TOM JONES
PART 18
Chapter
x. — Containing several matters, natural enough perhaps, but low.
The reader
will be pleased to remember, that we left Mr Jones, in the beginning of this
book, on his road to Bristol; being determined to seek his fortune at sea, or
rather, indeed, to fly away from his fortune on shore.
It
happened (a thing not very unusual), that the guide who undertook to conduct
him on his way, was unluckily unacquainted with the road; so that having missed
his right track, and being ashamed to ask information, he rambled about
backwards and forwards till night came on, and it began to grow dark. Jones
suspecting what had happened, acquainted the guide with his apprehensions; but
he insisted on it, that they were in the right road, and added, it would be
very strange if he should not know the road to Bristol; though, in reality, it
would have been much stranger if he had known it, having never past through it
in his life before.
Jones had
not such implicit faith in his guide, but that on their arrival at a village he
inquired of the first fellow he saw, whether they were in the road to Bristol.
“Whence did you come?” cries the fellow. “No matter,” says Jones, a little
hastily; “I want to know if this be the road to Bristol?”—“The road to
Bristol!” cries the fellow, scratching his head: “why, measter, I believe you
will hardly get to Bristol this way to-night.”—“Prithee, friend, then,”
answered Jones, “do tell us which is the way.”—“Why, measter,” cries the
fellow, “you must be come out of your road the Lord knows whither; for thick
way goeth to Glocester.”—“Well, and which way goes to Bristol?” said Jones.
“Why, you be going away from Bristol,” answered the fellow. “Then,” said Jones,
“we must go back again?”—“Ay, you must,” said the fellow. “Well, and when we
come back to the top of the hill, which way must we take?”—“Why, you must keep
the strait road.”—“But I remember there are two roads, one to the right and the
other to the left.”—“Why, you must keep the right-hand road, and then gu strait
vorwards; only remember to turn vurst to your right, and then to your left
again, and then to your right, and that brings you to the squire’s; and then
you must keep strait vorwards, and turn to the left.”
Another
fellow now came up, and asked which way the gentlemen were going; of which
being informed by Jones, he first scratched his head, and then leaning upon a
pole he had in his hand, began to tell him, “That he must keep the right-hand
road for about a mile, or a mile and a half, or such a matter, and then he must
turn short to the left, which would bring him round by Measter Jin
Bearnes’s.”—“But which is Mr John Bearnes’s?” says Jones. “O Lord!” cries the
fellow, “why, don’t you know Measter Jin Bearnes? Whence then did you come?”
These two
fellows had almost conquered the patience of Jones, when a plain well-looking
man (who was indeed a Quaker) accosted him thus: “Friend, I perceive thou hast
lost thy way; and if thou wilt take my advice, thou wilt not attempt to find it
to-night. It is almost dark, and the road is difficult to hit; besides, there
have been several robberies committed lately between this and Bristol. Here is
a very creditable good house just by, where thou may’st find good entertainment
for thyself and thy cattle till morning.” Jones, after a little persuasion,
agreed to stay in this place till the morning, and was conducted by his friend
to the public-house.
The
landlord, who was a very civil fellow, told Jones, “He hoped he would excuse
the badness of his accommodation; for that his wife was gone from home, and had
locked up almost everything, and carried the keys along with her.” Indeed the
fact was, that a favourite daughter of hers was just married, and gone that
morning home with her husband; and that she and her mother together had almost
stript the poor man of all his goods, as well as money; for though he had
several children, this daughter only, who was the mother’s favourite, was the
object of her consideration; and to the humour of this one child she would with
pleasure have sacrificed all the rest, and her husband into the bargain.
Though
Jones was very unfit for any kind of company, and would have preferred being
alone, yet he could not resist the importunities of the honest Quaker; who was
the more desirous of sitting with him, from having remarked the melancholy
which appeared both in his countenance and behaviour; and which the poor Quaker
thought his conversation might in some measure relieve.
After they
had past some time together, in such a manner that my honest friend might have
thought himself at one of his silent meetings, the Quaker began to be moved by
some spirit or other, probably that of curiosity, and said, “Friend, I perceive
some sad disaster hath befallen thee; but pray be of comfort. Perhaps thou hast
lost a friend. If so, thou must consider we are all mortal. And why shouldst
thou grieve, when thou knowest thy grief will do thy friend no good? We are all
born to affliction. I myself have my sorrows as well as thee, and most probably
greater sorrows. Though I have a clear estate of £100 a year, which is as much
as I want, and I have a conscience, I thank the Lord, void of offence; my
constitution is sound and strong, and there is no man can demand a debt of me,
nor accuse me of an injury; yet, friend, I should be concerned to think thee as
miserable as myself.”
Here the
Quaker ended with a deep sigh; and Jones presently answered, “I am very sorry,
sir, for your unhappiness, whatever is the occasion of it.”—“Ah! friend,”
replied the Quaker, “one only daughter is the occasion; one who was my greatest
delight upon earth, and who within this week is run away from me, and is
married against my consent. I had provided her a proper match, a sober man and
one of substance; but she, forsooth, would chuse for herself, and away she is
gone with a young fellow not worth a groat. If she had been dead, as I suppose thy
friend is, I should have been happy.”—“That is very strange, sir,” said Jones.
“Why, would it not be better for her to be dead, than to be a beggar?” replied
the Quaker: “for, as I told you, the fellow is not worth a groat; and surely
she cannot expect that I shall ever give her a shilling. No, as she hath
married for love, let her live on love if she can; let her carry her love to
market, and see whether any one will change it into silver, or even into
halfpence.”—“You know your own concerns best, sir,” said Jones. “It must have
been,” continued the Quaker, “a long premeditated scheme to cheat me: for they
have known one another from their infancy; and I always preached to her against
love, and told her a thousand times over it was all folly and wickedness. Nay,
the cunning slut pretended to hearken to me, and to despise all wantonness of
the flesh; and yet at last broke out at a window two pair of stairs: for I
began, indeed, a little to suspect her, and had locked her up carefully,
intending the very next morning to have married her up to my liking. But she
disappointed me within a few hours, and escaped away to the lover of her own
chusing; who lost no time, for they were married and bedded and all within an
hour. But it shall be the worst hour’s work for them both that ever they did;
for they may starve, or beg, or steal together, for me. I will never give
either of them a farthing.” Here Jones starting up cried, “I really must be
excused: I wish you would leave me.”—“Come, come, friend,” said the Quaker,
“don’t give way to concern. You see there are other people miserable besides
yourself.”—“I see there are madmen, and fools, and villains in the world,”
cries Jones. “But let me give you a piece of advice: send for your daughter and
son-in-law home, and don’t be yourself the only cause of misery to one you
pretend to love.”—“Send for her and her husband home!” cries the Quaker loudly;
“I would sooner send for the two greatest enemies I have in the world!”—“Well,
go home yourself, or where you please,” said Jones, “for I will sit no longer
in such company.”—“Nay, friend,” answered the Quaker, “I scorn to impose my
company on any one.” He then offered to pull money from his pocket, but Jones
pushed him with some violence out of the room.
The
subject of the Quaker’s discourse had so deeply affected Jones, that he stared
very wildly all the time he was speaking. This the Quaker had observed, and
this, added to the rest of his behaviour, inspired honest Broadbrim with a
conceit, that his companion was in reality out of his senses. Instead of
resenting the affront, therefore, the Quaker was moved with compassion for his
unhappy circumstances; and having communicated his opinion to the landlord, he
desired him to take great care of his guest, and to treat him with the highest
civility.
“Indeed,”
says the landlord, “I shall use no such civility towards him; for it seems, for
all his laced waistcoat there, he is no more a gentleman than myself, but a
poor parish bastard, bred up at a great squire’s about thirty miles off, and
now turned out of doors (not for any good to be sure). I shall get him out of
my house as soon as possible. If I do lose my reckoning, the first loss is
always the best. It is not above a year ago that I lost a silver spoon.”
“What dost
thou talk of a parish bastard, Robin?” answered the Quaker. “Thou must
certainly be mistaken in thy man.”
“Not at
all,” replied Robin; “the guide, who knows him very well, told it me.” For,
indeed, the guide had no sooner taken his place at the kitchen fire, than he
acquainted the whole company with all he knew or had ever heard concerning
Jones.
The Quaker
was no sooner assured by this fellow of the birth and low fortune of Jones,
than all compassion for him vanished; and the honest plain man went home fired
with no less indignation than a duke would have felt at receiving an affront
from such a person.
The
landlord himself conceived an equal disdain for his guest; so that when Jones
rung the bell in order to retire to bed, he was acquainted that he could have
no bed there. Besides disdain of the mean condition of his guest, Robin
entertained violent suspicion of his intentions, which were, he supposed, to
watch some favourable opportunity of robbing the house. In reality, he might
have been very well eased of these apprehensions, by the prudent precautions of
his wife and daughter, who had already removed everything which was not fixed
to the freehold; but he was by nature suspicious, and had been more
particularly so since the loss of his spoon. In short, the dread of being
robbed totally absorbed the comfortable consideration that he had nothing to
lose.
Jones
being assured that he could have no bed, very contentedly betook himself to a
great chair made with rushes, when sleep, which had lately shunned his company
in much better apartments, generously paid him a visit in his humble cell.
As for the
landlord, he was prevented by his fears from retiring to rest. He returned
therefore to the kitchen fire, whence he could survey the only door which
opened into the parlour, or rather hole, where Jones was seated; and as for the
window to that room, it was impossible for any creature larger than a cat to
have made his escape through it.
Chapter xi. — The adventure of a company of soldiers.
The
landlord having taken his seat directly opposite to the door of the parlour,
determined to keep guard there the whole night. The guide and another fellow
remained long on duty with him, though they neither knew his suspicions, nor
had any of their own. The true cause of their watching did, indeed, at length,
put an end to it; for this was no other than the strength and goodness of the
beer, of which having tippled a very large quantity, they grew at first very
noisy and vociferous, and afterwards fell both asleep.
But it was
not in the power of liquor to compose the fears of Robin. He continued still
waking in his chair, with his eyes fixed stedfastly on the door which led into
the apartment of Mr Jones, till a violent thundering at his outward gate called
him from his seat, and obliged him to open it; which he had no sooner done,
than his kitchen was immediately full of gentlemen in red coats, who all rushed
upon him in as tumultuous a manner as if they intended to take his little
castle by storm.
The landlord
was now forced from his post to furnish his numerous guests with beer, which
they called for with great eagerness; and upon his second or third return from
the cellar, he saw Mr Jones standing before the fire in the midst of the
soldiers; for it may easily be believed, that the arrival of so much good
company should put an end to any sleep, unless that from which we are to be
awakened only by the last trumpet.
The
company having now pretty well satisfied their thirst, nothing remained but to
pay the reckoning, a circumstance often productive of much mischief and
discontent among the inferior rank of gentry, who are apt to find great
difficulty in assessing the sum, with exact regard to distributive justice,
which directs that every man shall pay according to the quantity which he
drinks. This difficulty occurred upon the present occasion; and it was the
greater, as some gentlemen had, in their extreme hurry, marched off, after
their first draught, and had entirely forgot to contribute anything towards the
said reckoning.
A violent
dispute now arose, in which every word may be said to have been deposed upon
oath; for the oaths were at least equal to all the other words spoken. In this
controversy the whole company spoke together, and every man seemed wholly bent
to extenuate the sum which fell to his share; so that the most probable
conclusion which could be foreseen was, that a large portion of the reckoning
would fall to the landlord’s share to pay, or (what is much the same thing)
would remain unpaid.
All this
while Mr Jones was engaged in conversation with the serjeant; for that officer
was entirely unconcerned in the present dispute, being privileged by immemorial
custom from all contribution.
The
dispute now grew so very warm that it seemed to draw towards a military
decision, when Jones, stepping forward, silenced all their clamours at once, by
declaring that he would pay the whole reckoning, which indeed amounted to no
more than three shillings and fourpence.
This
declaration procured Jones the thanks and applause of the whole company. The
terms honourable, noble, and worthy gentleman, resounded through the room; nay,
my landlord himself began to have a better opinion of him, and almost to
disbelieve the account which the guide had given.
The
serjeant had informed Mr Jones that they were marching against the rebels, and
expected to be commanded by the glorious Duke of Cumberland. By which the
reader may perceive (a circumstance which we have not thought necessary to
communicate before) that this was the very time when the late rebellion was at
the highest; and indeed the banditti were now marched into England, intending,
as it was thought, to fight the king’s forces, and to attempt pushing forward
to the metropolis.
Jones had
some heroic ingredients in his composition, and was a hearty well-wisher to the
glorious cause of liberty, and of the Protestant religion. It is no wonder,
therefore, that in circumstances which would have warranted a much more
romantic and wild undertaking, it should occur to him to serve as a volunteer
in this expedition.
Our
commanding officer had said all in his power to encourage and promote this good
disposition, from the first moment he had been acquainted with it. He now
proclaimed the noble resolution aloud, which was received with great pleasure
by the whole company, who all cried out, “God bless King George and your
honour;” and then added, with many oaths, “We will stand by you both to the
last drops of our blood.”
The
gentleman who had been all night tippling at the alehouse, was prevailed on by
some arguments which a corporal had put into his hands, to undertake the same
expedition. And now the portmanteau belonging to Mr Jones being put up in the
baggage-cart, the forces were about to move forwards; when the guide, stepping
up to Jones, said, “Sir, I hope you will consider that the horses have been
kept out all night, and we have travelled a great ways out of our way.” Jones
was surprized at the impudence of this demand, and acquainted the soldiers with
the merits of his cause, who were all unanimous in condemning the guide for his
endeavours to put upon a gentleman. Some said, he ought to be tied neck and
heels; others that he deserved to run the gantlope; and the serjeant shook his
cane at him, and wished he had him under his command, swearing heartily he
would make an example of him.
Jones
contented himself however with a negative punishment, and walked off with his
new comrades, leaving the guide to the poor revenge of cursing and reviling
him; in which latter the landlord joined, saying, “Ay, ay, he is a pure one, I
warrant you. A pretty gentleman, indeed, to go for a soldier! He shall wear a
laced wastecoat truly. It is an old proverb and a true one, all is not gold
that glisters. I am glad my house is well rid of him.”
All that
day the serjeant and the young soldier marched together; and the former, who
was an arch fellow, told the latter many entertaining stories of his campaigns,
though in reality he had never made any; for he was but lately come into the
service, and had, by his own dexterity, so well ingratiated himself with his
officers, that he had promoted himself to a halberd; chiefly indeed by his
merit in recruiting, in which he was most excellently well skilled.
Much mirth
and festivity passed among the soldiers during their march. In which the many
occurrences that had passed at their last quarters were remembered, and every
one, with great freedom, made what jokes he pleased on his officers, some of
which were of the coarser kind, and very near bordering on scandal. This
brought to our heroe’s mind the custom which he had read of among the Greeks
and Romans, of indulging, on certain festivals and solemn occasions, the
liberty to slaves, of using an uncontrouled freedom of speech towards their
masters.
Our little
army, which consisted of two companies of foot, were now arrived at the place
where they were to halt that evening. The serjeant then acquainted his
lieutenant, who was the commanding officer, that they had picked up two fellows
in that day’s march, one of which, he said, was as fine a man as ever he saw
(meaning the tippler), for that he was near six feet, well proportioned, and
strongly limbed; and the other (meaning Jones) would do well enough for the
rear rank.
The new
soldiers were now produced before the officer, who having examined the six-feet
man, he being first produced, came next to survey Jones: at the first sight of
whom, the lieutenant could not help showing some surprize; for besides that he
was very well dressed, and was naturally genteel, he had a remarkable air of
dignity in his look, which is rarely seen among the vulgar, and is indeed not
inseparably annexed to the features of their superiors.
“Sir,”
said the lieutenant, “my serjeant informed me that you are desirous of
enlisting in the company I have at present under my command; if so, sir, we
shall very gladly receive a gentleman who promises to do much honour to the
company by bearing arms in it.”
Jones
answered: “That he had not mentioned anything of enlisting himself; that he was
most zealously attached to the glorious cause for which they were going to
fight, and was very desirous of serving as a volunteer;” concluding with some
compliments to the lieutenant, and expressing the great satisfaction he should
have in being under his command.
The
lieutenant returned his civility, commended his resolution, shook him by the
hand, and invited him to dine with himself and the rest of the officers.
Chapter xii. — The adventure of a company of officers.
The
lieutenant, whom we mentioned in the preceding chapter, and who commanded this
party, was now near sixty years of age. He had entered very young into the
army, and had served in the capacity of an ensign at the battle of Tannieres;
here he had received two wounds, and had so well distinguished himself, that he
was by the Duke of Marlborough advanced to be a lieutenant, immediately after
that battle.
In this
commission he had continued ever since, viz., near forty years; during which
time he had seen vast numbers preferred over his head, and had now the
mortification to be commanded by boys, whose fathers were at nurse when he
first entered into the service.
Nor was
this ill success in his profession solely owing to his having no friends among
the men in power. He had the misfortune to incur the displeasure of his
colonel, who for many years continued in the command of this regiment. Nor did
he owe the implacable ill-will which this man bore him to any neglect or
deficiency as an officer, nor indeed to any fault in himself; but solely to the
indiscretion of his wife, who was a very beautiful woman, and who, though she
was remarkably fond of her husband, would not purchase his preferment at the
expense of certain favours which the colonel required of her.
The poor
lieutenant was more peculiarly unhappy in this, that while he felt the effects
of the enmity of his colonel, he neither knew, nor suspected, that he really
bore him any; for he could not suspect an ill-will for which he was not
conscious of giving any cause; and his wife, fearing what her husband’s nice
regard to his honour might have occasioned, contented herself with preserving
her virtue without enjoying the triumphs of her conquest.
This
unfortunate officer (for so I think he may be called) had many good qualities
besides his merit in his profession; for he was a religious, honest,
good-natured man; and had behaved so well in his command, that he was highly
esteemed and beloved not only by the soldiers of his own company, but by the
whole regiment.
The other
officers who marched with him were a French lieutenant, who had been long
enough out of France to forget his own language, but not long enough in England
to learn ours, so that he really spoke no language at all, and could barely
make himself understood on the most ordinary occasions. There were likewise two
ensigns, both very young fellows; one of whom had been bred under an attorney,
and the other was son to the wife of a nobleman’s butler.
As soon as
dinner was ended, Jones informed the company of the merriment which had passed
among the soldiers upon their march; “and yet,” says he, “notwithstanding all
their vociferation, I dare swear they will behave more like Grecians than
Trojans when they come to the enemy.”—“Grecians and Trojans!” says one of the
ensigns, “who the devil are they? I have heard of all the troops in Europe, but
never of any such as these.”
“Don’t
pretend to more ignorance than you have, Mr Northerton,” said the worthy
lieutenant. “I suppose you have heard of the Greeks and Trojans, though perhaps
you never read Pope’s Homer; who, I remember, now the gentleman mentions it,
compares the march of the Trojans to the cackling of geese, and greatly
commends the silence of the Grecians. And upon my honour there is great justice
in the cadet’s observation.”
“Begar, me
remember dem ver well,” said the French lieutenant: “me ave read them at school
in dans Madam Daciere, des Greek, des Trojan, dey fight for von woman—ouy, ouy,
me ave read all dat.”
“D—n Homo
with all my heart,” says Northerton; “I have the marks of him on my a— yet.
There’s Thomas, of our regiment, always carries a Homo in his pocket; d—n me,
if ever I come at it, if I don’t burn it. And there’s Corderius, another d—n’d
son of a whore, that hath got me many a flogging.”
“Then you
have been at school, Mr Northerton?” said the lieutenant.
“Ay, d—n
me, have I,” answered he; “the devil take my father for sending me thither! The
old put wanted to make a parson of me, but d—n me, thinks I to myself, I’ll
nick you there, old cull; the devil a smack of your nonsense shall you ever get
into me. There’s Jemmy Oliver, of our regiment, he narrowly escaped being a
pimp too, and that would have been a thousand pities; for d—n me if he is not
one of the prettiest fellows in the whole world; but he went farther than I
with the old cull, for Jimmey can neither write nor read.”
“You give
your friend a very good character,” said the lieutenant, “and a very deserved
one, I dare say. But prithee, Northerton, leave off that foolish as well as
wicked custom of swearing; for you are deceived, I promise you, if you think
there is wit or politeness in it. I wish, too, you would take my advice, and
desist from abusing the clergy. Scandalous names, and reflections cast on any
body of men, must be always unjustifiable; but especially so, when thrown on so
sacred a function; for to abuse the body is to abuse the function itself; and I
leave to you to judge how inconsistent such behaviour is in men who are going
to fight in defence of the Protestant religion.”
Mr
Adderly, which was the name of the other ensign, had sat hitherto kicking his
heels and humming a tune, without seeming to listen to the discourse; he now
answered, “O, Monsieur, on ne parle pas de la religion dans la guerre.”—“Well
said, Jack,” cries Northerton: “if la religion was the only matter, the
parsons should fight their own battles for me.”
“I don’t
know, gentlemen,” said Jones, “what may be your opinion; but I think no man can
engage in a nobler cause than that of his religion; and I have observed, in the
little I have read of history, that no soldiers have fought so bravely as those
who have been inspired with a religious zeal: for my own part, though I love my
king and country, I hope, as well as any man in it, yet the Protestant interest
is no small motive to my becoming a volunteer in the cause.”
Northerton
now winked on Adderly, and whispered to him slily, “Smoke the prig, Adderly,
smoke him.” Then turning to Jones, said to him, “I am very glad, sir, you have
chosen our regiment to be a volunteer in; for if our parson should at any time
take a cup too much, I find you can supply his place. I presume, sir, you have
been at the university; may I crave the favour to know what college?”
“Sir,”
answered Jones, “so far from having been at the university, I have even had the
advantage of yourself, for I was never at school.”
“I
presumed,” cries the ensign, “only upon the information of your great
learning.”—“Oh! sir,” answered Jones, “it is as possible for a man to know
something without having been at school, as it is to have been at school and to
know nothing.”
“Well
said, young volunteer,” cries the lieutenant. “Upon my word, Northerton, you
had better let him alone; for he will be too hard for you.”
Northerton
did not very well relish the sarcasm of Jones; but he thought the provocation
was scarce sufficient to justify a blow, or a rascal, or scoundrel, which were
the only repartees that suggested themselves. He was, therefore, silent at
present; but resolved to take the first opportunity of returning the jest by
abuse.
It now
came to the turn of Mr Jones to give a toast, as it is called; who could not
refrain from mentioning his dear Sophia. This he did the more readily, as he
imagined it utterly impossible that any one present should guess the person he
meant.
But the
lieutenant, who was the toast-master, was not contented with Sophia only. He
said, he must have her sir-name; upon which Jones hesitated a little, and
presently after named Miss Sophia Western. Ensign Northerton declared he would
not drink her health in the same round with his own toast, unless somebody
would vouch for her. “I knew one Sophy Western,” says he, “that was lain with
by half the young fellows at Bath; and perhaps this is the same woman.” Jones
very solemnly assured him of the contrary; asserting that the young lady he
named was one of great fashion and fortune. “Ay, ay,” says the ensign, “and so
she is: d—n me, it is the same woman; and I’ll hold half a dozen of Burgundy,
Tom French of our regiment brings her into company with us at any tavern in
Bridges-street.” He then proceeded to describe her person exactly (for he had
seen her with her aunt), and concluded with saying, “that her father had a
great estate in Somersetshire.”
The
tenderness of lovers can ill brook the least jesting with the names of their
mistresses. However, Jones, though he had enough of the lover and of the heroe
too in his disposition, did not resent these slanders as hastily as, perhaps,
he ought to have done. To say the truth, having seen but little of this kind of
wit, he did not readily understand it, and for a long time imagined Mr
Northerton had really mistaken his charmer for some other. But now, turning to
the ensign with a stern aspect, he said, “Pray, sir, chuse some other subject
for your wit; for I promise you I will bear no jesting with this lady’s
character.” “Jesting!” cries the other, “d—n me if ever I was more in earnest
in my life. Tom French of our regiment had both her and her aunt at Bath.”
“Then I must tell you in earnest,” cries Jones, “that you are one of the most
impudent rascals upon earth.”
He had no
sooner spoken these words, than the ensign, together with a volley of curses,
discharged a bottle full at the head of Jones, which hitting him a little above
the right temple, brought him instantly to the ground.
The
conqueror perceiving the enemy to lie motionless before him, and blood
beginning to flow pretty plentifully from his wound, began now to think of
quitting the field of battle, where no more honour was to be gotten; but the
lieutenant interposed, by stepping before the door, and thus cut off his
retreat.
Northerton
was very importunate with the lieutenant for his liberty; urging the ill
consequences of his stay, asking him, what he could have done less? “Zounds!”
says he, “I was but in jest with the fellow. I never heard any harm of Miss
Western in my life.” “Have not you?” said the lieutenant; “then you richly
deserve to be hanged, as well for making such jests, as for using such a
weapon: you are my prisoner, sir; nor shall you stir from hence till a proper
guard comes to secure you.”
Such an
ascendant had our lieutenant over this ensign, that all that fervency of
courage which had levelled our poor heroe with the floor, would scarce have
animated the said ensign to have drawn his sword against the lieutenant, had he
then had one dangling at his side: but all the swords being hung up in the
room, were, at the very beginning of the fray, secured by the French officer.
So that Mr Northerton was obliged to attend the final issue of this affair.
The French
gentleman and Mr Adderly, at the desire of their commanding officer, had raised
up the body of Jones, but as they could perceive but little (if any) sign of
life in him, they again let him fall, Adderly damning him for having blooded
his wastecoat; and the Frenchman declaring, “Begar, me no tush the Engliseman
de mort: me have heard de Englise ley, law, what you call, hang up de man dat
tush him last.”
When the
good lieutenant applied himself to the door, he applied himself likewise to the
bell; and the drawer immediately attending, he dispatched him for a file of
musqueteers and a surgeon. These commands, together with the drawer’s report of
what he had himself seen, not only produced the soldiers, but presently drew up
the landlord of the house, his wife, and servants, and, indeed, every one else
who happened at that time to be in the inn.
To
describe every particular, and to relate the whole conversation of the ensuing
scene, is not within my power, unless I had forty pens, and could, at once,
write with them all together, as the company now spoke. The reader must,
therefore, content himself with the most remarkable incidents, and perhaps he
may very well excuse the rest.
The first
thing done was securing the body of Northerton, who being delivered into the
custody of six men with a corporal at their head, was by them conducted from a
place which he was very willing to leave, but it was unluckily to a place
whither he was very unwilling to go. To say the truth, so whimsical are the
desires of ambition, the very moment this youth had attained the
above-mentioned honour, he would have been well contented to have retired to
some corner of the world, where the fame of it should never have reached his ears.
It
surprizes us, and so perhaps, it may the reader, that the lieutenant, a worthy
and good man, should have applied his chief care, rather to secure the
offender, than to preserve the life of the wounded person. We mention this
observation, not with any view of pretending to account for so odd a behaviour,
but lest some critic should hereafter plume himself on discovering it. We would
have these gentlemen know we can see what is odd in characters as well as
themselves, but it is our business to relate facts as they are; which, when we
have done, it is the part of the learned and sagacious reader to consult that
original book of nature, whence every passage in our work is transcribed,
though we quote not always the particular page for its authority.
The company
which now arrived were of a different disposition. They suspended their
curiosity concerning the person of the ensign, till they should see him
hereafter in a more engaging attitude. At present, their whole concern and
attention were employed about the bloody object on the floor; which being
placed upright in a chair, soon began to discover some symptoms of life and
motion. These were no sooner perceived by the company (for Jones was at first
generally concluded to be dead) than they all fell at once to prescribing for
him (for as none of the physical order was present, every one there took that
office upon him).
Bleeding
was the unanimous voice of the whole room; but unluckily there was no operator
at hand; every one then cried, “Call the barber;” but none stirred a step.
Several cordials was likewise prescribed in the same ineffective manner; till
the landlord ordered up a tankard of strong beer, with a toast, which he said
was the best cordial in England.
The person
principally assistant on this occasion, indeed the only one who did any
service, or seemed likely to do any, was the landlady: she cut off some of her
hair, and applied it to the wound to stop the blood; she fell to chafing the
youth’s temples with her hand; and having exprest great contempt for her
husband’s prescription of beer, she despatched one of her maids to her own
closet for a bottle of brandy, of which, as soon as it was brought, she
prevailed on Jones, who was just returned to his senses, to drink a very large
and plentiful draught.
Soon
afterwards arrived the surgeon, who having viewed the wound, having shaken his
head, and blamed everything which was done, ordered his patient instantly to
bed; in which place we think proper to leave him some time to his repose, and
shall here, therefore, put an end to this chapter.
Chapter xiii. — Containing the great address of the landlady, the great learning of a surgeon, and the solid skill in casuistry of the worthy lieutenant.
When the wounded
man was carried to his bed, and the house began again to clear up from the
hurry which this accident had occasioned, the landlady thus addressed the
commanding officer: “I am afraid, sir,” said she, “this young man did not
behave himself as well as he should do to your honours; and if he had been
killed, I suppose he had but his desarts: to be sure, when gentlemen admit
inferior parsons into their company, they oft to keep their distance; but, as
my first husband used to say, few of ‘em know how to do it. For my own part, I
am sure I should not have suffered any fellows to include themselves
into gentlemen’s company; but I thoft he had been an officer himself, till the
serjeant told me he was but a recruit.”
“Landlady,”
answered the lieutenant, “you mistake the whole matter. The young man behaved
himself extremely well, and is, I believe, a much better gentleman than the
ensign who abused him. If the young fellow dies, the man who struck him will
have most reason to be sorry for it: for the regiment will get rid of a very
troublesome fellow, who is a scandal to the army; and if he escapes from the
hands of justice, blame me, madam, that’s all.”
“Ay! ay!
good lack-a-day!” said the landlady; “who could have thoft it? Ay, ay, ay, I am
satisfied your honour will see justice done; and to be sure it oft to be to
every one. Gentlemen oft not to kill poor folks without answering for it. A
poor man hath a soul to be saved, as well as his betters.”
“Indeed,
madam,” said the lieutenant, “you do the volunteer wrong: I dare swear he is
more of a gentleman than the officer.”
“Ay!”
cries the landlady; “why, look you there, now: well, my first husband was a
wise man; he used to say, you can’t always know the inside by the outside. Nay,
that might have been well enough too; for I never saw’d him till he was
all over blood. Who would have thoft it? mayhap, some young gentleman crossed
in love. Good lack-a-day, if he should die, what a concern it will be to his
parents! why, sure the devil must possess the wicked wretch to do such an act.
To be sure, he is a scandal to the army, as your honour says; for most of the
gentlemen of the army that ever I saw, are quite different sort of people, and
look as if they would scorn to spill any Christian blood as much as any men: I
mean, that is, in a civil way, as my first husband used to say. To be sure,
when they come into the wars, there must be bloodshed: but that they are not to
be blamed for. The more of our enemies they kill there, the better: and I wish,
with all my heart, they could kill every mother’s son of them.”
“O fie,
madam!” said the lieutenant, smiling; “all is rather too bloody-minded a
wish.”
“Not at
all, sir,” answered she; “I am not at all bloody-minded, only to our enemies;
and there is no harm in that. To be sure it is natural for us to wish our
enemies dead, that the wars may be at an end, and our taxes be lowered; for it
is a dreadful thing to pay as we do. Why now, there is above forty shillings
for window-lights, and yet we have stopt up all we could; we have almost
blinded the house, I am sure. Says I to the exciseman, says I, I think you oft
to favour us; I am sure we are very good friends to the government: and so we
are for sartain, for we pay a mint of money to ‘um. And yet I often think to
myself the government doth not imagine itself more obliged to us, than to those
that don’t pay ‘um a farthing. Ay, ay, it is the way of the world.”
She was
proceeding in this manner when the surgeon entered the room. The lieutenant
immediately asked how his patient did. But he resolved him only by saying,
“Better, I believe, than he would have been by this time, if I had not been
called; and even as it is, perhaps it would have been lucky if I could have
been called sooner.”—“I hope, sir,” said the lieutenant, “the skull is not
fractured.”—“Hum,” cries the surgeon: “fractures are not always the most
dangerous symptoms. Contusions and lacerations are often attended with worse
phaenomena, and with more fatal consequences, than fractures. People who know
nothing of the matter conclude, if the skull is not fractured, all is well;
whereas, I had rather see a man’s skull broke all to pieces, than some
contusions I have met with.”—“I hope,” says the lieutenant, “there are no such
symptoms here.”—“Symptoms,” answered the surgeon, “are not always regular nor
constant. I have known very unfavourable symptoms in the morning change to
favourable ones at noon, and return to unfavourable again at night. Of wounds,
indeed, it is rightly and truly said, Nemo repente fuit turpissimus. I was
once, I remember, called to a patient who had received a violent contusion in
his tibia, by which the exterior cutis was lacerated, so that there was a
profuse sanguinary discharge; and the interior membranes were so divellicated,
that the os or bone very plainly appeared through the aperture of the vulnus or
wound. Some febrile symptoms intervening at the same time (for the pulse was
exuberant and indicated much phlebotomy), I apprehended an immediate
mortification. To prevent which, I presently made a large orifice in the vein
of the left arm, whence I drew twenty ounces of blood; which I expected to have
found extremely sizy and glutinous, or indeed coagulated, as it is in pleuretic
complaints; but, to my surprize, it appeared rosy and florid, and its
consistency differed little from the blood of those in perfect health. I then
applied a fomentation to the part, which highly answered the intention; and
after three or four times dressing, the wound began to discharge a thick pus or
matter, by which means the cohesion—But perhaps I do not make myself perfectly
well understood?”—“No, really,” answered the lieutenant, “I cannot say I
understand a syllable.”—“Well, sir,” said the surgeon, “then I shall not tire
your patience; in short, within six weeks my patient was able to walk upon his
legs as perfectly as he could have done before he received the contusion.”—“I
wish, sir,” said the lieutenant, “you would be so kind only to inform me,
whether the wound this young gentleman hath had the misfortune to receive, is
likely to prove mortal.”—“Sir,” answered the surgeon, “to say whether a wound
will prove mortal or not at first dressing, would be very weak and foolish
presumption: we are all mortal, and symptoms often occur in a cure which the
greatest of our profession could never foresee.”—“But do you think him in
danger?” says the other.—“In danger! ay, surely,” cries the doctor: “who is
there among us, who, in the most perfect health, can be said not to be in
danger? Can a man, therefore, with so bad a wound as this be said to be out of
danger? All I can say at present is, that it is well I was called as I was, and
perhaps it would have been better if I had been called sooner. I will see him
again early in the morning; and in the meantime let him be kept extremely
quiet, and drink liberally of water-gruel.”—“Won’t you allow him sack-whey?”
said the landlady.—“Ay, ay, sack-whey,” cries the doctor, “if you will,
provided it be very small.”—“And a little chicken broth too?” added she.—“Yes,
yes, chicken broth,” said the doctor, “is very good.”—“Mayn’t I make him some
jellies too?” said the landlady.—“Ay, ay,” answered the doctor, “jellies are
very good for wounds, for they promote cohesion.” And indeed it was lucky she
had not named soup or high sauces, for the doctor would have complied, rather
than have lost the custom of the house.
The doctor
was no sooner gone, than the landlady began to trumpet forth his fame to the
lieutenant, who had not, from their short acquaintance, conceived quite so
favourable an opinion of his physical abilities as the good woman, and all the
neighbourhood, entertained (and perhaps very rightly); for though I am afraid
the doctor was a little of a coxcomb, he might be nevertheless very much of a
surgeon.
The
lieutenant having collected from the learned discourse of the surgeon that Mr
Jones was in great danger, gave orders for keeping Mr Northerton under a very
strict guard, designing in the morning to attend him to a justice of peace, and
to commit the conducting the troops to Gloucester to the French lieutenant,
who, though he could neither read, write, nor speak any language, was, however,
a good officer.
In the
evening, our commander sent a message to Mr Jones, that if a visit would not be
troublesome, he would wait on him. This civility was very kindly and thankfully
received by Jones, and the lieutenant accordingly went up to his room, where he
found the wounded man much better than he expected; nay, Jones assured his
friend, that if he had not received express orders to the contrary from the
surgeon, he should have got up long ago; for he appeared to himself to be as
well as ever, and felt no other inconvenience from his wound but an extreme
soreness on that side of his head.
“I should
be very glad,” quoth the lieutenant, “if you was as well as you fancy yourself,
for then you could be able to do yourself justice immediately; for when a
matter can’t be made up, as in case of a blow, the sooner you take him out the
better; but I am afraid you think yourself better than you are, and he would
have too much advantage over you.”
“I’ll try,
however,” answered Jones, “if you please, and will be so kind to lend me a
sword, for I have none here of my own.”
“My sword
is heartily at your service, my dear boy,” cries the lieutenant, kissing him;
“you are a brave lad, and I love your spirit; but I fear your strength; for
such a blow, and so much loss of blood, must have very much weakened you; and
though you feel no want of strength in your bed, yet you most probably would
after a thrust or two. I can’t consent to your taking him out tonight; but I
hope you will be able to come up with us before we get many days’ march
advance; and I give you my honour you shall have satisfaction, or the man who
hath injured you shan’t stay in our regiment.”
“I wish,”
said Jones, “it was possible to decide this matter to-night: now you have
mentioned it to me, I shall not be able to rest.”
“Oh, never
think of it,” returned the other: “a few days will make no difference. The
wounds of honour are not like those in your body: they suffer nothing by the
delay of cure. It will be altogether as well for you to receive satisfaction a
week hence as now.”
“But
suppose,” says Jones, “I should grow worse, and die of the consequences of my
present wound?”
“Then your
honour,” answered the lieutenant, “will require no reparation at all. I myself
will do justice to your character, and testify to the world your intention to
have acted properly, if you had recovered.”
“Still,”
replied Jones, “I am concerned at the delay. I am almost afraid to mention it
to you who are a soldier; but though I have been a very wild young fellow,
still in my most serious moments, and at the bottom, I am really a Christian.”
“So am I
too, I assure you,” said the officer; “and so zealous a one, that I was pleased
with you at dinner for taking up the cause of your religion; and I am a little
offended with you now, young gentleman, that you should express a fear of
declaring your faith before any one.”
“But how
terrible must it be,” cries Jones, “to any one who is really a Christian, to
cherish malice in his breast, in opposition to the command of Him who hath
expressly forbid it? How can I bear to do this on a sick-bed? Or how shall I
make up my account, with such an article as this in my bosom against me?”
“Why, I
believe there is such a command,” cries the lieutenant; “but a man of honour
can’t keep it. And you must be a man of honour, if you will be in the army. I
remember I once put the case to our chaplain over a bowl of punch, and he
confessed there was much difficulty in it; but he said, he hoped there might be
a latitude granted to soldiers in this one instance; and to be sure it is our
duty to hope so; for who would bear to live without his honour? No, no, my dear
boy, be a good Christian as long as you live; but be a man of honour too, and
never put up an affront; not all the books, nor all the parsons in the world,
shall ever persuade me to that. I love my religion very well, but I love my
honour more. There must be some mistake in the wording the text, or in the
translation, or in the understanding it, or somewhere or other. But however
that be, a man must run the risque, for he must preserve his honour. So compose
yourself to-night, and I promise you you shall have an opportunity of doing yourself
justice.” Here he gave Jones a hearty buss, shook him by the hand, and took his
leave.
But though
the lieutenant’s reasoning was very satisfactory to himself, it was not
entirely so to his friend. Jones therefore, having revolved this matter much in
his thoughts, at last came to a resolution, which the reader will find in the
next chapter.
To be continued
