The Gentleman

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The Gunner shot a finger at the block-of-granite figure forward.

"That's the man as won the battle o the Nile," he whispered with husky
magnificence. "And ere's the man that elped him."

He bowed with wide hands. Drunk as he was there was yet a dilapidated
splendour about the fellow as about an historic ruin. The boy felt it
through his disgust.

"I thought Nelson did a bit," he said.

"Nelson did much; I did more; _e_ did most," with a wave forward.
"Why!" shouting now. "Who was it led the line inside the shoal--creepin
it, leadsman in the chains, soundin all the way?--We _Thunderers_,
the _Goliath_ treadin mighty jealous on our heels. And who
commanded the _Thunderer_?--Old Ding-dong. And what did he get
for it?"

He smacked a hand down on the boy's shoulder.

"Broke him, sir!--broke him back to a sloop o war!--old Ding-dong,
the damdest, darndest, don't-care-a-cursest old sea-dog as ever set
his teeth in a French line o battle ship, and wouldn't let go, though
they fired double-shotted broadsides down his throat."

"But why did they break him?" gasped the boy. "It doesn't sound like
Nelson."

The other smacked his long nose with a finger mysteriously.

"I don't know what you mean," said the boy, short and sharp.

"Ah, and just as well you don't," replied the other loftily. "Some
day, Sonny, you'll know all there is to know and a leetle bit more--same
as me. Plenty time first though. If you've done suckin it's more'n
you look."

He began to march again.

"Yes, sir: he'd ha hoisted his broad pendant afore this, would old
Ding-dong, pit-boy and powder-monkey and all, only for that. And as
I'd ha gone h'up with him as he went h'up, so I goes down with him
when he goes down. I know'd old Ding-dong. He was the man for me. Talk
o fightin!--Dicky Keats, Ned Berry, the Honourayble Blackwood: good
men all and gluttons at it!--but for the real old style stuff,
ammer-and-tongs, fight to a finish, takin punishment and givin it,
there ain't a seaman afloat as'll touch our old man."

He spat over the side.

"Yes, sir, when he went, I went along, and never regretted
it--never. We've seen more sport aboard this blame little packet than
the rest of the Fleet together. Clear'd the Channel, be God, we
ave!--prowlin up and down, snow and blow, fog and shine, like a rampin
champin lion. Why, sir, we've fought a first-rate from Portland Bill
to Dead Man's Bay--this blame little boat you could sail in a babby's
bath! _Took her too!_ and towed her into Falmouth Roads, all standin,
like a kid leadin its mother by the and. Talk o Cochrane and the
_Speedy_!--Gor blime!--what's he alongside us?"

He steadied suddenly.

"Ush! ere comes the old man."

The boy could hear the stump of a stick on the deck.

"What's he wearin?" whispered the other, peering. "You can most always
tell the lay he's on by that. Pea-jacket means boat-work, cuttins out,
fire-ships, landin parties, and the like. If it's old blue frock
and yaller waistcoat, then it's lay em aboard and say your prayers.
And if it's cocked hat and chewin a quid, then it's elp you God: for
your time's come."

"You're a disgrace to the Service, Mr. Lanyon," came a curt voice.

"And you're a credit to it, sir," was the hearty retort.

"Go below."

"And just sposin I won't," answered the drunkard--"only sposin,
mind!--just for the sake of argyment, d'ye see?--what then?"

"Irons."

The drunkard folded his arms.

"And might I make so bold, Commander Ardin," he began elaborately,
"to ask who'll fight your guns, your Actin Fust in irons; and besides
yourself ne'er another officer on the quar'er-deck--only this ere squab."

"I'll fight em myself if needs be. Go below, d'ye hear?"

The Gunner stumbled away, roaring laughter.

"Sail the blurry ship; fight the blurry ship; sink the blurry ship;
and go to ell in the blurry ship. That's old Ding-dong."

CHAPTER IV

OLD DING-DONG

"They call you Kit?"

The boy started.

His name, his pet name that he had not heard for days, on the lips
of this block-of-granite little man, who had only spoken so far to
snub him.

"Mother does, sir--and Gwen."

There was silence; only the water talking beneath the ship's bows,
as she took the open sea and began to swing to it.

"Your father was my friend," continued the voice, less harsh now. "I
was a pit-boy; he was a gentleman: we was friends."

The voice was gruff again.

"Ran away to sea same night--he from the Hall; me from the pit-mouth.
Met under the old oak on the green.

"'Ready, Bill?' says he.

"'Right, sir,' says I.

"'Then forge ahead.'

"And forge ahead it was, and never parted, till the Lord saw good to
come atween us for the time bein at St. Vincent."

The voice in the darkness ceased and began again.

"Quiberon Bay was our first. Fifty-nine that were. I was powder-monkey
on the _Royal George_; he was Hawke's orderly midshipman. St.
Vincent our last. And a God's plenty in between. One time Dutchmen;
one time Dons; and most all the time the French. Yes, sir," with quiet
gusto, "reck'n we saw all the best that was goin in our time, and not a
bad time neether--for them as like it, that's to say: seamen and such."

He was silent for a time, chewing his memories.

And what memories they were!--Had he not sailed under Boscawen in the
fifties, when that old sea-dog stood between England and Invasion?
Had he not lived to see Napoleon's Eagles brooding over the cliffs
of France, intent on the same enterprise?--And between the two, what
men, what deeds?--Hawke smashing Conflans in a hurricane; Rodney,
gloriously alone, fighting his ship against a fleet; Duncan hammering
the Dutch; Sam Hood, Jack Jervis, Nelson, Cuddie Collingwood; and all
that grim array of big-beaked, bloody-fisted fighting men who for fifty
years had held the narrow seas against all comers.

"D'you remember your father?"

The old man brooded over the boy. In a dumb and misty way he was puzzling
out one of life's mysteries--this long stripling with the eyes sprung
somehow from that other long stripling with the eyes, whom he had followed
from the pit-mouth fifty years since.

"I just remember him coming into the nursery with mother and a candle
the night before he sailed the last time, sir, to join Lord Howe."

"Ah," mused the old man, "that'd be a week afoor the First o June;
and nigh three years afoor he died."

He paused again, rummaging in his memory.

"He was Post-Captain at St. Vincent; I was his First--aboord the old
_Terrible_, 74.... You'll ha heard all about _that_ tale.
[Footnote: Sir John Jervis crushed the Spanish fleet off Cape St. Vincent
in 1797. In this action the Spanish fleet was in two divisions. In
order to prevent a junction between them Nelson drew out of the British
line and single-handed attacked the Spanish weather-division, including
the Spanish flag-ship and five other sail of the line. See Mahan's
"Life of Nelson."]

"'Plucky chap, Nelson,' says the Captain, as he tumbles to the little
man's game. 'Wear ship, and a'ter him.' So we hauls out? the line,
us and the _Culloden_--Tom Troubridge--and pushes up, all sail
set, to help him.

"By then we got alongside, the _Captain_--Nelson's ship she
were--was a sheer hulk. As we pass her, your father leans over the
rail.

"'Well done, _Captain_,' says he, liftin his hat.

"Nelson blinks his one eye up--I can see him now.

"'That you, Kit?' he pipes through his nose that way of is'n. 'You've
got it all your own way now. I'm a wreck. Good luck, _Terrible_.'

"So on we goes bang atween two Spanish Fust-rates--hundud and twenty
guns apiece. Had em all to ourselves, and asked no better.

"'Just your style, Bill,' says the Captain. He was pacing up and down
the lee of the poop with me. 'Pretty work, ain't it?'

"'Too pretty to last, sir,' says I; as our fore-mast went by the board.

"Just then up runs the carpenter's mate all of a sweat.

"'Well, Michael,' says the Captain, 'what is it to-day?'

"'Goin down with a run, sir,' pants old Chips. 'Twenty foot? water
in her well.'

"The Captain turns to me.

"'Where's the nearest land, Willum?' says he, with that twinkle of
is'n. Always called me Willum, when he meant mischief, did the Captain.

"'Why, sir,' says I, 'the bottom, I reck'n.'

"'Wrong again,' says he. 'That's the nearest land to me,' and he points
at the _Santy Maria_, Don Somebody Somethin's Flag-ship. 'Hard
a-starboard, if you please, Mr. Hardin,' says he. 'I'm a-goin to land.'

"So I luffs up alongside, and fell aboard Er Oliness--like a mighty
great mountain above us she was, all poop, and galleries, and Armada
fittins.

"When our bow scraped her quarter,

"'Anybody for the shore!' pipes the Captain; and he jumps into her
main-chain....

"Ah, but you should ha heard the men cheer!"

The old man paused, breathing deep.

"Ten minutes a'terwards he was dying acrost my knees on the spar-deck
of the Don.

"'Has she struck, Bill?' he whispers, coughing....

"'The three decker's struck, sir,' says I, 'and the four-decker's strikin.'

"He shuts his eyes.

"'Then I can depart in peace,' he sighs. 'Tell Marjory I done my duty.'

"And he up and died."

There was a cough in the darkness.

"So I calls a cutter away, and rowed aboord the _San Josef_, the
men blubberin like a pack o babbies, to break it to Nelson. Like twins,
them two, Nelson and your father: that like, ye see!

"Well, there was the Commodore on the Don's quarter-deck, Berry beside
him, the Spanish Captain afoor him, and behind him a British Jack-Tar
tuckin the Spaniards' swords under his arm like so many umberellas.

"I breaks it to him short and straight.

"'Captain Caryll's compliments, sir,' says I. 'And he's dead.'

"Nelson claps his hands to his face as though I'd struck him. Then
he falls on my neck afoor em all--Dons too.

"'O Ding-dong!' says he. 'I loved him.'--Just like that. 'I loved him....'

"Yes, that was Nelson all through: one alf woman, t'other alf hero.

"Then he pulls himself together.

"'But there!' he says. 'He lived like an English gentleman; and he
died like a British seaman. May I go that way when my time comes.'
And he sweeps off his cocked hat as though it might ha been to the
King, and--

"'God bless Kit Caryll,' says he."

The old man blew his nose in the darkness.

"Yes, sir," he continued, "that was your father and my friend," and
then suddenly gruff--

"D'you mean takin a'ter him?"

"I mean to try, sir," said the boy huskily.

In the darkness a hand gripped his.

CHAPTER V

REUBEN BONIFACE'S STORY

I

Clear of the harbour, the boy's hat blew overboard.

He tasted his lips, and found them salt.

Never at sea before, yet somehow it was all strangely familiar, and
strangely dear.

The feel of the ship, alive beneath his feet; the lift, the plunge,
the swaying rhythm of the bows; the roll of the masts against a patch
of stars--there was music in them all; a music that stirred his heart;
the music of inherited Memory.

The sea was in his blood; and his blood began to sing to it. Old voices
from the Past, that Past which is still the Present, woke within him.
Old memories, borne down the ages upon the dark river of race life,
haunted him dimly. Old and terrible experiences--murders and mutinies;
distresses on rafts; thirsts and screaming madnesses; naked men howling
on hen-coops under waste skies, sea-birds wailing desolately overhead;
great ships, man-forsaken, God-forgotten, wallowing blindly amid green
mountains that flowed and foamed upon them--shadows in shoals, they
rose, glimmered, and were gone in the twilight waters of returning
consciousness.

Sea-wolves in beaked ships from the Baltic; pirate-adventurers who
had sailed and sacked under the Conqueror; pioneers of new-found lands:
blood of his blood, and brain of his brain, they lived again, roused
from centuries of sleep by the stir and whiff and secret business of
the dark waters.

The mystery of it thrilled the boy: the blind night, the moving waters,
the wind in his hair, the crash of spray upon the deck--old friends
all, he recognised them as such, and found them beautifully familiar.

He was flowing down the River of Eternal Life and one with it. He was:
he had been: he always would be. There was no Death, no Time. Life
was One and Everlasting.

His nostrils wide, renewing old impressions, he walked forward, proud
and self-composed.

True son of the sea, yet he knew himself her master. She was his woman,
to be loved and lorded over. He found himself brooding over her dark
beauty with the stern pride of possession. Manhood was rushing in on
him: its passions, its power, its splendid cruelties. He began to tingle
to them.

They had not met, it seemed, to know each other, these two world-old
friends, for half a generation. Now once more they came together,
heart to heart, man to woman, loving faithfully as ever.

II

The wind freshened. The sloop began to feel the sea and swing to it.
She was a dark and secret ship: not a light save for the glare of the
binnacle-lamp; the only sound the creak of a block, the mutter of canvas,
and the chatter of waters.

It was a dirty night, a wet mist blowing landward. There was no moon;
only here and there a star pierced the cloud-drift.

The boy groped his way forward.

In the bows a dark lantern on the deck shone on a group of sea-boots.

"Pretty night for our work, sir," came a cheery voice. "Might ha been
made for us."

"Where are we?" asked the boy.

"Yon's Seaford Head, sir," as a great white dimness thrust out of the
mist towards them. "We're layin along close inshore. See that glimmer
forrad on the port-bow?--Ah, it's gone again! That's the Seven Sisters.
And between the last o them and Beachy Head lays Birling Gap. And
somewhere there or thereabouts, we'll make our cop, if a cop it's to
be."

"Who is it we're after?"

"Lugger _Kite, sir--Black Diamond's craft....

"Funny thing fortune, sir," the man continued after a pause. "Never
know how it's going to take you till you're took. Little thing sims
to sway it. At one day's time there warn't a smarter seaman afloat
than Bert Diamond. Might ha rose to the quarter-deck--just the sort;
got a way with him and that. Only one fault, sir--the sailor's failin."

"What's that?"

"Too lovin by fur....

"It's generally always his one fault capsizes a man," the seaman
continued. "And so it were with poor old Bert--he warn't Black at
that time o day, yo'll understand."

"What's the rights o that yarn, Reube?" grumbled a deep voice.

"I ca'ant rightly tall ye because I don't justly knaw, Abe. They said
this here Mr. Lucy--Love-me Lucy they called him in the ward-room--got
messin about a'ter Diamond's gal. But anyways there it were. Diamond
struck him--struck his officer."

"What happened?"

"Why, sir; flogged round the Fleet."

A man spat noisily on the deck.

"Maybe you've never seen a man flogged round the Fleet?"

"Never."

"Then heaven help you never may, sir. I'd liefer fight a gun in the
waist through farty Fleet-actions, than see one man go through
that--wouldn't you, Abe?"

"Ay, that I would," grumbled the deep voice.

"Ah; and so'd we all," came a windy chorus.

There was a stamping of feet: then the story-teller went on,

"I stood by the gang-way when he came up the side, a blanket across
his shoulders.

"'Ullo, Reube,' says he....

"That were all.... I said nawthing.... I saw his face....

"When he came out o the sick-bay three months a'terwards, with his kit
to go ashore--he was dismissed the Service, yo'll understand, sir--I
was on deck.... He limped across, and shook hands with me out o them
all.... We'd been like brothers, him and me.... Then he went down the
side and never a word.... Just as his head was on a level with the
deck, he stops. Good-bye all,' says he, with a laugh I never heard
him laugh before. 'The British Navy ain't eard the last o Black
Diamond.'... And nor we had, by thunder."

III

The _Tremendous_ thrashed into a swell. A spout of foam flung
up, and crashed down on the deck. When the last hiss of it had died
away, Boniface took up his tale.

"That was 99--after Acre. I was away nigh on six years, middlin busy
too. We'd the lot atop on us one time or t'other--French, Roossians,
Dons, Dutch, Swedes, Danes, and all; and Nap to thank for em....

"Last Spring I come home to find Black Diamond cock o the Gap Gang,
and better fear'd nor Boney's self in East Sussex. That'd be a day
or two after they'd done Mr. Lucy."

"What was that?"

"Why, sir, Mr. Lucy, he was Coast-guard Officer of this district.
One day his grey cob cantered into Lewes alone--no Mr. Lucy. Two night
a'terwards a keeper chap found his body in Abbot's Wood....

"They'd crucified him to a tree, and flogged him to the bone; then
stuck an ace o diamonds on to his back, and on it

_Returned with thanks_."

"And that warn't all," grumbled the deep voice.

"That it warn't," came the windy chorus. "Never is with them."

"But who'd done it?" cried the boy.

"Gap Gang, sir."

"Who are they?"

"Why, sir, Birling Gap Gang it should be by rights. That's where they
mostly lay rough when they're this side. And it suits them
to-rights--that lonely, you see: just naked hills, cliffs, badgers,
foxes, and the like.--And such a crew! God help the man or maid crosses
their hawse. Fear neither God nor Devil."

"Only Black Diamond," grumbled the deep voice. "Meek as milk with him."

There was a grim chuckle all round.

"Are they smugglers?" asked the boy.

"Call emselves smugglers," replied Reuben. "But they ain't the gentlemen
proper. For it's mighty little smuggling they do. Maybe run a cargo
every now and then to keep in with the folk on the hill--East-dean and
Friston way. But they're after bigger game, I allow."

"What's that?"

"Despatch-running for Little Boney, sir."

IV

The boy waited. There was more to come, he felt; and he was right.

In a minute Diamond's old ship-mate resumed his tale.

"Last July, I was on furlough at Alfriston. One evening I went for a
bit of a stroll on the hill. Up there, under the sky, top o Snap Hill,
was a look-out chap with a telescope. I knaw'd his back, and the high
way with his head at first onset. It was Black Diamond.

"'Hullo, Bert,' says I, coming up behind.

"Round he jumps, terrible dark.

"I'd hardly ha know'd him--toff'd out quite the officer, bits of
epaulettes, waxed moustachers, pistol and all. I'd never ha beleft it!

"'That Reube?' says he, at last, starin properly.

"'That's me, sir,' says I.

"His face cleared; and he shoved his pistol back.

"'Excuse me, Reube,' says he. 'Every man that wears that uniform is
unfriends with me, with one exception--and that's yourself,' and he
took my hand.

"'It's nice to look into a pair of eyes can look back at you,' he
goes on, very quiet, pumping my hand. 'How are you, old mate?--We're
quite strangers.'

"'I'm tidy middlin, thank-you, sir,' says I: must keep on a-sirrin
him somehow. 'How's things going with you?'

"'Why,' says he, with that terrible great laugh of his, 'like God
Almighty--slow but sure.'

"'Nice crowd you've got together by all accounts, sir,' says I.

"'All picked men,' says he, mighty grim. 'But drop your voice if you're
going to talk about the darlings: I've a dozen of em in the goss handy
by. There's not a man sails aboard the _Kite_ but swings in chains,
if he's copp'd. Makes em wonderful nippy at a pinch,' says he, with
that little smile o his. 'You wouldn't believe.'

"' Yes,' I says. 'Reg'lar man o war style aboard the _Kite_,
they do say. Trice em up, and flog em, if everything ain't just so.'

"'That's so,' says he. 'Duchess could eat her dinner off my deck--has,
too.'

"'Only wonder is they stick it,' says I.

"'Ah,' he says, 'they're my _men_, not my _mates_, see?--This
ain't a free-tradin show. We ain't partners, I pay em.'

"I looked him straight in the face.

"'And who pays you, old pal?' says I--'if you'll excuse the question.'

"'The Emperor,' says he, calm as you please. 'Nice feller, too.'

"I stared a bit.

"'Knaw him then?' says I.

"'Supp'd with him night afore last,' says he, matter-of-fact like;
and I knaw'd he warn't lying--'Me and the Emperor and another
gentleman.' He began to laugh. 'Rare sport he was too, the gentleman!
Hear him sauce the Emperor!' Then he takes a sweeping look through
his glass. 'Ye see we've a little bit o business forrard, me and him
and the Emperor.'

"Well, sir, I was gettin my monkey up, as you may allow. Here'd I been
tow-rowin up and down the high seas at tenpence a day these six years
past, doin my little bit to spoil Boney's game; and here was this
chap--dismissed with ignominy, mind!--toff'd out like a dandy Admiral,
flashin his French rings and sham Emperors in my face.

"Still I aren't no mug. So cardingly,

"'What's it all about, Bert?' says I, confidential-like.

"He didn't answer: kep on all the while a-squintin through the glass
towards the Forest.

"'You a blockade-man, [Footnote: The blockade-men were coast-guards.]
Reube?' says he at last.

"'No,' says I, 'I'm a liberty-man from the _Tremendous_.'

"'Ah,' says he, queer and quiet. 'I'm glad to hear that, Reube. Mighty
glad you're not a blockade-man.'

"'Why for?' says I, innocent-like.

"'Why,' says he, ''tain't healthy for blockade-chaps in these parts
just now.... You heard o poor Mr. Lucy?'

"'Yes, surely,' I says, pretty spiteful--'dirty business and all.'

"He dropped the glass.

"'What's that?' says he, short-like.

"So cardingly I told him _all_ about it.

"'That's my friend Fat George,' says he between his teeth.

"'I suppose it's news to you,' I sneers.

"He looks me in the eyes properly.

"'This is the first I've heard of it,' says he. 'Struth it is! No,'
he says, 'I gave him what he gave me, no more, and no less--five hundred,
_crossed_; while I lay among the blue-bells and counted em out
for him, same as he done for me. And when it was over--"And now," I
says, "to show you I'm a Christian, I'll leave the boys to put you
out of your pain; and that's more than ever you done for _me_."
And I strolled away. They must ha been up to their larks a'ter I
left--mucky gaol-birds!' he says. 'Funny thing they _can't_ be'ave
like gentlemen.'

"'Well,' I says, 'as to Mr. Lucy, he play'd it down a dog's trick on you;
and you got back on him. And man to man,' I says, 'no parsons bein by, I
don't say no to that. But if it comes to selling your country for money--'

"He swings round all black and white and lightning.

"'Money!' he snarls. 'Steady, Reube.'

"'What then?' says I.

"'Ah,' says he, drawing his breath like a cat swearin. 'As I just
told you, I'm a Christian; and I don't forget.'

"Talk o bitter!

"'Well,' I says, 'if it's revenge you're a'ter, sims to me you've had
a belly-ful.'

"'Ah, I ain't begun yet,' says he, breathing slow. 'That's my little
private account. There's the system to settle yet.'

"'What!' says I, coming closer. 'So you're going to fix up the British
Navy next?'

"'Goin to try,' says he, rollin out that tarrible great laugh of
his--'God helpin me.'

"That was a bit _too_ much.

"'Well, I'm a sailor myself,' says I, 'and an Englishman. So, mind
yourself!' And I goes for him blind.

"He never budge: just blew his whistle; and a dozen of em sprang out
o nowhere.

"'Unclasp his little arms,' says Diamond. 'He thinks I'm his lady-bird.'

"Just then a whistle sounded rithe away acrost the Weald. Another nearer
took it up, and another--like partridges callin on a summer's evening.

"'Here he comes,' says Diamond, glass to his eye. 'Reube,' says he,
'there's things good kids such as you are best not seein. Boys, take
him to the top o Deepdene, and give him a tilt down. Gently does it,'
says he. 'He's an honester man nor any o you.'

"So cardingly they march me away.

"But I hadn't gone above a dozen steps, when I heard him comin a'ter
me.

"'Reube,' says he, kind o shy-like, 'I suppose you won't shake with an
old ship-mate?'

"'No,' says I, 'I don't shake with no ---- traitors.'

"He drops his hand.

"'Ah, well,' says he, 'think the best you can o me. You're much the
man I'd ha been, if God had been gooder to me. Good-bye, Reube,' says
he. 'All the luck.'

"And somehow he seemed a bit o choky; and somehow I felt the same myself.

"So cardingly they march me away to the top o the coombe, where it's
steep as a ship's side, and gave me a shove.

"Down I sprawls, rolly-bowly, anyhow all among the jumping hares,
and brought up in the shadows at the bottom.

"And as I was feeling to see if my head still set on my shoulders,
a chap on horse-back comes cantering up the shoulder of the coombe
above me, black against the light....

"That was the first o this here Gentleman all the talk's on...."

V

The mist was blowing by in huge white puffs like the breath of a giant.

"That was the beginning," continued Reuben. "It warn't the end though
not by no means. Many's the time since then them words of his about
the blockade-chaps, and his queer way o sayin em's come back to me."

"Why?" asked the boy.

"Why, sir?--why, indeed?--Two days later a patrol was found at the
foot o the Devil's Chimney, heads bashed in. Blow'd over o course!--Week
a'terwards petty officer found drowned in dew-pond top o Warren Hill.
Accident o course!--Next day common seaman hung in his own braces
Jevington Holt. Suicide o course! And so it's been going on ever
since--blockade-men murdered; blockade-men missin; blockade-men washed
ashore--until last night."

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