To employ time usefully, said Mr. Purley-Prout, they would have an abbreviated field exercise in the lanes. The Greyhounds were sent out to get through a line held by the rest. While waiting, Phillip went into the shop and bought four more oranges, he was so thirsty. He ate these, sitting behind a tree by himself, and then some more bread.
“You want to be careful,” said Mr. Swinerd, coming suddenly round the tree. “Orange juice might very well work on the dough inside you, and cause gas to press upon the heart, and suddenly stop its action. Six oranges? Well, look out, my boy! The bread you’ve eaten may suddenly swell bigger than your stomach. Any moment you may blow up!”
He said this in a serious voice, and Phillip believed him.
Listening to his heart, he felt it beating loudly in his ears. Was he going to die? He might never see Mother again! Any moment his inside might swell up, and choke out his life. He waited for something to happen, trying not to utter his terror. His heart thumped in his ears.
When they marched back to the station, it was hotter than ever. He felt thirsty once more; but dared not drink any of the water brought out by the old woman.
The guest Troop arrived in the intense heat, which caused a watery waver on distant trees. Mr. Purley-Prout insisted that the hand-cart, containing all their gear, including four belltents, should be pushed by his own Troop.
“We, as gentlemen, have that privilege towards our guests. The Bloodhounds, for having been so noisy during the night, will push it the first leg, up the hill to the Common. That will sweat the vice out of them, and enable others to have a proper sleep during the coming night.”
The Bloodhound Patrol managed, somehow, to get the cart to the top, after several rests for thudding hearts and wet red faces on the way. Mr. Purley-Prout was waiting for them at the edge of the common.
“The others have marched on, but I have remained to give a hand.”
He pushed the cart by himself, his wide calf muscles bulging, Phillip noticed with envy. His own calves were very thin, with scarcely noticeable muscles, as he had observed many times in Mother’s dress-cupboard glass in her bedroom.
The rest of the Troop were resting further on, lying on the grass by the road. When they got there, Phillip and his patrol flung themselves down, faces red and prickling, being tired out. Mr. Purley-Prout, lying on his back, did some exercises to strengthen his stomach muscles.
“How are you feeling?” said Mr. Swinerd, with apparent concern, coming to where Phillip lay. “Heat adds to the chances of blowing up, you know.”
“Are you serious, Mr. Swinerd?” asked Phillip, faintly, as he felt himself suddenly far away from them all. Was he dying?
“Well, what do you think?” replied Mr. Swinerd, over his shoulder as he went away.
Phillip thought Mr. Swinerd was offended by the question. If only God would spare him, he would never again eat more than one orange at a time, and always wait a long time afterwards before adding bread. He would say his prayers every night, too, and be very kind always to his sisters.
It was only when they had got back to camp, dusty and fearfully hot, that Mr. Swinerd told Phillip he had been ragging him in a friendly spirit.
“You ought to know me by now, my boy, that I am a joker.”
So relieved was Phillip that he decided to play a joke on Mr. Swinerd later on.
Desmond Neville, who as one of the youngest had been left behind with others to guard the camp, came to Phillip, his face tear-stained, with a sad story of having felt for a nest in the hedge, and all the eggs had rolled out and broken. He had only meant to feel in the nest, he said, not to tip it up.
Phillip went with him to look at the remains of the shells. The eggs were unfamiliar; they were a yellowish grey, with browny spots and blotches on them. The nest was about the size of a thrush’s, but taller and built of twigs and grasses. While Phillip was wondering what it could be a bird flew to a branch in the thorn hedge and looked down at them. It was a browny sort of bird, with a large eye, blackish whiskers, and a strong bent beak.
“It’s a butcher bird, I do declare!” he cried, in a voice like that of his cousin Percy Pickering. “I saw one once at Beau Brickhill with Percy! Coo, I wish I had got an egg! The red-backed shrike is its real name. It’s a cruel bird, sticking bees and little birds’ nestlings on a thorn, like a skewer, for its larder.”
“I’m very sorry, Phillip, I tipped the nest. I slipped when my hand was just touching it.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. It’s done now, anyway. This is a wonderful place for nests, isn’t it?”
Desmond looked happier. Behind his rather stolid-looking face he was a sensitive boy, anxious to do the right thing, the more so as he had no father living at home. Hetty had told Phillip that he must never ask questions about Mr. Neville, as it was not polite to be curious about other people’s affairs.
*
It was now the middle of a scorching afternoon, and Phillip’s turn to be sentry at the gate. The rest of the Troop were in the shade of the pines at the farther end of the paddock, where the smoke of fires arose, preparatory to cooking dinners.
Phillip was watching a spotted flycatcher flying off its perch on a post to take a fly, when, absolutely silently, a black carriage without a horse came round the corner of the road and stopped. It was not a motorcar, for it had no engine; its silent approach was most mysterious. What could it be? The driver held a black enamelled stick to steer by. He had a big face and moustache, and wore a bowler hat and black suit. An old lady sat beside him, wearing black silk widow’s weeds, which rustled as she moved. She had on a black hat, made of a sort of lace, which hung down over the frame, like a small short curtain all round.
Mr. Purley-Prout had seen the silent carriage, and came running over the paddock. He vaulted over the gate, and stood to attention to salute the people. He bowed over the lady’s hand as he shook it. After some words he saluted again, and the black-spider carriage turned round and glided off in the direction it had come, again without any sound, except for the slight slur of its thin rubber tyres on the white chalk and flinty dust, which was glaring in the heat.
Mr. Purley-Prout said to Phillip that the driver of the electric brougham was the Earl of Mersea, the owner of all the land round about, and one of the richest noblemen in England. With him was his Mother, the Dowager Countess. In their family, said Mr. Purley-Prout, there had never been a scandal throughout its long history.
“Lady Mersea has asked twelve of the Troop to tea tomorrow afternoon. I shall probably take three from each patrol, and leave you in charge during my absence, Phillip.”
Phillip was pleased to have this trust. Also, it would mean that he would get out of cleaning his boots and having to behave properly all the time, like on church parade. He might even raid one of the other camps all by himself, and pinch a flag! All sorts of things might happen!
After eating—the Bloodhounds finished cooking their belated breakfast of porridge and half-fried burnt eggs about 4 p.m.—Phillip told his men about two jokes he had thought out while on sentry-go. The first to be played on Mr. Swinerd. He would wrap a lump of chalk in grease-proof paper, pencil the word cheese on the package, and put it in Mr. Swinerd’s food-box just inside his bivouac. The second joke was intended to prove to Mr. Purley-Prout and the others that the Bloodhounds were not the tenderfeet he had declared them to be.
Two birds could be killed by one stone in this second joke, Phillip whispered. The patrol wanted some more bread, so if Ching sneaked off to Farthing Street and got some, and some buns as well, without anyone seeing him go, they could wait a bit, and then raise the alarm that he had been captured by some other Troop. This would lead to counter-raids, and a fine old schemozzle!
A week or two later, Phillip got some satisfaction in reading to his mother what Mr. Purley-Prout wrote about him in The Paladin, the Troop magazine.
“‘Splendid weather was our portion at Whitsuntide. We paraded at Headquarters at 5.45 p.m. (less one patrol, which
was late) on Friday, May 28th, and all except the cyclists entrained at Fordesmill Bridge with tents, flag, and other camp paraphernalia at 6.17. The cyclists, with Mr. Purley-Prout, reached Reynard’s Common later, a cart having been sent to convey the tents, etc. The night proved very wet, and sleep was rather difficult on account of this and the talkative mood of a certain patrol-leader, who disturbed everybody, in spite of threats and warnings.’
“That was me,” he said to his mother, with pride.
“‘Saturday saw us off early to West Lennards, to meet the 1st Croydon Troop, who did not appear till noon, making our numbers up to 43 scouts and 4 officers. On the return to camp, a certain unauthorised and unofficial ambush party made itself notorious by harassing other Troops who passed by, and prisoners were continually being brought into camp without any apparent reason. But as we heard from the patrol leader of the harassing party in question that one of his men was lying bound and gagged in a rival camp, we thought fit to detain our prisoners.’
“That was our joke, Mum.”
“‘Tea was made at 6.0, and a pleasant time was spent round the camp-fire from 7 till 9, Mr. Purley-Prout telling us a ghost story with a moral.
“‘Supper was at 9.0, followed by prayers. “Last Post” went at 9.30, and “Lights Out” at 10.0.
“‘Whitsun Day saw us early astir, Reveille being at 6.0. Everybody, except the guard, went off at 6.30 to the Fish Ponds to wash. Church Parade for Communicants was at 7.50, the service being at 8.0 in the church. Breakfast followed at 9.0. We marched off again to church at 9.55, the service having been arranged specially for the Kent Guides under Lieut. Oakfall (who were camping near by) and ourselves, at 10.0. The Rector, in his address, extended a hearty welcome to us, saying, amongst other things, that war had in the past brought out many excellent qualities in those taking part. The hymns were lustily sung, and we returned to camp feeling much elevated in spirits.
“‘A march to Farthing Street village in the blazing sun, and a visit to the Bereshill’s Camp followed. We found that the troops (1st Fordesmill and 2nd Bereshill) had just gone off to Farthing Street Church. On our way back we met Mr. Maddison, who had cycled out to see us. (We are always glad to see visitors.)’
*
“A pity Father didn’t arrive in the middle of the big attack, Mum, on the Bank Holiday. Coo, that was exciting! Captain Blois lost four front teeth!”
“What, were they knocked out by force, Phillip? Surely Mr. Prout——”
“Just a mo’, Mum. I’ll come to it later. First, listen to this——
*
“‘Whitsun Monday was but a few minutes old when in the darkness we were attacked by rivals from the Bereshill Camp, who, in the endeavour to seize our Flag, were surprised and discomforted at the lightning return attack, some of our chaps going up to the Bereshill camp, unknown to those who had attacked us. Skirmishing went on until dawn. In the morning we escorted our Croydon guests to their station, helping them with their “waggon”, and on our way back (the required notice of attack having been given) we attacked the camp of the combined Fordesmill and St. Anselm’s Troops. In the words of the Camp Chronicler:—
“‘Having been apprised of our intentions, the camp was on the qui vive. We had the sagacious company of Lieutenant Oakfall, of the Kent Guides, and it was decided to make a false attack, and retreat, to draw the defence away from the point of final effort. This was partially successful, and our doughty leader penetrated nearly to the centre of the camp, where Captain Blois, perceiving the ruse, recalled his men by whistle just in time to save the day. Whether the camp should have been considered captured by our troop must remain a moot point. Our gallant Scoutmaster appealed to the opinion of an umpire, but none was forthcoming.
“‘On the contrary, the only reply vouchsafed to him was capture by six Territorials who were augmenting the hard-pressed defence. Our doughty Scoutmaster was over-powered only after a great struggle, which did not succeed in putting him on his back, as was the obvious intention. With this incident the engagement ceased, three mighty cheers being raised for our Scoutmaster on his release. Considering the impregnable position of the camp, and the strong chain of sentries with which it was surrounded, great credit was due to our Troop.
“‘In the afternoon, Mr. Purley-Prout took picked scouts to tea with the Dowager Countess of Mersea, as they had been graciously invited on the Saturday. While they were away our camp in the Home Farm paddock was the scene of some excitement. The vigilant Bereshill and Fordesmill Scouts, soon discovering that only twelve men were left in charge, resolved on a counter attack in force. Their approach was quickly seen, but our sentry was over-powered by four to one, and, it being impossible to defend the whole area of the camp, the patrol leader in charge, Peter Wallace, ordered a concentration around the Flag, and with his men, outnumbered by five to one, hurled defiance, and prepared to fight to the bitter end. The enemy halted some twenty paces from the little band, and held a consultation. Whether it was the firm mien of the defence or some other cause which decided the invaders is not known, but they retired, leaving the defenders in possession of their Flag, and defiant.”’
*
Phillip thought that a fine bit about Peter. All he and his men had done, actually, was to stand still. Cranmer had put his fingers in his mouth and let out a terrific whistle—but Mr. Purley-Prout had not put that bit in The Paladin. What was thrilling was the night that followed, after it had rained, and the stars came out.
Owing to a mighty attack pending, Mr Purley-Prout took them into a loft, up some wooden steps, in the bailiff’s yard. Mr. Purley-Prout went off on his bike, without a light, meaning to capture the Fordesmill’s Flag, while they were attacking the paddock with only the tents in it. Owls sometimes hooted in the dark mysterious woods; nightingales sang far away in the valley; and while they waited, yawning and shivering, at the top of the steps, they saw someone up the road strike a match.
There was no sound; only the light, a signal, and then darkness. For a very long time they waited; then cheers came from the paddock. It was the attack! And no one there, the Flag was in the loft! Then, at two o’clock, Mr. Purley-Prout returned, his hat down over his eyes, and with the Fordesmill’s Flag!
“He had wormed his way past their sentries, Mum! After showing us the Flag, he went back, all alone, with a paper notice, ‘Be Prepared!’, pinned by a safety-pin to their old Flag; and stuck it in its place again, without anyone seeing him do it!
“When we lay down to sleep the dawn chorus was just beginning, with the cocks in the farmyard crowing. I was very tired when we got up again at six o’clock, for a wash in the Fish Ponds, which were two miles away, there and back. Then, before we could properly cook breakfast, we had to go off again, for miles and miles, on manœuvres with other troops. Now listen to this account, Mum! It’s the big attack!
*
“‘The next afternoon, scarcely had the main body of the troop returned, hungry and weary, after their ten miles march and skirmish, and settled down to prepare their well-earned meal; scarcely were mess tins opened, and wood smoke arising, when the Alarm was sounded, followed by the order to fall in and defend the camp. The Fordesmill and Bereshill Troops, reinforced by the 2nd Sydenhams and St. Anselm’s, to a total of probably over a hundred, were seen to be swarming down behind every hedge, for a grand attack. The defenders, numbering about forty, were posted to the best advantage, and shortly afterwards the camp was surrounded on all sides, and a battle-royal began.
“‘The attack was fierce, the defence stubborn; but at last sheer weight of numbers bore the attackers through the gate, and a rush was made for the Flag, around which a furious tumble ensued. A guinea was to be the prize of the attacking scout who captured the trophy, but all who essayed were hurled back, and the guinea went a-begging.’”
Phillip had been squatting by the double-cooker, which was beginning to puff steam from the oatmeal in the pot, when the whistles of warning went. Cranmer cried, “Billo! Oley-ole
y-oley! Crikey, nah su’fun’s comin’, strike me pink if thur idden!” He threw his hat into the air. Then he blew his four-finger whistle. Phillip, feeling no excitement (he was very tired) stood up, forgetting his pole. A bugle sounded the alarm; he felt a little excitement then.
He saw, spread out across the chalky down-sloping field in the direction of Farthing Street, scores of advancing scouts. Others were running from the narrow strip of woodland beside the road under the oak fence of the park. Still more were scrambling up the steep bank above the quarry. There was a lot of shouting. He felt slightly dismayed.
“To your posts!” cried Mr. Purley-Prout, rolling up his sleeves. “Every man to his post, for the honour of the North West Kents!”
Seizing the bugle from the boy on guard, he blew a loud defiant blast. Phillip picked up his broomstick, and watched what was happening.
Soon poles were beating on the barb wire fence all around the paddock. Enemy scouts got over the gate, wrestling with the picket there.
“Concentrate around the flag, defend it to the last!” cried Mr. Purley-Prout.
Phillip watched them, doing nothing himself. Most of the scouts did the same. Only a few stood around Mr. Purley-Prout, grasping their poles. Phillip had no wish to fight, or defend any Flag.
Then Lieutenant Oakfall suddenly appeared on his bicycle, followed by the two other Kent Guides who were camping with him near the Fish Ponds, and cooking on an oil-stove with a smoky wick. With the Guides were two Legion of Frontiersmen, each with a big grey moustache and big brown gauntlet gloves. They wore Stetson hats, Sam Browne belts, leather shirts with red neckerchiefs, khaki breeches, leggings, and spurs on the heels of their brown boots. Like the Kent Guides, they had no horses, but rode bicycles. Phillip thought they had been heroes, somewhere or other in the past.
Young Phillip Maddison Page 24