“And what of you, Mr Strange? How do you get on?”
“I? I do not get on at all. No one wants me here. I am addressed – on the rare occasions when any one speaks to me at all – quite indiscriminately as Mr Strange or Mr Norrell. No one seems to have any notion that these might be distinct persons.”
Briscall laughed.
“And Lord Wellington rejects all my offers of help as soon as I make them.”
“Why? What have you offered him?”
Strange told him about his first proposal to send a plague of frogs to fall on the French from the sky.
“Well, I am really not at all surprized he refused that!” said Briscall, contemptuously. “The French cook frogs and eat them, do they not? It is a vital part of Lord Wellington’s plan that the French should starve. You might as well have offered to drop roast chickens on their heads or pork pies!”
“It is not my fault,” said Strange, a little stung. “I would be only too glad to take Lord Wellington’s plans into consideration – only I do not know what they are. In London the Admiralty told us their intentions and we shaped our magic accordingly.”
“I see,” said Briscall. “Forgive me, Mr Strange – perhaps I have not understood very well – but it seems to me that you have a great advantage here. In London you were obliged to rely upon the Admiralty’s opinion as to what might be happening hundreds of miles away – and I dare say the Admiralty was quite often mistaken. Here you can go and see for yourself. Your experience is no different from my own. When I first arrived no one took the least notice of me either. I drifted from one regiment to another. No one wanted me.”
“And yet now you are a part of Wellington’s Staff. How did you do it?”
“It took time, but in the end I was able to prove my usefulness to his lordship – and I am sure you will do the same.”
Strange sighed. “I try. But all I seem to do is demonstrate my superfluousness. Over and over again!”
“Nonsense! As far as I can see you have only made one real mistake – and that is in remaining here in Lisbon. If you take my advice, you will leave as soon as you can. Go and sleep on the mountains with the men and the officers! You will not understand them until you do. Talk to them. Spend your days with them in the deserted villages beyond the Lines. They will soon love you for it. They are the best fellows in the world.”
“Really? It was reported in London that Wellington had called them the scum of the earth.”
Briscall laughed as if being the scum of the earth were a very minor sort of indiscretion and indeed a large part of the Army’s charm. This was, thought Strange, an odd position for a clergyman to take.
“Which are they?” he asked.
“They are both, Mr Strange. They are both. Well, what do you say? Will you go?”
Strange frowned. “I do not know. It is not that I fear hardship and discomfort, you understand. I believe I can endure as much of that sort of thing as most men. But I know no one there. I seem to have been in every body’s way since I arrived and without friends to go to …”
“Oh! That is easily remedied! This is not London or Bath where one needs letters of introduction. Take a barrel of brandy – and a case or two of Champagne if your servant can carry them. You will soon have a very wide acquaintance among the officers if you have brandy and Champagne to spare.”
“Really? It is as simple as that, is it?”
“Oh, to be sure! But do not trouble to take any red wine. They have plenty of that already.”
A few days later Strange and Jeremy Johns left Lisbon for the country beyond the Lines. The British officers and men were a little surprized to find a magician in their midst. They wrote letters home to their friends describing him in a variety of uncomplimentary ways and wondering what in the world he was doing there. But Strange did as Mr Briscall had advised. Every officer he met was invited to come and drink Champagne with him that evening after dinner. They soon excused him the eccentricity of his profession. What mattered was that one could always meet with some very jolly fellows at Strange’s bivouack and something decent to drink.
Strange also took up smoking. It had never really appealed to him as a pastime before, but he discovered that a ready supply of tobacco was quite invaluable for striking up conversations with the enlisted men.
It was an odd sort of life and an eerie sort of landscape. The villages beyond the Lines had all been emptied of inhabitants on Lord Wellington’s instructions and the crops burnt. The soldiers of both armies went down to the deserted villages and helped themselves to whatever looked useful. On the British side it was not unusual to come upon sophas, wardrobes, beds, chairs and tables standing on a hillside or in a woodland glade. Occasionally one would find whole bed-chambers or drawing-rooms, complete with shaving equipment, books and lamps, but minus the impediment of walls and ceiling.
But if the British Army suffered inconvenience from the wind and the rain, then the plight of the French Army was far, far worse. Their clothes were in rags and they had nothing to eat. They had been staring at Lord Wellington’s Lines since the previous October. They could not attack the British Army – it had three lines of impregnable forts behind which to retreat at any moment it chose. Nor did Lord Wellington trouble to attack the French. Why should he, when Hunger and Disease were killing his enemies faster than he could? On the 5th of March the French struck camp and turned north. Within a very few hours Lord Wellington and the British Army were in pursuit. Jonathan Strange went with them.
One very rainy morning about the middle of the month Strange was riding at the side of a road along which the 95th Rifles were marching. He happened to spy some particular friends of his a little way ahead. Urging his horse to a canter, he soon caught up with them.
“Good morning, Ned,” he said, addressing a man he had reason to regard as a thoughtful, sensible sort of person.
“Good morning, sir,” said Ned, cheerfully.
“Ned?”
“Yes, sir?”
“What is it that you chiefly desire? I know it is an odd question, Ned, and you will excuse my asking it. But I really need to know.”
Ned did not answer immediately. He sucked in his breath and furrowed his brow and exhibited other signs of deep thinking. Meanwhile his comrades helpfully told Strange what they chiefly desired – things such as magic pots of gold that would never be empty and houses carved out of a single diamond. One, a Welshman, sang out dolefully, “Toasted cheese! Toasted cheese!” several times – which caused the others to laugh a good deal, Welshmen being naturally humorous.
Meanwhile Ned had got to the end of his ruminations. “New boots,” he said.
“Really?” said Strange in surprize.
“Yes, sir,” answered Ned. “New boots. It is these d—d Portuguese roads.” He gestured ahead at the collection of stones and pot-holes that the Portuguese were pleased to call a road. “They tear a man’s boots to ribbons and at night his bones ache from walking over them. But if I had new boots, oh! wouldn’t I be fresh after a day’s march? Couldn’t I just fight the French then? Couldn’t I just make Johnny sweat for it?”
“Your appetite for the fray does you great credit, Ned,” said Strange. “Thank you. You have given me an excellent answer.” He rode off, followed by a great many shouts of “When will Ned be getting his boots, then?” and “Where’s Ned’s boots?”
That evening Lord Wellington’s headquarters were set up in a once-splendid mansion in the village of Lousão. The house had once belonged to a wealthy and patriotic Portuguese nobleman, José Estoril, but he and his sons had all been tortured and killed by the French. His wife had died of a fever, and various stories were in circulation concerning the sad fate of his daughters. For many months it had been a very melancholy place, but now Wellington’s Staff had arrived to fill it with the sound of their noisy jokes and arguments, and the gloomy rooms were made almost cheerful by the officers in their coats of red and blue passing in and out.
The hour before dinner was one o
f the busiest of the day and the room was crowded with officers bringing reports or collecting orders, or simply gathering gossip. At one end of the room was a very venerable, ornate and crumbling stone staircase which led to a pair of ancient doors. Behind the doors, it was said, Lord Wellington was hard at work devising new plans to defeat the French, and it was a curious fact that everyone who came into the room was sure to cast a respectful glance up to the top of that staircase. Two of Wellington’s senior staff, the Quartermaster-General, Colonel George Murray, and the Adjutant-General, General Charles Stewart, were seated one upon either side of a large table, both busily engaged in making arrangements for the disposal of the Army upon the following day. And I pause here merely to observe that if, upon reading the words “Colonel” and “General”, you fancy these are two old men sitting at the table, you could not be more wrong. It is true that when the French war had begun eighteen years before, the British Army had been commanded by some very venerable old persons many of whom had passed their whole careers without glimpsing a battlefield. But the years had gone by and these old generals were all retired or dead and it had been found more convenient to replace them with younger, more energetic men. Wellington himself was only a little more than forty and most of his senior officers were younger still. The room in José Estoril’s house was a room of young men, all fond of a fight, all fond of dancing, all quite devoted to Lord Wellington.
The March evening, though rainy, was mild – as mild as May in England. Since his death, José Estoril’s garden had grown wild and in particular a great number of lilac trees had appeared, crowding against the walls of the house. These trees were now all in flower and the windows and shutters of the house stood open to let in the damp, lilac-scented air. Suddenly Colonel Murray and General Stewart found that both they and their important papers were being comprehensively showered with drops of water. On looking up in some indignation they saw Strange, outside on the verandah unconcernedly shaking the water off his umbrella.
He entered the room and bid good evening to various officers with whom he had some acquaintance. He approached the table and inquired if he might possibly speak to Lord Wellington. General Stewart, a proud, handsome man, made no reply other than to shake his head vigorously. Colonel Murray, who was a gentler and more courteous soul, said he feared it would not be possible.
Strange glanced up the venerable staircase to the great carved doors behind which his lordship sat. (Curious how everyone who entered knew instinctively where he was to be found. Such is the fascination that great men exert!) Strange shewed no inclination to go. Colonel Murray supposed that he must be feeling lonely.
A tall man with vivid black eyebrows and long black mustaches to match approached the table. He wore the dark blue jacket and gold braid of the Light Dragoons. “Where have you put the French prisoners?” he demanded of Colonel Murray.
“In the belfry,” said Colonel Murray.
“That will do,” said the man. “I only ask because last night Colonel Pursey put three Frenchmen in a little shed, thinking they could do no harm there. But it seems some lads of the 52nd had previously put some chickens in the shed and during the night the Frenchmen ate the chickens. Colonel Pursey said that this morning several of his lads were eyeing the Frenchmen in a very particular manner as if they were wondering how much of the flavour of the chickens had got into the Frenchmen and whether it might not be worth cooking one of them to find out.”
“Oh!” said Colonel Murray. “There is no danger of any thing like that happening tonight. The only other creatures in the belfry are the rats and I should think that if any one is going to eat any one else, the rats will eat the Frenchmen.”
Colonel Murray, General Stewart and the man with black mustaches began to laugh, when suddenly they were interrupted by the magician saying, “The road between Espinhal and Lousão is abominably bad.” (This was the road along which a substantial part of the British Army had come that day.)
Colonel Murray agreed that the road was very bad indeed.
Strange continued, “I cannot tell how many times today my horse stumbled into pot-holes and slipped in the mud. I was certain she would fall lame. Yet it was no worse than any of the other roads that I have seen since I arrived here, and tomorrow I understand some of us must go where there are no roads whatsoever.”
“Yes,” said Colonel Murray, wishing very heartily that the magician would go away.
“Through flooded rivers and stony plains, and through woods and thickets, I suppose,” said Strange. “That will be very bad for all of us. I dare say we shall make very poor progress. I dare say we shall not get on at all.”
“It is one of the disadvantages of waging war in such a backward, out-of-the-way place as Portugal,” said Colonel Murray.
General Stewart said nothing but the angry look he gave the magician expressed quite clearly his opinion that perhaps Mr Strange would make better progress if he and his horse took themselves back to London.
“To take forty-five thousand men and all their horses and carts and equipment, across such an abominable country! No one in England would believe it possible.” Strange laughed. “It is a pity that his lordship cannot spare a moment to talk to me, but perhaps you will be so good as to give him a message. Say this: Mr Strange presents his compliments to Lord Wellington and says that if it is of any interest to his lordship to have a nice, well-made road for the Army to march along tomorrow, then Mr Strange will be glad to conjure one up for him. Oh! And if he wishes he may have bridges too, to replace the ones the French have blown up. Good evening to you.” With that Strange bowed to both gentlemen, picked up his umbrella and left.
Strange and Jeremy Johns had been unable to find anywhere to stay in Lousão. None of the gentlemen who found quarters for the generals and told the rest of the soldiers which damp field they were to sleep in, had made any provision for the magician and his servant. Strange had eventually agreed terms for a tiny upstairs room with a man who kept a little wine shop a few miles down the road to Miranda de Corvo.
Strange and Jeremy ate the supper the wine-shop owner had provided for them. It was a stew and their evening’s entertainment chiefly consisted in trying to guess what had gone into it.
“What the devil is that?” asked Strange, holding up his fork. On the end of it was something whitish and glistening that curled over and under itself.
“A fish perhaps?” ventured Jeremy.
“It looks more like a snail,” said Strange.
“Or part of someone’s ear,” added Jeremy.
Strange stared at it a moment longer. “Would you like it?” he asked.
“No, thank you, sir,” said Jeremy with a resigned glance into his own cracked plate, “I have several of my own.”
When they had finished supper and when the last candle had burnt out there seemed nothing else to do but go to bed – and so they did. Jeremy curled up upon one side of the room and Strange lay down upon the other. Each had devised his own bed from whatever materials had taken his fancy. Jeremy had a mattress fashioned out of his spare clothes and Strange had a pillow formed chiefly of books from Mr Norrell’s library.
All at once there came the sound of someone’s horse galloping up the road to the little wine-shop. This was quickly followed by the sound of someone’s boots pounding up the rickety stairs, which in turn was followed by the sound of someone’s fist pounding on the ramshackle door. The door opened and a smart young man in the uniform of the Hussars half-tumbled into the room. The smart young man was somewhat out of breath but managed to convey, between gulps of air, that Lord Wellington presented his compliments to Mr Strange and that if it was at all convenient to Mr Strange Lord Wellington would like to speak to him immediately.
At José Estoril’s house Wellington was at dinner with a number of his staff officers and other gentlemen. Strange could have sworn that the gentlemen at the table had all been engaged in the liveliest conversation up to the moment when he entered the room, but now all fell s
ilent. This rather suggested that they had been talking about him.
“Ah, Strange!” cried Lord Wellington, raising a glass in greeting. “There you are! I have had three aides-de-camp looking for you all evening. I wished to invite you to dinner, but my boys could not find you. Sit down anyway and have some Champagne and dessert.”
Strange looked rather wistfully at the remains of the dinner which the servants were clearing away. Among other good things Strange believed he recognized were the remains of some roast geese, the shells from buttered prawns, half a ragoo of celery, and the ends of some spicy Portuguese sausages. He thanked his lordship and sat down. A servant brought him a glass of Champagne and he helped himself to almond-tart and dried cherries.
“And how do you like the war, Mr Strange?” asked a fox-haired, fox-faced gentleman at the other end of the table.
“Oh, it is a little confusing at first, like most things,” said Strange, “but having now experienced many of the adventures a war affords, I grow used to it. I have been robbed – once. I have been shot at – once. Once I found a Frenchman in the kitchen and had to chase him out, and once the house I was sleeping in was set on fire.”
“By the French?” inquired General Stewart.
“No, no. By the English. There was a company of the 43rd who were apparently very cold that night and so they set fire to the house to warm themselves.”
“Oh, that always happens!” said General Stewart.
There was a little pause and then another gentleman in a cavalry uniform said, “We have been talking – arguing rather – about magic and how it is done. Strathclyde says that you and the other magician have given every word in the Bible a number, and you look for the words to make up the spell and then you add the numbers together and then you do something else and then …”
“That was not what I said!” complained another person, presumably Strathclyde. “You have not understood at all!”
“I am afraid I have never done any thing remotely resembling what you describe,” said Strange. “It seems rather complicated and I do not think it would work. As to how I do magic, there are many, many procedures. As many, I dare say, as for making war.”
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Page 36