Rewards and Fairies

‘“Courage, mon ami,” he says. “Dinner is served.”

‘“I can’t eat,”I says. “I can’t do any more. It’s stronger than I am.”

‘“Bah!” he says. “Nothing’s stronger than a man. Me, for example! Less than two years ago I was blown up in the Orient in Aboukir Bay, but I descended again and hit the water like a fairy. Look at me now,” he says. He wasn’t much to look at, for he’d only one leg and one eye, but the cheerfullest soul that ever trod shoe-leather. “That’s worse than a hundred and eleven hogshead of ’baccy,” he goes on. “You’re young, too! What wouldn’t I give to be young in France at this hour! There’s nothing you couldn’t do,” he says. “The ball’s at your feet – kick it!” he says. He kicks the old fire bucket with his peg-leg. “General Buonaparte, for example!” he goes on. “That man’s a babe compared to me, and see what he’s done already. He’s conquered Egypt and Austria and Italy – oh! half Europe!” he says, “and now he sails back to Paris, and he sails out to St. Cloud down the river here —don’t stare at the river, you young fool! – and all in front of these pig-jobbing lawyers and citizens he makes himself Consul, which is as good as a King. He’ll be King, too, in the next three turns of the capstan – King of France, England, and the world! Think o’ that!” he shouts, “and eat your herring.”

‘I says something about Boney. If he hadn’t been fighting England I shouldn’t have lost my ’baccy – should I?

‘“Young fellow,” says Maingon, “you don’t understand.”

‘We heard cheering. A carriage passed over the bridge with two in it.

‘“That’s the man himself,” says Maingon. “He’ll give ’em something to cheer for soon.” He stands at the salute.

‘“Who’s t’other in black beside him?” I asks, fairly shaking all over.

‘“Ah! he’s the clever one. You’ll hear of him before long. He’s that scoundrel-bishop, Talleyrand.”

‘“It is!” I said, and up the steps I went with my fiddle, and run after the carriage calling, “Abbé, abbé!”

‘A soldier knocked the wind out of me with the back of his sword, but I had sense to keep on following till the carriage stopped – and there just was a crowd round the house-door! I must have been half-crazy else I wouldn’t have struck up “Si le Roi m’avait donné, Paris la grande ville!” I thought it might remind him.

‘“That is a good omen!” he says to Boney sitting all hunched up; and he looks straight at me.

‘“Abbé – oh, abbé!” I says. “Don’t you remember Toby and Hundred and Eighteen Second Street?”

‘He said not a word. He just crooked his long white finger to the guard at the door while the carriage steps were let down, and I skipped into the house, and they slammed the door in the crowd’s face.

‘“You go there,” says a soldier, and shoves me into an empty room, where I catched my first breath since I’d left the barge. Presently I heard plates rattling next door – there were only folding doors between – and a cork drawn. “I tell you,” some one shouts with his mouth full, “it was all that sulky ass Sieyès’ fault. Only my speech to the Five Hundred saved the situation.”

‘“Did it save your coat?” says Talleyrand. “I hear they tore it when they threw you out. Don’t gasconade to me. You may be in the road of victory, but you aren’t there yet.”

‘Then I guessed t’other man was Boney. He stamped about and swore at Talleyrand.

‘“You forget yourself, Consul,” says Talleyrand, “or rather you remember yourself – Corsican.”

‘“Pig!” says Boney, and worse.

‘“Emperor!” says Talleyrand, but, the way he spoke, it sounded worst of all. Some one must have backed against the folding doors, for they flew open and showed me in the middle of the room. Boney whipped out his pistol before I could stand up. “General,” says Talleyrand to him, “this gentleman has a habit of catching us canaille en déshabillé. Put that thing down.”

‘Boney laid it on the table, so I guessed which was master. Talleyrand takes my hand – "Charmed to see you again, Candide,” he says. “How is the adorable Dr. Pangloss and the noble Huron?”

‘“They were doing very well when I left,” I said. “But I’m not.”

‘“Do you sell buttons now?” he says, and fills me a glass of wine off the table.

‘“Madeira,” says he. “Not so good as some I have drunk.”

‘“You mountebank!” Boney roars. “Turn that out.” (He didn’t even say "man,” but Talleyrand, being gentle born, just went on.)

‘“Pheasant is not so good as pork,” he says. “You will find some at that table if you will do me the honour to sit down. Pass him a clean plate, General.” And, as true as I’m here, Boney slid a plate along just like a sulky child. He was a lanky-haired, yellow-skinned little man, as nervous as a cat – and as dangerous. I could feel that.

‘“And now,” said Talleyrand, crossing his game leg over his sound one, "will you tell me your story?”

‘I was in a fluster, but I told him nearly everything from the time he left me the five hundred dollars in Philadelphia, up to my losing ship and cargo at Le Havre. Boney began by listening, but after a bit he dropped into his own thoughts and looked at the crowd sideways through the front-room curtains. Talleyrand called to him when I’d done.

‘“Eh? What we need now,” says Boney, “is peace for the next three or four years.”

‘“Quite so,” says Talleyrand. “Meantime I want the Consul’s order to the Prize Court at Le Havre to restore my friend here his ship.”

‘“Nonsense!” says Boney. “Give away an oak-built brig of two hundred and seven tons for sentiment? Certainly not! She must be armed into my Navy with ten – no, fourteen twelve-pounders and two long fours. Is she strong enough to bear a long twelve forward?”

‘Now I could ha’ sworn he’d paid no heed to my talk, but that wonderful head-piece of his seemingly skimmed off every word of it that was useful to him.

‘“Ah, General!” says Talleyrand. “You are a magician – a magician without morals. But the brig is undoubtedly American, and we don’t want to offend them more than we have.”

‘“Need anybody talk about the affair?” he says. He didn’t look at me, but I knew what was in his mind – just cold murder because I worried him; and he’d order it as easy as ordering his carriage.

‘“You can’t stop ’em,” I said. “There’s twenty-two other men besides me.” I felt a little more ’ud set me screaming like a wired hare.

‘“Undoubtedly American,” Talleyrand goes on. “You would gain something if you returned the ship – with a message of fraternal good-will – published in the Moniteur” (that’s a French paper like the Philadelphia Aurora).

‘“A good idea!” Boney answers. “One could say much in a message.”

‘“It might be useful,” says Talleyrand. “Shall I have the message prepared?” He wrote something in a little pocket ledger.

‘“Yes – for me to embellish this evening. The Moniteur will publish it to-night.”

‘“Certainly. Sign, please,” says Talleyrand, tearing the leaf out.

‘“But that’s the order to return the brig,” says Boney. “Is that necessary? Why should I lose a good ship? Haven’t I lost enough ships already?”

‘Talleyrand didn’t answer any of those questions. Then Boney sidled up to the table and jabs his pen into the ink. Then he shies at the paper again: “My signature alone is useless,” he says. “You must have the other two Consuls as well. Sieyès and Roger Ducos must sign. We must preserve the Laws.”

‘“By the time my friend presents it,” says Talleyrand, still looking out of the window, “only one signature will be necessary.”

‘Boney smiles. “It’s a swindle,” says he, but he signed and pushed the paper across.

‘“Give that to the President of the Prize Court at Le Havre,” says Talleyrand, “and he will give you back your ship. I will settle for the cargo myself. You have told me how much it cost. What profit did you expect to make on it?”

‘Well, then, as man to man, I was bound to warn him that I’d set out to run it into England without troubling the Revenue, and so I couldn’t rightly set bounds to my profits.’

‘I guessed that all along,’ said Puck.

‘There was never a Lee to Warminghurst —That wasn’t a smuggler last and first.’

The children laughed.

‘It’s comical enough now,’ said Pharaoh. ‘But I didn’t laugh then. Says Talleyrand after a minute, “I am a bad accountant and I have several calculations on hand at present. Shall we say twice the cost of the cargo?”

‘Say? I couldn’t say a word. I sat choking and nodding like a China image while he wrote an order to his secretary to pay me, I won’t say how much, because you wouldn’t believe it.

‘“Oh! Bless you, abbé! God bless you!” I got it out at last.

‘“Yes,” he says, “I am a priest in spite of myself, but they call me bishop now. Take this for my episcopal blessing,” and he hands me the paper.

‘“He stole all that money from me,” says Boney over my shoulder. “A Bank of France is another of the things we must make. Are you mad?” he shouts at Talleyrand.

‘“Quite,” says Talleyrand, getting up. “But be calm; the disease will never attack you. It is called gratitude. This gentleman found me in the street and fed me when I was hungry.”

‘“I see; and he has made a fine scene of it and you have paid him, I suppose. Meantime, France waits.”

‘“Oh! poor France!” says Talleyrand. “Good-bye, Candide,” he says to me. “By the way,” he says, “have you yet got Red Jacket’s permission to tell me what the President said to his Cabinet after Monsieur Genêt rode away?”

‘I couldn’t speak, I could only shake my head, and Boney – so impatient he was to go on with his doings – he ran at me and fair pushed me out of the room. And that was all there was to it.’

Pharaoh stood up and slid his fiddle into one of his big skirt pockets as though it were a dead hare.

‘Oh! but we want to know lots and lots more,’ said Dan. ‘How you got home – and what old Maingon said on the barge – and wasn’t your cousin surprised when he had to give back the Berthe Aurette, and – ’

‘Tell us more about Toby!’ cried Una.

‘Yes, and Red Jacket,’ said Dan.

‘Won’t you tell us any more?’ they both pleaded.

Puck kicked the oak branch on the fire, till it sent up a column of smoke that made them sneeze. When they had finished the Shaw was empty except for old Hobden stamping through the larches.

‘They gipsies have took two,’ he said: ‘my black pullet and my liddle gingy-speckled cockrel.’

‘I thought so,’ said Dan, picking up one tail-feather the old woman had overlooked.

‘Which way did they go? Which way did the runagates go?’ said Hobden.

‘Hobby!’ said Una. ‘Would you like it if we told Keeper Ridley all your goings and comings?’

‘POOR HONEST MEN’

Your jar of VirginnyWill cost you a guinea,Which you reckon too much by five shillings or ten;But light your churchwardenAnd judge it accordingWhen I’ve told you the troubles of poor honest men.From the Capes of the Delaware,As you are well aware,We sail with tobacco for England – but thenOur own British cruisers,They watch us come through, sirs,And they press half a score of us poor honest men.Or if by quick sailing(Thick weather prevailing)We leave them behind (as we do now and then)We are sure of a gun fromEach frigate we run from,Which is often destruction to poor honest men!Broadsides the AtlanticWe tumble short-handed,With shot-holes to plug and new canvas to bend,And off the Azores,Dutch, Dons and MonsieursAre waiting to terrify poor honest men!Napoleon’s embargoIs laid on all cargoWhich comfort or aid to King George may intend;And since roll, twist and leaf,Of all comforts is chief,They try for to steal it from poor honest men!With no heart for fight,We take refuge in flight,But fire as we run, our retreat to defend,Until our stern-chasersCut up her fore-braces,And she flies off the wind from us poor honest men!Twix’ the Forties and Fifties,South-eastward the drift is,And so, when we think we are making Land’s End,Alas, it is UshantWith half the King’s Navy,Blockading French ports against poor honest men!But they may not quit station(Which is our salvation),So swiftly we stand to the Nor’ard again;And finding the tail ofA homeward-bound convoy,We slip past the Scillies like poor honest men.Twix’ the Lizard and Dover,We hand our stuff over,Though I may not inform how we do it, nor when;But a light on each quarterLow down on the waterIs well understanded by poor honest men!Even then we have dangersFrom meddlesome strangers,Who spy on our business and are not contentTo take a smooth answer,Except with a handspike …And they say they are murdered by poor honest men!To be drowned or be shotIs our natural lot,Why should we, moreover, be hanged in the end —After all our great painsFor to dangle in chains,As though we were smugglers, not poor honest men?

The Conversion of St. Wilfrid

EDDI’S SERVICE

Eddi, priest of St. WilfridIn the chapel at Manhood End,Ordered a midnight serviceFor such as cared to attend.But the Saxons were keeping Christmas,And the night was stormy as well.Nobody came to serviceThough Eddi rang the bell.‘Wicked weather for walking,’Said Eddi of Manhood End.‘But I must go on with the serviceFor such as care to attend.’The altar candles were lighted, —An old marsh donkey came,Bold as a guest invited,And stared at the guttering flame.The storm beat on at the windows,The water splashed on the floor,And a wet yoke-weary bullockPushed in through the open door.‘How do I know what is greatest,How do I know what is least?That is My Father’s business,’Said Eddi, Wilfrid’s priest.‘But, three are gathered together —Listen to me and attend.I bring good news, my brethren!’Said Eddi, of Manhood End.And he told the Ox of a mangerAnd a stall in Bethlehem,And he spoke to the Ass of a RiderThat rode to Jerusalem.They steamed and dripped in the chancel,They listened and never stirred,While, just as though they were Bishops,Eddi preached them The Word.Till the gale blew off on the marshesAnd the windows showed the day,And the Ox and the Ass togetherWheeled and clattered away.And when the Saxons mocked him,Said Eddi of Manhood End,‘I dare not shut His chapelOn such as care to attend.’

The Conversion of St. Wilfrid

They had bought peppermints up at the village, and were coming home past little St. Barnabas’s church, when they saw Jimmy Kidbrooke, the carpenter’s baby, kicking at the churchyard gate, with a shaving in his mouth and the tears running down his cheeks.

Una pulled out the shaving and put in a peppermint. Jimmy said he was looking for his grand-daddy – he never seemed to take much notice of his father – so they went up between the old graves, under the leaf-dropping limes, to the porch, where Jim trotted in, looked about the empty church, and screamed like a gate-hinge.

Young Sam Kidbrooke’s voice came from the bell-tower, and made them jump.

‘Why, Jimmy,’ he called, ‘what are you doin’ here? Fetch him, Father!’

Old Mr. Kidbrooke stumped downstairs, jerked Jimmy on to his shoulder, stared at the children beneath his brass spectacles, and stumped back again. They laughed: it was so exactly like Mr. Kidbrooke.

‘It’s all right,’ Una called up the stairs. ‘We found him, Sam. Does his mother know?’

‘He’s come off by himself. She’ll be just about crazy,’ Sam answered.

‘Then I’ll run down street and tell her.’ Una darted off.

‘Thank you, Miss Una. Would you like to see how we’re mendin’ the bell-beams, Mus’ Dan?’

Dan hopped up, and saw young Sam lying on his stomach in a most delightful place among beams and ropes, close to the five great bells. Old Mr. Kidbrooke on the floor beneath was planing a piece of wood, and Jimmy was eating the shavings as fast as they came away. He never looked at Jimmy; Jimmy never stopped eating; and the broad gilt-bobbed pendulum of the church clock never stopped swinging across the white-washed wall of the tower.

Dan winked through the sawdust that fell on his up-turned face. ‘Ring a bell,’ he called.

‘I mustn’t do that, but I’ll buzz one of ’em a bit for you,’ said Sam. He pounded on the sound-bow of the biggest bell, and waked a hollow groaning boom that ran up and down the tower like creepy feelings down your back. Just when it almost began to hurt, it died away in a hurry of beautiful sorrowful cries, like a wineglass rubbed with a wet finger. The pendulum clanked – one loud clank to each silent swing.

Dan heard Una return from Mrs. Kidbrooke’s, and ran down to fetch her. She was standing by the font staring at some one who kneeled at the altar rail.

‘Is that the lady who practises the organ?’ she whispered.

‘No. She’s gone into the organ-place. Besides, she wears black,’ Dan replied.

The figure rose and came down the nave. It was a white-haired man in a long white gown with a sort of scarf looped low on the neck, one end hanging over his shoulder. His loose long sleeves were embroidered with gold, and a deep strip of gold embroidery waved and sparkled round the hem of his gown.

‘Go and meet him,’ said Puck’s voice behind the font. ‘It’s only Wilfrid.’

‘Wilfrid who?’ said Dan. ‘You come along too.’

‘Wilfrid – Saint of Sussex, and Archbishop of York. I shall wait till he asks me.’ He waved them forward. Their feet squeaked on the old grave slabs in the centre aisle. The Archbishop raised one hand with a pink ring on it, and said something in Latin. He was very handsome, and his thin face looked almost as silvery as his thin circle of hair.

‘Are you alone?’ he asked.

‘Puck’s here, of course,’ said Una. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I know him better now than I used to.’ He beckoned over Dan’s shoulder, and spoke again in Latin. Puck pattered forward, holding himself as straight as an arrow. The Archbishop smiled.

‘Be welcome,’ said he. ‘Be very welcome.’

‘Welcome to you also, O Prince of the Church,’ Puck replied. The Archbishop bowed his head and passed on, till he glimmered like a white moth in the shadow by the font.

‘He does look awfully princely,’ said Una. ‘Isn’t he coming back?’

‘Oh yes. He’s only looking over the church. He’s very fond of churches,’ said Puck. ‘What’s that?’

The Lady who practises the organ was speaking to the blower-boy behind the organ-screen. ‘We can’t very well talk here,’ Puck whispered. ‘Let’s go to Panama Corner.’

He led them to the end of the south aisle, where there is a slab of iron which says in queer, long-tailed letters: Orate p. annema Jhone Coline. The children always called it Panama Corner.

The Archbishop moved slowly about the little church, peering at the old memorial tablets and the new glass windows. The Lady who practises the organ began to pull out stops and rustle hymnbooks behind the screen.

‘I hope she’ll do all the soft lacey tunes – like treacle on porridge,’ said Una.

‘I like the trumpety ones best,’ said Dan. ‘Oh, look at Wilfrid! He’s trying to shut the altar gates!’

‘Tell him he mustn’t,’ said Puck, quite seriously.

‘He can’t, anyhow,’ Dan muttered, and tiptoed out of Panama Corner while the Archbishop patted and patted at the carved gates that always sprang open again beneath his hand.

‘That’s no use, sir,’ Dan whispered. ‘Old Mr. Kidbrooke says altar-gates are just the one pair of gates which no man can shut. He made ’em so himself.’

The Archbishop’s blue eyes twinkled. Dan saw that he knew all about it.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Dan stammered – very angry with Puck.

‘Yes, I know! He made them so Himself.’ The Archbishop smiled, and crossed to Panama Corner, where Una dragged up a certain padded arm-chair for him to sit on.

The organ played softly. ‘What does that music say?’ he asked.

Una dropped into the chant without thinking: ‘"Oh, all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise him and magnify him for ever.” We call it the Noah’s Ark, because it’s all lists of things – beasts and birds and whales, you know.’

‘Whales?’ said the Archbishop quickly.

‘Yes – "O ye whales, and all that move in the waters,"’ Una hummed – ’“Bless ye the Lord” – it sounds like a wave turning over, doesn’t it?’

‘Holy Father,’ said Puck with a demure face, ‘is a little seal also “one who moves in the water“?’

‘Eh? Oh yes – yess!’ he laughed. ‘A seal moves wonderfully in the waters. Do the seal come to my island still?’

Puck shook his head. ‘All those little islands have been swept away.’

‘Very possible. The tides ran fiercely down there. Do you know the land of the Sea-calf, maiden?’

‘No – but we’ve seen seals – at Brighton.’

‘The Archbishop is thinking of a little farther down the coast. He means Seal’s Eye – Selsea – down Chichester way – where he converted the South Saxons,’ Puck explained.

‘Yes – yess; if the South Saxons did not convert me,’ said the Archbishop, smiling. ‘The first time I was wrecked was on that coast. As our ship took ground and we tried to push her off, an old fat fellow, I remember, reared breast high out of the water, and scratched his head with his flipper as if he were saying: “What does that respectable person with the pole think he is doing?” I was very wet and miserable, but I could not help laughing, till the natives came down and attacked us.’

‘What did you do?’ Dan asked.

‘One couldn’t very well go back to France, so one tried to make them go back to the shore. All the South Saxons are born wreckers, like my own Northumbrian folk. I was bringing over a few things for my old church at York, and some of the natives laid hands on them, and – and I’m afraid I lost my temper.’

‘It is said,’ Puck’s voice was wickedly meek, ‘that there was a great fight.’

‘Eh, but I must ha’ been a silly lad.’ Wilfrid spoke with a sudden thick burr in his voice. He coughed, and took up his silvery tones again. ‘There was no fight really. My men thumped a few of them, but the tide rose half an hour before its time, with a strong wind, and we backed off. What I wanted to say, though, was, that the seas about us were full of sleek seals watching the scuffle. My good Eddi – my chaplain – insisted that they were demons. Yes – yess! That was my first acquaintance with the South Saxons and their seals.’

‘But not the only time you were wrecked, was it?’ said Dan.

‘Alas, no! On sea and land my life seems to have been one long shipwreck,’ He looked at the Jhone Coline slab as old Hobden sometimes looks into the fire. ‘Ah, well!’

‘But did you ever have any more adventures among the seals?’ said Una, after a pause.

‘Oh, the seals! I beg your pardon. They are the important things. Yes – yess! I went back to the South Saxons after twelve – fifteen years. No, I did not come by water, but overland from my own Northumbria, to see what I could do. It’s little one can do with that class of native except make them stop killing each other and themselves – ’

‘Why did they kill themselves?’ Una asked, her chin in her hand.

‘Because they were heathen. When they grew tired of life (as if they were the only people) they would jump into the sea. They called it going to Wotan. It wasn’t want of food always – by any means. A man would tell you that he felt grey in the heart, or a woman would say that she saw nothing but long days in front of her; and they’d saunter away to the mud-flats and – that would be the end of them, poor souls, unless one headed them off! One had to run quick, but one can’t allow people to lay hands on themselves because they happen to feel grey. Yes – yess! Extraordinary people, the South Saxons. Disheartening, sometimes… What does that say now?’ The organ had changed tune again.

‘Only a hymn for next Sunday,’ said Una. ‘"The Church’s One Foundation." Go on, please, about running over the mud. I should like to have seen you.’

‘I dare say you would, and I really could run in those days. Ethelwalch the king gave me some five or six muddy parishes by the sea, and the first time my good Eddi and I rode there we saw a man slouching along the slob, among the seals at Manhood End. My good Eddi disliked seals – but he swallowed his objections and ran like a hare.’

‘Why?’ said Dan.

‘For the same reason that I did. We thought it was one of our people going to drown himself. As a matter of fact, Eddi and I were nearly drowned in the pools before we overtook him. To cut a long story short, we found ourselves very muddy, very breathless, being quietly made fun of in good Latin by a very well-spoken person. No – he’d no idea of going to Wotan. He was fishing on his own beaches, and he showed us the beacons and turf-heaps that divided his lands from the Church property. He took us to his own house, gave us a good dinner, some more than good wine, sent a guide with us into Chichester, and became one of my best and most refreshing friends. He was a Meon by descent, from the west edge of the kingdom; a scholar educated, curiously enough, at Lyons, my old school; had travelled the world over, even to Rome, and was a brilliant talker. We found we had scores of acquaintances in common. It seemed he was a small chief under King Ethelwalch, and I fancy the King was somewhat afraid of him. The South Saxons mistrust a man who talks too well. Ah! Now, I’ve left out the very point of my story. He kept a great grey-muzzled old dog-seal that he had brought up from a pup. He called it Padda – after one of my clergy. It was rather like fat, honest old Padda. The creature followed him everywhere, and nearly knocked down my good Eddi when we first met him. Eddi loathed it. It used to sniff at his thin legs and cough at him. I can’t say I ever took much notice of it (I was not fond of animals), till one day Eddi came to me with a circumstantial account of some witchcraft that Meon worked. He would tell the seal to go down to the beach the last thing at night, and bring him word of the weather. When it came back, Meon might say to his slaves, “Padda thinks we shall have wind to-morrow. Haul up the boats!" I spoke to Meon casually about the story, and he laughed.