So he took his gold-topped cane in hand, donned his new cloth hat and limped down the village street in the strong sunshine towards the cottage. He was impressed, despite himself, to find that the soldiers who thronged the little street stood aside to make way for him and that many saluted him.
If William Blake was surprised to see him he didn’t show it. He and Catherine invited him into the cottage and said how glad they were that the prints were agreeable, and William showed him the painting he was working on. It had been commissioned by a local magistrate called Mr Poynz and should have been finished long since. And Hayley said he’d heard of the gentleman and believed him to be a man of honour and one who would understand that a work of art should not be rushed.
‘I myself work slowly nowadays,’ he confessed. ‘The new biography progresses but at its own pace. I am burdened by all this needless change. I was telling Paulina so, only the other morning. She was asking after you, by the way. She wished to know how your epic was progressing. I told her what I could, of course, but ’twould come better from you. I wonder you don’t come visiting with me again. Why don’t you? She would be delighted to see you.’
So, although Blake hadn’t expected it, the Lavant rides were resumed and enjoyed and Miss Poole was delighted to see him. And on their return journey he and Mr Hayley spoke to one another like old companions and agreed that it was a pleasure to be out in the countryside and away from all the noise and nonsense of those dratted soldiers.
Village opinion about their enforced occupation swung from approval to annoyance all through the summer, following the tides. When the high tide made invasion more likely, and rumours of troop movements on the other side of the Channel were being reported daily and the farmers were rounding up their livestock and the millers loading up their corn ready for evacuation, the soldiers were welcomed and made much of, and particularly when they’d been down on the beach fighting mock battles up to their waists in sea water or when they’d ridden down to the empty sands to practise yet another dramatic charge. But once the immediate danger had passed, everybody relaxed and the 1st Royal Dragoons were seen warts and all. And none of them more clearly or with more disparagement than Private Scolfield.
He was a disagreeable man, tall and thin with a dark, sour, discontented face, renowned as an unrelenting fighter but given to mockery and practical jokes when he was sober, and belligerent and abusive when he was drunk. The story was that he’d once been a sergeant and had been demoted on account of being drunk and disorderly, and that was why he was so sour and hard-done-by and so quick to take umbrage. He’d quarrelled with old Reuben Jones on his very first evening in the inn.
Reuben had come strolling in to the bar with two of his workmates and they were so deep in conversation that at first he didn’t notice that there was a trooper sitting in his seat in the chimney corner, with his long blue-clad legs sprawled in front of the fire taking all the heat. It didn’t worry him unduly. Strangers had been known to occupy that seat from time to time but they always vacated it when the position was explained to them. He bought his pint of porter and, tankard in hand, ambled across to put the soldier right.
‘Evenin’ to ’ee,’ he said and tried a gentle joke. ‘Oi see you’re a-keepin’ moi seat warm for me.’
The soldier sneered. ‘Your seat?’ he said. ‘Since when has it been the practice for an old man to own a seat in a public inn?’
Reuben was taken aback by such rudeness but he answered kindly. ‘Oi don’t know nothin’ about practices,’ he said, ‘but that there’s moi seat. Has been ever since Oi first sat in it. An’ ’twas my father’s afore me, an’ his father’s afore him. Toime immemorial, so to speak. You ask anyone.’ He looked round at his companions who nodded to show support.
‘Well, now you’ve lost it, aintcher,’ Private Scolfield said. ‘For I’m sittin’ in it this evenin’ and it’s mine by virtue of I’m sittin’ in it.’
‘Oi don’t think you quite got moi drift, young man,’ Reuben said patiently. ‘You’re in moi seat. Tha’s allus been moi seat an’ you got no roight to sit in it.’
‘Now look ’ee here old man,’ Private Scolfield said. ‘I’ll tell you what. You’re beginning to get on my wick. Be off with you and find somewhere else for your scraggy ol’ bones. You’ll not have me out of this chair and there’s an end of it. Unless you want to fight me for it.’
At which point half a dozen of his comrades wandered out of the shadows and stood in a menacing circle around them, tall and muscular, their coats blood red in the candlelight. Reuben was caught between fury at being treated so rudely and fear of what they might do to him if he protested. Eventually fear won and he retreated to the settles on the other side of the room, growling and making alarming faces. ‘Oi’d ha’ fought him fair an’ square if it hadn’t ha’ been for all them others,’ he told his friends, ‘but Oi’ll have him tomorrow, you see if Oi don’t.’
The next evening he was the first man in the inn and had settled into his chair with his tankard on the table in front of him before the soldiers came strolling in.
‘Hop it, old man,’ Private Scolfield said. ‘You’re in my chair.’
Reuben chewed his teeth for a few minutes while he savoured what he was going to say. ‘Seems to me,’ he said, winking at his neighbours to signal that what was to come would be worth their attention, ‘seems to me Oi heard somethin’ about chairs in this here bar onny yes’day evenin’. Yes, Oi’m sure ’twas yes’day evenin’. ‘Parently, if you’re a-sittin’ in a chair, then ’tis yours on account of you’re a-sittin’ in it. That was the gist of it. If you’re a sittin’ in it, ’tis yours. Or was Oi mistook?’
He got a round of applause and tankards were raised in his direction from every corner. ‘Well said, Reuben!’ his friends called. ‘Tha’s the size of it roight ‘nough!’ ‘He’s a sittin’ in it, so ’tis his. You can’t argue with that.’
Private Scolfield’s face twisted with anger. ‘You’re a stupid old man,’ he said, ‘an’ a fool to set yourself up against a member of the 1st Royal Dragoons. It won’t do you no good. As you’ll find out.’ Then he kicked out of the bar.
‘Moi stars!’ Hiram Boniface said. ‘You’ve riled him now, Reuben. He won’t forget that in a hurry.’
‘No more will Oi, Hiram,’ Reuben said. ‘No more will Oi. Ho no! He needn’t think he can go a-takin’ moi chair an’ get away with it. Saucy beggar!’
From then on the battle was fought on every single evening. Whichever of the two was first to arrive took possession of the chair and sat in it, smirking, until Mr Grinder called closing time. Even when it was too warm for a fire and the chimney corner grew dark as the evening progressed, the coveted position was still occupied. At first Mr Grinder thought it was a bit of a joke and decided to ignore it, then he grew worried in case it led to fisticuffs and wondered whether he ought to remove the chair and have done with it, then he realised that it was good for trade, for it brought in more troopers as witnesses, and many more locals to cheer their hero on.
‘Although what good it’ll do in the long run,’ he said to his wife as they closed the bar after one particularly lively evening, ‘I cannot imagine.’
‘They’re like cocks on a dunghill,’ Mrs Grinder said. ‘They needs a good slapping, the pair of em. I’m sick an’ tired a’ their silly nonsense. You ask me, we could do with a rest from it.’
At the beginning of August she got her wish. The 1st Royal Dragoons were sent off to the downs for lengthy manoeuvres and the village sank back into its usual plodding pace for a few days. Betsy made it her business to tell Miss Pearce as soon as she heard the news and to let her know how very pleased she was to see the back of them. ‘I’ve had a hard time persuadin’ ’em I don’t have followers an’ I don’t talk to no one.’ And Miss Pearce said, rather ambiguously, that she was glad to hear it. Nan and Susie put away their caps with the cherry red ribbons and went back to wearing serviceable white, the pioneers began to brag of their exploits, t
here being no opposition, Reuben left his protected seat and hobbled about The Fox, Mr Hayley told his dear friend Mr Blake that he was very much relieved.
‘’Twill be an interlude, no more,’ he confided as they rode to Lavant. ‘They will return, I fear, and as noisy as ever, I have no doubt. We must make the most of such peace as offers.’
Noise and difficulty returned the very next Friday and in a way that nobody could have predicted.
It was a sultry day, the sea oily smooth, the air hot, still and enervating, and a slight haze turning the horizon to a smudge of mauve. Even the short walk from Miss Pearce’s house to her mother’s cottage left Betsy feeling hot and sweaty. She was glad to go out into the garden and wash her sticky hands at the pump.
‘Tha’s better,’ she said to her mother as she returned to the living room refreshed and tidied. ‘Bit a’ cold water works wonders. Tha’s too hot to breathe outside.’
‘Tha’s too hot for anything,’ her mother agreed. ‘I just wants to sit in the shade an’ do nothing’.’
But not too hot for shouting apparently, for at that moment the quiet was suddenly broken by the noise of somebody roaring and swearing. The two women forgot the heat and ran out at once to see what was happening.
The dusty square in front of The Fox was full of running figures, Mr Grinder in his blue apron, with his wife close behind him, her skirts swinging as she ran, Mr Hosier with a tankard still in his hand, grinning cheerfully, Reuben Jones, peering and grimacing, with his right arm in a sling and his hat on sideways, Mr Cosens massive and disapproving, Mrs Taylor hobbling down the road as fast as she could on her bandy legs and agog for excitement, and Johnnie running light-foot ahead of them all, his fair hair haloed by sunshine. And in the excitement and muddle of all that movement and sudden excitement there were two figures struggling and shouting: Private Scolfield, which was no surprise to anybody, and their nice quiet poet, Mr Blake, in his shirtsleeves and printer’s apron, looking very dishevelled and red in the face. Their shouts rose into the general hubbub.
‘I don’t allow it,’ Blake’s voice yelled. ‘You are not welcome…’
The trooper was swinging punches. ‘… I’ve the right to go where I please, damn you,’ he roared.
‘You do not, sir. You…’
‘…can’t tell me what to do. Damn you for a knave. I’m a soldier of the line.’
‘You’re a slave, sir, like all working men. A slave and you’d be…’
Then although he was a head and shoulders shorter than the soldier, Blake suddenly grabbed him by the arms, twisted them behind his back and held them there. Scolfield wriggled and heaved and laid his tongue to every oath he knew but he was caught and held and now Blake was pushing him forward, yelling at him to ‘Move damn you!’ The trooper yelled back, threatening to punch Mr Blake’s damned eyes out or push his damned teeth down his stinking throat, and struggling to wrench his arms free or to land a backward kick on his opponent’s legs but he had to walk whether he would or no. It was wonderfully entertaining. Better than a dog fight.
‘Well, here’s a thing,’ Mrs Haynes said as she ran towards them. ‘What’s brought this about?’
The fighters had reached the entrance to the stables and were surrounded by onlookers, who swirled about them, some avoiding blows, some ready to intervene if need be, more arriving by the second. Having dragged his adversary to the doors of his billet, Blake relaxed his hold on the trooper’s arms and stood back to recover his breath. It was a mistake, for Scolfield immediately took up a stance like a prize-fighter, clenched fists at the ready, and began to swing punches again, daring him to ‘fight like a man, damme.’
There were several seconds of confusion, as Reuben fled into the safety of the inn, the crowd pressed closer and Mr Grinder, Mr Hosier and Mr Cosens waded into the fray to restore order, grabbing at the trooper’s flying fists and the tails of his red coat and any other part of his uniform that offered them purchase. Then Private Cock came sloping out of the inn to join in and Johnnie took action to restrain him, yelling at him that his comrade was drunk and he’d do well to keep out of it, and the scene was a hot blur of flailing arms and kicking boots. And at last it was all over and the two soldiers went grumbling off to the stables, swearing to be revenged, and Blake, having thanked Mr Grinder and Mr Hosier and Mr Cosens, ‘’Twas good of ’ee sirs,’ walked back to his cottage, combing his tousled hair with his fingers.
‘Well, who’d ha’ thought it,’ Mrs Taylor said. ‘Fancy our noice engraver feller goin’ on loike that.’
‘’Tis the heat,’ Mrs Haynes said. ‘Dog days, you see.’
Betsy was still gazing at her retreating poet, surprised to have seen him show such physical strength. ‘An’ I allus thought he was such a gentle man,’ she said to Johnnie, who’d come over to stand beside her.
‘’Tis mortal hot,’ Johnnie said. ‘Let’s take a stroll on the beach. ’Twould be cooler there.’
She smiled at him in the old affectionate way. ‘’Aven’t you got work to do?’
‘’Tis all done for the day,’ he told her happily. ‘Mr Hosier said ’twas too hot an’ we’d finish up this evening. Tha’s why we come down. To get a bit a’ breeze.’
‘Good job you did, or that soldier ’ud be fighting still.’
‘So shall we?’
It was too much of a temptation and there was no Miss Pearce to rebuke her and her mother said she didn’t mind, so she agreed.
They walked for nearly a mile along the empty sands towards Middleton and took off their shoes and stockings so that they could cool their feet by paddling in the sea and tried to catch the little brown shrimps in the rock pools as if they were children out to play.
‘I don’t know what ol’ Miss Pearce would say if she could see me,’ Betsy said as they walked back hand in hand.
‘Just as well she aren’t here, then,’ Johnnie said, wondering if he could kiss her. ‘I do love you, Betsy.’
Out there in the clear light with the sea lapping their feet and the sun warming their faces, love began to stir in her again, gently and tenderly, like a leaf uncurling. I’ve kept away from him for so long, she thought, and that aren’t right nor kind. She put a sandy hand on his chest, partly because she needed to touch him and partly to beg him not to rush her. ‘But not yet Johnnie. Not yet.’
‘I can’t wait for ever,’ he said. ‘I done enough a’ that before.’
‘I know,’ she said and looked so woebegone he kissed her anyway, permitted or not. And was kissed back, so sweetly it made him feel weak.
‘Shall we walk again next week?’ he hoped, as he left her at her mother’s gate.
‘I don’t s’ppose there’ll be any more fights for us to watch,’ she said, ‘so we might as well.’ She looked so like her old self, he had to kiss her again. What a blessing that fight was, he thought. She’d never have walked out with me if it hadn’t been for all that excitement. Two men slogging it out, toe to toe, do clear the old air.
But he was wrong. Down in the stables of The Fox Inn, the air was curdling into a most unhealthy plot.
Chapter Sixteen
There was no sign of the two troopers in The Fox that Friday evening, which was quite a disappointment to some of the regulars who’d been looking forward to a spot of happy mockery and the chance to feel superior for once.
‘Gone to the George and Dragon, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Mr Grinder said. ‘An’ good riddance. We had quite enough of them this afternoon. What’ll it be, Mr Haynes?’
Reuben Jones was triumphant, grinning and nodding as the story of the fight was told and retold. ‘We seen ’em off, that’s what we done,’ he said. ‘See ’em roight off.’
His neighbours turned to mock him. ‘We?’ they said. ‘Who’s this ‘we’? Didn’t see you doin’ much. You was off the first sign a’ trouble.’
‘Tha’s on account of Oi injured moi hand,’ Reuben explained, waving his sling at them. It was extremely dirty, having been trailed in the pigsty al
l afternoon. ‘You can’t aspect me to foight with onny the one hand.’
That provoked a hoot of laughter and there was much clowning and mock fighting – all one-handed naturally. After such an exciting day it was a cheerful evening, and the good humour continued as Saturday and Sunday passed without sign or sound of their two troublemakers. It was almost as if they were keeping out of the way, although Will Smith said he’d seen them in the tack room early on Sunday morning, talking to one another, ‘all very serious.’ ‘You ask me,’ he said, ‘they’re up to somethin’.’
‘Well, just so long as it don’t lead to fisticuffs, they may do as they please,’ Mr Grinder said. ‘That’s my opinion of it. Talk don’t break skulls.’
On Monday morning, the two soldiers saddled up and galloped out of the village towards Chichester. They rode so fast they kicked up a dust and their faces were hard and determined as if they were off to battle. They were gone all day and when they returned for their supper they looked so smug there was no doubt that the ostler had been right. They had been up to something.
There was much speculation among Mr Grinder’s regulars as to what it might be and they didn’t have to wait long to find out. On Tuesday morning Blake went to Lavant with Mr Hayley to take breakfast with Miss Poole and bask in the warmth of her approval and the strong sunshine that flooded her elegant room. He returned home to find an official letter waiting for him, signed and sealed and horribly alarming. Within minutes of reading it he was in The Fox and talking to Mr Grinder, ashen-faced but in tight control of himself although emanations of hellfire and torment swirled in his brain and the letter trembled in his hand.
‘I am sent for to attend a solicitor in Chichester,’ he said. ‘Private Scolfield has sworn a deposition against me before a Justice of the Peace to accuse me of sedition.’
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