mad?’
Then in the midst of Betty’s consolations, she broke into a flood of tears, and seemed in some sort relieved; and Betty gave her her drops again, and she began to mumble to herself, and so to doze.
At the end of another ten minutes, with a scream, she started up again.
‘That’s her step — where are you, Betty?’ she shrieked, and when Betty ran to the bedside, she held her so hard that the maid was ready to cry out, leering all the time over her shoulder— ‘Where’s Charles Nutter? — I saw him speaking to you.’
Then the poor little woman grew quieter, and by her looks and moans, and the clasping of her hands, and her upturned eyes, seemed to be praying; and when Betty stealthily opened the press to take out another candle, her poor mistress uttered another terrible scream, crying —
‘You wretch! her head won’t fit — you can’t hide her;’ and the poor woman jumped out of her bed, shrieking ‘Charles, Charles, Charles!’
Betty grew so nervous and frightened, that she fairly bawled to her colleague, Moggy, and told her she would not stay in the room unless she sat up all night with her. So, together they kept watch and ward, and as the night wore on, Mrs. Nutter’s slumbers grew more natural and less brief, and her paroxysms of waking terror less maniacal. Still she would waken, with a cry that thrilled them, from some frightful vision, and seem to hear or see nothing aright for a good while after, and muttering to the frightened maids —
‘Listen to the knocking — oh! — breathing outside the door — bolt it, Betty — girls, say your prayers— ’tis he,’ or sometimes, ‘’tis she.’
And thus this heavy night wore over; and the wind, which began to rise as the hours passed, made sounds full of sad untranslatable meaning in the ears of the watchers.
Poor Mrs. Sturk meanwhile, in the House by the Churchyard, sat listening and wondering, and plying her knitting-needles in the drawingroom. When the hour of her Barney’s expected return had passed some time, she sent down to the barrack, and then to the club, and then on to the King’s House, with her service to Mrs. Stafford, to enquire, after her spouse. But her first and her second round of enquiries, despatched at the latest minute at which she was likely to find any body out of bed to answer them, were altogether fruitless. And the lights went out in one house after another, and the Phœnix shut its doors, and her own servants were for hours gone to bed; and the little town of Chapelizod was buried in the silence of universal slumber. And poor Mrs. Sturk still sat in her drawingroom, more and more agitated and frightened.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 126
