More Sport for our Neighbours

by Ronald McGowan

  “An admirable expedient, sir,” I replied, but I was thinking also of your paternal duties, of the incessant court necessary to be paid to the Baby of Babies.”

  “As to that, sir, I confess that it is possible to have too much of a good thing, although keeping the ladies happy is certainly much to be desired. And with that in mind, may I suggest we step out, that we may return before we are missed.”

  Instead of the long walk uphill to the famous bridge, Wyckham led me merely past the Moor, before turning off to the right, down one of the many alleys which led to the riverside. There were signs of nautical activity all around, the banging and sawing of carpenters, the hammering of blacksmiths fashioning anchor chains, the tarry smells of caulking and ropemaking, and all sorts of incomprehensible jargon being shouted from one participant to another.

  At the foot of the slope was a wooden jetty, and next to it, a brick-built, booth-like construction, where water bubbled up into a shallow, stone basin.

  “That is the famous Bodlewell,” said Wickham, “whose water is reputed to be the purest in all Wearmouth.”

  “Is it, indeed? And are visitors expected to sample it? Could this be all that remains of the famous Spa?”

  “As to that, I could not say, but you are welcome to sample it, although you must pay for the privilege. I will willingly go treats, however, and in any case, I dare say you have not the wherewithal upon you to make the purchase.”

  “How so? Is it so very extortionate?”

  “Not extravagantly so, but the thirsty are obliged to pay for it, it providing the livelihood of the family who have owned the spot since time immemorial. The price for a bucket is a bodle, from which comes it name.”

  “And what, pray, is a bodle?”

  “A bodle is an old Scottish coin, which is still current in these parts, although I doubt if you will find it anywhere else in the three kingdoms. It exchanges at the rate of two to an English farthing, so you will see that it is not so very exorbitant after all.”

  “I thank you for your generosity, Mr Wickham, but I find that I am not particularly thirsty.”

  “Then we shall save this pleasure for another day, which is just as well, for here comes the ferryboat now.”

  With this, we joined the few others who were waiting on the quayside as a large rowing boat pulled in, manned by two men who stood at the single pair of oars. It was, indeed, quite packed on arrival, and rode rather low in the water for my comfort. The crowd soon dispersed, however, with their baskets and bundles, leaving only a half-dozen of us to board the vessel, which now exhibited a much healthier height from the water, or freeboard, as the mariners and shipwrights term such a thing.

  The vessel pulled slowly away from the quayside and swung out into the centre of the river.

  “I should point out the landmarks of Sunderland from here,” said Wickham, “only there are none to be seen. Even the bridge is hidden by the bend in the river. Ahead, however, on top of the bank, beyond the infamous Barbary Coast, you may see the object of our quest today, and I hope the sight will not leave you disappointed. But first there is a certain ceremony to perform.”

  I observed now, somewhat to my alarm, that the oarsmen had abandoned their rowing, and the boat was now drifting gently downstream, while the larger of the two boatmen clambered about his craft, accosting the passengers.

  “The ferrymen have their own way of making sure that no-one tries to escape without paying his dues,” explained Wickham. “They stop halfway across, and do not proceed until each passenger has yielded his penny. Anyone without the money will be thrown overboard. It is an effective way of encouraging honesty, and they are fond of rough justice on Wearside.”

  “So it would seem,” I agreed, “but what if one of these defaulters should chance not to be a swimmer?”

  “Then he should have gone round by the bridge, is what the boatman would say, I expect. And I daresay his passengers would agree, for the most part. But it appears that we shall be disappointed of our entertainment today, for our friend is returning to his oar.”

  Far from being disappointed, I fear I was relieved that our passage was not more eventful. As a magistrate myself, although not of the local commission for the peace, I should have considered myself obliged to take notice of such conduct, and who knows where that might have led? I am not fond of cold baths at any time, and I swim most satisfactorily when not fully clothed, and, preferably, not out of my depth.

  We reached the farther shore without mishap, however, and made our way to the maze of alleys, crammed in on both sides by ill-looking hovels, mostly sailors’ gin shops and houses of even worse repute, until we came out on a more respectable looking street, with an open space at the end which proved to be a churchyard.

  At the far end stood a building of dark grey stone, its sides pierced by only a few, narrow windows of despicable size. The whole construction itself was barely larger than a prosperous countryman’s cottage. Indeed, I have seen farmhouses of more imposing dimensions, and much more pleasing to the eye. There was a squat tower at one end, barely rising above the gable end, in which a moderate-sized window could be seen, remarkable only for being apparently divided into two panels with arched tops to them.

  “Well,” said Wickham. “There is your St Peter’s. Was it worth the journey?”

  “Surely you are practising upon me?” was my reply, but it was not so, for on approaching we found a notice upon the door at the foot of the tower, proclaiming this stone shed to be the monastery church at which both St Bede and St Hilda began their careers.

  I think we do not reflect often enough upon how limited the lives of our ancestors must have been a thousand years or more ago, particular in these cold, foggy islands on the very rim of the civilized world. To the villagers in their miserable huts around it, this stone-built shed, half the size of many a Norman tithe-barn, must have seemed a wonder, something to liken to their king’s palace at Bamburgh, which neither they, nor we, have ever seen. On close examination, the structure was crude in the extreme, nothing but one stone piled upon another. The arched windows no doubt reflected some faint memory of the grandeur that was Rome, but in fact they were not arches at all, but mere stone slabs, with arcs carved out of their undersides, to present an arch in appearance. The building of a true arch was obviously beyond the masons of the day, or at least of the craftsmen of far Northumbria.

  Within, the high-sided, modern box pews made the nave seem even more cramped, and the chancel could hardly be said to deserve the name. The slit-like windows, for all their curved tops, admitted very little light, and the whole place smelt of damp and decay. I was glad to get out into the daylight.

  If anyone had told me that wandering at my leisure through the birthplace of English learning would leave me depressed and disappointed, I should not have believed him, but I made no objection when Wickham proposed our return, adding that, as I looked so hipped and overcome by the journey, that he would engage a chaise at the nearby inn, so that we could return by way of the Bridge.

  This place had been a light in the firmament when all of Europe was dark, and now it was little more than a pigsty on a cold, northern hilltop. I sat all the way back, brooding on tempus edax rerum, time the devourer of all things, and its appalling inexorability.

  Perhaps, after all these years, I am no longer capable of true scholarship, and should resign such things to younger men.

  Our return to the barracks furnished distraction, however. Wickham’s galloper had returned, with a whole packet of orders from Colonel Lambton, heavily sealed with red wax.

  Wickham took one look at it, and pursed his lips.

  “Something tells me I should do well to open this in front of a witness, and I do not care to compromise Pickersgill or Washington,” he said. “Would you do me this small service, Mr Bennet? I ask for a particular reason.”

  I willingly consented, naturally, and followed him into his office, sitting opposite him while he wrote carefully upon a sheet of pa
per.

  The wording of his script appeared to give him some trouble, but he passed it at last to me, with a request that I be so good as to sign at the bottom.

  I took it from him, and read –

  “I, the undersigned, Francis Bennet Esq., J.P., of the manor of Longbourn in the county of Hertfordshire, gentleman, do certify that the packet of orders addressed to Captain George Wickham of His Majesty’s 68th Regiment of Foot this day was received by him in my presence, at which point its seals were unbroken and the packet itself was intact and unopened.

  I further certify that the packet was unsealed and opened by the said Captain Wickham in my presence, and that its contents appeared to me to be intact and untouched.”

  I could not help but wonder at the reason for such caution, but, reflecting that Wickham was, after all, family, and I could see no harm in it, I assigned my name, adding the date, and, for good measure, the time. My Breguet repeater has survived the journey very well, and still gives better time than anything but a marine chronometer, as well it should, being a relic of my father’s grand tour. Both Swiss watches and grand tours are a thing of the past nowadays, thanks to that rascal Bonaparte.

  “Thank you,” said Wickham. “I know that you must be wondering at the reason for so much caution, and I think you deserve an explanation. You shall have one, but I must beg you not to share what I am about to tell you with the ladies.

  I have been aware for some time that certain influential persons in and around Newcastle, including one whose name rhymes with ‘mercy’, but to whom the concept is quite unknown, have been pressing for my dismissal from the regiment. You know me of old, Mr Bennet. I cannot accuse myself of having really done anything to deserve to lose my place. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may have spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse, save perhaps being a little too lucky, or too skilled at a certain game of cards. But the fact is, that His Grace and I are very different sorts of men, and that he hates me.

  Colonel Lambton is a good, kind gentleman, who does not share in this opinion of me. He gave me this promotion, and this almost independent command in another county to get me out of the way. But I am aware that the slightest criticism of my conduct here will be used against me by my enemies, and I do not choose to be outmanoeuvered by them. That is the reason for this precaution, which you are at liberty to consider both extravagant and excessive. I shall be only too pleased if it should turn out that I can agree with you.”

  There was really nothing to be said to this, so I said it, merely suggesting that he perform the acts which I had certified to be carried out in my presence, that is to say, that he break the seals and open the packet.

  He did so, and extracted two more sealed letters, while I marveled at such expenditure on expensive wax by an institution not renowned for its extravagance. The frown on his face deepened as he read them.

  “I will not ask you to certify that these were unopened,” he said, “although I might wish they still were, and ‘proceed forthwith to Hartlepool taking as many men as I think necessary for the task while bearing in mind the security of the fort here, and there secure the person of the alleged French spy to be delivered to my superiors at Newcastle as soon as may be’. In this task I am to ‘fail not at my peril’ and, if necessary, to use the enclosed warrant for the civil authority.

  The second is a writ from a justice of the high court at Newcastle, requiring the magistrates at Hartlepool to ‘deliver the body of the aforesaid alleged French spy’ into my custody.”

  “We shall have to do without your company for a while, I see.” I observed.

  “Perhaps. Let me think.”

  Thinking evidently involved pacing the floor with a constipated expression on his face, followed by a long period of staring out of the window. At length, he turned again to me with a shrug.

  “There is nothing else for it,” he said. “I shall have to go myself, although I suspect that there is more to these orders than meets the eye. Pickersgill is a good enough soldier, but for a task which may call for anything like diplomacy or even tact he would be useless. Washington would do the job better, but he still has no official standing, and I am beginning to think that his uncle is perhaps less enthusiastic in pursuing the matter of his commission than he has been led to believe.

  But there is something about all this that does not smell right to me. These orders are phrased far too strongly for the task involved. ‘In aid of the civil power’ and ‘fail not at your peril’ are official phrases. They are only used in serious cases, where the consequences of failure are considerable. I am convinced that Colonel Lambton does not believe in this French spy any more than you or I. Why should such a gentleman suddenly appear now, and in Hartlepool, of all places? There have been rumours of French cruisers up and down the coast, but there are always such things circulating. Why would a spy be landed here, so far from the capital, unless, indeed, an invasion were contemplated, like the landing in Wales back in 97? I forget how many ships were there, but such a landing would need a sizeable fleet, which would surely have been noticed?”

  I resisted the temptation to point out that one of the ‘phrases’ he had quoted was in fact a clause, and merely suggested that he could do no more than investigate the situation in Hartlepool and see for himself.

  “But these orders require me to deliver a French spy to Newcastle. If there is no French spy to deliver, I shall have failed in my mission, and one failure is all my enemies need to unseat me. Perhaps you consider me over cautious, but remember, I have experience of how far a rich and powerful man will take his resentment when his pride is injured. And the injury in this case involved rather more than pride.”

  He sighed, and seemed to reach a decision.

  “Mr Bennet,” he continued, “ may I ask of you a great service? Would you be prepared to accompany me to Hartlepool to bear witness, if need be, to the facts of this case, and to my conduct there? I sincerely believe that it might make all the difference between success and ruin for me.”

  The imploring, wheedling tone in his voice was quite the old Wickham. I allowed myself the indulgence of remaining silent, savouring the moment.

  “I am reluctant to impose so much further on your good nature,” he continued, as he did not immediately receive an answer, “ but I am convinced that the presence of an independent witness might be of crucial importance. And consider, you are yourself a Justice of the Peace. Your presence and experience would, I am sure be invaluable in the dealings I must have with the magistrates at Hartlepool. I realize that you can be in no great hurry to be off on the road again after such a short period of rest, and that you must be looking forward to the opportunity of spending more time with the daughter from whom you have so long been parted, and with your new grandson. I say nothing of Mrs Bennet and my sisters Mary and Kitty. But it would mean so much to me, it truly would, and I implore you to help me in this matter.”

  I dare say he would have continued in this vein, but I had decided to have had enough of a good thing. Besides, he had just reminded me of the perils of remaining behind. So I interrupted him, saying –

  “Mr Wickham, I must remind you that you are one of the family now, and if families do not support each other, who will? I daresay the ladies, and especially Mrs Bennet will have something to say about being deserted so, but I will put myself in your hands as to that, and if you can satisfy any objections they may raise, I shall be at your disposal.”

  As I said this, I congratulated myself on a fine performance to anticipate that evening when Wickham broke the news to the ladies, and I was not disappointed. When the first wave of the storm broke upon me, I had but to say –

  “I regret my absence quite as much as you, my dear, but our son Wickham has convinced me of the utility – nay the necessity – of my presence at his side for the preservation of his career. If you can convince him that he may do well enough without me, I should be very glad to continue in attendance upon you.�
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  Then I had but to sit back and watch the entertainment to be assured of my evening’s enjoyment.

  Chapter Twenty-five : The French Spy

  I had to be up betimes the following morning to accompany Wickham on his mission. For once the military habit of rising far too early had its advantages, enabling us to escape without the disgustingly emotional farewells that the ladies’ presence would have entailed. Perhaps I flatter myself in this belief, but after so many years of marriage I think not.

  The weather continued fine, and the march down the coast went without incident. The casual, almost slouching light infantry marching order which the soldiers adopted, keeping no real step and letting their muskets hang instead of shouldering them rather surprised me at first, as I had been expecting something more formal.

  “We are not the brigade of guards, you know,” was Wickham’s reply when I remarked upon this. “We may not be ‘real soldiers’ either, as some would have it, but the Colonel is busy recruiting, and once we have something like our numbers we shall be moved to Shorncliffe and thence to Spain. Meanwhile, we do our best to prepare them. The sergeant-major was with the 43rd under Sir John Moore, and most of the sergeants have ‘seen the elephant’, as they say. They know what they are about even if their officers do not. And it is not as if a French column is likely to issue from yonder dene, is it?”

  In any case, riding at the front of the column, as we were, our eyes were spared the evidence of any disorder in the ranks, and I could concentrate upon the beauties of the scenery. These were few enough, to be sure. The land through which we passed was quite flat enough to avoid any chance of even being called rolling, although there were hills to be seen inland, to our right. To our left were flat fields, full of ripening crops, and always, beyond them, the shifting, shining expanse of the German Ocean, flecked here and there, with the white sails of ships voyaging both north and south. To the east there could be precious little trade, of course, with the iron hand of the Corsican Tyrant holding the entire continent in its grip.