Chapter XII Harry Is Discharged
Rheum and Rum—Gall—Without Ceremony—A Question of Precedence—Res Angustae—The Raw—To Scheveningen—Punctuality and Despatch—From the Dutch Side—Temptation—Renunciation—Gretel—Misgivings
“Atchew!—confusion! This pestilent country—atchew!—will be the death of me. ’Tis one eternal—-atchew!—rheum! Stap my vitals! I wish I were dead. Atchew! atchew!”
Captain Aglionby sat in the topmost room of a high house in one of the less savoury quarters of the Hague. His nose was redder than ever; his cheeks more puffed; his eyes looked like boiled oysters. A thick woollen comforter swathed his neck. Though it was the height of summer, a big log fire blazed in the hearth; window and door were fast shut; and in a temperature of something over eighty degrees the captain was doing his best, according to his lights, to cure a cold.
He was seated at a table drawn close to the fire. Upon the table stood a bottle nearly empty, a beaker, a basin of sugar, an inkhorn, a table-book of writing-paper, and a sheath containing quills. A kettle sang on the fire. When his sneezing fit was over, the captain poured the last of his rum into the beaker, sugared it, filled up with boiling water, and gulped half of the mixture into a throat inured to fiery passengers. Water streamed from his eyes, and his blotched brow broke into a profuse perspiration. He wiped his face with a large red handkerchief, smacked his lips, and, bending over the table, selected a quill.
“Hang writing!” he muttered. “I never writ a letter but I rued it. Atchew! And with this cursed cold! Well, the sooner begun, the sooner done; so here’s to it. Atchew!”
He cut his quill, dipped it in the ink, and began:
“Mr. BARKLEY. Sir.”
It would have been quite evident to an onlooker that the captain was not a practised penman. He wrote very laboriously, frowning at every stroke, and licking his lips often. Like most illiterate people, he repeated half aloud the words as he wrote them, and being so unused to giving visible expression to his thoughts, he commented as he went along. He was never at a loss how to spell a word, for in those days men spelt as they pleased, and bad spelling might almost have been regarded as one of the marks of a gentleman.
“Sir. This will, I hope, finde you well. For myself, I am afflicted [atchew!] with a voilent Rheum, the wch I feare will turne to an inflamatn of the Longs. [Egad! that’ll please the old niggard!] I command the sarvices of the best Potticary in the place, but finding his nostrums vain, for three dayes have eate nought but Water Gruel. ’Tis said that Rumm is a speedie Cure, but that I eschew. [Atchew!] My Hande shakes with the feaver, & I shd not rite to you now had I not Surprizing Nuse to give. You must knowe that, visitting at the house of Mme de Vodray, where your he sarvant is ever an honour’d guest, [that’s worth fifty guineas to me!] what was my vaste Amazement to finde there that yonge Cockerell H—— R—— swaggering it as one of the beste. It passes my wit to divine how he escap’d from the Merrie Maide, & hope y may recover the Passage Money, the wch methinks will be difficult. [Atchew! He won’t get a penny o’t.] ’Tis passing strange the boy is here, not lesse that he is acquaint with the Vodrays; & moreover with him is my pestilent cozn S—— M——, of whom more hereafter, ’twill be easie to deal with him, whereto I have already things in Traine. H—— R—— is employ’d with one Grootz, a merchant of Substance, & one that hath large Contracks with the confederate armies. The boy being out of yr way, y have belike no further cause against him, & wd wish no further stepps taken, comming & going is like at any time to Cooke his Goose, but if I mistake in this ’twould be well to sende 100 Guineas by the same Hande as wont, & I wd endevour to bring the matter to a safe and speedie End, in wch case I wd make bold to aske for a further Summe of 200 Guineas for to requite my Zeale in the sarvice of my honour’d Frende & Patron.”
“Atchew! Writing is plaguily dry work,” he muttered, breaking off at this point, “and the bottle’s empty.”
He tugged at a bell-pull, and resumed his letter.
“’Twill be no light Taske, seeing the yonge man hath captured of late a Partie of above 100 French in an Affaire near Breda, the wch I doubte not will give him some Consekence with the Dutch no less than himselfe, of the wch Affaire ’tis like an Account will be printed in the Courant. [Sure ’twill give Nick a start.] I must add that Living is verie Deare here. For my Creditt sake and the furtherance of youre Ends, I have hired a Magnifficent Appartment, for the wch I have to paye a sweete Rent. Hence it is verie nessessarie I have the Guineas without delai. Waiting yr commands & so subscribe myself yr ever humble and obediant
RALPH AGLIONBY, Captain.”
“Atchew! There, ’tis done, and writ fair.” He flung his pen on the table. “And I’d fain know what the squire has against the knave; ’tis more than pique, I promise you. Where’s Simmons, confound him!”
He sanded the wet paper, folded it, sealed it with yellow wax, and wrote the superscription:
For Nicolas Barkley Esqre at his house Winton St. Mary nr Salisbury, England
This done, he tugged again at the bell-pull, blew his nose with sounding ferocity, and stuck his legs into the hearth with the air of a man who had successfully achieved a stupendous task.
The door opened, and John Simmons entered.
“Hang you, sirrah! why don’t you answer my bell at the very moment, sir? Go get me a bottle of rum.”
Simmons, pallid, frowsy, scared-looking, stood hesitating in the doorway.
“Are you deaf, clodpoll?” roared the captain. “A bottle of rum, and instantly!”
“Yes, Captain, and the—and the money, sir?”
“The money, you dog! Where is the crown-piece I gave you this morning?”
“I had to buy the dinner, sir, and——”
“Zounds! You’ll answer me, will you? You’re the most pestilent knave man ever had to serve him. ’Tis money, money, all day with you. Would that Sherry Minshull had left you to the hangman! Begone, sirrah! and——”
“Pardon!” said a voice in French from the door. “If I am in the way——”
“Come in, Monsieur,” said Aglionby, springing to his feet. “And you, booby, be off and do my bidding.”
Simmons vanished precipitately. Monsieur de Polignac gasped as he entered the overheated room.
“Phew! It would roast an ox.”
“Shut the door. I am nursing a pestilent rheum.”
“So it appears. You are in an ill humour, my friend; I fear my news will not cheer you.”
“Spit it out and have done with it, then.”
“Well, this is it. A commission has been made out, I hear, appointing your young Englishman a cornet in the Anspach dragoons.”
“What young Englishman?”
“The young man whom we met at Madame de Vaudrey’s.”
The captain swore a hearty British oath.
“Where learnt you that?”
“A la bonne heure! It is true. I have it on authority I cannot doubt. Van Santen pressed it; his influence prevailed. There were several vacancies in the regiment; it lost heavily in the action at Eckeren a few weeks ago. This boy gets the senior cornetcy. We owe it to ourselves, Monsieur le Capitaine, that the junior cornets get an early step.”
“Peste! We do owe it to ourselves; or, I should rather say, we owe it to yourself. For me, I have knocked about the world too long to take umbrage easily; and look you, Monsieur, my family, although gentle, indeed I may say noble, cannot compare with yours in quartet-ings and such fal-lals. I understand your sentiments; as you say, something must be done.”
“And at once, for which end I have come to see you. My position, as you perceive, is delicate; for myself, I would seek a quarrel with the bantling and spit him on my rapier without remorse. But affairs of state—you understand me; that alters the case. I must not appear. I propose to you this: to affront the boy, provoke him to a duel; you a veteran, he a tyro; it will be a matter of seconds. Voilà!”
The captain gazed steadily at Polignac for a few moments, then said:
“Look you, Polignac, no man ever accused Ralph Aglionby, late captain in the Preobrashenski Grenadiers, of lack of courage—no man, that is to say, that lived to tell of it. Had you made the proposition twenty years ago, I should by this time have been half-way down the stairs on the way to kill this young springald. But twenty years make a difference. My courage is the same, look you; but the years have enlarged my girth—and my discretion. On the point of honour I am as sensitive as ever I was, but I have learnt to have patience—and consideration. Say I engage this peddling fool; what happens? I kill him and baulk you of your revenge. Where are you, my friend? Or suppose, by some vile contrivance, he kills me; where am I? No, no, Monsieur; the right of place belongs to you. Who am I, a broken soldier, a poor unnecessary captain of grenadiers, to take precedence of you?”
“You have most admirable patience,” sneered Polignac, “and I am overwhelmed by your consideration. I thank you, Monsieur le Capitaine, and bid you adieu.”
“Stay, my friend; why this haste? I have consideration, as you say. Would the world be better for the loss of you or me? are there not more ways of getting even with a man than making one’s self a target for his pistol or a sheath for his sword? You remember Marillier, and Aubin, eh? Sit down, and let us talk this over like reasonable men.”
Polignac sat on one of the rickety chairs in silence.
“Your memory is jogged, eh? You remember the dark lane, and the light in the window, and——”
“Enough!” exclaimed the other impatiently. “My memory is as good as yours. This is different. I must be circumspect. Were we in Paris—then! But here at the Hague, I am not my own master; I have weightier interests to consider. An incautious step, even a chance word, may ruin a dynasty. My own life—I do not consider it; but when one is playing for a crown one has duties, responsibilities. If you see your way—well, I am not one to dissuade you; and if a few guilders——”
Aglionby’s red eyes gleamed.
“Well, Monsieur, as you put it so, I own ’tis in a measure a question of money. In truth ’tis desperate hard lines that I, who have ruffled it with the best and got drunk with the Czar of Muscovy himself, should be so hard driven as that I cannot offer due hospitality to a friend. Look at this wretched lodging; was ever gentleman, by no fault of his own, mark you, reduced to such straits!”
Polignac, glancing at the mean furniture and the empty bottle, agreeably assented, but concealed a smile.
“Well,” he said, “might I ask leave to send out for a bottle of wine?”
Aglionby jumped up with alacrity.
“You say so? ’Tis the mark of a true friend.” He pulled hard at the bell-rope. “My man will be here instantly; and, Monsieur, let it be sack—sack, as you love me.”
Simmons reappeared without delay, and was despatched for a bottle of sack. With the energy of pleasurable anticipation the captain pursued:
“Now, my dear Polignac, mark—before attempting the house ’tis well to poison the dog; aha! that is only my way of putting it, eh?”
“Of course. A figure of speech; but from the life!”
Aglionby flung him a suspicious glance; at times he had an uneasy feeling that Polignac was quizzing him. But after a momentary pause he went on as before.
“The dog in this case—and a low cur it is—is the young cockerel’s servant—the same that embraced you so cordially at Madame de Vaudrey’s. Ha! ha! I can relish the comical side of it e’en though he embraced me also!—and before the charming mademoiselle too!”
He guffawed uproariously. He felt that he was now getting tit for tat for Polignac’s covert sneers, often rather suspected than understood. But he was not a little startled by the effect of his words and laughter. Polignac flushed purple with rage; his mouth took a very decided twist towards his left eye. Springing up suddenly he cried:
“Morbleu, Monsieur, a truce to your pleasantries! and keep the lady’s name out of it, or by the——”
“No offence, no offence, my dear fellow,” interposed the captain hastily. “I’m but a plain soldier—just an honest, bluff, outspoken old campaigner; we blades don’t pick and choose our words like you fine gentlemen of the courts; though in truth when I was in Russia my manners were as good as the best.”
Polignac resumed his seat reluctantly without a word. After a short, strained silence Aglionby went on:
“The first thing, as I was saying, is to get this dog out of the way. Burn him! he follows his master like a shadow. The man removed, the rest is easy. A week from now, and he shall lie his length in six feet of good Dutch soil, or my name isn’t Ralph Montacute Aglionby. Leave it to me, Monsieur; there will be necessary expenses; say fifty guilders, a small sum, and at one time——”
“Send to my chambers; you shall have the money. And by the way, here is a packet for Captain Rudge of the Skylark. He sails with this evening’s tide. Bid him have the greatest care of it; should he run into danger he must destroy it.—It is arranged, then? I shall hear from you?”
“Within a week, on the word of a gentleman.”
“Then for the time, adieu!”
When Polignac had gone, Aglionby looked curiously at the packet entrusted to him. The address ran:
For Mistress Consterdine to be left at the coffee-house, by the Cockpitt, Whitehall, London.
It was carefully but not conspicuously sealed. The captain turned it over and over in his dirty hands; they itched to open it. “To judge by his rage,” he muttered, “he’s certainly smit with Mademoiselle de Vaudrey. ’Tis not merely his interest is engaged.” He sat musing for a moment. Then his eye fell on a broadsheet, marked with many circular stains, that lay on one of the chairs. He took it up and searched for a passage which he had clearly already read. Lighting upon it, he read:
“The report goes that Coy’s Horse embark at Harwich for Ostend on Friday the 16th current. They will join the forces now operating under General Lumley in Dutch Flanders.”
“With a fair wind they’ll make port to-morrow. Then, Sherebiah Minshull, my sweet coz, we shall begin to square accounts,—you and I.”
Stuffing the two packets into his capacious pocket, he clapped on his hat, flung a cloak over his shoulders, wound the comforter more tightly about his neck, and made his way out, sneezing half a dozen times as he met the cooler air of the street. He walked along the Lange Pooten, the chief business thoroughfare, into an open space known as the Plein. As he was crossing this he caught sight of a figure hastening into one of the larger houses, and almost involuntarily he stepped aside into a doorway until all danger of being seen was past.
“What is the puppy doing here?” he muttered, passing on his way to the old road to Scheveningen. After a pleasant woodland walk of two miles he reached that little fishing village, and found, as he expected, Captain Rudge, owner and skipper of the sloop Skylark, a fast sailer which ran to and fro between Scheveningen and Harwich. To him Aglionby confided his own letter and Polignac’s. Then he retraced his steps, and at the Hague took horse for Rotterdam. It was near midnight when he returned and wearily climbed the lofty stair to his attic room; but though he was fatigued, and his cold perceptibly worse, he seemed well satisfied with himself, and chuckled many a time before he had drained to the dregs the bottle of sack he had broached with Monsieur de Polignac.
The person from whose sight he had shrunk in the afternoon was Harry Rochester himself, who had just returned from a visit to Marlborough’s camp at Hanneff. Mynheer Grootz was up to his eyes in business, and the wide area over which the confederate forces were spread taxed his resources to the utmost. He had now come to the Hague to confer with a committee of the States General and arrange further contracts, and had instructed Harry to meet him there on the completion of his own errand.
“Well, my boy,” said Grootz on his arrival, “I did not expect you zo zoon.” They were now on such friendly and familiar terms that the Dutchman had dropped the formal address. “How have you fared?”
“Excellently, Mynheer,” replied Harry. “The commissary was well content with your arrangements, and said—’tis no harm to repeat it—that were all Dutchmen like Jan Grootz he would be spared a peck of trouble.”
“Dat is goot,” said Grootz, evidently well pleased. “Dat is how I do my business; always in time, always ready, always sure.”
“I had hoped to catch a glimpse of my lord Marlborough himself, but ’twas not to be. Whatever may be said of his meanness and selfishness, Mynheer, ’tis certain he is adored by his army. The soldiers are full of courage, confident in my lord’s genius, and all afire to meet the French. They say, indeed, that if my lord were but free of restraint, not bound to take counsel with your politicians here, one campaign would see the end of the war.”
“Dey zay!—Yes, well, it may be zo. My lord is a fine soldier—none would deny it—for all he dink little of de rules of war. But as for de field deputies—my countrymen—dey alzo have reason. To Lord Marlborough and you English, my boy, a defeat mean much; dat is zo; but to my country—ah! much more. To us it mean ruin, every village and town overrun, our polders spoiled, our homes destroyed, everywhere black misery. Dis poor country know it all too well; we have suffered—ah yes! we have suffered before too often. For my lord, it is a game wherein he can noding lose but glory; for us it is a struggle of life and death. True, for myself, I zay in war, as in business, to follow a bold course is best; but I do not derefore blame our statesmen dat dey move zlowly; no, I do not blame dem.”
Harry had seen more than once lately that beneath the stolid exterior of the merchant beat a heart warm toward his fatherland and his friends. He could not but recognize much to sympathize with in the Dutch point of view, and began to realize what it meant to the Hollanders to have their country turned into a cockpit for the political contentions of rival monarchs.
A slight pause followed Grootz’s earnest speech; then suddenly, with a change of tone, he said:
“Now, Mynheer Harry, I have a ding to zay. Dere are reasons why I find it now necessary to discharge you from my business.”
Harry gasped and looked very blank. The merchant nodded solemnly; up came his fat forefinger; and he continued with even more deliberation than usual:
“Dat is zo. I tell you dis; I find no fault wid you; none in de world; but all de same, I zay dat it is necessary you go.”
Harry was so much taken aback that he found it difficult to speak.
“Why—’tis sudden—what can—surely—” his tongue stumbled over half a dozen questions before, with an effort to command himself, he said: “Of course, Mynheer, if there is nothing more for me to do, I must perforce seek other work. You have been very kind to me; ’tis but poor thanks I can give you for what you have done.”
“What I have done! Gunst! it is noding. And you: it needs not to zeek oder work; it is found. Hearken to dis.”
He took up an official-looking paper that lay at his hand and read in Dutch:
“Mynheer Henry Rochester is appointed to a cornetcy in the Anspach dragoons in succession to Mynheer Lodewyk van Monnen deceased.”
Harry flushed to the eyes.
“’Tis a mistake, Mynheer, surely. I have not sought this; I know nothing of it.”
“A mistake! Not at all. General van Santen come to me and zay, ‘Grootz, you have in your business a young man dat has no business to be in your business; he is a soldier, noding less, and we have need of such;’ dat is what he zay, and more, and he go straight off to put down your name for a commission. And here it is, in de gazette. Dat is why I discharge you, before—” (Mynheer Grootz made a brave attempt to be jocular)—“before you discharge yourself.”
Harry was silent. His nerves were tingling, his blood sang in his veins. Here was the opening to a career after his own heart. All his earlier longings came back to him; the inward struggle with which he had acquiesced in his father’s desire that he should enter the Church; the light of hope that shone on him at his interview with Marlborough; the agonizing dissolution of his castle in the air. And now, unsought, what he had sought in vain had come to him, the aspiration of his boyhood was about to be fulfilled. All this flashed through his mind in a moment of time,—and there was Jan Grootz, smiling out of his kindly little eyes. Jan Grootz!—what he owed to him! But for Jan Grootz he might now be a hapless slave in the Plantations, with no ray of light upon the endless vista of the years. To Jan Grootz he owed his health and freedom, his training in dealing with men; more than all, he had met in Jan Grootz a man whose character compelled his respect and admiration, and whom indeed he had begun to love. Would it not be the worst of ingratitude to leave him now?
The temptation was strong, the inward struggle sharp. But it was only a few moments after the staggering announcement when he bent forward and said:
“Mynheer, I cannot accept this offer—this splendid offer. ’Tis exceeding kind of General van Santen; I owe him my hearty thanks; but ’tis not to be thought of, save you yourself wish to be rid of me, and that I must doubt, since ’tis but a week since you told me I was useful to you. I will see the general, and explain to him the reason why I decline this commission; I must do so at once.”
He made towards the door, as though eager to avoid dalliance. Grootz’s broad plain face was transfigured by delight and pride and gratification. Catching Harry by the arm, he drew him back, laid his hand on his shoulder, and said:
“No, Harry, my dear lad, I tell you dis; you must not do dis ding. I do not zay I shall not feel your loss”—there was an unusual note of tenderness in his voice—“true, it is not long dat we have worked togeder, but already I regard you—jawohl, regard you as a son, and to miss your bright face, your willing service——hoot! by den donder, I am not myself to-day.”
“’Tis too kind of you, Mynheer.”
“Nay, nay; I am not zo weak. I am at one wid General van Santen: you are made for a soldier. ’Tis de work you yourself would have chosen; now ’tis de tide of fortune, dat you dare not miss. I tell you dis; I am made up in my mind, fixed, noding can move me. I salute you, Mynheer Rochester, cornet in de Anspach dragoons.”
“Indeed, ’tis too good of you, Mynheer.”
“Not zo. And dis I tell you alzo. You know me, Jan Grootz; I prosper—God prospers me. I regard you as my son: well, ’tis a fader’s pleasure to provide for his son at de beginning of dings, just as ’tis a skipper’s pleasure to zee his ship sail taut and trim. You will have heavy charges: clothes, equipment, a horse to buy. Dose charges, you will permit me, zall be mine. ’Tis but right you should take your place wid de best. I have no kith nor kin, nor like to have; de pay for dragoons is little enough; I add a hundred guilders a month; dat will suffice, dink you?”
“But, Mynheer——”
“Poof! no buts. I zall do as please me. Now, I am hungry: let us go to de parlour. And dere is your man to tell; he will, no doubt, continue to be your servant.”
They went from the room, Grootz keeping his hand affectionately on Harry’s shoulder. The table in the parlour was already laid, and in answer to the bell old Gretel appeared with a tureen of soup.
“Gretel,” said the merchant, “Mynheer Harry is about to leave us.”
“There! Something inside told me, Mynheer, you would not keep him long.”
“’Tis not of my own will, Gretel,” said Harry at once.
“No,” added Grootz. “The lad was not eager. He is to be an officer of dragoons.”
The old woman curtsied and grunted.
“A rare exchange!” she said. “To my mind ’tis better to sell corn than to stand up to be shot at, and a deal safer. But I wish you good luck, Mynheer.”
“Thanks, Gretel, for that and for all your kindness to me. Is Sherry downstairs?”
“Ja, Mynheer.”
“Send him up, if you please. I must tell him the news.”
“Oh! he will not be pleased. He has a scorn of soldiers, never a good word to say for them. He is in the right.”
Harry smiled as the privileged old housekeeper hobbled out. Sherebiah soon appeared.
“Sherry,” said Harry, “I have a thing to tell you. General van Santen has recommended me to the heads of the Dutch army, and I am made an officer of dragoons.”
“Zooks!” was the man’s astonished exclamation.
“We shall still be together, you and I. I shall want a man, of course; and you will not object to the place?”
“Well, sir,” said Sherebiah slowly, looking down at his boots, “’tis an awk’ard matter for a man o’ peace. ’Tis a line o’ life I ha’ no love for. To be sarvant to a man o’ war is next to bein’ a man o’ war yourself. Not but what I’d be proud to sarve ’ee, Master Harry; no man more; but them as take the sword shall fall by the sword, as the Book says, and I take that for a warnen to have none on ’t.”
“A lame argument, Sherry.”
“True, sir, haven no larnen I feel it so. And will ’ee go shoulder to shoulder with our English sojers?”
There was a note of anxiety in his voice.
“That I can’t say. I hope that my regiment won’t be left out in the cold.”
“Well, sir, there’s a providence in’t. Them above knows what they’re about, to be sure, in a general way, and I bean’t agwine to set up for knowen better. I’ll sarve ’ee, sir, polish your breastplate, currycomb your horse, oil your boots, clean your pistols, keep an eye on the sutlers, and——”
“You seem to have a good notion of your new duties,” said Harry, laughing.
“Pretty good, sir, for a man o’ peace,” said Sherebiah imperturbably. “And when do ’ee mount your horse as a sojer, Master Harry?”
“Zoon,” put in Grootz. “General van Santen himself will introduce him to his broder officers; he tell me zo.”
“Ay, so. Well, ’tis a world o’ changes. For you, sir, ’tis a change for the better, barren ’ee bean’t killed; for me,—well, the truth on’t is, I fear ’tis the beginnen o’ the end for Sherebiah Stand-up-and-Bless.”