It was a forward year, as one might tell by the nearest cornfield, whose colour was of August rather than of July. The scent of the bean-fields thinned and grew subtler, though potent still to fuddle drunken wasps and tumbling butterflies; and all the air was strong with the breath of a lusty summer. Dove went — sauntered, as well as a man with a wooden leg could — toward the four-wont way, there to take observation north, west, east, and south-west along the cross roads. To the east Hadleigh street tailed away in the sunlight, and gave little sign of life beyond the merry ring of quick blows from Lingood’s smithy; west lay the road to London by way of Bread-and-cheese Hill, and there was nothing but a distant farm waggon creeping up from Vange; north was the road to Rayleigh, empty to sight save for the felled log on the wayside grass, whereon the village elders sat for evening recreation; so that Roboshobery Dove turned to the Bemfleet road, to walk just so far along it as would bring him to the nearest view of broad water and the traffic of Thames mouth. For to him this view was something like the reading of a newspaper; not a speck of humanity crawling and skipping on the green marshes far below, not a boat pulling through the blue water, but told some tale of local news to his long-used eyes; and all the tidings of London port were set before him, with no obscuring medium of print.
Where the road swung to the right he pushed aside a gate and entered a meadow. At the gate the Kent hills made a blue horizon, and in twenty yards one saw the Kent shore; twenty yards more, and many square miles of blue water lay below, gay with sunlight; and then the meadow fell away in a slope, and Canvey Island and the marshes lay green and flat below, like a great map.
Tide was low, and at the causeway from Bemfleet to the island an uncommon black patch was moving. It lengthened out in the wetter parts, and showed itself to be a crowd of men. The foremost were scarce high and dry on the island ere Dove, as much by induction as by his keen eyesight, perceived the purpose of the gathering.
“’Tis a prize-fight!” he said. “From Lunnon!” And instantly scrambled back at his best pace for the gate.
It was two miles to the causeway by the road, and there was no time to waste, or he would lose much of the fight ere he could come up with it. It might even be over if they were quick and it were a bad match. On the other hand it were a mean thing to rush off alone and tell none of his friends. Distracted between his two minds, he clapped hand to jaw and roared “Prentice ahoy!” in the direction in which Prentice’s kitchen chimney was just visible, away in the village. The shout might have been heard at Beggar’s Bush, but there came no answer, and at that moment Roboshobery perceived a boy grubbing for dandelion roots under the hedge. “Here, younker!” he called, “run an’ tell Master Prentice, an’ Master Lingood, an’ Master Fisk, an’ — an’ anybody else yow see, there’s a Lunnon prize-fight down to Canvey!” And instantly hurried off down the Bemfleet road.
Now Roboshobery Dove’s enthusiasm had caused him to forget the penny that would have sent the boy back on the errand without hesitation. As for the boy, he reflected that while he was carrying the news about the village he would be losing a deal of the fight himself; and a careful balancing of the advantage and consideration of being the bearer of important news before the event, against that of bringing home the tale of a prize-fight that nobody else had seen, led in a very few seconds to his stuffing into the hedge the old table-knife he was using, and hastening through the gate into the meadow; to gain Canvey Island by a direct route down hill-faces and over wet marsh, easy and quick enough for a boy, but not to be contemplated by anybody with a wooden leg. So that nobody from Hadleigh saw the fight but Roboshobery Dove and his truant messenger.
As for Dove, he stumped along with steady haste down the lane to Bemfleet. This was not the first fight, by many, that had come off on Canvey Island, and now that the railway was brought down almost to Bemfleet, the island was grown an uncommonly convenient spot.
The lane wound, ever descending, under the shade of tall trees, sometimes deep between banks, sometimes on the open hillside. At the first clear drop on the left, where water and marsh came in view again, Dove could see the crowd making briskly for the middle of the island, men carrying the ropes and stakes not far from the leaders; and then a little wood sprang on the hillside, and shut all out.
Presently, on the right, the hill fell away wholly, and left the road, descending still, to top its last ridge; throwing wide a great picture where Essex lay broad and fecund below, dotted with a score of hamlets, richly embushed with trees, motley with fields of many colours, and seamed with hedges. But Roboshobery’s face was turned the other way, over the water and the island, where the crowd was a less conspicuous mark now that it was seen from behind rather than from above. It was plain, however, that the battle-field had been reached, for a white spot in a meadow by Kibcaps Farm presently rose to a point, and was clearly a tent. Roboshobery reflected that the choice of ground was a good one, since the hay had lately been cut from that meadow, and the turf was springing again, fresh and short.
The road took a steeper pitch and a turn between high banks which allowed only an occasional peep over the open, waterwards: a peep that now included the stout square tower of Bemfleet Church, with its little wooden spire. Dove kept his pace at a steady thump, till he came on level ground at last by the church itself, and went on past the old carved wooden porch, whose posts were nailed thick with stoats and polecats; still with his eyes fixed ahead.
Nothing was visible of the crowd now, for all to be seen of Canvey Island was the low line of sea-wall across the Ray; though stragglers were still crossing, and several labourers from the new railroad were in view, who had flung down pick and shovel and were now making their best pace for the causeway. Dove picked his way with care over the rotten wood and wet stones, over the mud bank alive with little staggering crabs, and so gained the low road, confined by sea-wall on each side. There was still a mile to walk to the fight, though the way was level — the island, indeed, was everywhere flat as the water about it.
When at last he came again in sight of the crowd the fight was going merrily, and a tide of yells rolled back and forth across the field. Already the tent was demolished, having first been abandoned as a superfluous luxury once the men were stripped, and since having collapsed under the weight of unreasoning enthusiasts who in their efforts to find some commanding pitch on the dead flat of the meadow, had desperately stormed the canvas and clutched the pole at the top. But its mere presence was a sign that this was an important fight, furnished with uncommon elaboration, for Dove could not remember another fight hereabout to the use whereof a tent had been brought. And steadily under the broken surge of shouts ran the unceasing current of offered bets.
“I’ll back the little’un!” sang out Roboshobery Dove, swinging up impetuously. “I’ll back the little’un!” For backing the little one was a principle of his chivalry, which he was ever ready to uphold at any sacrifice, and which he now proclaimed, in his fervour, without staying to ascertain if there were any little one engaged.
It took a few minutes’ steady struggle to find out. It might at first be supposed that a man with a wooden leg would contend with a crowd at a serious disadvantage; but the point of that wooden leg with the most of fourteen stone weight above it, resting upon the live toes of a neighbour, would do much toward dispelling the opinion; and it will be perceived that if only you get far enough into a sufficiently thick crowd, you cannot be knocked down; indeed, in a crowd with anything of pugilistic tastes and education, there would be something more than reluctance to knock down a man who had lost a leg. So that, by one advantage and another, and not least by an energetic use of the stout arms still remaining to him, Roboshobery Dove presently found himself in a position to see the fight pretty clearly.
He was puzzled to guess which might be the little one. Near the centre of the square enclosed by the eight stakes and the two ropes the two men sparred, matched to a hair, or at any rate seeming so thus early in the encounter. Plainly they had
fought just long enough to learn a little of each other’s reach and style, and each had learned enough to decide him that nothing was to be gained by recklessness just yet. There was scarce a stain of grass on their white breeches, and the affable grin on each face was marred by nothing worse than a smear of blood and a highly coloured eye. As for the men themselves, there seemed not a pound of weight to choose between them, and whether each was nearer twelve or eleven stone it would have been hard to say. A yellow silk handkerchief hung over a corner post, and a red one with white spots over that at the opposite angle; and two men were pushing through opposite parts of the crowd, one with a bundle of yellow handkerchiefs and the other with a bundle of red and white. But customers for the colours were few just now, and the pushing and shouting and flourishing went for little profit.
“A shade of odds I’ll take!” cried a man in a white hat. “A shade of odds on either man!”
Instantly half a dozen turned toward him. “What’ll you take on the Bricky?” For it happened that the Bricky had finished the last round on top.
“Three to one,” answered the man in the white hat, who was out on business.
“Gr-r-r! A shade of odds! A shade! Enough shade to sit under with a bloomin’ tea-party!” Plainly most of the crowd were Londoners.
But now the Bricky was taking rather than giving, having “napped” a double left, in consequence of being a trifle shorter in reach than Paddington Sharp, his opposite. But he milled in, and soon made matters seem even again. Truly it was a very good fight. Good men, well trained — their skins were like pink ivory — fighting their best, and losing no chance by haste or ill-temper. Roboshobery cheered both impartially, and raked his pocket with the view of backing his fancy as soon as he had decided what it was.
But four rounds went, and still he could not make up his mind. For with him the reasonable desire to back the probable winner was tempered by a Quixotic impulse, regardless of shillings, to back the resolute hero holding on against the odds of ill-fortune. This fact alone was apt to breed indecision; but here the chances hung now this way and now that, with so regular a swing that it was difficult to distinguish which man should be favoured by sympathy and which by commercial prudence.
The Bricky was picked up and taken to his corner with his grin unspoiled, though one ear was thrice the size of the other, and needed a touch of the penknife. A large and red-faced man in a white overcoat — the weather notwithstanding — who stood just before Dove, opened a newspaper to seek information as to odds on a race; and Roboshobery, by twisting his neck, was just able to read a headline: “Latest News of the War.” But he had scarce deciphered the capitals when the red-faced man doubled the column under, the better to read what he wanted.
Time was called, and Paddington Sharp and the Bricky sprang from their corners and went to business with a rattle. Plainly the Bricky had orders to mix things up, and he hammered in with all his steam. The Paddington champion was no way loth, and the knuckles pelted merrily all round the ring. The red-faced man, with a pecuniary interest in the Bricky, waxed clamorous, and brandished his newspaper, folded into a truncheon, till presently it knocked off a neighbour’s hat. The neighbour said something hasty, and the red-faced man apologised, and let the paper drop.
Roboshobery Dove, eager for news, snatched it as it fell, and asked: “Den’t yow want to keep the newspaper, sir?”
The red-faced man, without turning his head, bequeathed the newspaper to the devil, and proceeded to encourage the Bricky with more shouts.
Dove saw the round through, and made up his mind that the Bricky was doing best; and as soon as the seconds had hold of their men he unfolded the paper and turned the war news uppermost.
The Black Sea news headed the column, and had nothing of importance. Nor did there seem anything very interesting at first under the heading “The Baltic Fleet.” And then of a sudden, just at the cry of “Time,” the paper went grey and blue before Roboshobery Dove’s eyes, and the tumult of shouts died in his ears.
He turned about like a man deadly sick, seeing and hearing nothing, conscious merely of staggering and buffeting against one thing after another, till he was away from the crowd and out on the road leading to the causeway.
He took his way by instinct, looking straight ahead, but seeing nothing. He was vaguely conscious of an abatement of noise, but could hear nothing distinctly yet but the steady thump of the wooden leg beneath him, which now, singularly enough, obtruded itself on his senses as it never did commonly. But for long this sound and a feeling that he was walking in a road in daylight were all the impressions his senses gave him.
For he had read this paragraph in the London paper:
“LUBECK, Monday. — At Baro Sound a landing party from the frigate Phyllis was fired on by a small body of Russians, who decamped, leaving one dead and two wounded behind them. Our loss was John Martin, ordinary seaman, killed.”
XVIII. — HEAVY TIDINGS
ROBOSHOBERY DOVE was half way up the long hill between Bemfleet and Hadleigh ere the numbness left his faculties, and his first new impression was one of physical nausea. He was sick, sick in the stomach at each jolt of the wooden leg as he strode up-hill. Then he remembered the newspaper. It was still in his hand, and he looked at it blankly, without knowing why. He fell to slapping his thigh with it at each step, and trying hard to think.
Canvey Island began to look like a map again, and the crowd by Kibcaps Farm lay a dark patch with a little square hole in the middle, where Paddington Sharp and the Bricky still pummeled one another for fifty pounds a side. But Roboshobery Dove saw nothing of that. He had himself fought for his life, he had seen men killed at his side even when he was a small boy, but that had never affected him like this. Why, he would have found it hard to say. For then he had seen the real thing, heard the groans and the babble of dying men, and felt the sticky, slimy blood under his bare feet on the deck; and now he merely read four lines in a London newspaper. Howbeit this was worse altogether.
He fell to wondering whom he should tell first; what Jack’s mother would say or do; what the people would say who had been calling her a witch. Perhaps they would say it was a judgment. But there — he was sick; sick as a cat; and he shuddered.
He had an odd, vague feeling of responsibility. He was bringing the horrible news; how could he face the boy’s mother and his cousin with it? More, how could he ever face them afterward? He had a confused feeling that he was somehow inflicting the blow himself.
So he took his way up the long hill, and at last emerged at the four-wont way. He went on past his own garden gate, without as much as a glance at the roses over his door or a look at the starlings that were ravaging his cherry tree. He hesitated for a moment at Prentice’s gate, looked up the garden path, saw Mrs Prentice at the upper window, and then went on to Lingood’s forge.
Steve Lingood had that morning finished an order of Murrell’s — almost a wholesale order. For the cunning man, finding himself in funds, had not only paid what he owed, but had bespoken three more bottles, to keep for sudden occasions. Murrell had given his order with an air, maintaining the advantage and authority which he felt that his rejection of Lingood’s overtures had given him over the smith. Perhaps, also, because of a remote consciousness that as yet the effect had been a trifle impaired by the continuance of the little debt. Lingood, on his part, had a first impulse to refuse the work; but he was a man of common sense as well as of independence, and he reflected that such a refusal would irritate Cunning Murrell, and in that way do Dorrily Thorn and her aunt no good — might even jeopardise that secret of his own that was in the wise man’s keeping. Further, that trade was trade, and the smith at Bemfleet or Leigh would make the bottles if he did not; and moreover, that another smith might do the work so thoroughly as to cause danger to life at the next explosion; whereas he, instructed by experience, might take private means to render that contingency less likely. Which, in truth, he did.
So he received the order civilly, and no
w the three bottles lay, wet from the tank, on a bench, while he and the boy turned their attention to a plough coulter.
Roboshobery Dove stood in the doorway, and Lingood, apprised by an obstruction of light, looked up. The old seaman stood black against the light, and it was not until Lingood came to the door that he saw that his face, commonly so broad and so brown, was white and drawn.
“Why,” said the smith, “yow fare gastered!”
Roboshobery Dove moved his lips, but found them dry; so he offered the newspaper, pointing to the paragraph with so thick and withal so shaky a forefinger that at first Lingood was puzzled to guess what piece of news had troubled him. Then young Jack Martin’s name came in view, and the smith read.
He was never a demonstrative man, but now he dropped the newspaper and stared dully, like a sleep-walker. He paled, too; but for him this thing meant more than Dove knew, and he put his hand over eyes and forehead, as though something heavy had struck him there and distracted his senses.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 122