Joe threw his eye over them, and pronounced that the job would necessitate the lighting of his forge fire,and would take nearer two hours than one. “Will it?Then will you set about it at once, blacksmith?” said the off-hand sergeant, “as it’s on his Majesty’s service.And if my men can bear a hand anywhere, they’ll make themselves useful.” With that,he called to his men, who came trooping into the kitchen one after another,and piled their arms in a corner. And then they stood about, as soldiers do; now,with their hands loosely clasped before them; now, resting a knee or a shoulder; now,easing a belt or a pouch; now, opening the door to spit stiffly over their high stocks, out into the yard.
All these things I saw without then knowing that I saw them, for I was in an agony of apprehension.But beginning to perceive that the handcuffs were not for me,and that the military had so far got the better of the pie as to put it in the background,I collected a little more of my scattered wits.
“Would you give me the time?” said the sergeant, addressing himself to Mr. Pumblechook,as to a man whose appreciative powers justified the inference that he was equal to the time.
“It’s just gone half past two.”
“That’s not so bad,” said the sergeant, reflecting;“even if I was forced to halt here nigh two hours, that’ll do.How far might you call yourselves from the marshes, hereabouts?Not above a mile, I reckon?”
“Just a mile,” said Mrs. Joe.
“That’ll do. We begin to close in upon ’em about dusk. A little before dusk, my orders are. That’ll do.”
“Convicts, sergeant?” asked Mr. Wopsle, in a matter-of-course way.
“Ay!” returned the sergeant, “two. They’re pretty well known to be out on the marshes still,and they won’t try to get clear of ’em before dusk. Anybody here seen anything of any such game?”
Everybody, myself excepted, said no, with confidence. Nobody thought of me.
“Well!” said the sergeant, “they’ll find themselves trapped in a circle, I expect,sooner than they count on. Now, blacksmith!If you’re ready, his Majesty the King is.”
Joe had got his coat and waistcoat and cravat off, and his leather apron on,and passed into the forge. One of the soldiers opened its wooden windows, another lighted the fire,another turned to at the bellows, the rest stood round the blaze, which was soon roaring.Then Joe began to hammer and clink, hammer and clink, and we all looked on.
The interest of the impending pursuit not only absorbed the general attention,but even made my sister liberal. She drew a pitcher of beer from the cask for the soldiers,and invited the sergeant to take a glass of brandy. But Mr. Pumblechook said, sharply,“Give him wine, Mum. I’ll engage there’s no tar in that:” so,the sergeant thanked him and said that as he preferred his drink without tar, he would take wine,if it was equally convenient. When it was given him,he drank his Majesty’s health and compliments of the season,and took it all at a mouthful and smacked his lips.
“Good stuff, eh, sergeant?” said Mr. Pumblechook.
“I’ll tell you something,” returned the sergeant; “I suspect that stuff’s of _your_ providing.”
Mr. Pumblechook, with a fat sort of laugh, said, “Ay, ay?Why?”
“Because,” returned the sergeant, clapping him on the shoulder, “you’re a man that knows what’s what.”
“D’ye think so?” said Mr. Pumblechook, with his former laugh. “Have another glass!”
“With you. Hob and nob,” returned the sergeant. “The top of mine to the foot of yours,—the foot of yours to the top of mine,—Ring once, ring twice,—the best tune on the Musical Glasses!Your health. May you live a thousand years,and never be a worse judge of the right sort than you are at the present moment of your life!”
The sergeant tossed off his glass again and seemed quite ready for another glass. I noticed that Mr.Pumblechook in his hospitality appeared to forget that he had made a present of the wine,but took the bottle from Mrs. Joe and had all the credit of handing it about in a gush of joviality.Even I got some. And he was so very free of the wine that he even called for the other bottle,and handed that about with the same liberality, when the first was gone.
As I watched them while they all stood clustering about the forge, enjoying themselves so much,I thought what terrible good sauce for a dinner my fugitive friend on the marshes was.They had not enjoyed themselves a quarter so much,before the entertainment was brightened with the excitement he furnished. And now,when they were all in lively anticipation of “the two villains” being taken,and when the bellows seemed to roar for the fugitives, the fire to flare for them,the smoke to hurry away in pursuit of them, Joe to hammer and clink for them,and all the murky shadows on the wall to shake at them in menace as the blaze rose and sank,and the red-hot sparks dropped and died,the pale afternoon outside almost seemed in my pitying young fancy to have turned pale on their account, poor wretches.
At last, Joe’s job was done, and the ringing and roaring stopped. As Joe got on his coat,he mustered courage to propose that some of us should go down with the soldiers and see what came of the hunt.Mr. Pumblechook and Mr. Hubble declined, on the plea of a pipe and ladies’ society; but Mr.Wopsle said he would go, if Joe would. Joe said he was agreeable, and would take me, if Mrs.Joe approved. We never should have got leave to go, I am sure, but for Mrs.Joe’s curiosity to know all about it and how it ended. As it was, she merely stipulated,“If you bring the boy back with his head blown to bits by a musket,don’t look to me to put it together again.”
The sergeant took a polite leave of the ladies, and parted from Mr. Pumblechook as from a comrade;though I doubt if he were quite as fully sensible of that gentleman’s merits under arid conditions,as when something moist was going. His men resumed their muskets and fell in. Mr. Wopsle, Joe,and I, received strict charge to keep in the rear,and to speak no word after we reached the marshes.When we were all out in the raw air and were steadily moving towards our business,I treasonably whispered to Joe, “I hope, Joe, we shan’t find them.” and Joe whispered to me,“I’d give a shilling if they had cut and run, Pip.”
We were joined by no stragglers from the village, for the weather was cold and threatening,the way dreary, the footing bad, darkness coming on,and the people had good fires in-doors and were keeping the day.A few faces hurried to glowing windows and looked after us, but none came out.We passed the finger-post, and held straight on to the churchyard.There we were stopped a few minutes by a signal from the sergeant’s hand,while two or three of his men dispersed themselves among the graves, and also examined the porch.They came in again without finding anything, and then we struck out on the open marshes,through the gate at the side of the churchyard.A bitter sleet came rattling against us here on the east wind, and Joe took me on his back.
Now that we were out upon the dismal wilderness where they little thought I had been within eight or nine hours and had seen both men hiding,I considered for the first time, with great dread, if we should come upon them,would my particular convict suppose that it was I who had brought the soldiers there?He had asked me if I was a deceiving imp,and he had said I should be a fierce young hound if I joined the hunt against him.Would he believe that I was both imp and hound in treacherous earnest, and had betrayed him?
It was of no use asking myself this question now. There I was, on Joe’s back,and there was Joe beneath me, charging at the ditches like a hunter, and stimulating Mr.Wopsle not to tumble on his Roman nose, and to keep up with us. The soldiers were in front of us,extending into a pretty wide line with an interval between man and man.We were taking the course I had begun with, and from which I had diverged in the mist.Either the mist was not out again yet, or the wind had dispelled it.Under the low red glare of sunset, the beacon, and the gibbet, and the mound of the Battery,and the opposite shore of the river, were plain, though all of a watery lead colour.
With my heart thumping like a blacksmith at Joe’s broad shoulder,I looked all about for any sign of the convicts. I could see none, I could hear none. Mr.Wopsle had greatly alarmed me more than once, by his blowing and hard breathing;but I knew the sounds by this time, and could dissociate them from the object of pursuit.I got a dreadful start, when I thought I heard the file still going; but it was only a sheep-bell.The sheep stopped in their eating and looked timidly at us; and the cattle,their heads turned from the wind and sleet,stared angrily as if they held us responsible for both annoyances; but, except these things,and the shudder of the dying day in every blade of grass,there was no break in the bleak stillness of the marshes.
The soldiers were moving on in the direction of the old Battery,and we were moving on a little way behind them, when, all of a sudden, we all stopped.For there had reached us on the wings of the wind and rain, a long shout. It was repeated.It was at a distance towards the east, but it was long and loud. Nay,there seemed to be two or more shouts raised together,—if one might judge from a confusion in the sound.
To this effect the sergeant and the nearest men were speaking under their breath,when Joe and I came up. After another moment’s listening, Joe (who was a good judge) agreed,and Mr. Wopsle (who was a bad judge) agreed. The sergeant, a decisive man,ordered that the sound should not be answered, but that the course should be changed,and that his men should make towards it “at the double.” So we slanted to the right (where the East was), and Joe pounded away so wonderfully,that I had to hold on tight to keep my seat.
It was a run indeed now, and what Joe called, in the only two words he spoke all the time,“a Winder.” Down banks and up banks, and over gates, and splashing into dikes,and breaking among coarse rushes: no man cared where he went. As we came nearer to the shouting,it became more and more apparent that it was made by more than one voice. Sometimes,it seemed to stop altogether, and then the soldiers stopped. When it broke out again,the soldiers made for it at a greater rate than ever, and we after them. After a while,we had so run it down, that we could hear one voice calling “Murder!” and another voice, “Convicts!Runaways!Guard!This way for the runaway convicts!” Then both voices would seem to be stifled in a struggle, and then would break out again.And when it had come to this, the soldiers ran like deer, and Joe too.
The sergeant ran in first, when we had run the noise quite down,and two of his men ran in close upon him. Their pieces were cocked and levelled when we all ran in.
“Here are both men!” panted the sergeant, struggling at the bottom of a ditch. “Surrender, you two!and confound you for two wild beasts!Come asunder!”
Water was splashing, and mud was flying, and oaths were being sworn, and blows were being struck,when some more men went down into the ditch to help the sergeant, and dragged out, separately,my convict and the other one. Both were bleeding and panting and execrating and struggling;but of course I knew them both directly.
“Mind!” said my convict, wiping blood from his face with his ragged sleeves,and shaking torn hair from his fingers: “_I_ took him!_I_ give him up to you!Mind that!”
“It’s not much to be particular about,” said the sergeant; “it’ll do you small good, my man,being in the same plight yourself. Handcuffs there!”
“I don’t expect it to do me any good. I don’t want it to do me more good than it does now,” said my convict, with a greedy laugh. “I took him. He knows it. That’s enough for me.”
The other convict was livid to look at, and, in addition to the old bruised left side of his face,seemed to be bruised and torn all over. He could not so much as get his breath to speak,until they were both separately handcuffed, but leaned upon a soldier to keep himself from falling.
“Take notice, guard,—he tried to murder me,” were his first words.
“Tried to murder him?” said my convict, disdainfully. “Try, and not do it?I took him, and giv’ him up; that’s what I done. I not only prevented him getting off the marshes,but I dragged him here,—dragged him this far on his way back. He’s a gentleman, if you please,this villain. Now, the Hulks has got its gentleman again, through me. Murder him?Worth my while, too, to murder him, when I could do worse and drag him back!”
The other one still gasped, “He tried—he tried-to—murder me. Bear—bear witness.”
“Lookee here!” said my convict to the sergeant. “Single-handed I got clear of the prison-ship;I made a dash and I done it. I could ha’ got clear of these death-cold flats likewise—look at my leg:you won’t find much iron on it—if I hadn’t made the discovery that _he_ was here. Let _him_ go free?Let _him_ profit by the means as I found out?Let _him_ make a tool of me afresh and again?Once more?No, no, no. If I had died at the bottom there,” and he made an emphatic swing at the ditch with his manacled hands,“I’d have held to him with that grip, that you should have been safe to find him in my hold.”
The other fugitive, who was evidently in extreme horror of his companion, repeated,“He tried to murder me. I should have been a dead man if you had not come up.”
“He lies!” said my convict, with fierce energy. “He’s a liar born, and he’ll die a liar. Look at his face; ain’t it written there?Let him turn those eyes of his on me. I defy him to do it.”
The other, with an effort at a scornful smile, which could not, however,collect the nervous working of his mouth into any set expression, looked at the soldiers,and looked about at the marshes and at the sky, but certainly did not look at the speaker.
“Do you see him?” pursued my convict. “Do you see what a villain he is?Do you see those grovelling and wandering eyes?That’s how he looked when we were tried together. He never looked at me.”
The other, always working and working his dry lips and turning his eyes restlessly about him far and near,did at last turn them for a moment on the speaker, with the words, “You are not much to look at,” and with a half-taunting glance at the bound hands. At that point,my convict became so frantically exasperated,that he would have rushed upon him but for the interposition of the soldiers. “Didn’t I tell you,” said the other convict then, “that he would murder me, if he could?” And any one could see that he shook with fear,and that there broke out upon his lips curious white flakes, like thin snow.
“Enough of this parley,” said the sergeant. “Light those torches.”
As one of the soldiers, who carried a basket in lieu of a gun, went down on his knee to open it,my convict looked round him for the first time, and saw me.I had alighted from Joe’s back on the brink of the ditch when we came up, and had not moved since.I looked at him eagerly when he looked at me, and slightly moved my hands and shook my head.I had been waiting for him to see me that I might try to assure him of my innocence.It was not at all expressed to me that he even comprehended my intention,for he gave me a look that I did not understand, and it all passed in a moment.But if he had looked at me for an hour or for a day,I could not have remembered his face ever afterwards, as having been more attentive.
The soldier with the basket soon got a light, and lighted three or four torches,and took one himself and distributed the others. It had been almost dark before,but now it seemed quite dark, and soon afterwards very dark. Before we departed from that spot,four soldiers standing in a ring, fired twice into the air.Presently we saw other torches kindled at some distance behind us,and others on the marshes on the opposite bank of the river. “All right,” said the sergeant. “March.”
We had not gone far when three cannon were fired ahead of us with a sound that seemed to burst something inside my ear.“You are expected on board,” said the sergeant to my convict; “they know you are coming. Don’t straggle, my man. Close up here.”
The two were kept apart, and each walked surrounded by a separate guard.I had hold of Joe’s hand now, and Joe carried one of the torches. Mr.Wopsle had been for going back, but Joe was resolved to see it out, so we went on with the party.There was a reasonably good path now, mostly on the edge of the river,with a divergence here and there where a dike came,with a miniature windmill on it and a muddy sluice-gate. When I looked round,I could see the other lights coming in after us.The torches we carried dropped great blotches of fire upon the track, and I could see those, too,lying smoking and flaring. I could see nothing else but black darkness.Our lights warmed the air about us with their pitchy blaze,and the two prisoners seemed rather to like that, as they limped along in the midst of the muskets.We could not go fast, because of their lameness; and they were so spent,that two or three times we had to halt while they rested.
After an hour or so of this travelling, we came to a rough wooden hut and a landing-place.There was a guard in the hut, and they challenged, and the sergeant answered. Then,we went into the hut, where there was a smell of tobacco and whitewash, and a bright fire,and a lamp, and a stand of muskets, and a drum, and a low wooden bedstead,like an overgrown mangle without the machinery,capable of holding about a dozen soldiers all at once.Three or four soldiers who lay upon it in their great-coats were not much interested in us,but just lifted their heads and took a sleepy stare, and then lay down again.The sergeant made some kind of report, and some entry in a book,and then the convict whom I call the other convict was drafted off with his guard, to go on board first.
My convict never looked at me, except that once. While we stood in the hut,he stood before the fire looking thoughtfully at it, or putting up his feet by turns upon the hob,and looking thoughtfully at them as if he pitied them for their recent adventures. Suddenly,he turned to the sergeant, and remarked,—
“I wish to say something respecting this escape.It may prevent some persons laying under suspicion alonger me.”
“You can say what you like,” returned the sergeant,standing coolly looking at him with his arms folded, “but you have no call to say it here.You’ll have opportunity enough to say about it, and hear about it, before it’s done with, you know. ”
“I know, but this is another pint, a separate matter. A man can’t starve; at least _I_ can’t.I took some wittles, up at the willage over yonder,—where the church stands a’most out on the marshes.”
“You mean stole,” said the sergeant.
“And I’ll tell you where from. From the blacksmith’s.”
“Halloa!” said the sergeant, staring at Joe.
“Halloa, Pip!” said Joe, staring at me.
“It was some broken wittles—that’s what it was—and a dram of liquor, and a pie.”
“Have you happened to miss such an article as a pie, blacksmith?” asked the sergeant, confidentially.
“My wife did, at the very moment when you came in. Don’t you know, Pip?”
“So,” said my convict, turning his eyes on Joe in a moody manner,and without the least glance at me,—“so you’re the blacksmith, are you?Than I’m sorry to say, I’ve eat your pie.”
“God knows you’re welcome to it,—so far as it was ever mine,” returned Joe,with a saving remembrance of Mrs. Joe. “We don’t know what you have done,but we wouldn’t have you starved to death for it, poor miserable fellow-creatur.—Would us, Pip?”
The something that I had noticed before, clicked in the man’s throat again, and he turned his back.The boat had returned, and his guard were ready,so we followed him to the landing-place made of rough stakes and stones,and saw him put into the boat, which was rowed by a crew of convicts like himself.No one seemed surprised to see him, or interested in seeing him, or glad to see him,or sorry to see him, or spoke a word, except that somebody in the boat growled as if to dogs, “Give way, you!” which was the signal for the dip of the oars. By the light of the torches,we saw the black Hulk lying out a little way from the mud of the shore, like a wicked Noah’s ark.Cribbed and barred and moored by massive rusty chains,the prison-ship seemed in my young eyes to be ironed like the prisoners.We saw the boat go alongside, and we saw him taken up the side and disappear. Then,the ends of the torches were flung hissing into the water, and went out, as if it were all over with him.
Chapter VI.
My state of mind regarding the pilfering from which I had been so unexpectedly exonerated did not impel me to frank disclosure;but I hope it had some dregs of good at the bottom of it.
I do not recall that I felt any tenderness of conscience in reference to Mrs. Joe,when the fear of being found out was lifted off me. But I loved Joe,—perhaps for no better reason in those early days than because the dear fellow let me love him,—and,as to him, my inner self was not so easily composed.It was much upon my mind (particularly when I first saw him looking about for his file) that I ought to tell Joe the whole truth.Yet I did not, and for the reason that I mistrusted that if I did,he would think me worse than I was. The fear of losing Joe’s confidence,and of thenceforth sitting in the chimney corner at night staring drearily at my forever lost companion and friend,tied up my tongue. I morbidly represented to myself that if Joe knew it,I never afterwards could see him at the fireside feeling his fair whisker,without thinking that he was meditating on it. That, if Joe knew it,I never afterwards could see him glance, however casually,at yesterday’s meat or pudding when it came on to-day’s table,without thinking that he was debating whether I had been in the pantry. That, if Joe knew it,and at any subsequent period of our joint domestic life remarked that his beer was flat or thick,the conviction that he suspected tar in it, would bring a rush of blood to my face. In a word,I was too cowardly to do what I knew to be right,as I had been too cowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong.I had had no intercourse with the world at that time,and I imitated none of its many inhabitants who act in this manner. Quite an untaught genius,I made the discovery of the line of action for myself.
As I was sleepy before we were far away from the prison-ship,Joe took me on his back again and carried me home. He must have had a tiresome journey of it,for Mr. Wopsle, being knocked up, was in such a very bad temper that if the Church had been thrown open,he would probably have excommunicated the whole expedition, beginning with Joe and myself.In his lay capacity, he persisted in sitting down in the damp to such an insane extent,that when his coat was taken off to be dried at the kitchen fire,the circumstantial evidence on his trousers would have hanged him, if it had been a capital offence.
By that time, I was staggering on the kitchen floor like a little drunkard,through having been newly set upon my feet, and through having been fast asleep,and through waking in the heat and lights and noise of tongues.As I came to myself (with the aid of a heavy thump between the shoulders, and the restorative exclamation “Yah!Was there ever such a boy as this!” from my sister,) I found Joe telling them about the convict’s confession,and all the visitors suggesting different ways by which he had got into the pantry. Mr.Pumblechook made out, after carefully surveying the premises,that he had first got upon the roof of the forge, and had then got upon the roof of the house,and had then let himself down the kitchen chimney by a rope made of his bedding cut into strips;and as Mr. Pumblechook was very positive and drove his own chaise-cart—over everybody—it was agreed that it must be so.Mr. Wopsle, indeed, wildly cried out, “No!” with the feeble malice of a tired man; but, as he had no theory, and no coat on,he was unanimously set at naught,—not to mention his smoking hard behind,as he stood with his back to the kitchen fire to draw the damp out:which was not calculated to inspire confidence.
This was all I heard that night before my sister clutched me,as a slumberous offence to the company’s eyesight,and assisted me up to bed with such a strong hand that I seemed to have fifty boots on,and to be dangling them all against the edges of the stairs. My state of mind,as I have described it, began before I was up in the morning,and lasted long after the subject had died out,and had ceased to be mentioned saving on exceptional occasions.
Chapter VII.
At the time when I stood in the churchyard reading the family tombstones,I had just enough learning to be able to spell them out.My construction even of their simple meaning was not very correct,for I read “wife of the Above” as a complimentary reference to my father’s exaltation to a better world;and if any one of my deceased relations had been referred to as “Below,” I have no doubt I should have formed the worst opinions of that member of the family.Neither were my notions of the theological positions to which my Catechism bound me,at all accurate; for, I have a lively remembrance that I supposed my declaration that I was to “walk in the same all the days of my life,” laid me under an obligation always to go through the village from our house in one particular direction,and never to vary it by turning down by the wheelwright’s or up by the mill.
When I was old enough, I was to be apprenticed to Joe,and until I could assume that dignity I was not to be what Mrs. Joe called “Pompeyed,” or (as I render it) pampered. Therefore, I was not only odd-boy about the forge,but if any neighbour happened to want an extra boy to frighten birds, or pick up stones,or do any such job, I was favoured with the employment. In order, however,that our superior position might not be compromised thereby,a money-box was kept on the kitchen mantel-shelf,into which it was publicly made known that all my earnings were dropped.I have an impression that they were to be contributed eventually towards the liquidation of the National Debt,but I know I had no hope of any personal participation in the treasure.
Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt kept an evening school in the village; that is to say,she was a ridiculous old woman of limited means and unlimited infirmity,who used to go to sleep from six to seven every evening,in the society of youth who paid two pence per week each,for the improving opportunity of seeing her do it. She rented a small cottage, and Mr.Wopsle had the room upstairs, where we students used to overhear him reading aloud in a most dignified and terrific manner,and occasionally bumping on the ceiling. There was a fiction that Mr.Wopsle “examined” the scholars once a quarter.What he did on those occasions was to turn up his cuffs, stick up his hair,and give us Mark Antony’s oration over the body of Caesar.This was always followed by Collins’s Ode on the Passions, wherein I particularly venerated Mr.Wopsle as Revenge throwing his blood-stained sword in thunder down,and taking the War-denouncing trumpet with a withering look. It was not with me then,as it was in later life, when I fell into the society of the Passions,and compared them with Collins and Wopsle, rather to the disadvantage of both gentlemen.
Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt, besides keeping this Educational Institution,kept in the same room—a little general shop. She had no idea what stock she had,or what the price of anything in it was;but there was a little greasy memorandum-book kept in a drawer,which served as a Catalogue of Prices, and by this oracle Biddy arranged all the shop transactions.Biddy was Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt’s granddaughter;I confess myself quite unequal to the working out of the problem, what relation she was to Mr.Wopsle. She was an orphan like myself; like me, too, had been brought up by hand.She was most noticeable, I thought, in respect of her extremities; for,her hair always wanted brushing, her hands always wanted washing,and her shoes always wanted mending and pulling up at heel.This description must be received with a week-day limitation. On Sundays, she went to church elaborated.
Much of my unassisted self, and more by the help of Biddy than of Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt,I struggled through the alphabet as if it had been a bramble-bush;getting considerably worried and scratched by every letter. After that I fell among those thieves,the nine figures, who seemed every evening to do something new to disguise themselves and baffle recognition.But, at last I began, in a purblind groping way, to read, write, and cipher, on the very smallest scale.
One night I was sitting in the chimney corner with my slate,expending great efforts on the production of a letter to Joe.I think it must have been a full year after our hunt upon the marshes,for it was a long time after, and it was winter and a hard frost.With an alphabet on the hearth at my feet for reference,I contrived in an hour or two to print and smear this epistle:—
“MI DEER JO i OPE U R KRWITE WELL i OPE i SHAL SON B HABELL 4 2 TEEDGE U JO AN THEN WE SHORL B SO GLODD AN WEN i M PRENGTD 2 U JO WOT LARX AN BLEVE ME INF XN PIP.”
There was no indispensable necessity for my communicating with Joe by letter,inasmuch as he sat beside me and we were alone.But I delivered this written communication (slate and all) with my own hand,and Joe received it as a miracle of erudition.
“I say, Pip, old chap!” cried Joe, opening his blue eyes wide, “what a scholar you are!An’t you?”