Читать книгу: «The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl», страница 6
So well did this bold fellow play his cards, that his men seldom wanted employment.
Game they always had, in season or out of season – no matter – they stuck at nothing! If they wished for a good custard at Whitsuntide, and made of the richest eggs, they would have pheasants’ and partridges’ eggs by hundreds. In fact these smugglers were as well known for poachers by many of the people on the coast, as they were for dealers in contraband goods. They, too, enjoyed the keen zest of the sportsman in a tenfold manner, if the excitement of the field, the danger of the enterprise, and the success of the sport, be any criterion by which the pleasure of such things may be estimated.
Tame, indeed, they considered the turn-out of the Marquis of Hertford, with his green-brogued keepers, and their double-barrelled guns and brushes, for a walk, or rather a stand, at the end of a plantation, where the pheasants rose in a shower, and were killed like barn-door fowls. They often saw the noble sportsmen turn into those coverts, against which they knew they had been such successful poachers the very night before.
If hairbreadth escapes, contests with keepers, making nets, snares, and gins, were amusements to these fellows, they had enough of them. They could, upon occasion, bribe an unsteady keeper, or make him drunk, and go his beat for him. All manner of desperate adventures were their pleasures. Sometimes their society was courted by farmers and others, who chanced to know, and would occasionally entertain them. Their knowledge of all that was going on in and out of the country made them welcome visitors to others; and in a very dangerous period of our struggle at Flushing, when an order from the coast was to be carried in spite of danger and difficulty, the intelligence and spirit of these men were made use of by some in power, who could never countenance them openly.
One instance of a singular kind of frolic may here be mentioned, which might have been of serious consequence to a young man of fortune.
This gentleman resided in his own house, and upon his own estate, not far from Hollesley Bay; and though possessed of many broad acres, abundantly supplied with every species of game common to that country, yet, singularly enough, he was an exception to that prevalent habit of all country gentlemen – the being a sportsman. The writer of these pages has often heard him narrate the following facts: —
Laud, or rather Hudson, as he was then called (for Laud was generally supposed to be dead), met this young man at the Boyton Alms-houses, when the following conversation arose: —
“Good morning to you, captain. But little stirring at sea, I suppose?”
“We’re ashore awhile upon a cruise.”
“So I suppose. What tack do you go upon tonight?”
“That I know not, sir; but not hereabouts. We shall probably run down to Orford.”
“I know you are all good hands. I never went sporting in my life, and never saw any poaching. Now, captain, it’s no use being qualmish upon the subject, but upon my word I should like to see how you poachers manage to take your game. You need not fear that I should inform against you, or take advantage of your secrets – for I am no sportsman, as you know, and care as little about game as any man; but I have heard so much of your adroitness, and of the methodical manner in which you proceed, that I really should like to see it. Come, what shall I give you to take me with you to-night?”
The smuggler looked at him with a very significant countenance, as much as to say, “Are you in earnest? May I trust you?” It was very few he thought he could trust; but there was a simplicity and honesty, a straight-forward singleness of mind, and such a real, truthful heartiness of character about the young man, that a far less shrewd man than Laud could see there was no danger in him. So far from ever intending evil to any one, he was kind even to a fault: witness his very treatment of such a man as Laud. He had often seen him about his marshes, or along the river’s side, or in the village, or upon the heath. He knew what Hudson was; and like many others in that retired country, became an occasional talker with him, even upon the subject of smuggling. He knew that his own horses came in for a share of night-work, as well as his neighbours’; but he always found himself well treated by the smugglers, and frequently acknowledged the receipt of some acceptable present. He knew the habits of poaching which these seamen enjoyed ashore, and he never interrupted them. His own lands were always abounding in game for his friends, and he never knew that they were poached.
“Well, captain, what say you? Will you take me?”
“That I will, with all my heart. Where will you meet me?”
“Where you like. Where shall it be?”
“Suppose my messmate and I call you at eleven o’clock? We can take a glass of grog with you, and perhaps use your own cart and horse. We shall most likely go to Iken or Orford. But I will see my mate, and have everything arranged, and be with you by eleven.”
The honest bachelor who had made this appointment with Laud and Luff, had no idea of his temerity and of the danger of the deed. He saw only, for the time, a certain mystery, which he wished to see unravelled, and forgot all the penalties the law attached to it.
Our worthy bachelor received his two promising visitors at eleven o’clock, having first sent every servant to bed, and parted with an aged mother, who was ignorant, blessedly ignorant, of her son’s movements at such a time of night; Laud and Luff were let into the house; they came, partook of his good cheer, and then opened upon the subject of their campaign.
They told him their intention to have a drag over some of the stubbles of the Marquis of Hertford’s estate, between Iken and Orford, and they instructed him in the plan of operation. Five men were to meet them in the lane leading down into Iken Wood: they carried a net capable of covering four furrows. Not a single word must be spoken. Five would drag in front, and three behind; one was to hold the check-string, by which an alarm was conveyed to every one who had hold of the net. In case of a sudden jerk at this string, each person dropped his hold of the net, and ran for the nearest hedge, where he concealed himself until he heard the signal to join forces again, which signal was for that night the crowing of a cock. When by sundry kicks in the net they found that game was enclosed, they were to drop the net, at the sound of a small reed whistle, so low as only to be heard by those who were at a short distance. As the young host was only a novice, it was proposed that he should take his station between Hudson and Luff, his two visitors.
After all proper hints had been repeated, and these worthies had sufficiently regaled themselves, they all went to the cart-lodge; took out the market-cart, harnessed the old chestnut gelding, something between a cart-horse and a roadster, and off they started for as novel an expedition as ever any man of fortune undertook.
Will the reader believe that a man of good character – aye, and as honest, upright, good-natured, kind-hearted, and benevolent a man, as any of his rank and condition – a man of an intelligent and unwarped mind – and one who through life was looked upon as good a neighbour as could be – should so forget himself as to trust his reputation, his honour – his very life and happiness (for at that time the Game Laws were very severe), between two as great rascals as ever stole a head of game, or shot a fellow-creature, in the frenzy of their career?
The reader must imagine a man far above all want, and with every blessing which an abundant fortune could supply, without any idea of intending an affront to the lord of Orford, or any of his affluent neighbours, seated in his own luggage-cart, with his very name written in large letters, X. Y. Z., Esq., with his place of abode upon it! He must imagine such a man, trusting himself between two notorious characters merely for the spree of the moment, and purely for the sake of curiosity running the risk of losing his character and his liberty, and yet without a thought of his danger. Yet the tale is as true as it is strange. Had not the writer heard the subject of it often declare the fact, he should have believed it impossible.
They are off, however, and Luff is the driver. As if acquainted with his horse, and the horse with him, they went at a rate which astonished even the owner of the animal. He had said, “Let me drive, for I understand his humour"; but he found that another understood his own horse as well as himself. This brute was like a donkey in one respect. Except you gave him a jerk with the rein, and at the same time gave a rap on the sides of the cart, you could not get him to move. What, then, was the surprise of the Squire to find that a stranger could make the old horse go as well as he could. But not a word was to be spoken – so in silence he brooded over the singular knowledge of his coachman, and gave him credit for his driving, which he richly deserved. It was evident the old horse had been in his hands before that night. On they went through Boyton, Butley, the borders of Eyke, to the lane leading down to Orford. Here at a certain gate they stopped, and on the other side of the hedge were the five men with the net. The old horse was tied to the gate, the net unrolled, spread out, and, without a single word being spoken, each man took his station.
It was just the dawning of the morn, when they could hear the old cock pheasants crowing to their mates, to come down from their perches to feed. A rustling wind favoured the work; a large barley stubble was before them, lying with a slope up to the famous preserve of Iken Wood.
As they proceeded onward, sundry kicks in the net told of the captured game, which was regularly and dexterously bagged, by the leading man passing on to the net to the place of fluttering, and wringing the necks of the said partridges, pheasants, hares, rabbits, or whatever they were; then passing them along the meshes to the head of the net, whence they were safely deposited in the different game-bags of the foremen.
That this sport was as much enjoyed by these men as that enjoyed by the best shot in the land; that these fellows were as expert in their movements and as experienced as Colonel Hawker himself, and as bold as any foxhunter in the country, is quite true.
There was one in that party whose courage was soon put to the test, after a fashion which he little calculated upon, and never forgot.
After having bagged a considerable quantity of game, and swept several acres of stubble, they were ascending the middle of the field, toward the covert, when a sudden violent check of the alarm-string, which ran from one to the other, told that they must drop the net, and be off. Off they ran, helter-skelter, as fast as they could, to the nearest fence.
The Squire’s heart was in his throat, and his courage in his heels, as, with unwonted speed, he ran for his life to the fence. Into brake and briar, amidst nettles and thistles, brambles and thorns, dashed the hero of the night, with his top-boots sticking plounce into the mud, and, for the life of him, not daring to extricate them, for fear of his being heard and taken by the gamekeepers. The water oozed coolly over the tops, conveying a gentle moisture to his feverish skin, and proving no small consolation for his exertions.
There he lay in a dreadful fright, expecting every instant some stout keeper’s hand to seize him by the shoulders, and lug him out of his hiding-place. Then it was for the first moment that he felt the awkwardness of his situation. Reflection told him his danger. Though he durst scarcely breathe, he felt his heart beat tumultuously against his chest, at the thought of his folly and the possibility of detection.
“Oh, what a fool I am,” thought he, “to run the risk of transportation for such a freak! My name is on my cart; it is my horse, and the fellows will swear they were in my employ. On me will be visited the vengeance of the law. Lord Hertford will never forgive me. I shall have all the magistrates, squires, noblemen, gentlemen, gamekeepers, and watchers up in arms against me; and all for what? – for a foolish curiosity, which I have thus gratified at the expense of my character. Oh! if I get out of this scrape, never, never will I get into such a one again!”
In the midst of these painful impressions, the Squire’s heart was gladdened by the cheerful sound of “bright chanticleer.” Never did cock crow with a pleasanter sound than that good imitation, which told that the coast was clear.
Some time did the Squire hesitate whether he should join the sport again, and a still longer time did it take him to extricate his boots from the mud, for he came out of the ditch minus the right leg covering, and, after sundry tugs, and, when out, sundry shakings, &c., to turn out the water, and then, as may be supposed, no small difficulty in getting it on again, he managed to join his companions, who had almost felt persuaded that he had totally decamped. The cause of this alarm was a poor unfortunate jackass, which had strayed from the lane into the stubble, and which, standing with his head and ears erect, had presented to the foreman the appearance of a determined gamekeeper.
A few more acres were dragged, more game secured, and the party once more safely seated in the cart. Two sacks of game lay in the bottom of the vehicle, which were both deposited (saving one bagful for the host) at the Green Cottage at Butley Moor. What a happy man was that host, when, after all his dangers, he found himself again within his own doors! happier still, when, after entertaining his free companions, whose jokes upon his expressions of joy at escape were amusing enough to them, though painfully interesting to himself; happier still was he, when, at four o’clock in the morn, he let them out of his house, and bade poachers and poaching good-bye for ever!
Nineteen beautiful cock pheasants were hung up in his larder; but so ashamed was the Squire of their being seen there, that, before he retired to his own bed, he put them all into a box, with hay, &c., and directed them to Mr. Thomas Page, his wine-merchant, in London. His spolia opima were not mentioned till years had in some measure worn off the rust of danger, and then he gave his friends and neighbours reason to rejoice in his adventure, and that he had escaped transportation.
CHAPTER VI HARVEST-HOME
It was the evening before Harvest-Home, September 29, 1793, that a sailor called at the back-door of the Priory Farm, Downham Reach, to ask for a draught of fresh water. It was no uncommon thing for sailors to call for such a purpose. Downham Reach was the nearest point at which ships of large tonnage would usually anchor, and shift their cargoes in lighters for the town of Ipswich, whence it was distant about four miles. The crews of vessels frequently had to walk up to the town from this spot; so that it was no uncommon thing for them, upon landing near the Priory Farm after a voyage, to be glad of a sparkling draught of clear water. The desired draught was handed to the sailor by the ever-ready hand of Margaret Catchpole, who always took an interest in men belonging to the sea.
“Is dis de Priry Barm?” asked the man, in broken English.
“This is the Priory Farm,” was the quick and eager reply of Margaret.
“How bar to Gipswitch?”
“Four miles to Ipswich. What country are you from?”
“Mynheer be brom Hamsterdam. I lept me bessel in de harber. Mynheer de Captan did ’mand me up to Gipswitch. ’E ’mand me ’top at Priry Barm to tale von Margaret Catchpole dad ’e vou’d come up ’ere to-morrow, at nine o’clock in de eve.”
“What is your captain’s name?”
“Von Villiam Laud.”
The reader need not be told the rest of the conversation, which of course related to the Captain. How he was? How he got on? Whose service he was in? How he would come up? And where Margaret was to meet him? It was all arranged that she should be upon the shore at nine o’clock, and look out for a small sail-boat, which should come up the river and run ashore against the creek: that the watchword should be “Margaret,” and that punctuality should be observed.
Margaret’s quick understanding soon construed all the sailor said into proper English, though she could not perceive that the man only feigned a foreign accent and manner. He was indeed one of Laud’s crew, an emissary sent on purpose to decoy the poor girl on to the strand, that he might carry her off to a foreign shore, against her own determined purpose.
It is not to be wondered at that she should be a little agitated. Whose heart would not have been so under similar circumstances? The expected arrival of some fashionable and insinuating man of fortune into the saloon of fashion has not agitated the heart of an amiable and interesting young lady more sensibly than poor Margaret felt herself fluttering within at this peculiar time. It is a great question, however, whether any high-spirited damsel could prevent the exposure of her high feelings with more effect than this poor girl did hers, who not only had her own interest to induce her so to do, but her lover’s also.
The last day of September came, and with it all the bustle and pleasure of Harvest-Home. No small share of work fell to Margaret’s hands, who had to prepare the harvest supper for fourteen men, besides women and children.
At that time of day, all the single men lodged in the master’s house, and were expected to conform to all the rules, regulations, hours, and work, of a well-regulated family.
Once in a year, the good farmer invited the married men, with their wives and families, to supper; and this supper was always the Harvest-Home. This was the day on which the last load of corn was conveyed into the barn or stack-yard, covered with green boughs, with shouting, and blowing of the merry harvest horn.
All the labourers upon the Priory Farm were assembled at six o’clock in the evening: nine married men, and five single ones; the wives, and those children who were old enough to come to the feast, together with the boys, four in number, who had to work upon the land.
A picture fit for the hand of Wilkie was exhibited in that ancient farm-house. It is surprising that no good artist should have painted The Harvest Supper. The Rent-day, Blindman’s-buff, The Fair, The Blind Fiddler, or any of his celebrated works, could scarcely afford a more striking subject for the canvas, or the printseller, than The Harvest-Home. Such a scene may have been painted, but the writer of these pages has never seen it described, though he has often witnessed it in real life, and has shared with innocent pleasure in its rustic joy.
Margaret received great assistance from some of the married women. One pair of hands could not, indeed, have prepared sufficient eatables for such a party: – smoking puddings, plain and plum; piles of hot potatoes, cabbages, turnips, carrots, and every species of vegetable which the farmer’s lands could produce – beef, roast and boiled, mutton, veal, and pork, everything good and substantial; a rich custard, and apple-pies, to which the children did ample justice, for all were seated round this well-furnished table in the old kitchen, celebrated for its curious roof and antique chimney-piece.
The lord of the feast, or head man in the harvest-field, took his station at the head of the table, whilst the master of the house, and his wife, his sister, and even his daughter, were the servants of the feast, and took every pains to gratify and satisfy the party.
Poor labourers are not the only class in England fond of a good dinner. There are hundreds and thousands, with half the appetites of these joyful sons and daughters of the sickle, who glory in a feast. How often is the rich table spread with every delicacy, and at an enormous cost the greatest rarities provided, and a group of lords and ladies seated thereat! Things just tasted and dismissed, and all due ceremonies performed, the company rise without any satisfaction, and return to their homes grateful to nobody; sometimes hungry and dissatisfied, moody and contentious; disappointed, disaffected, tired, and palled by the very fashion of the thing, in which there has been no enjoyment and no thankfulness.
It was not so at this rustic feast. Simplicity and pleasure sat upon each face. Fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, felt thankful to God for their master’s prosperity, and received his attentions with unaffected gratitude.
After the feast, and a flowing jug or two of brown ale had been emptied, the wives and children were invited into the best parlour to tea and cakes, whilst the merry reapers were left to themselves, to enjoy in their own way the stronger harvest ale, which was just broached by the hand of their master.
Margaret had done her duty well, and was busily engaged washing up the dishes as fast as she could, that she might, in the midst of this bustling evening get her work sufficiently forward not to be missed, should she run down to the shore.
“Boy, take the can to the girl and have it filled"; for the master had deputed Margaret to draw whatever ale was called for.
This was soon done, and the boy returned just as the old clock struck eight.
Margaret heard with a fluttering heart the songs, according to custom, commencing; and getting her work well forward, she resolved, after the next can of ale was replenished, to be off.
Accordingly, she ran up the back stairs, and brought down her bonnet and shawl, which she left behind the staircase-door, and anxiously awaited the moment to be off duty. She had put every plate in the rack, laid all the iron spoons in the drawer, cleaned the spit, and placed it, bright and shining, over the chimney-piece. All the skewers had been strung, all the knives and forks washed and wiped, boilers, saucepans, gridirons, and the rest of the culinary utensils cleaned, and placed in their proper places; in short, scarcely any one would have believed that they had that day been used. Clean they were, and cleaner the well-washed face and hands of the active girl, who had finished her work, and prepared herself for an interview with one whose image had been graven on her mind through every period of her short service.
At last she heard that welcome sound, more enchanting to her ear than any song which the young men had sung: “Boy, take the can to Margaret!”
It was soon replenished; and scarcely was the kitchen-door closed, ere the bonnet and shawl were put on, the latch of the door lifted up, and the bright rising moon shining gloriously in at the door. Happy moment! what pencil could portray the features of that face upon which the moon so clearly shone on that September night?
Poor girl! ’twas a breathless moment of long anticipated pleasure to thy good and honest heart, such as many a one, like thee, may have experienced; but such as none, be she who she may, could have more anxiously endured.
At last, Margaret is off.
The pleasure of the feast continued; and, as the foaming ale went round, the spirits of the youths arose, and each bachelor who could not sing had to toast his favourite lass.
There were singular disclosures made at this season, which generally indicated the future destiny of the bachelor. It was amusing enough to hear those who did not choose to tell their lover’s name attempt to sing, as “the lord" called upon him for a toast or song.
“We haven’t had Jack Barry’s song,” said a sly fellow of the name of Riches, who himself was one of the best singers in the party. “Please, sir" (for such the lord of the feast was styled that night), “call upon Jack for his song.”
Now, the labourer at the head of the table knew that Jack could not sing. He did not suppose, either, that he had any favourite lass; for no one had seen Jack flirting, or directing his attentions towards any favoured individual. The lord, however, was bound to do his duty, when so urged; he therefore said, “John Barry, we call upon you for a song.”
“I cannot sing, master: I wish I could,” was the reply.
“Then you must give us a toast; and you know what it must be – ‘Your favourite lass.’”
Jack hung down his head in solemn silence, for he felt extremely awkward. He had a favourite lass; he felt he had; and no one knew it but himself; and if he should toast her, he felt that he should be laughed at. He remained in a state of painful suspense, between doubt and fear. A thousand thoughts revolved in his mind, whether he should not give a fictitious name, or some one whom he had heard of, or only knew by sight; but then appeared the certainty of some of them congratulating the person he might happen to mention, and so bringing him into a scrape. He thought also of dissimulation, and a lie, at which Jack’s honest nature revolted. But if he should really tell his sweetheart’s name! He felt for her, he felt for himself, and he remained a long time without uttering a word.
“Come, Jack, my boy, what’s the matter? Give us your favourite lass! What makes you flinch, my lad?”
Jack remained silent, until some began to think he meant to shirk the subject. The fact is, that Jack had really some notion of bolting, and once or twice he cast a sidelong glance at the door, with the full intention of an escape; but Will Riches, perceiving this, most unceremoniously bolted the door; and, as the jug stood close by him, he declared he would know Jack’s sweetheart before another drop should be drunk.
“Come, Jack,” says he, “why not give us at once the girl you love best?”
“Because she does not love me,” was Jack’s quick reply.
Here was a most significant glance from one to another round about the room; and more than one whispered to his neighbour, “Who is it?” Not a soul could tell, for no one had the slightest idea who the girl could be who would refuse so honest a fellow as Jack Barry. Some began to think that Jack had stepped out of his latitude, that he had dared to aspire to the master’s daughter; some, that it was Matilda Baker, the grocer’s girl; others set it down as Lucy Harper, of Stratton. But, be the damsel whom she might, Jack’s speech had set such a spirit of curiosity a-working, that the married men hoped to know for their wives’ sake, and the single ones for their mistresses’ amusement. Jack had got further into the mire by his floundering, and every one saw that he was struggling all he could to escape.
“Well, Jack, who is she? Who is she? Do we any of us know her?”
“Yes, all of you.”
Here they were all out at sea again.
“It must be the master’s fair daughter,” said Ned Palmer to his neighbour.
“I don’t think it,” was the reply; “but he is not willing to tell us, and it’s hardly fair to press him.”
“It’s a law, a positive law – I’ve told mine,” says John Ruddock, “and I don’t see why he should flinch from the name. I must have it.”
“The name! the name!" exclaimed one or two resolute fellows.
A tear stood in Jack’s eye. This might be a good joke to some; but the elders of the party, who saw it, especially honest Tom Keeble, the lord of the evening, felt for the young man that respect which induced him to make a sortie or parley, in the hope of giving him relief.
“Riches,” said he, “as the jug stands by you, I shall call upon you for a song. Our young friend may, by the time you have entertained us, have recovered himself; and, after your song, I shall order the jug round to drink your health, if we do not get the lass.”
Now, Will prided himself upon his vocal powers, and was a bold, forward fellow. He had no objection to sing, nor had any of the company any objection to his song; and, truth to tell, all hoped the jug of brown ale would not be stopped long, either for the song or for “the favourite lass.” So Will sang his song.
“I’ll sing you a new song,” says he. “I’ll sing you one in which you can all join in chorus in the house, as you have often done in the field. I’ll sing you —
‘HALLO LARGESS.’”
Accordingly, he lifted up his voice, and sang this truly happy and appropriate harvest song: —
Now the ripened corn
In sheaves is borne,
And the loaded wain
Brings home the grain,
The merry, merry reapers sing a bind,
And jocund shouts the happy harvest hind,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now the harvest’s o’er,
And the grain we store,
And the stacks we pull,
And the barn is full,
The merry, merry reapers sing again,
And jocund shouts the happy harvest swain,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now our toil is done,
And the feast is won,
And we meet once more
As we did of yore,
The merry, merry reapers sing with glee,
And jocund shout their happy harvest spree,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now the feast we share —
’Tis our master’s fare,
May he long, long live
Such a treat to give,
And merry, merry reapers sing with joy,
And jocund shouts the happy harvest boy,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now we join in song
With our voices strong,
And our hearts are high
With our good supply,
We merry, merry reapers joyful come
To shout and sing our happy Harvest-Home,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
The spirit of this song is in the chorus, which is peculiar to the eastern counties of this kingdom. So “Hallo Largess!" may be well understood here, but in many parts of the country is quite unknown. At the time of harvest, when the men are reaping down the fields, should their master have any friends visiting his fields, the head man among the labourers usually asks a largess, which is generally a shilling. This is asked not only of friends and visitors, but of strangers likewise, should they pause to look at the reapers as they bind up the sheaves.
At evening, when the work of the day is over, all the men collect in a circle, and Hallo, that is, cry, Largess. Three times they say, in a low tone, “Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Large!" and all, hand in hand, bow their heads almost to the ground; but, after the third monotonous yet sonorous junction, they lift up their heads, and, with one burst of their voices, cry out, “Gess!”
