The Adventures of Harry Revel

S >> Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch >> The Adventures of Harry Revel

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"If you please, sir--"

He threw open the coach door. "Jump in. The frigate sets the rate
o' sailing. That's Bill."

I hesitated, rebellious.

"That's Bill. Messmate o' mine on the _Bedford_, and afore that on
the _Vesuvius_ bomb. There, sonny--don't stand gaping at me like a
stuck pig: I never expected ye to _know_ him! And now the time's
past, and ye'll go far afore finding a better. Bill Adams his name
was; but Bill to me, always, and in all weathers." Here for a moment
he became maudlin. "Paid off but three days agone, same as myself,
and now--cut down like a flower! He's the corpse, ahead, in the
first conveyance."

"Is this a funeral, sir?"

"Darn your eyes, don't it look like one? And after the expense I've
been to!" He paused, eyed me solemnly, opened his mouth, and pointed
down it with his forefinger. "Drink done it." His voice was
impressive. "Steer you wide of the drink, my lad; or else drop down
on it gradual. If drink must be your moorings, don't pick 'em up too
rash. 'A boiled leg o' mutton first,' says I, persuasive; '_and_
turnips,' and got him to Symonds's boarding-house for the very
purpose, Symonds being noted. And Symonds--I'll do him that
justice--says the same. Symonds says--"

But at this point a young woman--and pretty, too, though daubed with
paint--thrust her hat and head out of a window, three carriages away,
and demanded to know what in the name of Moses we were waiting for.

"Signals, my dear. The flagship's forra'd; and keep your eye lifting
that way, _if_ you please. I'm main glad you fell in with us," he
went on affably, turning to me; "because you round it up nicely.
Barring the sharks in black weepers, you're the only mourning-card in
the bunch, and I'll see you get a good position at the grave."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it. We're doin' our best. When poor Bill dropped
down in Symonds's"--he jerked his thumb towards the boarding-house
door--"Symonds himself was for turning everyone out. Very nice
feeling he showed, I will say. 'Damn it, here's a go!' he says;
'and the man looked healthy enough for another ten year, with proper
care!'--and went off at once to stop the fiddlers and put up the
shutters. But, of course, it meant a loss to him, the place being
full at the time; and I felt a sort of responsibility for having
introduced Bill. So I went after him and says I, 'This is a most
unforeseen occurrence.' 'Not a bit,' says he; 'accidents will
happen.' I told him that the corpse had never been a wet blanket;
it wasn't his nature; and I felt sure he wouldn't like the thought.
'If that's the case, says Symonds, 'I've a little room at the back
where he'd go very comfortable--quite shut off, as you might say.
We must send for the doctor, of course, and the crowner can sit on
him to-morrow--that is, if you feel sure deceased wouldn' think it
any disrespect.' 'Disrespect?' says I. 'You don't know Bill.
Why, it's what he'd arsk for!' So there we carried him, and I sent
for the undertaker same time as the doctor, and ordered it of oak;
and next morning, down I tramped to Dock and chose out a grave,
brick-lined, having heard him say often, 'Plymouth folk for wasting,
but Dock folk for lasting.' I won't say but what, between whiles,
we've been pretty lively at Symonds's; and I won't say--Hallo!
Here's more luck! Your servant, sir!"

He stepped forward--leaving me shielded and half hidden by the coach
door--and accosted a stranger walking briskly up the pavement towards
us with a small valise in his hand; a gentlemanly person of about
thirty-five or forty, in clerical suit and bands.

"Eh? Good-morning!" nodded the clergyman affably.

"Might I arsk where you're bound?" Then, after a pause, "My name's
Jope, sir; Benjamin Jope, of the _Bedford_, seventy-four, bo'sun's
mate--now paid off."

The clergyman, at first taken aback by the sudden question, recovered
his smile. "And mine, sir, is Whitmore--the Reverend John Whitmore--
bound just now in the direction of Dock. Can I serve you
thereabouts?"

Mr. Jope waved his hand towards the coach door. "Jump inside! Oh,
you needn't be ashamed to ride behind Bill!"

"But who is Bill?" The Rev. Mr. Whitmore advanced to the coach door
like a man in two minds. "Ah, I see--a funeral!" he exclaimed as a
mute advanced--assailed from each coach window, as he passed, with
indecorous obloquy--to announce that the _cortege_ was ready to
start. For the last two minutes heads had been popping out at these
windows--heads with dyed ringlets and heads with artificially
coloured noses--and their owners demanding to know if Ben Jope meant
to keep them there all day, if the corpse was expected to lead off
the ball, and so on; and I, cowering by the coach step, had shrunk
from their gaze as I flinched now under Mr. Whitmore's.

"Hallo!" said he, and gave me (as I thought) a searching look.
"What's this? A chimney-sweep?"

"If your Reverence will not object?"

I turned my eyes away, but felt that this clergyman was studying me.
"Not at all," said he quietly after a moment's pause. "Is he bound
for Dock, too?"

"He said so."

"Eh? Then we'll see that he gets there. After you, youngster!"
To my terror the words seemed charged with meaning, but I dared not
look him in the face. I clambered in and dropped into a seat with my
back to the driver. He placed himself opposite, nursing the valise
on his knees. Ben Jope came last and slammed-to the door after him.

"Way-ho!" he shouted. "Easy canvas!" and with that plumped down
beside me, and took off his tarpaulin hat, extracted a handkerchief,
and carefully wiped his brow and the back of his neck.

"Well!" he sighed. "Bill's launched, anyhow."

"Shipmate?" asked the clergyman.

"Messmate," answered Mr. Jope; and, opening his mouth, pointed down
it with his forefinger. "Not that a better fellow ever lived."

"I can quite believe it," said Mr. Whitmore sympathetically. He had
a pleasant voice, but somehow I did not want to catch his eye.
Instead I kept my gaze fastened upon the knees of his well-fitting
pantaloons. No divine could have been more correctly attired, and
yet there was a latent horsiness about his cut. I set him down for a
sporting parson from the country, and wondered why he wore clothes so
much superior to those of the Plymouth parsons known to me by sight.

"Just listen to that now!" exclaimed Mr. Jope. A cornet in one of
the coaches ahead had struck up _Tom Bowling_, and before we reached
the head of the street from coach after coach the funeral party broke
into song:

"Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of his crew-ew;
No more he'll hear the te--empest how--wow--ling,
For death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the--e ma--hanliest beau--eau--ty--"

"I wouldn't say that, quite," observed Mr. Jope pensively. "To begin
with, he'd had the small-pox."

"_De gustibus nil nisi bonum_," Mr. Whitmore observed soothingly.

"What's that?"

"Latin."

"Wonderful! Would ye mind saying it again?"

The words were obligingly repeated.

"Wonderful! And what might be the meaning of it, making so bold?"

"It means 'Speak well of the dead.'"

"Well, we're doing of it, anyhow. Hark to 'em ahead there!"

The _cortege_, in fact, was attracting general attention. Folks on
the pavement halted to watch and grin as we went by: one or two,
catching sight of familiar faces within the coaches, waved their
handkerchiefs or shouted back salutations: and as we crawled out of
Old Town Street and past St. Andrew's Church a small crowd raised
three cheers for us. And still above it the cornet blared and the
mourners' voices rose uproarious:

"His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair;
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turned to melanchol--ol--y--
For Tom is gone aloft."

"Bill couldn't sing a note," Mr. Jope murmured: "but as you say,
sir--Would you oblige us again?" Again the Latin was repeated, and
he swung round upon me. "Think of that, now! Be you a scholar,
hey?--read, write and cipher? How would you spell 'sojer' for
instance?"

The question knocked the wind out of me, and I felt my face whitening
under the clergyman's eyes.

"Soldier--S.O.L.D.I.E.R," I managed to answer, but scarce above a
whisper.

"Very good: now make a rhyme to it."

"I--please, sir, I don't know any rhymes."

"Well, that's honest, anyway. Now I'll tell you why I asked."
He turned and addressed Mr. Whitmore. "I'm Cornish born, sir; from
Saltash, up across the river. Afore I went to sea there was a maid
livin' next door to us that wanted to marry me. Well, when she found
I wasn't to be had, she picked up with a fellow from the Victualling
Yard and married he, and came down to Dock to live. Man's name was
Babbage, and they hadn't been married six months afore he tumbled
into a brine-vat and was drowned. 'That's one narrow escape to me,'
I said. Next news I had was a letter telling me she'd a boy born,
and please would I stand godfather? I didn't like to say no, out of
respect to her family. So I wrote home from Gibraltar that I was
agreeable, only it must be done by proxy and she mustn't make it no
precedent. That must be ten years back; and what with one thing and
another I never set eyes 'pon mother or child till yesterday when--
having to run down to Dock to order Bill's grave--I thought 'twould
be neighbourly to drop 'em a visit. I found the boy growed to be a
terrible plain child, about the size of this youngster. I didn't
like the boy at all. So I says to his mother, 'I s'pose he's
clever?'--for dang it! thinks I, he must be clever to make up for
being so plain-featured as all that. 'Benjy'--she'd a-called him
Benjamin after me--'Benjy's the cleverest child for his age that ever
you see,' she says. 'Why,' says she, 'he'll pitch-to and make up a
rhyme 'pon anything!' 'Can he so?' I says, pulling a great
crown-piece out of my pocket (not that I liked the cut of his jib,
but the woman had been hinting about my being his godfather):
'Now, my lad, let's see if you're so gifted as your mother makes out.
There's a sojer now passin' the window. Make a rhyme 'pon he, and
you shall have the money.' What d'ye think that ghastly boy did?
'Aw, that's easy,' he says--"

'Sojer, sojer,
Diddy, diddy, dodger!'

"'Now hand me over the money,' he says. I could have slapped his
ear."

Almost as he ended his simple story, the procession came to a halt:
the strains of _Tom Bowling_ changed into noisy--and, on the part of
the ladies, very unladylike--expostulations. Mr. Jope started
forward and leaned out of the window.

"I think," said the Rev. Mr. Whitmore, "we have arrived at the
toll-gate."

"D'ye mean to say the sharks want to take toll on Bill?"

"Likely enough."

"On Bill? And him a-going to his long home? Here--hold hard!"
Mr. Jope leapt out into the roadway and disappeared.

Upon us two, left alone in the coach, there fell a dreadful silence.
Mr. Whitmore leaned forward and touched my knee; and I met his eye.

The face I looked into was thin and refined; clean-shaven and a
trifle pale as if with the habit of study. A slight baldness by the
temples gave the brow unusual height. His eyes I did not like at
all: instead of soothing the terror in mine they seemed to be
drinking it in and tasting it and calculating.

"I passed by the Barbican just now," said he; "and heard some
inquiries about a small chimney-sweep."

He paused, as if waiting. But I had no speech in me.

"It was a very strange story they were telling--a very dreadful and
strange story: still when I came upon you I saw, of course, it was
incredible. Boys of your size"--he hesitated and left the sentence
unfinished. "Still, you may have seen something--hey?"

Again I could not answer.

"At any rate," he went on, "I gave you the benefit of the doubt and
resolved to warn you. It was a mistake to run away: but the
mischief's done. How were you proposing to make off?"

"You--you won't give me up, sir?"

"No, for I think you must be innocent--of what they told me, at
least. I feel so certain of it that, as you see, my conscience
allows me to warn you. In the first place, avoid the Torpoint Ferry.
It will without doubt be watched. I should make for the docks, hide
until night, and try to stow myself on shipboard. Secondly"--he put
out a hand and softly unfastened the coach door--"I am going to leave
you. Our friend Mr. Jope is engaged, I see, in an altercation with
the toll-keeper. He seems a good-natured fellow. The driver
(it may help you to know) is drunk. Of course, if by ill-luck they
trace me out, to question me, I shall be obliged to tell what I know.
It amounts to very little: still--I have no wish to tell it.
One word more: get a wash as soon as you can, and by some means
acquire a clean suit of clothes. I may be then unable to swear to
you: may be able to say that your face is as unfamiliar to me as it
was--or as mine was to you--when Mr. Jope introduced us. Eh?"
His look was piercing.

"Thank you, sir."

He picked up his valise, nodded, and after a swift glance up the
street and around at the driver, to make sure that his head was
turned, stepped briskly out upon the pavement and disappeared around
the back of the coach.

CHAPTER IX.

SALTASH FERRY.

Apparently the hackney coachman was accustomed to difficulties with
the toll-gate; for he rested on the box in profoundest slumber,
recumbent, with his chin sunk on his chest; and only woke up--with a
start which shook the vehicle--when a black hearse with plumes waving
went rattling by us and back towards Plymouth.

A minute later Mr. Jope reappeared at the coach door, perspiring
copiously, but triumphant.

"Oh, it's been heavinly!" he announced. "Why, hallo! Where's his
Reverence?"

"He couldn't wait, sir. He--he preferred to walk."

"Eh? I didn't see 'en pass the toll-bar. That's a pity, too; for
I wanted to take his opinion. Oh, my son, it's been heavinly!
First of all I tried argyment and called the toll-man a son of a
bitch; and then he fetched up a constable, and, as luck would have
it, Nan--she's in the second coach--knew all about _him_; leastways,
she talked as if she did. Well, the toll-man stuck to his card of
charges and said he hadn't made the law, but it was threepence for
everything on four wheels. 'Four wheels?' I said. 'Don't talk so
weak! We brought nothing into the world and we can't take it out;
but you'd take the breeches off a Highlander,' I says. 'He's on four
wheels,' says the fellow, stubborn as ever. 'So was Elijah,' says I;
'but if you're so mighty particular, we'll try ye another way.'
I paid off the crew of the hearse, gave the word to cast loose, and
down we dumped poor Bill slap in the middle of the roadway.
'Now,' says I, 'we'll leave talking of wheels. What's your charge
for 'en on the flat?' 'Eight bearers at a ha'penny makes fourpence,'
he says. 'No, no, my son,' I says, 'there ain't a-going to be no
bearers. _He's_ happy enough if he stops here all night. You may
charge 'en as a covered conveyance, as I see you've a right to; but
the card says nothing about rate of drivin', except that it mustn't
be reckless; and, you may lay to it, Bill won't be that.' At first
the constable talked big about obstructing the traffic: but Nan was
telling the crowd such terrible things about his past that for very
shame he grew quiet, and the pair agreed that, by lashin' Bill a-top
of the first coach, we might pass him through _gratis_ as personal
luggage--Why, what's the boy cryin' for? It's all over now; and a
principle's a principle."

But still, as the squadron got under way again and moved on amid the
cheers of the populace, I sat speechless, dry-eyed, shaken with
dreadful sobs.

"Easy, my lad--don't start the timbers. In trouble--hey?"

I nodded.

"I thought as much, when I shipped ye. Sit up, and tell me; but
first listen to this. All trouble's big to a boy, but one o' your
age don't often do what's past mendin', if he takes it honest.
That's comfort, hey? Very well: now haul up and inspect damages, and
we'll see what's to be done."

"It's about a Jew, sir," I stammered at length.

He nodded. "Now we're making headway."

"He--he was murdered. I saw him--"

"Look here," said Mr. Jope, very grave but seemingly not astonished:
"hadn't you best get under the seat?"

"I--I didn't do it, sir. Really, I didn't."

"I'm not suggestin' it," said Mr. Jope. "Still, all circumstances
considered, I'd get under the seat."

"If you wish it, sir."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say _that_: but 'tis my advice." And
under the seat I crawled obediently. "Now, then," said he, with an
absurd air of one addressing vacancy; "if you didn' do it, who did?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Then where's your difficulty?"

"But I saw a man staring in at the window--it was upstairs in a room
close to the roof; and afterwards I found him on the roof, and he was
all of a tremble, and in two minds, so he said, about pitching me
over. I showed him the way down. If you please, sir," I broke off,
"you're not to tell anyone about this, whatever happens!"

"Eh? Why not?"

"Because--" I hesitated.

"Friend of yours?"

"Not a friend, sir. He's a young man, in the Army; and his aunt--she
used to be very kind to me. I ran away at first because I was
afraid: but they can't do anything to me, can they? I didn't find
the--the--the--Mr. Rodriguez, I mean--until he was dead. But if they
catch me I shall have to give evidence, and Mr. Archie--though I
don't believe he did it--"

"Belay there!" commanded Mr. Jope! "I'm beginning to see things
clearer, though I won't say 'tis altogether easy to follow ye yet.
Far as I can make out, you're not a bad boy. You ran away because
you were scared. Well, I don't blame ye for that. I never seen a
dead Jew myself, though I often wanted to. You won't go back if you
can help it, 'cos why? 'Cos you don't want to tell on a man: 'cos
his aunt's a friend o' yourn: and 'cos you don't believe he's guilty.
What's your name?"

"Harry, sir: Harry Revel."

"Well, then, my name's Ben Jope, and as such you'll call me.
I'm sorry, in a way, that it rhymes with 'rope,' which it never
struck me before in all these years, and wouldn't now but for
thinkin' 'pon that ghastly godson o' mine and how much better I
stomach ye. I promise nothing, mind: but if you'll keep quiet under
that seat, I'll think it over."

Certainly, having made my confession, I felt easier in mind as I lay
huddled under the seat, though it seemed to me that Mr. Jope took
matters lightly. For the squadron ahead had resumed the singing of
_Tom Bowling_ and he sat humming a bar or two here and there with
evident pleasure, and paused only to bow out of window and
acknowledge the cheers of the passers-by.

At the end of five minutes, however, he spoke aloud again.

"The first thing," he announced, "is to stay where you are.
Let me think, now--Who seen you? There's the parson: he's gone.
And there's the jarvey: he's drunk as a lord. Anyone else?"

"There was one of the young ladies that looked out of window."

"True: then 'tis too risky. When the company gets out, you'll have
to get out. Let the jarvey see you do it: the rest don't matter.
You can pretend to walk with us a little way, then slip back and
under the seat again--takin' care that this time the jarvey _don't_
see you. That's easy enough, eh?"

I assured him I could manage it.

"Then leave the rest to me, and bide still. I got to think of Bill,
now; and more by token here's the graveyard gate!"

He thrust the door open and motioned me to tumble out ahead of him.
As the rest of the funeral guests alighted, he worked me very
skilfully before him into the driver's view, having taken care to set
the coach door wide on the off side.

"It's understood that you wait, all o' ye?" said Mr. Jope to the
driver.

The man lifted a lazy eye. "Take your time," he said: "don't mind
me. I hope "--he stiffened himself suddenly--"I knows a gentleman
when I sees one."

Mr. Jope turned away and from that moment ignored my existence.
The coffin was unlashed and lowered from the leading coach; the
clergyman at the gate began to recite the sacred office, and the
funeral train, reduced to decorum by his voice, followed him as he
turned, and trooped along the path towards the mortuary chapel.
I moved with the crowd to its porch, drew aside to make way for a
lady in rouge and sprigged muslin, and slipped behind the chapel
wall. The far end of it hid me from the view of the coaches, and
from it a pretty direct path led to a gap in the hedge, and a stile.
Reaching and crossing this, I found myself in a by-lane leading back
into the high road. There were no houses with windows to overlook
me. I sauntered around at leisure, took the line of coaches in the
rear, and crawled back to my hiding-place--it astonished me with what
ease. Every driver sat on his box, and every driver slumbered.

The mystery of this was resolved when--it seemed an hour later; but
actually, I dare say, Bill's obsequies took but the normal twenty
minutes or so--Mr. Jope shepherded his flock back through the gates
and, red-eyed, addressed them while he distributed largess along the
line of jarveys.

"I thank ye, friends," said he in a muffled voice which at first I
attributed to emotion. "The fare home is paid to the foot of George
Street--I arranged that with the jobmaster, and this here little gift
is private, between me and the drivers, to drink Bill's health. And
now I'll shake hands." Here followed sounds of coughing and choking,
and he resumed in feeble gasping sentences, "Thank ye, my dear; I've
brought up the two guineas, but you've a-made me swallow my quid o'
baccy. Hows'ever, you meant it for the best. And that's what I had
a mind to say to ye all." His voice grew firmer--"You're a pleasant
lot, and we've spent the time very lively and sociable, and you done
this here last service to Bill in a way that brings tears to my eyes.
Still, if you won't mind my saying it, a little of ye lasts a long
time, and I'm going home to live clean. So here's wishing all well,
and good-bye!"

Not one of the party seemed to resent this dismissal. The women
laughed hilariously and called him a darling. There was a smacking
exchange of kisses; and the coaches, having been packed at length,
started for home to the strains of the cornet and a chorus of cheers.
Mr. Jope sprang in beside me, and leaning out of the farther window,
waved his neckerchief for a while, then pensively readjusted it, and
called to the driver--

"St. Budeaux!"

The driver, after a moment, turned heavily in his seat, and answered,
"Nonsense!"

"I tell ye, I want to drive to St. Budeaux, by Saltash Ferry."

"And _I_ tell _you_, 'Get out!' St. Budeaux? The idea!"

"Why, what's wrong with St. Budeaux?"

"Oh, I'm not goin' to _argue_ with you," said the driver. "I'm goin'
home."

And he began to turn his horse's head. Mr. Jope sprang out upon the
roadway. The driver, with sudden and unexpected agility, dropped
off--on the other side.

"Look here, it's grindin' the faces of the poor!" he pleaded,
breathing hard.

"It _will_ be," assented Mr. Jope grimly.

"I been up all night: at a ball."

"If it comes to that, so've I: at Symonds's."

"Mine was at Admiralty House," said the driver. "I wasn' dancin'."

"What about the horse?"

"The horse? the ho--Oh, I take your meanin'! The horse is all right:
he's a fresh one. Poor I may be," he announced inconsecutively,
"but I wouldn' live the life of one of them there women of fashion,
not for a million of money." He ruminated for a moment. "Did I
say a million?"

"You did."

"Well I don't wishaggerate. I don't, if you understand me,
wish--to--exaggerate: so we'll put it at half a million."

"All right: jump up!"

To my astonishment, no less than to Mr. Jope's (who had scarcely time
to skip back into the coach), the man scrambled up to his seat
without more ado, flicked his whip, and began to urge the horse
forward. At the end of five minutes or so, however, he pulled up
just as abruptly.

"Eh?" Mr. Jope put forth his head. "Ah, I see--public-house!"

He alighted, and entered; returned with a pot of porter in one hand
and a glass of brandy in the other; dexterously tipped half the
brandy into the porter, and handed up the mixture. The driver took
it down at one steady draught.

The pot and glass were returned and we jogged on again. We were now
well beyond the outskirts of Stoke and between dusty hedges over
which the honeysuckle trailed. Butterflies poised themselves and
flickered beside us, and the sun, as it climbed, drew up from the
land the fragrance of freshly mown hay and mingled it with the stuffy
odour of the coach. By and by we halted again, by another roadside
inn, and again Mr. Jope fetched forth and administered insidious
drink.

"If this is going to last," said the charioteer dreamily, "may I have
strength to see the end o't!"

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