by Thomas Hardy
‘Bother it all!’ he exclaimed, looking at his stock of flints.
‘What?’ said Bob.
‘I’ve got no ammunition: not a blessed round!’
‘Then what’s the use of going?’ asked his son.
The miller paused. ‘O, I’ll go,’ he said. ‘Perhaps somebody will lend me a little if I get into a hot corner?’
‘Lend ye a little! Father, you was always so simple!’ said Bob reproachfully.
‘Well — I can bagnet a few, anyhow,’ said the miller.
The bugle had been blown ere this, and Loveday the father disappeared towards the place of assembly, his empty cartridge-box behind him. Bob seized a brace of loaded pistols which he had brought home from the ship, and, armed with these and a pike, he locked the door and sallied out again towards the turnpike road.
By this time the yeomanry of the district were also on the move, and among them Festus Derriman, who was sleeping at his uncle’s, and had been awakened by Cripplestraw. About the time when Bob and his father were descending from the beacon the stalwart yeoman was standing in the stable-yard adjusting his straps, while Cripplestraw saddled the horse. Festus clanked up and down, looked gloomily at the beacon, heard the retreating carts and carriages, and called Cripplestraw to him, who came from the stable leading the horse at the same moment that Uncle Benjy peeped unobserved from a mullioned window above their heads, the distant light of the beacon fire touching up his features to the complexion of an old brass clock-face.
‘I think that before I start, Cripplestraw,’ said Festus, whose lurid visage was undergoing a bleaching process curious to look upon, ‘you shall go on to Budmouth, and make a bold inquiry whether the cowardly enemy is on shore as yet, or only looming in the bay.’
‘I’d go in a moment, sir,’ said the other, ‘if I hadn’t my bad leg again. I should have joined my company afore this; but they said at last drill that I was too old. So I shall wait up in the hay-loft for tidings as soon as I have packed you off, poor gentleman!’
‘Do such alarms as these, Cripplestraw, ever happen without foundation? Buonaparte is a wretch, a miserable wretch, and this may be only a false alarm to disappoint such as me?’
‘O no, sir; O no!’
‘But sometimes there are false alarms?’
‘Well, sir, yes. There was a pretended sally o’ gunboats last year.’
‘And was there nothing else pretended — something more like this, for instance?’
Cripplestraw shook his head. ‘I notice yer modesty, Mr. Festus, in making light of things. But there never was, sir. You may depend upon it he’s come. Thank God, my duty as a Local don’t require me to go to the front, but only the valiant men like my master. Ah, if Boney could only see ‘ee now, sir, he’d know too well there is nothing to be got from such a determined skilful officer but blows and musket-balls!’
‘Yes, yes. Cripplestraw, if I ride off to Budmouth and meet ‘em, all my training will be lost. No skill is required as a forlorn hope.’
‘True; that’s a point, sir. You would outshine ‘em all, and be picked off at the very beginning as a too-dangerous brave man.’
‘But if I stay here and urge on the faint-hearted ones, or get up into the turret-stair by that gateway, and pop at the invaders through the loophole, I shouldn’t be so completely wasted, should I?’
‘You would not, Mr. Derriman. But, as you was going to say next, the fire in yer veins won’t let ye do that. You are valiant; very good: you don’t want to husband yer valiance at home. The arg’ment is plain.’
‘If my birth had been more obscure,’ murmured the yeoman, ‘and I had only been in the militia, for instance, or among the humble pikemen, so much wouldn’t have been expected of me — of my fiery nature. Cripplestraw, is there a drop of brandy to be got at in the house? I don’t feel very well.’
‘Dear nephew,’ said the old gentleman from above, whom neither of the others had as yet noticed, ‘I haven’t any spirits opened — so unfortunate! But there’s a beautiful barrel of crab-apple cider in draught; and there’s some cold tea from last night.’
‘What, is he listening?’ said Festus, staring up. ‘Now I warrant how glad he is to see me forced to go — called out of bed without breakfast, and he quite safe, and sure to escape because he’s an old man! — Cripplestraw, I like being in the yeomanry cavalry; but I wish I hadn’t been in the ranks; I wish I had been only the surgeon, to stay in the rear while the bodies are brought back to him — I mean, I should have thrown my heart at such a time as this more into the labour of restoring wounded men and joining their shattered limbs together — u-u-ugh! — more than I can into causing the wounds — I am too humane, Cripplestraw, for the ranks!’
‘Yes, yes,’ said his companion, depressing his spirits to a kindred level. ‘And yet, such is fate, that, instead of joining men’s limbs together, you’ll have to get your own joined — poor young sojer! — all through having such a warlike soul.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Festus, and paused. ‘You can’t think how strange I feel here, Cripplestraw,’ he continued, laying his hand upon the centre buttons of his waistcoat. ‘How I do wish I was only the surgeon!’
He slowly mounted, and Uncle Benjy, in the meantime, sang to himself as he looked on, ‘Twen-ty-three and half from N.W. Six-teen and three-quar-ters from N.E.’
‘What’s that old mummy singing?’ said Festus savagely.
‘Only a hymn for preservation from our enemies, dear nephew,’ meekly replied the farmer, who had heard the remark. ‘Twen-ty-three and half from N.W.’
Festus allowed his horse to move on a few paces, and then turned again, as if struck by a happy invention. ‘Cripplestraw,’ he began, with an artificial laugh, ‘I am obliged to confess, after all — I must see her! ‘Tisn’t nature that makes me draw back — ’tis love. I must go and look for her.’
‘A woman, sir?’
‘I didn’t want to confess it; but ‘tis a woman. Strange that I should be drawn so entirely against my natural wish to rush at ‘em!’
Cripplestraw, seeing which way the wind blew, found it advisable to blow in harmony. ‘Ah, now at last I see, sir! Spite that few men live that be worthy to command ye; spite that you could rush on, marshal the troops to victory, as I may say; but then — what of it? there’s the unhappy fate of being smit with the eyes of a woman, and you are unmanned! Maister Derriman, who is himself, when he’s got a woman round his neck like a millstone?’
‘It is something like that.’
‘I feel the case. Be you valiant? — I know, of course, the words being a matter of form — be you valiant, I ask? Yes, of course. Then don’t you waste it in the open field. Hoard it up, I say, sir, for a higher class of war — the defence of yer adorable lady. Think what you owe her at this terrible time! Now, Maister Derriman, once more I ask ye to cast off that first haughty wish to rush to Budmouth, and to go where your mis’ess is defenceless and alone.’
‘I will, Cripplestraw, now you put it like that!’
‘Thank ye, thank ye heartily, Maister Derriman. Go now and hide with her.’
‘But can I? Now, hang flattery! — can a man hide without a stain? Of course I would not hide in any mean sense; no, not I!’
‘If you be in love, ‘tis plain you may, since it is not your own life, but another’s, that you are concerned for, and you only save your own because it can’t be helped.’
‘‘Tis true, Cripplestraw, in a sense. But will it be understood that way? Will they see it as a brave hiding?’
‘Now, sir, if you had not been in love I own to ye that hiding would look queer, but being to save the tears, groans, fits, swowndings, and perhaps death of a comely young woman, yer principle is good; you honourably retreat because you be too gallant to advance. This sounds strange, ye may say, sir; but it is plain enough to less fiery minds.’
Festus did for a moment try to uncover his teeth in a natural smile, but it died away. ‘Cripplestraw, you flatter me; or do you mean it? Well, the
re’s truth in it. I am more gallant in going to her than in marching to the shore. But we cannot be too careful about our good names, we soldiers. I must not be seen. I’m off.’
Cripplestraw opened the hurdle which closed the arch under the portico gateway, and Festus passed under, Uncle Benjamin singing, Twen-ty-three and a half from N.W. with a sort of sublime ecstasy, feeling, as Festus had observed, that his money was safe, and that the French would not personally molest an old man in such a ragged, mildewed coat as that he wore, which he had taken the precaution to borrow from a scarecrow in one of his fields for the purpose.
Festus rode on full of his intention to seek out Anne, and under cover of protecting her retreat accompany her to King’s-Bere, where he knew the Lovedays had relatives. In the lane he met Granny Seamore, who, having packed up all her possessions in a small basket, was placidly retreating to the mountains till all should be over.
‘Well, granny, have ye seen the French?’ asked Festus.
‘No,’ she said, looking up at him through her brazen spectacles. ‘If I had I shouldn’t ha’ seed thee!’
‘Faugh!’ replied the yeoman, and rode on. Just as he reached the old road, which he had intended merely to cross and avoid, his countenance fell. Some troops of regulars, who appeared to be dragoons, were rattling along the road. Festus hastened towards an opposite gate, so as to get within the field before they should see him; but, as ill-luck would have it, as soon as he got inside, a party of six or seven of his own yeomanry troop were straggling across the same field and making for the spot where he was. The dragoons passed without seeing him; but when he turned out into the road again it was impossible to retreat towards Overcombe village because of the yeomen. So he rode straight on, and heard them coming at his heels. There was no other gate, and the highway soon became as straight as a bowstring. Unable thus to turn without meeting them, and caught like an eel in a water-pipe, Festus drew nearer and nearer to the fateful shore. But he did not relinquish hope. Just ahead there were cross-roads, and he might have a chance of slipping down one of them without being seen. On reaching the spot he found that he was not alone. A horseman had come up the right-hand lane and drawn rein. It was an officer of the German legion, and seeing Festus he held up his hand. Festus rode up to him and saluted.
‘It ist false report!’ said the officer.
Festus was a man again. He felt that nothing was too much for him. The officer, after some explanation of the cause of alarm, said that he was going across to the road which led by the moor, to stop the troops and volunteers converging from that direction, upon which Festus offered to give information along the Casterbridge road. The German crossed over, and was soon out of sight in the lane, while Festus turned back upon the way by which he had come. The party of yeomanry cavalry was rapidly drawing near, and he soon recognized among them the excited voices of Stubb of Duddle Hole, Noakes of Muckleford, and other comrades of his orgies at the hall. It was a magnificent opportunity, and Festus drew his sword. When they were within speaking distance he reined round his charger’s head to Budmouth and shouted, ‘On, comrades, on! I am waiting for you. You have been a long time getting up with me, seeing the glorious nature of our deeds to-day!’
‘Well said, Derriman, well said!’ replied the foremost of the riders. ‘Have you heard anything new?’
‘Only that he’s here with his tens of thousands, and that we are to ride to meet him sword in hand as soon as we have assembled in the town ahead here.’
‘O Lord!’ said Noakes, with a slight falling of the lower jaw.
‘The man who quails now is unworthy of the name of yeoman,’ said Festus, still keeping ahead of the other troopers and holding up his sword to the sun. ‘O Noakes, fie, fie! You begin to look pale, man.’
‘Faith, perhaps you’d look pale,’ said Noakes, with an envious glance upon Festus’s daring manner, ‘if you had a wife and family depending upon ye!’
‘I’ll take three frog-eating Frenchmen single-handed!’ rejoined Derriman, still flourishing his sword.
‘They have as good swords as you; as you will soon find,’ said another of the yeomen.
‘If they were three times armed,’ said Festus — ’ay, thrice three times — I would attempt ‘em three to one. How do you feel now, my old friend Stubb?’ (turning to another of the warriors.) ‘O, friend Stubb! no bouncing health to our lady-loves in Oxwell Hall this summer as last. Eh, Brownjohn?’
‘I am afraid not,’ said Brownjohn gloomily.
‘No rattling dinners at Stacie’s Hotel, and the King below with his staff. No wrenching off door-knockers and sending ‘em to the bakehouse in a pie that nobody calls for. Weeks of cut-and-thrust work rather!’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Fight how we may we shan’t get rid of the cursed tyrant before autumn, and many thousand brave men will lie low before it’s done,’ remarked a young yeoman with a calm face, who meant to do his duty without much talking.
‘No grinning matches at Mai-dun Castle this summer,’ Festus resumed; ‘no thread-the-needle at Greenhill Fair, and going into shows and driving the showman crazy with cock-a-doodle-doo!’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Does it make you seem just a trifle uncomfortable, Noakes? Keep up your spirits, old comrade. Come, forward! we are only ambling on like so many donkey-women. We have to get into Budmouth, join the rest of the troop, and then march along the coast west’ard, as I imagine. At this rate we shan’t be well into the thick of battle before twelve o’clock. Spur on, comrades. No dancing on the green, Lockham, this year in the moonlight! You was tender upon that girl; gad, what will become o’ her in the struggle?’
‘Come, come, Derriman,’ expostulated Lockham — ’this is all very well, but I don’t care for ‘t. I am as ready to fight as any man, but — ’
‘Perhaps when you get into battle, Derriman, and see what it’s like, your courage will cool down a little,’ added Noakes on the same side, but with secret admiration of Festus’s reckless bravery.
‘I shall be bayoneted first,’ said Festus. ‘Now let’s rally, and on!’
Since Festus was determined to spur on wildly, the rest of the yeomen did not like to seem behindhand, and they rapidly approached the town. Had they been calm enough to reflect, they might have observed that for the last half-hour no carts or carriages had met them on the way, as they had done further back. It was not till the troopers reached the turnpike that they learnt what Festus had known a quarter of an hour before. At the intelligence Derriman sheathed his sword with a sigh; and the party soon fell in with comrades who had arrived there before them, whereupon the source and details of the alarm were boisterously discussed.
‘What, didn’t you know of the mistake till now?’ asked one of these of the new-comers. ‘Why, when I was dropping over the hill by the cross-roads I looked back and saw that man talking to the messenger, and he must have told him the truth.’ The speaker pointed to Festus. They turned their indignant eyes full upon him. That he had sported with their deepest feelings, while knowing the rumour to be baseless, was soon apparent to all.
‘Beat him black and blue with the flat of our blades!’ shouted two or three, turning their horses’ heads to drop back upon Derriman, in which move they were followed by most of the party.
But Festus, foreseeing danger from the unexpected revelation, had already judiciously placed a few intervening yards between himself and his fellow-yeomen, and now, clapping spurs to his horse, rattled like thunder and lightning up the road homeward. His ready flight added hotness to their pursuit, and as he rode and looked fearfully over his shoulder he could see them following with enraged faces and drawn swords, a position which they kept up for a distance of more than a mile. Then he had the satisfaction of seeing them drop off one by one, and soon he and his panting charger remained alone on the highway.
CHAPTER XXVII.
DANGER TO ANNE
He stopped and reflected how to turn this rebuff to advantage. Baulked in
his project of entering the watering-place and enjoying congratulations upon his patriotic bearing during the advance, he sulkily considered that he might be able to make some use of his enforced retirement by riding to Overcombe and glorifying himself in the eyes of Miss Garland before the truth should have reached that hamlet. Having thus decided he spurred on in a better mood.
By this time the volunteers were on the march, and as Derriman ascended the road he met the Overcombe company, in which trudged Miller Loveday shoulder to shoulder with the other substantial householders of the place and its neighbourhood, duly equipped with pouches, cross-belts, firelocks, flint-boxes, pickers, worms, magazines, priming-horns, heel-ball, and pomatum. There was nothing to be gained by further suppression of the truth, and briefly informing them that the danger was not so immediate as had been supposed, Festus galloped on. At the end of another mile he met a large number of pikemen, including Bob Loveday, whom the yeoman resolved to sound upon the whereabouts of Anne. The circumstances were such as to lead Bob to speak more frankly than he might have done on reflection, and he told Festus the direction in which the women had been sent. Then Festus informed the group that the report of invasion was false, upon which they all turned to go homeward with greatly relieved spirits.
Bob walked beside Derriman’s horse for some distance. Loveday had instantly made up his mind to go and look for the women, and ease their anxiety by letting them know the good news as soon as possible. But he said nothing of this to Festus during their return together; nor did Festus tell Bob that he also had resolved to seek them out, and by anticipating every one else in that enterprise, make of it a glorious opportunity for bringing Miss Garland to her senses about him. He still resented the ducking that he had received at her hands, and was not disposed to let that insult pass without obtaining some sort of sweet revenge.