And thinking his description might be rendered more intelligible by some illustration, John took up a board, and rearing it against the counter, drew a few sketches upon it with a piece of chalk. This he performed very dexterously, considering he had to do it with his left hand.
“This here’s Boston, you see, young gentlemen, and that there’s Boston Neck, where we was stationed, and where our officers did nothing, as somebody said, ‘but twist their tails and powder their heads;’ and here’s Boston Bay, where our men-of-war and transports was lying; and here’s all the little islands — Noddle Island, and Hog Island, and Spectacle Island, and a great many more, where we used to have skirmishes with the Yankees; and now, look you, here’s Charlestown, and Bunker’s Hill above it. Well, these heights, Bunker’s Hill and Breed’s Hill, could be easily approached at the back by Charlestown Neck; and though, as I’ve said, they completely commanded Boston, they was wholly neglected by our generals; but they warn’t neglected by our sharp-witted foes, for, early one fine summer morning — it were the 17th of June aforementioned — we was wakened out of our slumbers by a brisk cannonading from the Lively ship of war, and, rubbing our eyes, we seed that the Yankees, during the night, had contrived to throw up a redoubt on Bunker’s Hill, and complete a breastwork nearly to its foot.”
“And did no one discover or disturb their operations?” I inquired.
“Not a soul,” John replied, “though the bay was full of shipping, and our fortifications was close at hand. Well, this was too much even for old Gage to stand: so he opens upon ’em a battery from Copp’s Hill, in Boston, and finding this do little or no good, he despatches Howe and Pigott, with ten companies of light infantry, and the like number of grenadiers, to try and dislodge the stubborn Yankees. We landed at Moreton’s Point, which lies at the foot of Bunker’s Hill, and right in front of the entrenchments, though we might just as easily, and far more safely, have taken the enemy in the rear, and gone up by Charlestown Neck. Howsomever, our generals judged otherwise, and it was our business to go where they led. But somehow they didn’t like the look of things, so we waited for further reinforcements, and the delay gave the enemy an opportunity of improving his defensive operations, while he also received considerable reinforcements. It was a sweltering hot day, and we was almost ready to sink under the weight we carried, for, besides our knapsacks, cartouche-boxes, and firelocks, we was encumbered with three days’ provision. Well, at last the word was given, and severe work it was to climb the hill-sides, under that blazing sun, and to scale the walls and fences by which it was intersected. We was formed in two lines, the light infantry on the right, being led by Howe, and the grenadiers on the left, by Pigott. Our wing was first assailed by a body of militia-men, who had posted themselves in some adjoining houses, but we soon put a stop to this by setting fire to their places of shelter, and, as the habitations was altogether of wood, the conflagration spread with wonderful rapidity, and the whole of Charlestown was soon in flames. It was an awful sight, and the smoke of the burning buildings added to our annoyances. Well, we continued to toil up the hill, till we got close up to their entrenchments, when the Yankees, who had let us approach almost undisturbed, opened upon us a most dreadful and destructive fire. Our line was broken in several places, and for some moments Howe was left almost alone. It seemed as if we should have the worst of it, when, luckily, General Clinton crosses Charles River, rallies the flying men, charges the Yankees at the point of the bayonet, forces ’em from their works, and drives ’em down Charlestown Neck. Ah! well, it was a hard-fought fight, and a badly-fought fight, too; for if we had been properly led, we should have licked ’em in no time.”
“But you’ve told us nothing about your arm, John,” I said.
“Haven’t I?” he rejoined; “well, I left it on Bunker’s Hill anyhow, for it was carried off close to the showldher in the first attack, and though thus disabled I didn’t leave the ranks, but got the stump bandaged up, and made shift to hold my firelock in my left hand, until, as we gained the redoubt, I received a blow on the head from a Yankee, who fought with a clubbed musket, which stretched me on the ground, and left me for dead on the field. Howsomever, here I am, hale and hearty, though minus an arm. And that’s all about it.”
“And here come Mr. Cane and the doctor,” I cried, “so we must be off to school. Thank you, John, for the story.”
But we were not John’s only customers, though his best. He also had dealings, in a small way, with the Bluecoat boys, and when they couldn’t get out, they would summon him by thumping against their iron-studded doors, and screaming out, “John Leigh! a penn’orth o’ barley-sugar!” until the article required was put under the gate to them. With these lads we had repeated quarrels, and they would sometimes issue forth in a swarm from the wicket in their gateway, and take by surprise a party of our lesser boys, who were playing at marbles or other games, and give them a drubbing before they could be rescued by their bigger and stronger comrades. On the approach of danger, the Bluecoat boys would retreat through the sally-port, and close it against the superior force. Well was it, on these occasions, for our little fellows, if there were any loungers in John Leigh’s to respond to their cries for aid. Now and then, we prevented the wicket from being closed, and, pursuing the invaders into their own territories, a general conflict would take place upon the broad playground, reinforcements continually arriving on both sides, until the battle was decided, which it generally was, in our favour. These fights presented a curious spectacle, owing to the strange costume of our antagonists, who were sturdy little rogues, and exhibited a good deal of pluck.
Towards the end of that half-year a gloom was thrown upon the school by a melancholy incident. During the warm weather we were wont to bathe in the Ater, the place selected being a deep pool, into which we could plunge from an overhanging sandstone rock. Of course, this spot was only available to swimmers, but I was amongst the number, and being fond of the water, soon became very expert, and was considered a first-rate diver. But it is not of myself I am about to speak, but of poor Simpson, whom I have incidentally mentioned. He, too, was accounted an excellent swimmer. One luckless day, I parted with him before breakfast, and he was then in high spirits, and wanted me to have a swim in the Ater. I told him I hadn’t time, but would go the next morning. “To-morrow, come never,” he replied, with a laugh, little thinking how truly he spoke. Others were easily persuaded to accompany him. We had scarcely assembled, an hour afterwards, when a report came that Simpson was drowned. We could scarcely believe it, but it turned out too true. He had been seized with cramp, as was supposed, and had sunk suddenly in sight of his companions. The body had not yet been found. Never shall I forget the shock occasioned by this intelligence. A profound and mournful silence took place of the universal din, and we could distinctly hear the voices of the masters consulting together. The boys spoke in anxious whispers, and smiles had fled even from the most thoughtless countenance. All felt the sudden loss, for Simpson was generally liked; and I felt it most of all, for he was my great friend. The school was immediately dismissed, but no one went to play. All went sadly and slowly home.
CHAPTER III.
CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF MY GREAT-UNCLE, JOHN MOBBERLEY, HIS OLD DAME, AND HIS FARM AT MARSTON.
MOST of my holidays were passed with my father’s uncle, John Mobberley, of Marston, in Cheshire. Old John was a farmer, on a very extensive scale, and possessed some pastures which produced the richest cheeses in the county, and his cheeses made him the richest man, except the squire, in Marston. A farmer of the old school was John, — old-fashioned in the management of his land, of his crops, of his cattle, — old-fashioned likewise in his habits, manners, and attire. He wore a blue coat, which looked as if it had been cut by some village snip about thirty years back in the last century, ornamented with plain, flat, white buttons, as dull as old pewter; a waistcoat to match, with large flapped pockets; knee breeches, grey worsted stockings and shoes, fastened by great plated buckles. His
low-crowned hat was looped up at the sides.
In the days of his robust manhood, as I have heard, John Mobberley was a stout, upright fellow, and could go through as much hard work as any man, but now Time had laid a heavy hand upon him, had bent his back, and shrunk up his limbs within his clothes. When walking, he required the support of a staff; and, besides being afflicted with the rheumatic pains generally attendant upon old age, had partially lost the sight of his right eye, which he kept covered up with a great black patch, while the remaining orb was red and blear, giving a somewhat formidable and fiery character to his physiognomy, His nose and chin were large and prominent, and, as he had lost all his teeth, frequently met together as he mumbled his food, while from the same cause his speech was not altogether intelligible. In manner he was somewhat testy, like most old fellows who have got large pockets with plenty of cash in them. But, notwithstanding this, he was a good fellow in the main, and was very much liked and respected. As may be imagined, his age and habits, as well as tastes, wholly unfitted him for society, and hence his only resource was a weekly visit to the Nag’s Head, a little public-house in the village of Marston, which lay about half a mile from his own dwelling, where there was a bowling-green, at which he would sometimes take a hand, and where a seat was reserved for him by the cosy fireside. To this snug little house some of the better inhabitants of the village would repair to spell over the county paper, and gossip over a cheerful glass. Once a week, about three or four o’clock in the afternoon, according to the season, old John Mobberley would seize his staff, and after scanning the farmyard with his only available eye, to ascertain that the coast was clear, would steal through the side-garden, and make the best of his way across the fields to the village. These stolen visits to the Nag’s Head would have been prevented altogether by his good old dame if she had had the power, and she did check their too frequent occurrence, being well aware of the excesses attending them, and of the pernicious effect they had upon her husband’s health. But in spite of all remonstrances, go old John would, once a week, though stealthily, as I have described, and as if ashamed of himself. Once arrived at the little inn, all his misgivings vanished. He was warmly welcomed by the stout host and buxom hostess, the best seat near the fire was given him, his pipe lighted, and a glass of cold gin-and-water prepared for him.
Old John was very happy as long as his senses lasted, chirruped over his cups, treated his old cronies, and many a one would drop in, apparently by accident, told his old jests, and talked of Ins farm and his concerns as if he had been by his own fireside; indeed, he talked a great deal more at the Nag’s Head than he ever did at home, where he was generally morose and taciturn.
Of course, in the inebriate condition to which he was invariably reduced on these occasions, it would have been utterly impossible for him to get home unassisted, and Sam Massey, one of the farming men, was usually sent for him. One night I accompanied Sam on the errand. I had never seen my uncle in such a state before, and must confess I was surprised and shocked at his appearance. He was roaring out and gesticulating like a Bedlamite. On seeing me, whom he had not expected, he ordered a glass of gin-and-water to be given me, and another to Sam, while he drained that which stood before him. After this, and many futile attempts to keep steady on his seat, and to utter a few coherent sentences, he was persuaded, chiefly by the hostess, who seemed to exercise some influence over him, to go home. We had fine work with him in the fields, for he kicked the horn lantern, which I carried, into a clump of hazel trees, and while Sam was searching for it, he broke away from me, and started off at a pace which, in soberer moments, he certainly could not have equalled, and before we could overtake him, fell headlong into a pond. We got him out as quickly as we could, and he sustained no further damage than such as was occasioned by the ducking. But the accident made him somewhat more careful for the next few weeks.
My aunt Mobberley presented an advantageous contrast to her husband in personal appearance; for though past eighty, while he was nearly ten years younger, she had preserved some traces of the comeliness which had distinguished her youth and maturer years. She was tall and perfectly upright, and though her features were deeply furrowed with wrinkles, they still retained a pleasing expression. Her eyesight was unimpaired, and her teeth tolerably good. Her hair was still abundant, and merely grizzled, whereas her husband’s scanty locks were silvery white. She was in full possession of all her faculties, and, considering her great age, very active, busying herself about her household concerns, and superintending the dairy, which was still an object of great solicitude and interest to her. But the cheeses, which, during more than half a century, had been made by her own hand, were now manufactured by her niece, Hannah Massey, a stout damsel, who was fully equal to the important task assigned her, and whose tongue and limbs were never idle. Under Hannah’s care the Marston cheese lost none of its high reputation.
The rest of the household comprised Hannah’s younger sister Martha, a fresh-complexioned lass of fifteen, and her two brothers, Sam and Peter, the latter of whom was a great raw-boned fellow, and a tremendous bruiser. He was very fond of wakes and fairs, and required a good deal of looking after on the part of his elder sister. Besides these, there was the superintendent of the farm, William Weever, between whom and Hannah Massey an engagement of marriage subsisted, which was to be ratified at some period, early or late, as chance might dictate, when any change to warrant it might take place in the family. The proposed match met with the entire approval of the old couple, and my aunt only wished it to be postponed until after her death.
Nethercrofts — for so my uncle Mobberley’s habitation was designated — was nothing more than a farm-house, with large cow-houses (shippons, in the dialect of the county), and other outbuildings attached to it. A few rooms had been added at the back, but a farm-house it remained to the end. The walls were whitewashed, the roof thatched. Within, the entire centre of the house was occupied by a spacious apartment, with a low roof encumbered by projecting rafters, from which hung hams and sides of bacon. Also a bread-flake full of oat-cakes. Also Sam Massey’s sword, which he used to wear when he went out with the North Cheshire Yeomanry, in which corps he served as my uncle’s substitute. Also a couple of horse-pistols belonging to the said Sam, and a long-disused duck-gun, with a worm-eaten stock. The windows had small diamond panes, the floor was flagged, and the fireplace had a wide-mouthed chimney, and deep comfortable comers, furnished with wooden benches on either side. Over the fire hung a great black kettle, and not far from it a bake-stone.
The house-place — for so the room was called — looked extremely comfortable, with its white walls, its clean sanded floor, its dresser, its old oak chests, and its old clock, which stood quietly ticking in the corner. Near one of the windows was a long, high-backed sofa, the seat and cushions of which were covered with patchwork. Here my aunt Mobberley used generally to sit, and, when not employed, read her Bible, or some other good book, with her favourite white tom-cat at her feet — a huge animal, very gentle with her, but very spiteful to every one else, and to me in particular. My uncle’s old arm-chair and spittoon were placed near the fire, with a little table close at hand, for the convenience of his pipe and tobacco box; while, upon the hearth, Talbot, the retriever, would stretch his lazy length, as often as permitted.
In reviewing my visits to Nethercrofts, I seem to fix on the happiest period of my life. I liked the old farm-house; I liked the life I led; I had no distasteful tasks to fulfil — no Mr. Cane to apprehend; I was constantly out in the open air, constantly engaged in exercise. If this was not very intellectual employment, at least it was very healthful; and though rather delicate when at the Anchorite’s, and confined all day in a public school, and in the evening by tasks, here, with plenty of exercise, and nothing on my mind, I became extremely robust, and got a fresh glowing colour in my cheeks. At one time I was a great angler, and thought of nothing else but rods, lines, tackle, and baits. I used to troll for jack, and catch perch and carp i
n the mere which lay in the valley about a mile from Nethercrofts; and would set drum-nets for tench, and night lines for eels in my uncle’s ponds. Such was the mania that possessed me, that I used occasionally to dream of catching pike as big as sharks. I longed for the time when I should be able to throw a fly and take the speckled trout in some mountain stream. My conversation turned wholly upon fishing; and I was thrown into ecstasies by hearing of any piscine preserves, and treasured the places in my memory. I have since learnt to dislike the angler’s art, and, so far from thinking it a “gentle” sport, am of opinion that it is a very cruel pastime; but I had no such scruples of sensibility then. If I gained nothing else by the pursuit, at all events I acquired a love of Nature. I beheld her beauties under many a varied aspect — at morn and eve, amid showers as well as sunshine. I noted the pursuits of the feathered creation with interest, and listened attentively to their different songs and cries. To raise the wild duck or startle the coot from among the water-flags and bulrushes fringing the banks of the mere — to watch the heron, with outstretched legs, and head between the shoulders, wing his slow and heavy flight across the water, and descend in some sheltered nook, to devour his prey undisturbed — to hear the bittern’s booming cry — to see the longbilled curlew or the plover — the red-shank and the sandpiper — and, above all, the kingfisher — these were delights and studies to me then.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 440