CHAPTER XI.
How George, once upon a time, got up early in the morning.--George,Harris, and Montmorency do not like the look of the cold water.--Heroismand determination on the part of J.--George and his shirt: story with amoral.--Harris as cook.--Historical retrospect, specially inserted forthe use of schools.
I woke at six the next morning; and found George awake too. We bothturned round, and tried to go to sleep again, but we could not. Hadthere been any particular reason why we should not have gone to sleepagain, but have got up and dressed then and there, we should have droppedoff while we were looking at our watches, and have slept till ten. Asthere was no earthly necessity for our getting up under another two hoursat the very least, and our getting up at that time was an utterabsurdity, it was only in keeping with the natural cussedness of thingsin general that we should both feel that lying down for five minutes morewould be death to us.
George said that the same kind of thing, only worse, had happened to himsome eighteen months ago, when he was lodging by himself in the house ofa certain Mrs. Gippings. He said his watch went wrong one evening, andstopped at a quarter-past eight. He did not know this at the timebecause, for some reason or other, he forgot to wind it up when he wentto bed (an unusual occurrence with him), and hung it up over his pillowwithout ever looking at the thing.
It was in the winter when this happened, very near the shortest day, anda week of fog into the bargain, so the fact that it was still very darkwhen George woke in the morning was no guide to him as to the time. Hereached up, and hauled down his watch. It was a quarter-past eight.
"Angels and ministers of grace defend us!" exclaimed George; "and herehave I got to be in the City by nine. Why didn't somebody call me? Oh,this is a shame!" And he flung the watch down, and sprang out of bed,and had a cold bath, and washed himself, and dressed himself, and shavedhimself in cold water because there was not time to wait for the hot, andthen rushed and had another look at the watch.
Whether the shaking it had received in being thrown down on the bed hadstarted it, or how it was, George could not say, but certain it was thatfrom a quarter-past eight it had begun to go, and now pointed to twentyminutes to nine.
George snatched it up, and rushed downstairs. In the sitting-room, allwas dark and silent: there was no fire, no breakfast. George said it wasa wicked shame of Mrs. G., and he made up his mind to tell her what hethought of her when he came home in the evening. Then he dashed on hisgreat-coat and hat, and, seizing his umbrella, made for the front door.The door was not even unbolted. George anathematized Mrs. G. for a lazyold woman, and thought it was very strange that people could not get upat a decent, respectable time, unlocked and unbolted the door, and ranout.
He ran hard for a quarter of a mile, and at the end of that distance itbegan to be borne in upon him as a strange and curious thing that therewere so few people about, and that there were no shops open. It wascertainly a very dark and foggy morning, but still it seemed an unusualcourse to stop all business on that account. _He_ had to go to business:why should other people stop in bed merely because it was dark and foggy!
At length he reached Holborn. Not a shutter was down! not a bus wasabout! There were three men in sight, one of whom was a policeman; amarket-cart full of cabbages, and a dilapidated looking cab. Georgepulled out his watch and looked at it: it was five minutes to nine! Hestood still and counted his pulse. He stooped down and felt his legs.Then, with his watch still in his hand, he went up to the policeman, andasked him if he knew what the time was.
[Picture: George and the policeman] "What's the time?" said the man,eyeing George up and down with evident suspicion; "why, if you listen youwill hear it strike."
George listened, and a neighbouring clock immediately obliged.
"But it's only gone three!" said George in an injured tone, when it hadfinished.
"Well, and how many did you want it to go?" replied the constable.
"Why, nine," said George, showing his watch.
"Do you know where you live?" said the guardian of public order,severely.
George thought, and gave the address.
"Oh! that's where it is, is it?" replied the man; "well, you take myadvice and go there quietly, and take that watch of yours with you; anddon't let's have any more of it."
And George went home again, musing as he walked along, and let himselfin.
At first, when he got in, he determined to undress and go to bed again;but when he thought of the redressing and re-washing, and the having ofanother bath, he determined he would not, but would sit up and go tosleep in the easy-chair.
But he could not get to sleep: he never felt more wakeful in his life; sohe lit the lamp and got out the chess-board, and played himself a game ofchess. But even that did not enliven him: it seemed slow somehow; so hegave chess up and tried to read. He did not seem able to take any sortof interest in reading either, so he put on his coat again and went outfor a walk.
It was horribly lonesome and dismal, and all the policemen he metregarded him with undisguised suspicion, and turned their lanterns on himand followed him about, and this had such an effect upon him at last thathe began to feel as if he really had done something, and he got toslinking down the by-streets and hiding in dark doorways when he heardthe regulation flip-flop approaching.
Of course, this conduct made the force only more distrustful of him thanever, and they would come and rout him out and ask him what he was doingthere; and when he answered, "Nothing," he had merely come out for astroll (it was then four o'clock in the morning), they looked as thoughthey did not believe him, and two plain-clothes constables came home withhim to see if he really did live where he had said he did. They saw himgo in with his key, and then they took up a position opposite and watchedthe house.
He thought he would light the fire when he got inside, and make himselfsome breakfast, just to pass away the time; but he did not seem able tohandle anything from a scuttleful of coals to a teaspoon without droppingit or falling over it, and making such a noise that he was in mortal fearthat it would wake Mrs. G. up, and that she would think it was burglarsand open the window and call "Police!" and then these two detectiveswould rush in and handcuff him, and march him off to the police-court.
He was in a morbidly nervous state by this time, and he pictured thetrial, and his trying to explain the circumstances to the jury, andnobody believing him, and his being sentenced to twenty years' penalservitude, and his mother dying of a broken heart. So he gave up tryingto get breakfast, and wrapped himself up in his overcoat and sat in theeasy-chair till Mrs. G came down at half-past seven.
He said he had never got up too early since that morning: it had beensuch a warning to him.
We had been sitting huddled up in our rugs while George had been tellingme this true story, and on his finishing it I set to work to wake upHarris with a scull. The third prod did it: and he turned over on theother side, and said he would be down in a minute, and that he would havehis lace-up boots. We soon let him know where he was, however, by theaid of the hitcher, and he sat up suddenly, sending Montmorency, who hadbeen sleeping the sleep of the just right on the middle of his chest,sprawling across the boat.
Then we pulled up the canvas, and all four of us poked our heads out overthe off-side, and looked down at the water and shivered. The idea,overnight, had been that we should get up early in the morning, fling offour rugs and shawls, and, throwing back the canvas, spring into the riverwith a joyous shout, and revel in a long delicious swim. Somehow, nowthe morning had come, the notion seemed less tempting. The water lookeddamp and chilly: the wind felt cold.
"Well, who's going to be first in?" said Harris at last.
There was no rush for precedence. George settled the matter so far as hewas concerned by retiring into the boat and pulling on his socks.Montmorency gave vent to an involuntary howl, as if merely thinking ofthe thing had given him the horrors; and Harris said it would be sodifficult to get into the boat again, and
went back and sorted out histrousers.
I did not altogether like to give in, though I did not relish the plunge.There might be snags about, or weeds, I thought. I meant to compromisematters by going down to the edge and just throwing the water overmyself; so I took a towel and crept out on the bank and wormed my wayalong on to the branch of a tree that dipped down into the water.
[Picture: In the Thames] It was bitterly cold. The wind cut like aknife. I thought I would not throw the water over myself after all. Iwould go back into the boat and dress; and I turned to do so; and, as Iturned, the silly branch gave way, and I and the towel went in togetherwith a tremendous splash, and I was out mid-stream with a gallon ofThames water inside me before I knew what had happened.
"By Jove! old J.'s gone in," I heard Harris say, as I came blowing to thesurface. "I didn't think he'd have the pluck to do it. Did you?"
"Is it all right?" sung out George.
"Lovely," I spluttered back. "You are duffers not to come in. Iwouldn't have missed this for worlds. Why won't you try it? It onlywants a little determination."
But I could not persuade them.
Rather an amusing thing happened while dressing that morning. I was verycold when I got back into the boat, and, in my hurry to get my shirt on,I accidentally jerked it into the water. It made me awfully wild,especially as George burst out laughing. I could not see anything tolaugh at, and I told George so, and he only laughed the more. I neversaw a man laugh so much. I quite lost my temper with him at last, and Ipointed out to him what a drivelling maniac of an imbecile idiot he was;but he only roared the louder. And then, just as I was landing theshirt, I noticed that it was not my shirt at all, but George's, which Ihad mistaken for mine; whereupon the humour of the thing struck me forthe first time, and I began to laugh. And the more I looked fromGeorge's wet shirt to George, roaring with laughter, the more I wasamused, and I laughed so much that I had to let the shirt fall back intothe water again.
"Ar'n't you--you--going to get it out?" said George, between his shrieks.
I could not answer him at all for a while, I was laughing so, but, atlast, between my peals I managed to jerk out:
"It isn't my shirt--it's _yours_!"
I never saw a man's face change from lively to severe so suddenly in allmy life before.
"What!" he yelled, springing up. "You silly cuckoo! Why can't you bemore careful what you're doing? Why the deuce don't you go and dress onthe bank? You're not fit to be in a boat, you're not. Gimme thehitcher."
I tried to make him see the fun of the thing, but he could not. Georgeis very dense at seeing a joke sometimes.
Harris proposed that we should have scrambled eggs for breakfast. Hesaid he would cook them. It seemed, from his account, that he was verygood at doing scrambled eggs. He often did them at picnics and when outon yachts. He was quite famous for them. People who had once tasted hisscrambled eggs, so we gathered from his conversation, never cared for anyother food afterwards, but pined away and died when they could not getthem.
It made our mouths water to hear him talk about the things, and we handedhim out the stove and the frying-pan and all the eggs that had notsmashed and gone over everything in the hamper, and begged him to begin.
He had some trouble in breaking the eggs--or rather not so much troublein breaking them exactly as in getting them into the frying-pan whenbroken, and keeping them off his trousers, and preventing them fromrunning up his sleeve; but he fixed some half-a-dozen into the pan atlast, and then squatted down by the side of the stove and chivied themabout with a fork.
It seemed harassing work, so far as George and I could judge. Wheneverhe went near the pan he burned himself, and then he would drop everythingand dance round the stove, flicking his fingers about and cursing thethings. Indeed, every time George and I looked round at him he was sureto be performing this feat. We thought at first that it was a necessarypart of the culinary arrangements.
We did not know what scrambled eggs were, and we fancied that it must besome Red Indian or Sandwich Islands sort of dish that required dances andincantations for its proper cooking. Montmorency went and put his noseover it once, and the fat spluttered up and scalded him, and then _he_began dancing and cursing. Altogether it was one of the most interestingand exciting operations I have ever witnessed. George and I were bothquite sorry when it was over.
The result was not altogether the success that Harris had anticipated.There seemed so little to show for the business. Six eggs had gone intothe frying-pan, and all that came out was a teaspoonful of burnt andunappetizing looking mess.
Harris said it was the fault of the frying-pan, and thought it would havegone better if we had had a fish-kettle and a gas-stove; and we decidednot to attempt the dish again until we had those aids to housekeeping byus.
The sun had got more powerful by the time we had finished breakfast, andthe wind had dropped, and it was as lovely a morning as one could desire.Little was in sight to remind us of the nineteenth century; and, as welooked out upon the river in the morning sunlight, we could almost fancythat the centuries between us and that ever-to-be-famous June morning of1215 had been drawn aside, and that we, English yeomen's sons in homespuncloth, with dirk at belt, were waiting there to witness the writing ofthat stupendous page of history, the meaning whereof was to be translatedto the common people some four hundred and odd years later by one OliverCromwell, who had deeply studied it.
It is a fine summer morning--sunny, soft, and still. But through the airthere runs a thrill of coming stir. King John has slept at DuncroftHall, and all the day before the little town of Staines has echoed to theclang of armed men, and the clatter of great horses over its roughstones, and the shouts of captains, and the grim oaths and surly jests ofbearded bowmen, billmen, pikemen, and strange-speaking foreign spearmen.
Gay-cloaked companies of knights and squires have ridden in, alltravel-stained and dusty. And all the evening long the timid townsmen'sdoors have had to be quick opened to let in rough groups of soldiers, forwhom there must be found both board and lodging, and the best of both, orwoe betide the house and all within; for the sword is judge and jury,plaintiff and executioner, in these tempestuous times, and pays for whatit takes by sparing those from whom it takes it, if it pleases it to doso.
Round the camp-fire in the market-place gather still more of the Barons'troops, and eat and drink deep, and bellow forth roystering drinkingsongs, and gamble and quarrel as the evening grows and deepens intonight. The firelight sheds quaint shadows on their piled-up arms and ontheir uncouth forms. The children of the town steal round to watch them,wondering; and brawny country wenches, laughing, draw near to bandyale-house jest and jibe with the swaggering troopers, so unlike thevillage swains, who, now despised, stand apart behind, with vacant grinsupon their broad, peering faces. And out from the fields around, glitterthe faint lights of more distant camps, as here some great lord'sfollowers lie mustered, and there false John's French mercenaries hoverlike crouching wolves without the town.
And so, with sentinel in each dark street, and twinkling watch-fires oneach height around, the night has worn away, and over this fair valley ofold Thame has broken the morning of the great day that is to close so bigwith the fate of ages yet unborn.
Ever since grey dawn, in the lower of the two islands, just above wherewe are standing, there has been great clamour, and the sound of manyworkmen. The great pavilion brought there yester eve is being raised,and carpenters are busy nailing tiers of seats, while 'prentices fromLondon town are there with many-coloured stuffs and silks and cloth ofgold and silver.
And now, lo! down upon the road that winds along the river's bank fromStaines there come towards us, laughing and talking together in deepguttural bass, a half-a-score of stalwart halbert-men--Barons' men,these--and halt at a hundred yards or so above us, on the other bank, andlean upon their arms, and wait.
And so, from hour to hour, march up along the road ever fresh groups andbands of armed
men, their casques and breastplates flashing back the longlow lines of morning sunlight, until, as far as eye can reach, the wayseems thick with glittering steel and prancing steeds. And shoutinghorsemen are galloping from group to group, and little banners arefluttering lazily in the warm breeze, and every now and then there is adeeper stir as the ranks make way on either side, and some great Baron onhis war-horse, with his guard of squires around him, passes along to takehis station at the head of his serfs and vassals.
And up the slope of Cooper's Hill, just opposite, are gathered thewondering rustics and curious townsfolk, who have run from Staines, andnone are quite sure what the bustle is about, but each one has adifferent version of the great event that they have come to see; and somesay that much good to all the people will come from this day's work; butthe old men shake their heads, for they have heard such tales before.
And all the river down to Staines is dotted with small craft and boatsand tiny coracles--which last are growing out of favour now, and are usedonly by the poorer folk. Over the rapids, where in after years trim BellWeir lock will stand, they have been forced or dragged by their sturdyrowers, and now are crowding up as near as they dare come to the greatcovered barges, which lie in readiness to bear King John to where thefateful Charter waits his signing.
It is noon, and we and all the people have been waiting patient for manyan hour, and the rumour has run round that slippery John has againescaped from the Barons' grasp, and has stolen away from Duncroft Hallwith his mercenaries at his heels, and will soon be doing other work thansigning charters for his people's liberty.
Not so! This time the grip upon him has been one of iron, and he hasslid and wriggled in vain. Far down the road a little cloud of dust hasrisen, and draws nearer and grows larger, and the pattering of many hoofsgrows louder, and in and out between the scattered groups of drawn-upmen, there pushes on its way a brilliant cavalcade of gay-dressed lordsand knights. And front and rear, and either flank, there ride the yeomenof the Barons, and in the midst King John.
He rides to where the barges lie in readiness, and the great Barons stepforth from their ranks to meet him. He greets them with a smile andlaugh, and pleasant honeyed words, as though it were some feast in hishonour to which he had been invited. But as he rises to dismount, hecasts one hurried glance from his own French mercenaries drawn up in therear to the grim ranks of the Barons' men that hem him in.
Is it too late? One fierce blow at the unsuspecting horseman at hisside, one cry to his French troops, one desperate charge upon the unreadylines before him, and these rebellious Barons might rue the day theydared to thwart his plans! A bolder hand might have turned the game evenat that point. Had it been a Richard there! the cup of liberty mighthave been dashed from England's lips, and the taste of freedom held backfor a hundred years.
But the heart of King John sinks before the stern faces of the Englishfighting men, and the arm of King John drops back on to his rein, and hedismounts and takes his seat in the foremost barge. And the Baronsfollow in, with each mailed hand upon the sword-hilt, and the word isgiven to let go.
Slowly the heavy, bright-decked barges leave the shore of Runningmede.Slowly against the swift current they work their ponderous way, till,with a low grumble, they grate against the bank of the little island thatfrom this day will bear the name of Magna Charta Island. And King Johnhas stepped upon the shore, and we wait in breathless silence till agreat shout cleaves the air, and the great cornerstone in England'stemple of liberty has, now we know, been firmly laid.
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