Merry-Garden and Other Stories Part 11

"Seven days! seven days! And Great Britain engaged at this moment in the greatest war of its history! Oh, Doctor, Doctor--these professionals!"

Sergeant Topase shrugged his shoulders, and, concluding that his duties as a cicerone were at an end, edged away to the gatehouse for his breakfast.

"Oh, these professionals!" ingeminated Captain Pond again, eyeing the breach and the dismantled married quarters. "A whole seven days! And for that period we are to rest exposed not only to direct attack, but to the gaze of the curious public--nay, perchance even (who knows?) to the paid spies of the Corsican! Doctor, we must post a guard here at once!

Incredible that even this precaution should have been neglected! Nay,"-- with a sudden happy inspiration he clapped the Doctor on the shoulder,-- "did he say 'twould take three days to level this sorry heap?"

"He did."

"It shall not take us an hour! By George, sir, before daylight to-morrow we'll run up a nine-pounder, and have this rubbish down in five minutes!

Yes, yes--and I'd do it to-day, if it weren't the Sabbath."

"I don't see that the Sabbath ought to count against what we may fairly call the dictates of national urgency," said the Doctor. "_ Salus patriae suprema lex_."

"What's that?"

"Latin. It means that when the State is endangered all lesser considerations should properly go to the wall. To me your proposal seems a brilliant one; just the happy inspiration that would never occur to the hidebound professional mind in a month of Sundays. And in your place I wouldn't allow the Sabbath or anything else--"

A yell interrupted him--a yell, followed by the sound of a scuffle and, after a moment's interval, by a shout of triumph. These noises came from the roofless married quarters, and the voice of triumph was Lieutenant Clogg's, who had stepped inside the building while his seniors stood conversing, and now emerged dragging a little man by the collar, while with his disengaged hand he flourished a paper excitedly.

"A spy! A spy!" he panted.

"Hey?"

"I caught him in the act!" Mr. Clogg thrust the paper into his Captain's hands and, turning upon his captive, shook him first as one shakes a fractious child, and then planted him vigorously on his feet and demanded what he had to say for himself.

The captive could achieve no more than a stutter. He was an extremely little man, dressed in the Sunday garb of a civilian--fustian breeches, moleskin waistcoat, and a frock of blue broadcloth, very shiny at the seams. His hat had fallen off in the struggle, and his eyes, timorous as a hare's, seemed to plead for mercy while he stammered for speech.

"Good Lord!" cried Captain Pond, gazing at the paper. "Look, Doctor--a plan!"

"A sketch plan!"

"A plan of our defences!"

"Damme, a plan of the whole Castle, and drawn to scale! Search him, Clogg; search the villain!"

"Wha-wha-_what_," stuttered the little man, "WHAT'S the m-m-meaning of this? S-some-body shall p-pay, as sure as I--I--I--"

"Pay, sir?" thundered Captain Pond as Mr. Clogg dragged forth yet another bundle of plans from the poor creature's pocket. "You have seen the last penny you'll ever draw in your vile trade."

"Wha-_what_ have I--I--I DONE?"

"Heaven knows, sir--Heaven, which has interposed at this hour to thwart this treacherous design--alone can draw the full indictment against your past. Clogg, march him off to the guard-room: and you, Doctor, tell Pengelly to post a guard outside the door. In an hour's time I may feel myself sufficiently composed to examine him, and we will hold a full inquiry to-morrow. Good Lord!"--Captain Pond removed his hat and wiped his brow. "Good Lord! what an escape!"

"I'll--I'll have the l-l-law on you for t-th-this!" stammered the prisoner sulkily an hour later when Captain Pond entered his cell.

No other answer would he give to the Captain's closest interrogatory.

Only he demanded that a constable should be fetched. He was told that in England a constable had no power of interference with military justice.

"Y-you are a s-s-silly fool!" answered the prisoner, and turned away to his bench.

Captain Fond, emerging from the cell, gave orders to supply him with a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water. Down in Falmouth the bells were ringing for church. In the Castle a Sabbath stillness reigned.

Sergeant Topase, napping and reading his Bible by turns before the gatehouse fire, remarked to his wife that on the whole these silly amachoors were giving less trouble than he had expected.

At 7.45 next morning Gunner Israel Spettigew, having relieved guard with Gunner Oke at the breach, and advised him to exhibit a dose of black-currant wine before turning in (as a specific against a chill in the extremities), was proceeding leisurably to cut himself a quid of tobacco when he became aware of two workmen--carpenters they appeared to be in the dim light--approaching the entry.

"Who goes there?" he challenged. "'Tis no use my asking you for the countersign, because I've forgotten it myself: but there's No Admittance except on Business."

"That's what we've come upon," said one of the workmen. "By the looks of 'ee you must be one of the new Artillerymen from Looe that can't die however hard they want to. But didn' Jackson tell you to look out for us?"

"Who's Jackson?"

"Why, our Clerk of the Works. He's somewhere inside surely? He usually turns up half an hour ahead of anyone else, his heart's so set on this job."

"I haven't seen 'en go by, to my knowledge," said Uncle Issy.

The two men looked at one another. "Not turned up? Then there must be something the matter with 'en this morning: taken poorly with over-work, I reckon. Oh, you can't miss Jackson when once you've set eyes on him--a little chap with a face like a rabbit and a 'pediment in his speech."

"Hey?" said Uncle Issy sharply. "What? A stammerin' little slip of a chap in a moleskin waistcoat?"

"That's the man. Leastways I never see'd him wear a moleskin waistcoat, 'xcept on Sundays."

"But it _was_ Sunday!"

"Hey?"

"Oh, tell me--tell me, that's dear souls! Makes a whistly noise in his speech--do he?--like a slit bellows?"

"That's Jackson, to a hair. But--but--then you _hev_ seen 'en?"

"Seen 'en?" cried Uncle Issy. "A nice miss I ha'n't helped to bury 'en, by this time! Oh yes . . . if you want Jackson he's inside: an' what's more, he's a long way inside. But you can't want him half so much as he'll be wantin' you."

HIS EXCELLENCY'S PRIZE-FIGHT.

My grand-uncle pushed the decanter of brown sherry: a stout old-fashioned decanter, with shoulders almost as square as his own, and a silver chain about them bearing a silver label--not unlike the badge and collar which he himself wore on full ceremonial occasions.

"Three times round the world," he said, "and as yet only twice around the table. You must do it justice, gentlemen."

"A great wine, Admiral!" said the Rector, filling and sipping, with half-closed eyes. "They have a brown sherry at Christ Church which may challenge it, perhaps . . . The steward remembers my weakness when I go up to preach my afternoon sermon at St. Mary's. There was talk in Congregation, the other day, of abolishing afternoon sermons, on the ground that n.o.body attended them; but this, as one speaker feelingly observed, would deprive the country clergy of a dear privilege. . . ."

The Rector took another sip. "An heroic contest, between two such wines!"

"Talking of heroic contests, mine came to me by means of a prize-fight,"

said my grand-uncle, with a glance down the table at us two youngsters who were sipping and looking wise, as became connoisseurs fresh from the small beer of a public school. At the word 'prize-fight,' d.i.c.k and I p.r.i.c.ked up our ears. To us the Admiral was at once a prodigiously fine fellow and a prodigiously old one--though he dated after Nelson's day, to us he reached well back to it, and in fact he had been a midshipman in the last two years of the Great War. Certainly he belonged to the old school rather than to the new. He had fought under Codrington at Navarino. He had talked with mighty men of the ring--Tom Cribb, Jem Mace, Belcher, Sayers.

"What is more," said he, "though paid late, the wine you're drinking is the first prize-money I ever took; in my first ship, lads, and within forty-eight hours of joining her. . . . Youth, youth!"--as the decanter came around to him he refilled his gla.s.s.--"And to think that I was a good two years younger than either of you!"