Conrad Ferdinand Meyer - "Das Leiden eines Knaben"

Laurence Sterne - "A Political Romance"

Various - "Chatterbox, 1905."

Franz Liszt; Letters assembled by La Mara and translated - "Letters of Franz Liszt, Volume 1, From Paris to Rome:"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Gentleman

A >> Alfred Ollivant >> The Gentleman




Wars and tumults and all the tiny irritations and griefs of life, what
were they to that immense-moving flood? And he was one with that
flood. Stealing through the water with cleaving arms, he was assured
of it.


V


Something rose shadowy and gaunt before him. It was the privateer.

The sight tumbled him out of Eternity into Time. His heart began to
clamour, as though it would force its way out of his body.

No longer one with God, seeing all things with His large eyes, and
loving them--he was a little boy, mortally afraid, alone in the vast
and callous night.

In his flurry be began to splash about: then recollected himself, and
trod water quietly.

The moon was deserting him, the sardonic moon he had thought of as a
friend. Her silver rim glimmered behind the Downs and was gone. He
missed her. Cold she was, still she had been company. He thought she
might have stayed--just this one night! He felt aggrieved, and very
much alone. And those stars strewing the night above him were so far,
and had such hard little eyes.

The water grew dull and dark about him, and of a sudden greatly
colder. The flag hung like a clammy halter about his neck. Verdun was
not far, and death very near. But for the cold he would have cried. He
wished he'd never come.

It flashed in upon him to hail the ship, and ask them for a cup of
coffee. The thought amused him and saved the situation. He began to
chuckle.

Squeezing the fear out of his mind, he set himself to the
accomplishment of his task.

The thought of old Piper, calm invincibly, confirmed him in his
purpose.

Yet he couldn't help reminding himself with a snigger, that old Piper
was safe in an arm-chair on land, while he was out there in the water
with the work to do.

Still, now if ever was his time. The moon was gone. In another hour
the dawn would begin to glimmer. Between the two his chance lay.

Treading water a cable's-length away, he observed the ship intently.

She lay upon the water like a dead thing. The great dark hull, seen
against the living night, appeared carcass-like. Her stillness was
almost terrible.

Not a spar creaked, not a match glowed. She was dark as death, and as
silent.

As he watched, a humming noise, rising and falling, came to him across
the water. He held his breath. Then he recognised it, with a gasp of
relief.

Somebody was snoring.

That domestic sound cheered him amazingly.

At least the ship was not a sepulchre. Her crew were neither dead nor
devils. They were human. They snored.

He swam round the ship, stealthy as an otter in the Coquet.

So far as he could see there was not a soul on deck.

Then, as he came under her stern, he noticed for the first time that
another vessel lay alongside.

A thought, swift as a dagger, struck at his heart.

Could it be that the Gentleman had somehow picked up a lugger, and so
won aboard? Was he too late?

Then with a gasp of thankfulness he remembered.

It was the _Kite_, of course.

The tide had set her alongside; and now she lay scraping the side of
the privateer. A handier stepping-stone he could not have asked.




CHAPTER XLI


PIGGY, THE PRIVATEERSMAN


I


In a minute he had clambered aboard the lugger.

The privateer had dropped a hawser over her side as buffer. The boy
was up it in a moment, and on to the deck, his heart beating high.

The deck was empty.

No! a figure was leaning over the side, his back to Kit. No sailor,
obviously. He was wearing a great bearskin, and Kit caught the glimmer
of a bayonet. A sentinel, and not asleep, nor drunk; for he was
humming _Ca Ira_.

_La Coquette_ too then carried soldiers!

Stealthy as a cat, the boy drew away along the deck. Piper, weather-
wise old man, had told him truth. Thin wisps of mists were sweeping
over the sea, veiling the stars.

How God helps His little children who help Him!

Up the shrouds of the foremast. The ratlines seared his feet. A little
wind licked his body. The mist was chill as a winding-sheet.

There was no danger of being seen. He was nearer the stars than the
deck. Between him and it now lay a blanket of mist.

But what was that in the East?

It was the whitening of the dawn.

There was no time to be lost.

He swarmed up the top-gallant mast, unwound the flag, and made it
fast.

How it fluttered!--what a rollicking tow-row!--had ever flag rampaged
so boisterously!

The man below stopped humming. Kit could not see him; so he could not
see the flag.

Down he slid, the mast scraping his knees as he went; but he scarcely
felt the pain. His heart was swelling. The privateer was flying
British colours. She was his. Single-handed he had taken a French
ship. He was half in tears, half laughing. It seemed so dream-like, so
ridiculous.

Down the shrouds, and back to the deck.


II


Not a soul stirred. Forward somewhere a man shouted in his sleep. Aft
the sentinel was whistling now.

Swift as an eel, the boy flashed to the side, and poised for his
plunge.

No! the splash would be heard.

Swiftly along the deck, making for his steppingstone, the lugger.

His work done, his heart brimming, the boy was ripe for mischief as a
happy girl.

As he stole along the deck, his eyes never left the soldier's back.
The fellow was leaning over the bulwark, his trousers tight, and their
contents rounded and tempting. Should he, should he spank him?

A moment the boy struggled with his imp-self, and prevailed.

Nelson! Duty!

He slipped over into the lugger. The tide had shifted her position.
Now she bumped under the stern of the privateer.

The port of the stern-cabin was open, and light poured from it.
Standing on the weather-boarding, Kit peeped in.

A little fat man was sitting at a table, dead asleep, and snoring
stertorously. His arms were on the table, and his head on his arms. He
was quite bald, and very red. His lips pouted, and the under one
thrust up towards his nose. The little round body rose and fell,
bladder-like. His nose was a snout, short and cocked. A more pig-like
little person Kit thought he had never seen.

A great bottle stood on the table before him, and beside it a scratch-
wig and guttering candle. On the table a pistol pinned down a chart,
and under the sleeper's head was a sheet of paper and a pen.

Piggy had fallen asleep writing.

Flung into a corner was a cocked hat. Beside it lay a much-mounted
sword, and on a chair a blue frock-coat, with tawdry epaulettes.

The boy lifted his eyes. An obscene print decorated the bulk-head. It
smote him in the face like a handful of filth. He snatched his eyes
away. They fell upon a tarpaulin-bag hung on the door. On the bag was
an eagle, beneath it a large

N.

That settled it.

The boy meant to have that bag.


III


He was through the port in a twinkling.

The man was sleeping like the dead, his head askew on his hands, and
lips compressed in pouting content. For the time being the body had
mastered invincibly any soul there might be within. The man was so
much slow-heaving earth.

The naked boy leaned over the sleeper. The pen had fallen from Piggy's
hand, and left a little scrawl across the letter he had been writing.

The character was flourishing, self-complacent, and, above all, easy
to read.

It was written in French, and ran, translated,

_Sire,

I have to inform your Majesty that Sunday dawn I was lying off Seaford
Head, waiting to escort the lugger_ Kite, _according to your
Majesty's instructions. As I was on my knees inviting the good God to
shower blessings on the sacred head of you, His so faithful servant, a
sail was seen.

I bore up for her immediately. She was an English ship of the line.

I engaged her at once, fearless of the odds, knowing that the good God
is always on your Majesty's side. Desperate valour was displayed by
your Majesty's seamen. We were out-numbered four to one.

She carried 120 guns in three tiers and was alive with men--all sent
by me to answer before the Great Judge for being in arms against your
anointed Majesty. May He deal with them as they deserve!

The Englishman was towing the lugger _Kite_. Knowing the vital
importance of the mission on which she was engaged, I cut her out from
under the enemy's stern, leading the boat attack myself, under a
terrific fire from her stern-galleries.

The _Kite_ had two dead men aboard, one of them, helas! the brave
Monsieur de Diamond, so devoted to your Majesty's interests. He was
sitting upon the despatch-bag, which thus had escaped the vigilance of
his murderers.

My lord the General was not on board. I am lying off Beachy Head
waiting for him. Should he not appear by tomorrow noon, I shall not
dare to wait longer, but shall make all sail with the despatches I
have captured.

I permit myself to congratulate your Majesty upon my victory, and sign
myself with effusion,

Your Majesty's humble and adoring servant,

EGALITE LAGLOIRE.

P.S.--I have prepared, and now send, the chart for which your Majesty
asked. As your Majesty's eye will see at a glance all is in order. We
do but wait the last word from my lord the General. The red crosses
mark the stations...._

Here the pen had dropped from the writer's hand.


IV


The boy turned with beating heart: he had struck gold indeed.

Unshipping the despatch bag, he slung it about his shoulders.

Lifting the pistol, he snatched the chart, and thrust it under the
flap of the locked bag.

The action set the candle swaling. It shot out a snake-like flame that
licked the bald pate of the sleeping privateersman.

He awoke with a start and a _sacre_, clapping his hand to his
singed head.

Then through drink-and-sleep-blurred eyes, he saw the naked figure by
the door.

He half rose, little fat man, so pleased.

"_Mon ange!_" he cried, and fluttered both arms, much as Gwen's
young canaries fluttered their wings when seeking food from their
mother.

In a flash the boy had turned the key in the lock behind him, and
flung it through the open port.

Then he swung the despatch-bag.

Many a pillow-fight with Gwen up and down the twisting passages of
their attic nursery had made him expert. Crash it came down on Piggy's
bald skull.

"One from your _ange_!" cried the lad, and followed up with a
left-hander between the eyes.

Down crashed the amorous gentleman, spluttering.

A foot, planted fair on his mouth, stifled his cry.

Before he could recover, the boy was through the port, on to the
lugger, and had slipped into the sea, quiet as a water-rat.

Behind him a dreadful scream woke the ship.

"_Les depeches! Les depeches!_"




CHAPTER XLII


THE MAN IN THE BOAT


I


The ship awoke suddenly from her swoon.

An appalling clamour boiled up from the still waters.

Bugle-calls split the air; drums rolled furiously; a carronade went
off with a shattering roar; there was a rush of feet and tumult of
voices. Above the confusion could be heard Piggy thumping at the door
and squealing,

"_Les depeches! Les depeches!_"

Kit, sliding through the water, was thankful for the flash of insight
that had made him lock the door, and throw away the key. That action
meant minutes gained; these minutes might mean life.

The tide was with him now. But for that, and this merciful mist, his
chances would be _nil_.

His ears behind him, he swam like a hunted otter.

Aboard the privateer things were moving fast. The confusion abated;
order began to reign; with it the danger grew. Somebody was at work
with an axe on the door. It came down with a crash. There was a shrill
command and the scamper of feet.

Piggy was on deck.

"_Feu, imbecile! par la! dans le brouillard!_"

A bullet plopped into the water wide on the boy's right.

"_Au bateau!_"

Again that scamper of feet: then the rattle of blocks and creak of
pulleys. Besides all was swiftness, and fierce silence; and that
silence terrified the lad far more than the preceding tumult.

"_Depechez vous donc, gredins!_"

They were lowering a boat; and he was getting done.

The despatch-bag was heavy between his shoulders. His hold upon
himself was relaxing: dissolution was setting in. The firm mind, which
at all times and in all places means salvation, was dissipating. He
tried not to think. All there was of him he needed for his swimming.
Thought was waste; so was fear. And swim he did, and swim, through
endless water, with sickening brain and failing arms.

Behind him he heard a splash, as the privateer's boat took the sea.

They'd be coming soon now. He didn't mind much: he was too tired. And
they couldn't hurt him: he was too far away.

He heard the splash of oars, and thumping rowlocks.

Here they came--straight towards him!

Then with a start he recollected: the privateer's boat would be
pursuing; this was coming to meet him.

Had he been swimming round and round like a drowning dog?

No. Behind him he could hear shouts and orders on the privateer as the
crew jumped into the boat.

This must be some other craft.

It was coming from the land, and a landsman was rowing it. He could
tell by the uneven splash of the oars, the slish along the surface as
a crab was caught, and the muffled curse as the man recovered himself.

Could it be the Parson come to his assistance?

The question answered itself.

The bows of a boat thrust on him through the mist. He saw a man's
back, giving to his stroke.

"Hi!" he gasped, the boat's nose hard on top of him.

The rower glanced round.

There was no mistaking that falcon-face.

It was the Gentleman.


II


"Who's there?" peering suspiciously.

"Boy Hoad, powder-monkey o the _Dreadnought_."

"Is that the _Dreadnought_?" sharply.

"_Dreadnought_, forty-four. Oi'm drownin, sir. Take us in."

His hand was on the boat's gunwale.

"What the deuce you doing here?"

"Desartin, sir. They was for floggin me at sun-up."

"What for?"

"For--for fun."

"_For what_?"

"For funk, sir," panted the boy, recovering. "Oi don't care for being
shotted. So when the guns begins to bang, Oi goos to bed."

The Gentleman threw back his head and ran off into laughter.

"You're the right sort, Mr. Toad. Come on board by all means. But for
you and your likes the world'd be a dull place."

Kit clambered in.

"What's that bag?" asked the Gentleman, swift as a sword.

"Duds," replied the boy as swift.

The Gentleman, sitting still as death, stared. It was an appalling
moment. The boy could not face those eyes. He looked behind him. As he
did so, the mist above drifted away, and the Union Jack at the foretop
of the privateer floated out.

"There's her colours!" he panted.

"By Jove, you're right," cried the Gentleman, and began to row the
boat clumsily about. "Stop that hole in the bottom with your foot,
will you?"

The boat was water-logged and filling fast. The water was already over
the Gentleman's spurs.

Down on his knees the boy baled for his life.

Behind him he heard a word of command: then the splash of oars, and
the regular thump of rowlocks. The privateer's boat was away--a ten-
oared galley from the sound of her, and they were driving her.

"Row, sir, row!" urged the boy. "They're after us!"

The Gentleman flung back into his oars.

Kit could not but admire him. He was rowing, as he believed, against
death. The boat was sodden; he could not row; and the pursuers were
coming up hand over hand. Yet his eyes danced, as he gasped,

"This is life."

The boy was looking behind him. He could not see the pursuing boat,
but he could hear the sizzle of foam under her keel as she slipped
through the water, and the rhythmical sweep of oars.

There was a terrible beauty about it--this swooping of Death on them
out of the fog. He could hear the wings he could not see. She was
close now, the Angel of the Swarthy Pinions.

On the thwart lay a pistol. He snatched it.

"Good boy!" panted the Gentleman.

Kit glanced forward.

He could see the loom of the land.

"There's the shore, sir!" he cried.

"And here are they!" gasped the other. "Pretty thing, by Jove!"

A boat's bows shot up behind them. A figure was standing in the stern.

"_Les voila_!" screamed a voice.

The Gentleman threw up his oars.

"French!"

Kit clapped the pistol to his head.

"Row!" he screamed. "Row!"

The other tumbled back into his oars. Up sprang his foot. The pistol
was kicked out of the boy's hand, and the Gentleman was on him.

"O, you are a villain, Little Chap!" chuckled a voice in the lad's
ear.

For a moment they hugged, the boat rocking beneath them.

"Can you swim?" came the voice at his ear.

"Yes," gurgled the lad, and as he felt the boat going sucked in a
breath.

"Then shift for yourself. I can't."

As the waters closed about them the arms of the Gentleman loosed their
hold.




CHAPTER XLIII


A BLACK BORDERER TO THE RESCUE


I


A boy was wading shoreward dizzily. As he surged through the water,
his body made long rippling waves. He watched them with dull
fascination, pointing.

Then he began to whimper peevishly. He was tired, he was cold. The
shore waved up and down before his eyes. He knew he couldn't do it.

From behind him a yell penetrated his dying mind.

It stopped him dead.

He was a little child, nightmare-bound.

Waving to and fro, the water to his knees, he stretched both arms
shoreward.

"Mother!" he wailed.

A shout answered him.

Some one was crashing down the shingle, racing across the sand, and
plunging through the water towards him.

The boy began to titter.

"Come on, Kit! come on!" came a rousing voice. "Don't look behind you!
That's the style! Come on!"

What was this black splashing figure, sword in hand? Was it the Angel
of Death in full regimentals? Surely he recognised the face beneath
the shako?

"You aren't mother," the boy giggled, swaying.

A strong arm was round him; a body, firm and full of life, was pressed
against his dying one; a voice, quickening as the Spring, was in his
ear.

"Splendid, Kit! Well done indeed! Lean on me. Lots o time."

"Have the soldiers come?" sobbed the boy, struggling forward.

"One has," came the sturdy voice--"a Black Borderer."

They waded through the shallows, the ripples breaking prettily about
them.

Behind them a fierce voice sang out an order.

The galley, which had brought up with a bump against the submerged
longboat, had hoisted the Gentleman on board, and was swooping in
pursuit.

The boy heard the beat of the oars, and sank on his knees at the edge
of the sea.

"I can't, sir. Take the bag. O go on!"

Two strong arms clutched him, and he was hoisted up.

All things were swimming away from him.

The last thing he knew was that he was in somebody's arms, and the
somebody was running.


II


The boat swept shoreward.

A man with a musket, standing in the bows, was about to fire at the
fugitives.

A sharp voice stayed him.

"_Ne tirez point! Nous les prendrons vivants. Ce n'est qu'un seul
homme et le gosse._"

A bugle from the shingle-bank retorted defiantly.

"_Halte!_"

The boat stopped short.

The crew looked over their shoulders.

_"Les soldats!"_

Upon the ridge a shako bobbed up.

A figure in uniform rose and ran at it

"Keep your eads down there all along the line!" it shouted. "Wait till
I give the word, Royal Stand-backs."

The Gentleman sprang up in the boat.

_"Ramez toujours, mes enfants!_" he cried. "_C'est une
ruse!_"

The men hung on their oars.

"_Laches!_" cried the Gentleman, smote the man on the foremost
thwart a buffet, and leaping overboard floundered through the water.

The man in the bows fired.

There was no reply from the shingle-bank.

The men of the galley took courage. The boat swished through the
shallows, and bumped ashore.

Out tumbled her crew, and stormed across the sand at the heels of the
Gentleman.

The Parson was staggering up the shingle-bank, the boy in his arms.

At the top he paused, heaving like an earthquake, and looked back on
his scampering pursuers.

"Yes, my beauties," he panted. "You just won't do it."

Knapp, keen as a terrier, bobbed up at his side.

"Shall I charge em, sir?" his little brown eyes bursting with desire--
"me and the boy. Down the ill and into em plippety-plumpety-plop! O
for God's sake, sir!" whimpering, dancing. "Ave mercy as you ope for
it. Let me ave me smack if it's only for the glory of the old
rigiment."

"Certainly not," said the Parson sternly. "This is war, not
tomfoolery."

The little man collapsed sullenly.

"_From the right--retire by companies--on your sup-ports!_"
shouted the Parson in measured regimental voice.

From his manner he might have been addressing a Brigade and not merely
Blob, disguised in an ancient shako, lying on his stomach, and armed
with a hay-rake.


III


He plunged down the bank.

As he reached the greensward a warning shout from the cottage reached
him.

"Ha! what's this?" joggled the Parson sharply. "Flank attack! who the
pest? Oh, Gap Gang--I forgot."

A stream of fierce dark figures with running legs poured down the Wish
and across the greensward at him.

"Hold tight round my neck, Kit!" he panted, taut to meet the new
attack. "I want my sword-arm free. What! the boy's fainted!" He gave
the limp body a hoist on his shoulder. "Now, Knapp! Let's see these
guts o yours!"

Knapp shot by him, his arms working like piston-rods.

"Come on, Blob, me boy. Slaughder for somebody!" He pranced into
action, throwing his legs like a hackney trotter. "Pray, duckie
darlins, pray!" he called. "I'm a-comin! I'm a-comin! I'm a-comin!"

The life was bursting out of him. It made him laughing-mad. He was
lusty as a young lion.

"Here they come!" muttered the Parson, labouring behind.

And come they did at a hound-slink, bunched together, and babbling. It
was clear they were uncertain of each other and of success. Sin, the
mighty Disintegrator, was at work upon their spirits. A more half-
hearted crew of blackguards never attempted murder. They needed Black
Diamond. He, and he alone, might have held them and swung them, as a
fine horseman holds and swings a refuser at a fence.

And what dark faces! what dreadful eyes! what voices popping up like
foul bubbles from a sewage pond!

_"Them three all?"

"Enough too, ain't it?"

"I'm for gain back. Look at the face on that buster with the sword!"

"H'into em!"_ came a shrill treble from the rear. _"Cheerily,
chaps, cheerily!"_

A crack from the cottage, the crack of doom.

The leading ruffian, a lumbering great horse-faced fellow, clapped his
hand to his side.

_"What's that?"_ he snapped.

_"That's death!"_ came a solemn voice from across the green.

The man bowed his head as though in acknowledgement.

_"I got it,"_ he said, and fell like a falling tower.

His fellows wavered. This sudden arrow from the quiver of the Great
Bowman, so unexpected expected, pierced the hearts of all.

Into them, toppling, bowled Knapp like a cannon-ball.

"_Ow,_ dear! _Ow's_ that? _Ow,_ my pore face!"

The chirpy Cockney voice popped out from the thick of them like a cork
from a bottle, and a smack from a sledge-hammer fist punctuated each
ow.

Blob, at a lurching gallop, plunged into the opening his leader had
made, flashing his knife with a gurgling "Ho! ho!"

Last came the Parson with terrific sword.

It was all over before it had begun: a scuffle, a squeak, the flicker
and tinkle of steel; and the cloud burst and scattered into its
component drops.

The smugglers scampered away.

The Parson was wiping the point of his sword on a man.

"Dirty skunks!" he panted. "Had their bellyful before I'd begun."

Blob was laughing to himself.

"Oi loike killin," he gurgled. "It goos in so plop-loike."

A figure, tall and black as a winter tree, shot up against the light
on the shingle-bank, and hung a second there.

The Parson waved.

"Too late, Monsieur le Poseur," he called mockingly. "Better luck next
time."

The little party trotted across to the cottage, and entered.

Piper, awaiting them, slammed the door, and made all fast.

"Near thing, sir," chuckled the old man.

"Would have been but for that shot of yours," said the Parson, laying
his burthen on the bed.

He leaned up against the wall, and panted, his good red face dripping.

"First round to England--eh?" he grinned.




BOOK III

FORT FLINT




I

BESIEGED




CHAPTER XLIV


THE ENGLISHMAN

All was dark within the kitchen of the cottage.

Spears of white light piercing the gloom told of day without.

The cottage was fast as a fortress. Stout planks were nailed across
either door. Heavy shutters darkened the windows. Through a loop-hole
a stream of light poured in on Nelson's old foretop-man.

Horn spectacles hung on his nose. His eyes were down, the silver head
erect and drawn back. At arm's length beneath him he held a great Book
in a splash of light.

He was reading aloud, spelling out the words, as does a child, and
following with huge finger.

Outside a musket cracked; a bullet wanged against the wall; there was
the crisp trickle of dislodged mortar.

Still muttering, the old man closed his Book, and removed his
spectacles. Then he slewed his chair round to the loop-hole, and felt
for his musket.

The light poured in upon the moon-washed head, the noble brow, and
calm eyes peering forth.

Deliberately the old man moved his head to and fro, searching the
offender. Then the musket went to his shoulder, cheek hugged stock,
the face grew set. The mystic had turned man of action.

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