The Gentleman

A >> Alfred Ollivant >> The Gentleman

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True, for the broken heart there is no such cure as action or the hope
of it.

As they emerged into the twilight of the kitchen a voice, pure as a
rivulet's, poured down in song upon them from above.

From outside came a gust of laughter, and then a roaring chorus.

"By the Lord!" thundered the Parson. "It's The Doxie's Daughter."

"And the Gap Gang singing choir!" said Piper grimly. "Likely it'll
be the only hymn they knaw."

"One moment, Master Blob!" muttered the Parson between clenched
teeth. "I'll swab that boy's soul clean if I have to do it with a
scrubbing-brush.... Now, Knapp, ready yourself, while I write a note
to the Commandant."

Knapp tore off his coat, and began to fight an exhibition battle with
a ghost in the corner.

"Will ye fight the lot then, Jack?" chuckled old Piper.

"Ay, and wop em, too!" cried the little man, dodging, ducking. "Ave
a slap at em first, and then go through--that's my idee."

"It's not mine, though!" roared the Parson, catching him a rousing kick.
"Get on with your undressing, d your eyes!"

He finished his note and folded it.

"And now for the sweet little cherub that sits up aloft."

III

He ran nimbly up the ladder, Kit at his heels.

The chorister had ceased his song.

Through the half-stuffed dormer, light streamed in on the white-washed
wall, the cobwebs, rafters, and Polly in the corner, shining demure.

"Now where the dooce has that boy got?" muttered the Parson, looking
round.

Kit pointed.

In the darkest corner, under the slope of the roof, stood an
apple-barrel. Out of it two frog-like legs thrust and kicked with
the action of one swimming. A protuberance crowned the rim of the
barrel. Body, head, and arms were lost.

The Parson whipped up Polly.

"One for yourself!" he roared, prodding the boy's bad eminence,
"and one for The Doxie's Daughter!"

"Hoi! that's Blo-ub!" yelled a muffled voice. Two hands shot out and
plastered themselves over the stimulated part. There was a wriggle.
Then Blob stood before them, touzled, pink, his ears wide, an apple
tight between his teeth.

"D'you call that keeping a look-out?" thundered the Parson.

"Oi wur lookin out," said Blob, dogged and sullen.

"Then you keep your eyes where few of us do."

"Oi thart oi yerd a Frenchie in the bar'l," said Blob in the slow and
undulating voice of Sussex. "Oi went fur to fetch un out, when a
tarrabul great oarse-fly settled on ma butt-end and stung her."

"It was no horse-fly," replied the Parson. "It was my dear lady.
Now, don't bother to think of any more lies, my lad, but just take
that lantern from the wall, and go below. We'll join you in a minute."

IV

The Parson pulled aside the hanging mattress, and peeped seaward.

"Come here, boy. I want to show you the lie of the land. D'you see
that chap in blue knickers in the shade of the sycamores?--he's the
Gap Gang sentry. They're camped somewhere behind the knoll, the main
of them. That's their smoke you see among the trees."

That roaring chorus still rang in the boy's ear.

"The drain runs to the right of the knoll, and out into the creek bang
opposite the Wish. Half-way down it there's a man-hole."

An icy pang pierced Kit's heart.

"It's quite small, and a bush grows over it. It's a million to one
they know nothing of it. Still you should--er--watch it."

The Parson was gnawing his under-lip.

"I'll watch it," said the boy, the waves breaking white about his
face.

It must be somewhere just about the man-hole that Fat George and Co.
were camped. Still he wasn't going to let this soldier know he was
afraid.

But the soldier knew.

Outwardly calm, his own heart was a whirlpool of doubts. How could he
stop behind a wall and send this lad out into the open to face heaven
knew what? Yet here surely his obvious duty lay. Should the enemy
storm, what could a legless old sailor and a brace of boys do against
them? And unless he was mistaken mischief was brewing. Where was the
Gentleman all this time? Yesterday he had been everywhere all the
time. To-day the Parson had caught but one fleeting glimpse of him.
The old soldier preferred his enemy's activity to his quiet. Was this
the lull before the storm?

"I only want you to go to the mouth of the drain, and see him off," he
said with calm cheerfulness. "Once away, you'd only hamper him."

That was truth at all events. Once away, Knapp's chance lay in his
feet. With luck the little man'd be in Lewes in an hour and a half.
With luck a good man on a good horse'd be in Chatham before night,
another at the Admiralty, a third at Merton,--that was, if Beau
Beauchamp would leave his actress for the moment to play the man. With
luck Nelson wouldn't have sailed.

Lots of luck, true! still, who was it was on their side?

The fog of his doubts cleared away.

He turned to the boy with glowing eyes.

"Kit," he whispered, hugging the lad's arm, "we'll have a Gazette to
ourselves yet."

THE SALLY

CHAPTER XLIX

MAKING READY

The kitchen was dim as a sick-room, and strangely hushed. No one spoke
but the Parson and he in whispers, lecturing Knapp, undressing in the
corner.

The gravity of the enterprise, its certain perils, the issues at
stake, oppressed the room. Death was there already; as yet indeed only
a ghost at each man's elbow, in a few moments maybe to become
incarnate.

Kit felt it and sickened.

Perched upon the table, his back to the boarded window, he whetted his
dirk upon his shoe, and wondered if those others, those men, Knapp
most of all, felt as he did.

Privately he thanked heaven that the dusk hid his face.

Through chinks and splintered bullet-holes, the light stole in, making
daggers across the darkness.

It splashed the walls, the great stone-flags, the black mouth of the
cellar, and the dresser in the corner.

There sat Knapp, a grey ghost spotted here and there with light. The
little rifleman was naked now, save for a pair of fighting drawers. A
heap of clothes sprawled at his feet.

The little rifleman was like a child. Broken-hearted a minute back,
now he was as a lion in leash.

There was an adventure forward, and the off chance of a fight: he
brimmed at the thought of it. Without imagination, he knew no fear;
with little experience of pain, he didn't much believe in it. They
wouldn't catch _him_; they wouldn't hit _him_!

Before him knelt the Parson with low head, swathing his feet with
strips of torn towel, absorbed as a surgeon, careful as a mother.

"Is that easy?--now how's that?--try your foot down! Another turn
round the ankle?--Remember, it'll be rough going till you strike the
grass."

At the loop-hole Nelson's old foretop-man watched and waited. A gleam
smote his silver hair and prophetic forehead. Kit watched him
wondering.

The old man, so tranquil amid the stir and whisper of death, affected
the boy as One years ago had affected other seamen tempest-tossed.

His chattering heart hushed as a sparrow hushes in the quiet of a
great cathedral.

Then the world rushed in on him with a shout.

Again that gust of laughter outside, that roaring chorus.

The Gap Gang were making merry.

The contrast revolted the lad.

The table on which he sat began to rattle.

Quietly he slipped off it. But the old foretop-man had heard.

Leaving his post, he came rumbling across the uneven flags.

"The waitin time's generally always the worst time, sir," he
whispered. "Sooner farty actions than wait for one--I've hard Lard
Nelson say it himsalf."

"I am a bit--quaky," replied the boy, and would have admitted as much
to no other man, and to few women.

"And none the worse for that, sir. It's a poor heart that can't feel
fear. If a man's not a bit timersome about facin his Maker, then he
ought to be. Pluck's doin your duty although you are afear'd. You'll
be right enough once you're in it, surely.... And if you're not above
a hint from a man before the mast, sir, you'll take them shoes off.
Boardin-parties bare-fut--that was ollus the word aboard the
_Agamemnon_.... Ah, Knapp, feelin slap?"

"Ay, fit to run for me life or fight for it," bubbled the little
rifleman, prancing out of his corner.

The Parson beckoned Kit.

"You see his sort," he whispered. "The chap's as full of meat and
mischief as a lion-cub." He turned again. "Knapp," he said solemnly,
"this is your officer. He's coming with you to see you off. He carries
the King's commission as truly as I do. You'll obey him as you would
me, and no nonsense, d'you see?"

"Very good, sir," said the little man, jigging and bobbing. "I'm all
of a pop like. Seems I might go off any moment."

"Any tomfoolery and you will go off," replied the Parson sternly--"out
of this world into the next--pop! as you say yourself. You've only one
chance against the finest marksmen in the world, and that's to show em
a clean pair of heels. If you don't, you've fought your last fight, my
lad! Ginger Jake's cock of the South."

The last words went home. The little rifleman became very grave. He
swung round to Piper in his swift bird-like way.

"Mr. Piper, pop off a prayer for us."

The common-sense saint lifted his head.

"God elp and strengthen your legs, Nipper Knapp," he prayed.

"That's the point, O Lord!--his legs!" punctuated the Parson.

"Sometimes," continued the old foretop-man solemnly, "I have wondered
why the Lard saw good to take my legs to Himsalf. Rack'n I knaw now."
He reached out a huge hand, gripped the little rifleman and pulled him
closer. "There's nawthin cut to waste in this world," he whispered
huskily. "And it's my belieft He's been savin of em up this ten year
past agin this day--to put the strength of em into your'n, Jack Knapp.
May you make good use o both pairs--your own o the flesh, and mine o
the sperrit!--that's my best prayer for you."

The little rifleman, as simple as the old sailor, was profoundly
touched.

"I'll do me best, Mr. Piper, struth I will!" he sniffed. "Never do to
mess it a'ter all His trouble."

"Give us your hand on it!" said the old man. "And you too, sir, if so
be a common sailor might make so bold."

The old sailor and the young shook hands feelingly: the two soldiers
followed suit.

"Don't forget you're a Black Borderer, my boy," said the Parson, one
hand on the rifleman's shoulder.

"That I'll never, sir!" replied the little man, almost in tears.

Parson and Kit gripped hands: neither spoke.

Then the Parson ran up the ladder.

CHAPTER L

IN THE DRAIN

The little party of adventurers filed down into the dark.

Blob's lantern shone on the rusty iron door, streaked with damp, which
barred the mouth of the drain.

It was very chill down there. Knapp was shivering as he played with
the bolts. Blob, impassive as a jellyfish, was still sucking at his
apple.

Quick and clear Kit gave his orders.

"Knapp, stop tinkering those bolts about, and stand back till I give
the word! Now, Blob, listen here!--Knapp and I are going through this
door down the drain. You'll stand here with the lantern, and light us,
d'you see?"

"Ah!" said Blob.

"You're not to stir, d'you see, boy?"

"Aw!" said Blob.

Kit gripped his arm, and looked into his round and dewy eyes.

"Half-way down the drain there's a hole, where the light comes in." He
was articulating his words with the slow precision of one addressing a
deaf man. _Now if, after we've passed that hole, anybody should get
down through it into the drain, then you're to slam the door--and
bolt!..._

"Now repeat my instructions."

Blob mooned and mowed, his eyes roaming the cellar.

"Repate moi ructions," he mumbled at last.

"Ass!" snapped Kit. "Here!--stand so!--the lantern between your feet.
That's right. Now don't stir. Ready, Knapp?"

"On the boil, sir," bobbing and blowing on his fists.

"Then come on."

Kit drew the wheezing bolts, and flung back the door. A chill breeze
entered.

Before the boy could stop him, the little rifleman was through the
door and away down the drain.

"Come back!" ordered Kit in a fierce whisper.

The man, stooping in the drain, turned and grinned.

"In _my_ Service, sir, Borderers lead."

"In _my_ Service, officers do.... Come back!"

The boy had nothing but his dirk; but that he pointed resolutely; and
the lantern-light glimmered in the darkness as on a steel-barrel.

Knapp crawled back, delighted.

"You're the sort," he chuckled, patting the lad on the back. "Quite
the little man o war."

"Get to heel," snarled Kit. "Hold your tongue. Keep your paws to
yourself. And address me respectfully and properly."

The drain ran away before them, a long black tunnel, focussing in a
remote jewel of light. It was like the Alley of Life, cramped and
dark, and at the far end of it a little door opening on heaven. And
across the door the boy seemed to see written the one word

_Nelson_.

He advanced into the breathing darkness, his eye on that guiding
light. Half-way down the drain a dim patch brightened the black floor.
There was the man-hole; there was the danger-point.

He crept forward with groping hands. The bricks were cold and
sweating, the atmosphere that of the grave. It seemed to smell of dead
men. The boy felt as though a mountain was smothering him. He found
himself breathing deep as though in difficulties.

Even Knapp, crawling at his heels, appeared affected.

The man was humming something in a dirge-like monotone. At first Kit
thought it was some sort of a Litany; then he caught the words:

"Two little corpseses goes for a walk
In a church-yard under the sea,
Says the one to the other--
'I'll squeak if you'll squawk
To keep me company.'"

The humming ceased, and Kit missed it.

"Are you there, Knapp?"

"Yes, sir. Smotherified feelin, ain't it?"

"Do you hear anything?"

"Only me own teeth chatter."

"Hush, then."

They were drawing near the man-hole.

The boy was sweating, shivering. He was living in death.

A very little, and he would have had one of his old screaming panics
of the night-nursery. Then that tiny diamond of light, hanging in the
blackness before him, the one word written across it, steadied him. It
was a star, his star. It sang to him the Song of Faith.

Besides, how could he run away?--he, an officer, a gentleman, a
sailor, run away before a private soldier? No. It is easier to lead
somebody who believes you to be brave than to let him know you are a
coward--especially if he's a soldier. The thought tickled him, and his
heart surged upward.

They were very near the man-hole now.

Kit turned and pointed.

Knapp put out his tongue in reply.

The patch of light on the floor was dim and chequered. The old bush
then was in its place. The boy thanked heaven for it, and stopped
dead.

Above the tumult of his heart he could hear a voice: so close too that
had he prodded upwards through the thin crust of earth he would have
stabbed the speaker.

And how well he knew that ghastly treble!

CHAPTER LI

VOICES OF THE LOST

_"Where's Bandy?"

"Where we'll all be afore we're much older--in ell this alf our."

"What ye mean?"

"Ave a peep in the creek yonder. You'll see sharp enough what I
mean."_

Another voice, dark and brooding, joined in:

_"Who stuck him?"

"The Genelman."

"What for?"

"Back-answerin him."_

A fourth voice, very black and bitter, flared up:

_"That's im!--bangs you up in the firin line, then sticks you if you
look at him. If it's storm, we got to do it. If it's sally, we got to
meet it. If it's neether, we got to set round and take Piper's pot-
luck, while he and his chaps lay safe out o range and, shoots us if we
bolt."

"Where's the good in boltin?"_ came the brooding voice. _"Nowhere
to bolt to. Jack Ketch's our only friend this side the water."_

There was a stony silence.

"_How long's this ---- game goin to last?--that's what I want to
know,_" came the black and bitter voice at last.

The ghastly treble chimed in:

"_That's what I says to im last night when e come his rounds. 'We're
only poor chaps, my lord,' says I. 'We've lost alf the number of our
mess in your service. And now I'd make bold to ask how long you're
goin to keep us here?'_

"'_Why,' says he, suckin his hanky, 'that depends on your sweet
selves. You may go as soon as you've took the cottage_.'

"'_And what if the sogers come first?' I says. 'There's a camp at
Lewes, you know, my lord.'_

"'_Why then,' says he, and I lay he thought he was funny, 'I'll
leave you to the hands of your beloved compatriots. And what can a
good man want more'n that_?'

"'_We're the Gap Gang, my lord,' says I_.

"'_Well,' says he, 'if that don't suit you, hurry up and take the
cottage and have done with it. I'm gettin tired o this messin about
business_.'

"'_Beg pardon, my lord,' says I, 'but what are we to ave for our
trouble, when we ave took it_?'

"'_Why,' says he, very pleasant, 'if you're good, Friend George,
when the job's done, per-raps,' says he, 'per-raps I'll give you a
lift back to France in my lugger layin on the beach there_.'

"'Our _lugger, sure-ly, my lord,' says I_.

"'_No, my friend,' says he, 'it was the late lamented Diamond's. Now
it's our noble Emperor's, Gorblessim!--a derelict picked up on the
igh seas by one of His Majesty's frigates_.'"

The treble ceased.

"_Pretty position for the genelmen o the Gap Gang, ain't it_?"
came the black and bitter voice. "_Shot takin the place, or hung if
you don't_."

"_Ah_," came the treble again, "_it wouldn't take me long to do
somethin to him. See. Sow_!"

"_Only you'd ave to get somebury to old is ands first_," grumbled
Red Beard.

"_Scream_!" said the fat man, unheeding. "_I'd make his soul
talk_."

The brutal Toadie rumbled off into laughter.

CHAPTER LII

HARE AND HOUND

I

Brutes!

But--they knew nothing of the man-hole they were clustered round.

The boy's heart soared.

He passed on, as quiet as a mole.

Burrowing beneath the lowest hell, he had heard the voices of those in
torment within hand's touch of him.

Now heaven opened its far door. He crawled towards the light. It was
no longer a star; it was an eye, the eye of a soul, the Soul of Souls.
And it was loving him.

The boy crawled on.

The great earth, warm and dark about him, gave him strength. She was a
friendly great beast, breathing and blowing all round him. He could
hear her, and feel her. On Beachy Head he had been a fly crawling on
her hide; now he was the same fly swallowed. He was creeping along her
gullet towards her mouth. Motherly old thing, she covered him well,
and he was grateful to her. That good thick flesh of hers stood
between him and that which he did not care to contemplate. As he
crawled he kicked her in the ribs to show he recognized that she meant
well.

The light was growing on him now. The wind blew on his damp forehead.
He could see the round of sky, blue against the black arch of brick.

Warily he peeped through the screen of tamarisk that veiled the
opening.

The creek lay a few feet below. Across it, the smooth side of the Wish
flowed upward.

A sentinel crowned the little hill, but his face was seaward.

Otherwise the coast was clear.

No!

On the slope of the Wish, facing him, a man was lying.

II

The man was lying on his back half-way up the slope, reading a little
brown book.

Kit could not see his face; but he had no need.

Well he knew those buck-skin breeches, those mud-spattered tops, those
tall knees.

"Who's that bloke?" whispered a voice at his ear.

"The officer commanding the French. Hush!"

"Crikey!" whispered Knapp, much impressed, and peering through the
tamarisk. "Ain't he got a pair o legs on him neether?"

Before Kit could stop him, he had brushed past and dropped into the
creek, light as a feather.

For a moment he squatted there, monkey-fashion, blinking after the
darkness.

The sun shone on his naked back, ridged and rippling. A little man, he
was solid as a boulder: thighs tremendous, shin-bones great and bowed.
Such fists too! such feet!

Kit leaned out. For better or worse, the thing was done now. No good
calling him back, no good cursing him. Better make the best of it.

"You've got a clear run," whispered the boy. "Hug the far bank, so the
sentry on the Wish can't see you; stick to the creek as far as you
can; and when you leave the shore, take a wide sweep towards the
Downs, to avoid their sentries; and then _run_, man!--_run_
as you never ran before!"

"I'll run, man, run fast enough soon as you done talkin," replied the
Cockney cheekily, hopping across the creek to the shelter of the far
bank. "Be in Lewes afore you're back to the guv'nor, I'll lay. Ta-ta."

He was away down the creek, running like a monkey, finger-tips
touching the ground.

Kit, thankful to tears, watched the sun on the man's ridged back, as
he stole away.

Surely, he was through now.

A sound made him look up.

III

The Gentleman had not stirred. He was reading aloud, and loving what
he read.

"Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?"

Heaven send Knapp had not heard; but he had.

Up bobbed the black shaven pate out of the creek, much as Kit had
often seen the head of a coot bob up in one of the moorland tarns of
his own Northumberland.

The little man stood listening, the sun on his shoulders, careless of
discovery.

The voice on the hill, loving and laughing, drew him like a syren's.

Was the man mad?

He was climbing up out of the creek on to the grass.

Kit swept the tamarisk aside, and waved at him furiously. The little
man soothed him with mocking hand, and crept on.

Kit dared not shout; he could not catch the other. What could he do?
Watch and pray, with sickening heart.

"Little lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name."

Beautiful as it was, the boy could not listen. His soul was in his
eyes, and his eyes on Knapp.

The little man was now behind the reader, and stalking him on hands
and knees.

What on earth was he up to?

A horrible thought wrenched the boy's heart.

Would Knapp stab the other as he lay?

If so, could he stand by and see that little baboon-thing with the
hairy bosom and leg-of-mutton fists murder in cold blood a noble
gentleman to whom he owed his life?

Then he remembered thankfully that Knapp had no weapons.

"Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!"

Knapp had stopped now, and seemed bending over the other. Then he
deliberately thrust his hand into the face beneath him.

The Gentleman sat up, snatching for his sword.

"Tweak his conk!" popped a Cockney voice--"the conk of a lord!" And he
was up and away, and down the slope with the merriest spurt of
laughter.

The Gentleman was on his feet in a second, pursuing, a smear of blood
at his nose.

Knapp heard him.

"Chise me!" he called, and came swinging down the slope at his ease, a
smug grin on his face.

He was the fastest man but one South of Thames that day, and how was
he to know that one was after him?

If he was not aware of it, Kit, watching with all his eyes, was.

The Gentleman was hounding at the other's heels, swift, silent,
terrible.

"Run!" screamed the boy.

The rifleman glanced over his shoulder.

"God A'mighty!" he yelled. "E's catchin me."

The light went out of his face. Fists and knees woke to sudden life
and began to hammer furiously. The long easy swing became a terrific
pitter-patter. Flinging back his head, he set himself to run the race
of his life.

IV

Knapp was naked, and trained to a tick.

The Gentleman was the faster, and the slope helped his long legs; but
he was booted and spurred.

Kit watched the smooth swoop of the one, and the terrific bob-a-bob-
bob of the other. He was reminded of an eagle he had once seen
stooping at a rabbit on the Cheviots.

Each was running for his all, and each knew it; but the Gentleman was
having the best of it.

Knapp, running with his head as well as with his heels, was making
straight for the creek.

On the flat, among the boulders, he, naked-nimble, would be on better
terms with the booted Gentleman.

But--he would never get there. Kit saw it at a glance.

Down the hill he came with pounding fists, and great knees going. His
head was flung back, his face screwed tight.

He had the lion's heart, this naughty little man. Death, swift and
terrible, cast the shadow of its wings over him. He could not see it,
but he could feel it overhead, swooping, swooping. He would not look
back. His mistake made, he would do his desperate best to retrieve it.
At least he would show the world how a Borderer can die.

Behind him the Gentleman, the wind in his hair, was feeling for his
throat.

Another moment and that hub-bub of beating heart and running legs
would stop for ever--skewered.

Kit could not bear it. Casting disguise aside, he leapt into the
creek, and snatched a pebble.

"Chuck!" screamed the rifleman, and jinked like a hare.

Kit saw the gleam of a white waistcoat, and flung with all his might.

The pebble sped true as that which slew Goliath.

It took effect between the fourth and fifth button. Down went the
Gentleman with a windy groan, as though the soul was being sucked out
of his body.

Knapp, the pressure relieved, was his Cockney self again in a second.
He swung on at a leisurely trot with the flick of heel, and swagger of
elbow, peculiar to the crack taking his ease.

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