Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “Now hark’e, waiter! there’s the guard blowing his horn, and we have scarcely had a bite apiece,” cries Mr. Jorrocks, as that functionary sounded his instrument most energetically in the passage; “blow me tight, if I stir before the full half-hour’s up, so he may blow till he’s black in the face.” “Take some cheese, sir?” inquires the waiter. “No, surely not, some more pork, and then some tarts”. “Sorry, sir, we have no tarts we can recommend. Cheese is partiklar good.” [Enter coachman, peeled down to a more moderate-sized man.]

  “Leaves ye here, if you please, sur.” “With all my heart, my good friend.” “Please to remember the coachman — driv ye thirty miles.” “Yes, but you’ll recollect how saucy you were about my wife’s bonnet-box there’s sixpence between us for you.” “Oh, sur! I’m sure I didn’t mean no unpurliteness. I ‘opes you’ll forget it; it was werry aggravising, certainly, but driv ye thirty miles. ‘Opes you’ll give a trifle more, thirty miles.” “No, no, no more; so be off.” “Please to remember the coachman, ma’am, thirty miles!” “Leaves ye here, sir, if you please; goes no further, sir; thirty miles, ma’am; all the vay from Lunnun, sir.”

  A loud flourish on the bugle caused the remainder of the gathering to be made in dumb show, and having exhausted his wind, the guard squeezed through the door, and, with an extremely red face, assured the company that “time was hup” and the “coach quite ready.” Then out came the purses, brown, green, and blue, with the usual inquiry, “What’s dinner, waiter?” “Two and six, dinner, beer, three, — two and nine yours,” replied the knock-kneed caitiff to the first inquirer, pushing a blue-and-white plate under his nose; “yours is three and six, ma’am; — two glasses of brandy-and-water, four shillings, if you please sir — a bottle of real Devonshire cider.”— “You must change me a sovereign,” handing one out. “Certainly, sir,” upon which the waiter, giving it a loud ring upon the table, ran out of the room. “Now, gentlemen and ladies! pray, come, time’s hup — carn’t wait — must go” — roars the guard, as the passengers shuffle themselves into their coats, cloaks, and cravats, and Joe “Boots” runs up the passage with the ladder for the lady. “Now, my dear Mrs. Sprat, good-bye. — God bless you, and remember me most kindly to your husband and dear little ones — and pray, write soon,” says an elderly lady, as she hugs and kisses a youngish one at the door, who has been staying with her for a week, during which time they have quarrelled regularly every night. “Have you all your things, dearest? three boxes, five parcels, an umbrella, a parasol, the cage for Tommy’s canary, and the bundle in the red silk handkerchief — then good-bye, my beloved, step up — and now, Mr. Guard, you know where to set her down.” “Good-bye, dearest Mrs. Jackson, all right, thank you,” replies Mrs. Sprat, stepping up the ladder, and adjusting herself in the gammon board opposite the guard, the seat the last comer generally gets.— “But stay! I’ve forgot my reticule — it’s on the drawers in the bedroom — stop, coachman! I say, guard!” “Carn’t wait, ma’am — time’s hup” — and just at this moment a two-horse coach is heard stealing up the street, upon which the coachman calls to the horse-keepers to “stand clear with their cloths, and take care no one pays them twice over,” gives a whistling hiss to his leaders, the double thong to his wheelers, and starts off at a trot, muttering something about, “cuss’d pair-’oss coach, — convict-looking passengers,” observing confidentially to Mr. Jorrocks, as he turned the angle of the street, “that he would rather be hung off a long stage, than die a natural death on a short one,” while the guard drowns the voices of the lady who has left her reticule, and of the gentleman who has got no change for his sovereign, in a hearty puff of:

  Rule Britannia, — Britannia rule the waves.

  Britons, never, never, never, shall be slaves!

  Blithely and merrily, like all coach passengers after feeding, our party rolled steadily along, with occasional gibes at those they met or passed, such as telling waggoners their linch-pins were out; carters’ mates, there were nice pocket-knives lying on the road; making urchins follow the coach for miles by holding up shillings and mock parcels; or simple equestrians dismount in a jiffy on telling them their horses’ shoes were not all on “before.” Towards the decline of the day, Dover heights appeared in view, with the stately castle guarding the Channel, which seen through the clear atmosphere of an autumnal evening, with the French coast conspicuous in the distance, had more the appearance of a wide river than a branch of the sea.

  Footnote 19: This is more of a hunting-field joke than a road one. “Have I all my shoes on?” “They are not all on before.”

  The coachman mended his pace a little, as he bowled along the gentle descents or rounded the base of some lofty hill, and pulling up at Lydden took a glass of soda-water and brandy, while four strapping greys, with highly-polished, richly-plated harness, and hollyhocks at their heads, were put to, to trot the last few miles into Dover. Paying-time being near, the guard began to do the amiable — hoped Mrs. Sprat had ridden comfortable; and the coachman turned to the gentleman whose sovereign was left behind to assure him he would bring his change the next day, and was much comforted by the assurance that he was on his way to Italy for the winter. As the coach approached Charlton Gate, the guard flourished his bugle and again struck up Rule Britannia, which lasted the whole breadth of the market-place, and length of Snargate Street, drawing from Mr. Muddle’s shop the few loiterers who yet remained, and causing Mr. Le Plastrier, the patriotic moth-impaler, to suspend the examination of the bowels of a watch, as they rattled past his window.

  At the door of the “Ship Hotel” the canary-coloured coach of Mr. Wright, the landlord, with four piebald horses, was in waiting for him to take his evening drive, and Mrs. Wright’s pony phaeton, with a neat tiger in a blue frock-coat and leathers, was also stationed behind to convey her a few miles on the London road. Of course the equipages of such important personages could not be expected to move for a common stage-coach, consequently it pulled up a few yards from the door. It is melancholy to think that so much spirit should have gone unrewarded, or in other words, that Mr. Wright should have gone wrong in his affairs. — Mrs. Ramsbottom said she never understood the meaning of the term, “The Crown, and Bill of Rights (Wright’s),” until she went to Rochester. Many people, we doubt not, retain a lively recollection of the “bill of Wright’s of Dover.” But to our travellers.

  “Now, sir! this be Dover, that be the Ship, I be the coachman, and we goes no further,” observed the amphibious-looking coachman, in a pea-jacket and top-boots, to Mr. Jorrocks, who still kept his seat on the box, as if he expected, that because they booked people “through to Paris,” at the coach office in London, that the vehicle crossed the Channel and conveyed them on the other side. At this intimation, Mr. Jorrocks clambered down, and was speedily surrounded by touts and captains of vessels soliciting his custom. “Bonjour, me Lor’,” said a gaunt French sailor in ear-rings, and a blue-and-white jersey shirt, taking off a red nightcap with mock politeness, “you shall be cross.” “What’s that about?” inquires Mr. Jorrocks— “cross! what does the chap mean?” “Ten shillin’, just, me Lor’,” replied the man. “Cross for ten shillings,” muttered Mr. Jorrocks, “vot does the Mouncheer mean? Hope he hasn’t picked my pocket.” “I — you — vill,” said the sailor slowly, using his fingers to enforce his meaning, “take to France,” pointing south, “for ten shillin’ in my bateau, me Lor,” continued the sailor, with a grin of satisfaction as he saw Mr. Jorrocks began to comprehend him. “Ah! I twig — you’ll take me across the water.” said our citizen chuckling at the idea of understanding French and being called a Lord— “for ten shillings — half-sovereign in fact.” “Don’t go with him, sir,” interrupted a Dutch-built English tar; “he’s got nothing but a lousy lugger that will be all to-morrow in getting over, if it ever gets at all; and the Royal George, superb steamer, sails with a King’s Messenger and dispatches for all the foreign courts at half-past ten, and must be across by twelve, whether it can or not.”
“Please take a card for the Brocklebank — quickest steamer out of Dover — wind’s made expressly to suit her, and she can beat the Royal George like winking. Passengers never sick in the most uproarious weather,” cried another tout, running the corner of his card into Mr. Jorrocks’s eye to engage his attention. Then came the captain of the French mail-packet, who was dressed much like a new policeman, with an embroidered collar to his coat, and a broad red band round a forage cap which he raised with great politeness, as he entreated Mr. Jorrocks’s patronage of his high-pressure engine, “vich had beat a balloon, and vod take him for half less than noting.” A crowd collected, in the centre of which stood Mr. Jorrocks perfectly unmoved, with his wig awry and his carpet-bag under his arm. “Gentlemen,” said he, extending his right hand, “you seem to me to be desperately civil — your purliteness appears to know no bounds — but, to be candid with you, I beg to say that whoever will carry me across the herring pond cheapest shall have my custom, so now begin and bid downwards.” “Nine shillings,” said an Englishman directly— “eight” replied a Frenchman— “seven and sixpence”— “seven shillings”— “six and sixpence”— “six shillings”— “five and sixpence”; at last it came down to five shillings, at which there were two bidders, the French captain and the tout of the Royal George, — and Mr. Jorrocks, like a true born Briton, promised his patronage to the latter, at which the Frenchmen shrugged up their shoulders, and burst out a-laughing, one calling him, “my Lor’ Ros-bif,” and the other “Monsieur God-dem,” as they walked off in search of other victims.

  None but the natives of Dover can tell what the weather is, unless the wind comes directly off the sea, and it was not until Mr. Jorrocks proceeded to embark after breakfast the next morning, that he ascertained there was a heavy swell on, so quiet had the heights kept the gambols of Boreas. Three steamers were simmering into action on the London-hotel side of the harbour, in one of which — the Royal George — two britzkas and a barouche were lashed ready for sea, while the custom-house porters were trundling barrows full of luggage under the personal superintendence of a little shock-headed French commissionnaire of Mr. Wright’s in a gold-laced cap, and the other gentry of the same profession from the different inns. As the Royal George lay nearly level with the quay, Mr. Jorrocks stepped on board without troubling himself to risk his shins among the steps of a ladder that was considerately thrust into the place of embarkation; and as soon as he set foot upon deck, of course he was besieged by the usual myriad of land sharks. First came Monsieur the Commissionnaire with his book, out of which he enumerated two portmanteaus and two carpet-bags, for each of which he made a specific charge leaving his own gratuity optional with his employer; then came Mr. Boots to ask for something for showing them the way; after him the porter of the inn for carrying their cloaks and great-coats, all of which Mr. Jorrocks submitted to, most philosophically, but when the interpreter of the deaf and dumb ladder man demanded something for the use of the ladder, his indignation got the better of him and he exclaimed loud enough to be heard by all on deck, “Surely you wouldn’t charge a man for what he has not enjoyed!”

  A voyage is to many people like taking an emetic — they look at the medicine and wish it well over, and look at the sea and wish themselves well over. Everything looked bright and gay at Dover — the cliffs seemed whiter than ever — the sailors had on clean trousers, and the few people that appeared in the streets were dressed in their Sunday best. The cart-horses were seen feeding leisurely on the hills, and there was a placid calmness about everything on shore, which the travellers would fain have had extended to the sea. They came slowly and solemnly upon deck, muffled up in cloaks and coats, some with their passage money in their hands, and took their places apparently with the full expectation of being sick.

  The French packet-boat first gave symptoms of animation, in the shape of a few vigorous puffs from the boiler, which were responded to by the Royal George, whose rope was slipped without the usual tinkle of the bell, and she shot out to sea, closely followed by the Frenchman, who was succeeded by the other English boat. Three or four tremendous long protracted dives, each followed by a majestic rise on the bosom of the waves, denoted the crossing of the bar; and just as the creaking of the cordage, the flapping of the sails, and the nervous quivering of the paddles, as they lost their hold of the water, were in full vigour, the mate crossed the deck with a large white basin in his hand, the sight of which turned the stomachs of half the passengers. Who shall describe the misery that ensued? The groans and moans of the sufferers, increasing every minute, as the vessel heaved and dived, and rolled and creaked, while hand-basins multiplied as half-sick passengers caught the green countenance and fixed eye of some prostrate sufferer and were overcome themselves.

  Mr. Jorrocks, what with his Margate trips, and a most substantial breakfast of beef-steaks and porter, tea, eggs, muffins, prawns, and fried ham, held out as long as anybody — indeed, at one time the odds were that he would not be sick at all; and he kept walking up and down deck like a true British tar. In one of his turns he was observed to make a full stop. — Immediately before the boiler his eye caught a cadaverous-looking countenance that rose between the top of a blue camlet cloak, and the bottom of a green travelling-cap, with a large patent-leather peak; he was certain that he knew it, and, somehow or other, he thought, not favourably. The passenger was in that happy mood just debating whether he should hold out against sickness any longer, or resign himself unreservedly to its horrors, when Mr. Jorrocks’s eye encountered his, and the meeting did not appear to contribute to his happiness. Mr. Jorrocks paused and looked at him steadily for some seconds, during which time his thoughts made a rapid cast over his memory. “Sergeant Bumptious, by gum!” exclaimed he, giving his thigh a hearty slap, as the deeply indented pock-marks on the learned gentleman’s face betrayed his identity. “Sergeant,” said he, going up to him, “I’m werry ‘appy to see ye — may be in the course of your practice at Croydon you’ve heard that there are more times than one to catch a thief.” “Who are you?” inquired the sergeant with a growl, just at which moment the boat gave a roll, and he wound up the inquiry by a donation to the fishes. “Who am I?” replied Mr. Jorrocks, as soon as he was done, “I’ll soon tell ye that — I’m Mr. JORROCKS! Jorrocks wersus Cheatum, in fact — now that you have got your bullying toggery off, I’ll be ‘appy to fight ye either by land or sea.” “Oh-h-h-h!” groaned the sergeant at the mention of the latter word, and thereupon he put his head over the boat and paid his second subscription. Mr. Jorrocks stood eyeing him, and when the sergeant recovered, he observed with apparent mildness and compassion, “Now, my dear sergeant, to show ye that I can return good for evil, allow me to fatch you a nice ‘ot mutton chop!” “Oh-h-h-h-h!” groaned the sergeant, as though he would die. “Or perhaps you’d prefer a cut of boiled beef with yellow fat, and a dab of cabbage?” an alternative which was too powerful for the worthy citizen himself — for, like Sterne with his captive, he had drawn a picture that his own imagination could not sustain — and, in attempting to reach the side of the boat, he cascaded over the sergeant, and they rolled over each other, senseless and helpless upon deck.

  “Mew, mew,” screamed the seagulls;— “creak, creak,” went the cordage;— “flop, flop,” went the sails; round went the white basins, and the steward with the mop; and few passengers would have cared to have gone overboard, when, at the end of three hours’ misery, the captain proclaimed that they were running into still water off Boulogne. This intimation was followed by the collection of the passage money by the mate, and the jingling of a tin box by the steward, under the noses of the party, for perquisites for the crew. Jorrocks and the sergeant lay together like babes in the wood until they were roused by this operation, when, with a parting growl at his companion, Mr. Jorrocks got up; and though he had an idea in his own mind that a man had better live abroad all his life than encounter such misery as he had undergone, for the purpose of returning to England, he recollected his intended w
ork upon France, and began to make his observations upon the town of Boulogne, towards which the vessel was rapidly steaming. “Not half so fine as Margate,” said he; “the houses seem all afraid of the sea, and turn their ends to it instead of fronting it, except yon great white place, which I suppose is the baths”; and, taking his hunting telescope out of his pocket, he stuck out his legs and prepared to make an observation. “How the people are swarming down to see us!” he exclaimed. “I see such a load of petticoats — glad Mrs. J —— ain’t with us; may have some fun here, I guess. Dear me, wot lovely women! wot ankles! beat the English, hollow — would give something to be a single man!” While he made these remarks, the boat ran up the harbour in good style, to the evident gratification of the multitude who lined the pier from end to end, and followed her in her passage. “Ease her! stop her!” at last cried the captain, as she got opposite a low wooden guard-house, midway down the port. A few strokes of the paddles sent her up to the quay, some ropes were run from each end of the guard-house down to the boat, within which space no one was admitted except about a dozen soldiers or custom-house officers — in green coats, white trousers, black sugar-loaf “caps,” and having swords by their sides — and some thick-legged fisherwomen, with long gold ear-rings, to lower the ladder for disembarkation. The idlers, that is to say, all the inhabitants of Boulogne, range themselves outside the ropes on foot, horseback, in carriages, or anyhow, to take the chance of seeing someone they know, to laugh at the melancholy looks of those who have been sick, and to criticise the company, who are turned into the guarded space like a flock of sheep before them.