Chapter IV Mynheer Jan Grootz and Another
The Gaffer Chops Logic—In Print—The London Coach—Simple Annals—A Village Hampden—Bereft—An Offer of Service—A Hearty Send-off—Outside Passengers—Introductions—Contractor to the Forces—Followed—The Man on the Road—Sherebiah Muses
It was a dull, damp day towards the end of November, a little more than four months after Captain Aglionby’s unhappy departure from Winton St. Mary. There was again great bustle at the Berkeley Arms; Mistress Joplady’s ample face was red with exertion, and her voice, when she gave directions to her servants, was raised to an acrimonious pitch far from usual with her. The whole village appeared to be gathered either within or without the inn. Gaffer Minshull was there, seated with his back to the wall and leaning on his inseparable staff. Lumpy, Soapy Dick, Long Robin the tanner, Old Everlasting the miller, stood in a group about the door, talking to the ostler, who stood guard, with arms akimbo, over four brimming pails of water ranged along the wall.
Soft Jemmy was standing a yard or two away, watching with open mouth a man who, straddling across a step-ladder, was smearing the ancient sign-board with daubs of black paint, obliterating every trace of the crude heraldic design that had marked the inn’s connection with the lord of the manor. When the board was one unbroken black, the painter descended the ladder with his brush and can, winked at Jemmy, and went into the inn to “mix the flavours”, as he said in passing. The half-witted youth contemplated his handiwork for some minutes in mild surprise; then he walked towards old Minshull and addressed him timorously:
“Gaffer, I’m afeard my poor yead won’t stand the wonder on’t, but it med do me good to know why John painter ha’ covered that noble pictur wi’ the colour o’ sut.”
“Why, boy, black’s for sorrow, as ’ee med know wi’out tellen an ’ee weren’t so simple, and ’tis a black day for Winton Simmary, so ’tis.”
“Why be it more black to-day than ’tis a-Sunday?” asked the youth. “’Tis Tuesday, gaffer, bean’t it? and new pa’son didn’t holler it in church for a holy day.”
“Boy, your poor yead won’t stand high things, ’tis true, but ’ee know young pa’son be off to Lun’on town to-day, an’ that’s why all the souls be here, to see the last on un.”
Jemmy looked up again at the defaced sign-board, puzzling his poor brains to find some connection between it and the departure of “young pa’son”.
“’Tis a shame, gaffer,” said Honest John, “to deceive the poor lad, when you know the sign bean’t painted out for no such thing.”
“Why, there now,” returned old Minshull, “bean’t it all one? I axe ’ee that, souls. Young pa’son be a-gwine to Lun’on ’cause his poor feyther’s dead an’ gone; Pa’son Rochester be dead an’ gone ’cause o’ the fight; an I weren’t afeard on un, I’d say the fight were all along o’ Squire; and Mis’ess Joplady ha’ changed the ancient sign of th’ inn ’cause her can’t abear to think on’t. Bean’t that gospel truth, souls all?”
The group looked impressed with the old man’s logic. Mistress Joplady, coming for a moment to the door, had overheard his concluding sentences.
“’Tis true,” she said, wiping away a tear. “I never liked Squire; nobody never did as I ever heerd on; but when pa’son died I couldn’t abear him. One thing I’m thankful for from the bottom o’ my heart, and that is, that my house is college property, like the church, and I can snap my vingers at Squire, and I do.” She suited the action to the word. “Has been the Berkeley Arms for a hunnerd years, but ’twill be so no longer. When paint’s dry, up goos the yead o’ Queen Annie, bless her! a poor soul as ha’ lost all her childer, like myself, and the Queen’s Head it’ll be for ever more.”
“Ay, things be main different in village now, sure,” said Lumpy. “To think what mighty changes come in a little time! Zeems only a few days sin’ young pa’son won that noble match—you mind, souls, the day the lord’s carriage broke under the weight of the Queen’s purse—ay, the day afore he were stopped in old road. I never understood the rights o’ that bit o’ work. Gaffer, hav ’ee got that printed paper ye read, where the Lun’on talk be given like the words of a book?”
Old Minshull slowly drew from his pocket a folded sheet, rather dirty, worn at the edges, and falling apart at the folds. He opened it out with great care, and spread it on his knees.
“That’s he,” said Lumpy. “Gaffer, you be a scholard; read it out loud to us again.”
“Ay, an’ don’t need spectacles neither,” said Minshull proudly; “well, listen, souls.”
Very slowly, and with as much deliberation as though he were reading it for the first instead of the hundredth time, and moving his forefinger along the line, the old man began to read the account of the attempted robbery of Lord Godolphin which the Daily Courant presented to the London public a week after the event. The names of the principal persons concerned appeared with a dash between the initial and final letters, and Godolphin’s was read by Minshull as “Lard G line n”. After briefly relating the incident, the writer of the paragraph added:
“’Tis said the Prisoner that broke jail was a Servant of a Captain A——y, a Guest at that time of Esq. N——s B——y. The gallant Captain’s Commission (as it is credibly reported) is not under the seal of her Gracious Majestie, or King William lately Deceas’d of Noble Memorie, but of the Czar of Muscovy. ’Tis vouch’d by some ’twas none other than the Great Cham.”
“Ay, that’s print,” said Soapy Dick at the conclusion of the reading. “The ‘Cap’n A line y’ was Cap’n Aglionby sure enough, an’ some did zay as how ’twas he let the pris’ner out o’ lock-up, and so brought shame to Will’m Nokes.”
“Ay, an’ some did say as how the Cap’n hisself made one o’ the cut-purse rogues as waylaid the lard,” said Honest John.
“Old wives’ tales,” said Minshull. “My boy Sherry be wise for his years, an’ he says Cap’n couldn’t ha’ let prisoner out, ’cause a’ were miles away at the time. And as for Cap’n bein’ on the road—why, when Sir Godfrey coom in all the might o’ the law to ’stablish the truth, Squire up and said as how Cap’n was abed and asleep on that early mornen when the deed was done.”
“Ay true, Squire said so; but did a’ take his dyin’ oath like a common man? Tell me that, souls.”
At this moment the conversation was interrupted, and the villagers were thrilled into excitement by the distant tootle of a horn.
“Here be coach at last,” cried the ostler. “Ten minutes behind time, and no sign of young Master Rochester. Giles coachman won’t wait, not he.”
But as the coach came in sight at a bend of the road, two figures were seen hastening along from the direction of the rectory. One was a tall youthful form clad in black from his low felt hat to his buckle shoes. His steinkirk was black, and its fringed ends were tucked into a black waistcoat. Black were his plain drugget coat and breeches, black also his woollen stockings. Nothing redeemed the sable hue of his garments save his cambric shirt, the white front of which was much exposed, in the fashion of the time. Harry Rochester’s face was pale, its expression sad.
His companion, a head shorter than himself, was Sherebiah Minshull, clad in the sober brown of ordinary country wear, and trudging along steadily under the weight of a fair-sized valise. Winter or summer, his appearance never varied: his firm round cheeks were always ruddy, his blue eyes always bright; and his expression, now as always, was that of placid self-content, well becoming “a man of peace”.
The two drew nearer to the inn, where the group had by this time been enlarged by the accession of the greater part of the village population, women and children, workers and loafers, mingled in one interested throng. As Giles Appleyard was at that moment explaining to the passenger at his side, he had never seen such a crowd at Winton St. Mary before, though he had driven the coach, good weather and bad, for fifteen years come Christmas. It reminded him of the crowd at Salisbury Fair.
“And seein’ as how I’ve been laid up wi’ a bad leg for two months,” he added, “I’m behind the times, I be; news travels slow to them as don’t drive coaches, and, i’ feck, I know no more than the dead what this mortal big crowd do mean, i’ feck I don’t.”
But many voices were ready to tell him when, having pulled up his four steaming horses at the inn door, he descended with grave deliberation from his perch, saluted Mistress Joplady with the gallantry of the road, and entered her house “to warm his nattlens”, as he said, with a tankard of her home-brewed. Young pa’son was a-gwine to Lun’on town! It seemed a slight cause for such an unwonted scene; in reality it was a momentous event in the life of Harry Rochester and in the history of his village. Small things bulk large in the imagination of rustic folk; a journey to London came within the experience of few of them; and the departure of young pa’son, following so closely upon two such notable events as the cricket match and the attack on the Lord High Treasurer, had already furnished unfailing material for gossip, and would be the theme of comment and speculation for a year to come.
It was all along of old Squire, they said; and the coachman, for the first and only time in his career, delayed his departure for some minutes after the horses had been watered, in order to listen to the story. A few days after Lord Godolphin’s flying visit, Squire Berkeley had fenced in a piece of land which time out of mind had been regarded as part of the village common. Old Gaffer Minshull, whose memory went back fifty years, was called up to tell how in the year ’53, just before Christmas, the then parson had held a prayer-meeting on that very spot to celebrate the making of Noll Crum’ell Lord Protector; he remembered it well, for it lasted five hours, and old Jenny Bates fainted on the ground and took to her bed from that day.
“Ay, ’twas a holy spot, an’ Squire med ha’ feared to touch un, as the old ancient folk feared to lay hands on the Lord’s holy ark; but, bless ’ee, Squire bean’t afeard o’ nothen, nay, not o’ the still small voice pa’son do zay be inside on us all.”
When the ground was fenced in the good parson was disposed to carry the matter to law. But though he had already won one case (a matter of right of way) in the courts, the only result was that the squire had carried it to appeal, trusting in the power of the purse. The angry villagers therefore determined to take the law into their own hands. Without consulting the rector, they assembled one evening towards the end of October, and hastening in a body to the disputed space, began to make short work of the new fencing. But the squire had got wind of their intention, by some witchcraft of his own, they believed: he soon appeared on the scene at the head of a gang of his own men. There was a fight; heads were broken, and the squire’s party were getting badly mauled when the rector suddenly arrived and rushed between the combatants.
“Ay, poor pa’son, I zee un now, I do,” said Gaffer Minshull feelingly, “goen headlong into the rout wi’ all his petticoats flyen! A fine upstanden man was pa’son, as ought to ha’ been a man o’ war. A’ stood in the eye of Squire, an’ Squire opened on un, gave tongue to a deal o’ hot an’ scorchen words, a’ did. But pa’son took no heed to’n, not he: he spoke up fair an’ softly to Squire’s men, and wi’ that way o’ his a’ made ’em feel all fashly like; a’ had a won’erful way wi’ ’n, had pa’son; an’ they made off wi’ their broken heads, they did; an’ Squire was left a-frothen an’ cussen as he were a heathen Frenchman or Turk. Ah, poor pa’son! Such a fine sperit as he had, his frame were not built for ’t; wi’ my own aged eyes I seed un go blue at the lips, and a’ put his hand on his bosom, a’ did, an’ seemed as if all the breath was blowed out of his mortal body; and a’ went home-along a stricken soul, and two days arter his weak heart busted, an’ young pa’son had no feyther—ay, poor soul, no feyther, an’ my boy Sherebiah be nigh varty-vour, and here I be. ’Tis strange ways Them above has wi’ poor weak mortals—strange ways, ay sure!”
Mr. Berkeley took advantage of the rector’s death to pay off old scores. The legal actions which Mr. Rochester had taken, on behalf of his flock, collapsed for want of further funds; he had already seriously impoverished himself by his open-hearted generosity; and when the squire came down on the dead man’s estate for the law costs, Harry found that, after all debts were paid, he was possessed of some twenty guineas in all wherewith to start life.
His project of going to Oxford was necessarily abandoned. He was at a loss to find a career. Educated by his father with a view to entering the Church, he was fairly well grounded in classics and mathematics, and had in addition a good acquaintance with French, and a great stock of English poetry; but his knowledge was not marketable. He was too young for a tutor’s place, and had no influence to back him; friendless and homeless, he was at his wits’ end.
Then one day he bethought him of Lord Godolphin’s promise. It had been frank and apparently sincere. My lord, it was true, had spoken of a country benefice when Harry’s Oxford days were over; but Harry reflected that the slight service he had rendered was not likely to appear greater with the lapse of time, while his need was actual and urgent. Why not take the Lord Treasurer at his word, journey to London, and put his case before the man who, in all the kingdom, was the most able to help him if he would?
He mentioned the matter to Gaffer Minshull, rather expecting that the sturdy veteran would pour cold water on his idea. To his surprise the old man urged him to carry it out, and overbore the objections which every high-spirited lad, even in those days of patronage, must have had to soliciting favours from the great. His eagerness was partially explained to Harry when the old fellow added a suggestion of his own. He was seriously concerned about his boy Sherebiah. In spite of strict injunctions to have nothing to do with the expedition against the squire’s fencing, Sherebiah, man of peace as he was, had been attracted to the scene as a moth to a candle. At first he had watched events from a distance, among other interested spectators; but when he saw the fight at its beginning go against the villagers, owing to the superior training of the squire’s men, many of whom were old soldiers, he could contain himself no longer. At the head of the waverers he dashed into the affray, and set such an example of valour that it would have gone hardly with the enemy but for the opportune arrival of the rector.
From that moment Sherebiah was a marked man. Whatever reasons the father had for fearing Mr. Berkeley were strengthened when it became evident that the squire had marked and would resent the son’s action. Sherebiah had been doing no good in the village since he suddenly returned to it, from no one knew where, a few years before. His father was anxious that he should go away for a time, at least until the squire’s anger had cooled. He welcomed the opportunity afforded by the approaching departure of Harry.
“Let un goo wi’ ’ee,” he said. “’Tis a knowen boy, handy, with a head full o’ wise things he’s larned in the world. He’d be proud to sarve ’ee, ay, that he would.”
“But, gaffer, I can’t afford a servant. Twenty guineas are all I have, and I know not what may happen. If Lord Godolphin fails me, my money will soon be gone, and then there’ll be two poor fellows instead of one.”
“Never fear. I bean’t afeard for ’ee. And what does the Book say? Why, ’twas the holy King David as said it hisself: ‘Once I were young,’ says he, ‘and now I be old; but never ha’ I knowed the righteous forsaken, nor his seed a-beggen bread neither.’ That’s what he said, and he knowed a thing or two, so he did.”
“Perhaps he didn’t know everything, gaffer. Well, you’re set on it, I see. Sherry would certainly be better out of the squire’s way; so he can come with me, and as soon as I find something to do he had better look for employment, and London ought to be a good place for that.”
Thus it happened that, on this November morning, the two passengers who had booked places in the Salisbury coach for London were Harry Rochester and Sherebiah Minshull.
The story took a long time in the telling in the parlour of the inn, and Giles Appleyard was somewhat perturbed when he saw by the big clock in the corner that his departure was overdue. He drained his tankard, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went out, calling loudly to the passengers to take their places. Harry shook hands all round; every man had something to say to him that was intended to be pleasant and encouraging, but was in many cases the reverse. His heart was full as he thought of leaving the good folk among whom he had lived and whose kindly feeling for him was so evident. When, last of all, Mistress Joplady flung her arms round his neck and hugged him to her ample bosom, and then wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, he felt a lump in his throat, and was glad to escape and mount to his place on the roof of the coach.
“All right, Bill?” shouted the coachman over his shoulder.
“Ay.”
“Let goo, ostler.”
And gathering up the reins he cracked his whip, and with a clatter and rumble the heavy vehicle, amid a volley of cheers, lurched forward on the way to London.
The journey of nearly seventy miles was not likely to be pleasant. The stage-coaches of those days were large and clumsy structures, with hard springs. The inside passengers were jolted and jostled; the outside passengers had no proper seats, but found what sitting room they could among the packages and bundles. On this morning, there was only one other passenger on the roof of the coach, a stout broad-faced man dressed in brown clothes much like Sherebiah’s. He had retained his seat during the scene of farewell, and sat solemnly munching a thick sausage, scanning the crowd out of shrewd little twinkling eyes that seemed a size too small for the other features. When his sausage was finished, he filled a huge pipe and sat puffing in stolid silence.
For some time after the coach started, no word was spoken by the three passengers. Harry was wrapt in his thoughts, brooding over the past, dreaming about the future. Sherebiah had lit his pipe as soon as he was settled, and smoked on contentedly, stealing a glance every now and then at the broad figure separated from him by a large travelling trunk. He seemed to find some amusement in these occasional peeps at his neighbour, who by and by returned his glance.
“Mizzly mornen,” said Sherebiah, with a nod.
“Zo,” grunted the other. His eyes were resting on Sherebiah’s pipe.
“Tobacco be a great comfort,” said the latter, noting the look. “Master Harry there, he bean’t come to ’t yet; true, ’tis not for babes an’ sucklens; but I took to ’bacca when Susan wouldn’t take me, and ’tis better nor any wife.”
“Where you get dat pipe?” asked the stranger, in a slow pleasant voice with a foreign accent.
“This pipe! Why, over in Amesbury; see, ’tis marked wi’ the gauntlet, sure token of a Amesbury pipe, an’ there’s no better in the land. Why med ’ee axe such a feelen question, now?”
“Once I zaw a pipe like it, wid de mark on it—de gauntlet, you zay.”
“Oh! I say, master, what part o’ the land med ’ee hail from? Your tongue makes me think ’ee med be a Dutchman, though I wouldn’t say so to your face.”
The man looked at his interrogator without replying. He stuffed the tobacco down into his pipe with a fat forefinger which exactly fitted the bowl.
“You know Amsterdam, my vrient?” he said.
“Ha’ been there, mynheer; so ’tis Amsterdam you hail from! Well, I ha’ been in wuss places. Ay, ha’ seed summat o’ the world, I have, and I knowed ’ee by your cut for a Dutchman.”
There was silence again for a space. Both the men sat smoking, heedless of all things around them. They finished their pipes at the same moment, and, moved by a mutual impulse, each handed his pouch to the other.
“Virginia,” said Sherebiah laconically.
“Ah! Barbados,” returned the other. “My name, Jan Grootz.”
“And it becomes ’ee,” said Sherebiah. “Now mine bean’t so good a match; ’tis over long for one o’ my inches, and over proud for a man so meek: Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless Minshull in the church book, but plain Sherry to them as I takes to, like young pa’son there.”
Harry was roused from his reverie at hearing himself mentioned. He looked for the first time at his fellow-passenger, who at that moment lifted his podgy right hand and pointed to a windmill in full sail a little distance from the road.
“Ay sure, minds ’ee of home; your country’s full of mills, to be sure. Mebbe you be a miller, now?”
The Dutchman waited to blow a great cloud from his mouth before he answered.
“A sailor,” he said; “but I have mills.”
“A skipper,” rejoined Sherry, looking over his costume. “’Tis not for me to say, but to mortal eye you be more like a varmer.—’Tis a skipper from Holland,” he added, including Harry in the conversation, “that has a mill or two to his name and smokes ’bacca out o’ Barbados.”
“Jan Grootz,” said the Dutchman.
Harry acknowledged the introduction, and remarked on the slowness of their progress over the rough road. On this Mynheer Grootz volunteered the remark that, having come all the way from Bristol, he would be glad when the journey was ended. By degrees he became still more communicative; and when the coach pulled up at Basingstoke for the mid-day meal, Harry had learnt that the Dutchman had been to Bristol to inspect a vessel of which he was part-owner, and which had come most fortunately to port after being first knocked about by a French privateer, then badly damaged by a storm. It was to the storm that she owed her escape from the Frenchman, and to her captain’s seamanship her escape from the storm. Grootz was particularly gratified at her safe arrival, for she represented a large amount not only to him personally, but to others who could ill afford to lose on a venture upon which he had persuaded them to embark.
When the journey was resumed, the conversation became still more friendly. Harry liked the look of the Dutchman. His broad face with its wide nose and little eyes was not handsome, but its expression inspired confidence; and the careful slowness of his speech, and his habit of pointing with his forefinger when he wished to be emphatic, were a little amusing. He asked no questions, but Harry by and by found himself explaining his own position and relating the events that had led to it, and told him of his projected visit to Lord Godolphin. At this up came the forefinger.
“Ah, my young vrient, you are de son of a minister: ver’ well: you know de good Book: ver’ well: ‘Put not your drust in princes;’ de words are drue. I tell you dis; besides my mills and my ships, I do oder dings; I supply food for de men and horses of de English and Dutch armies; and I have met princes; yes—I, Jan Grootz. I tell you dis; wid a good honest merchant of London or of Amsterdam, I care not, man knows where he stand; his foot is on de solid rock; but wid dukes and grand-dukes and oder princes—ah! man tread a quicksand. Dey promise, but do dey pay? You are good boy, I dink; mind you, I do not say I know, for outside do not always speak drue; de apple may be red, and all de time a maggot at core. I tell you dis; seven year ago I make contract over hay wid young captain of Bavarian Elector; it was in Namur campaign; he look good, he speak good, I am well content; but donder! my hay I lose, and 3242 thalers 3 groschen beside. Dis den I tell you; avoid arms and de law, drive some honest trade: zo you respect yourself, and oder people dey respect you. You owe noding; nobody owe you; you are a man.”
Ever since the departure from Basingstoke, Sherebiah, sitting just behind Harry, had taken no part in the conversation, but appeared to find something curiously interesting in the road behind, for after once or twice looking over his shoulder he at last faced round altogether, and sat with his back to the horses. Just as the Dutchman finished his speech—the longest to which he had yet given utterance, and one that his slow delivery lengthened beyond its natural extent—Sherebiah turned round, tapped Harry on the shoulder, and in a low tone said:
“Summat’s i’ the wind.”
“What do you mean, Sherry?”
“Wind yourself about and look down the road behind.”
“Well, I see nothing—stay, there’s a horseman just topping the hill, a good mile behind us: what of that?”
“Why, ’tis like this. He always is a mile behind: that’s where ’tis. I seed him afore we come to Basingstoke; but he didn’t come to the inn to eat his vittles, not he. I seed him again when we was a mile this side o’ Basingstoke; what had he been doen, then, while we eat and drank? We stop, he falls behind; when we trot, he trots; ’tis as if he were a bob at th’ end of a line, never nearer never vurther.”
“You think we are being followed?”
“That’s what I do think, sure enough.”
“A highwayman?”
“Mebbe, mebbe not; most like not, for ’tis not dark enough, and he’s always in sight.”
“Perhaps he thinks he can’t be seen.”
“Not reckonen on the height of the coach roof? But I seed him, I did, two hours an’ more agoo.”
“Why should he follow the coach, I wonder? He may belong to someone inside.”
“Mebbe, mebbe not; ’tis curious anyways.”
“Well, the fellow is clearly dogging the coach; if your curiosity troubles you, suppose you slip off a mile before we reach the next post-house and try to get a nearer look at him as he passes? You can catch up the coach while they change horses.”
“Ay, I will, sure. We be nigh the river now; over the bridge and we come to Hounslow heath, a fearsome place for highwaymen. We change at the Bull and Gate, then run straight into Lun’on: oh, I know the road.”
It was late in the afternoon by the time the coach reached the inn where the last change of the journey was made. Ten minutes before, Sherebiah nimbly slipped down, crept through a gap in the hedge, and waited for the pursuer to appear. Presently he heard the clatter of hoofs; the sound grew louder, but all at once began to diminish. Scrambling back into the road, he was just in time to see the horseman strike off at full speed along a by-road to his left, which led, as Sherebiah knew, to London by a course only a mile or two longer than the main highway. The man must evidently have changed his horse somewhere on the road, and could only have taken the detour in a desire to arrive in London ahead of the coach.
Sherebiah stared long and earnestly at the retreating figure. He frowned and looked puzzled as he set off to overtake the coach. The driver was mounting the box as he came up.
“Well, what do you make of it?” asked Harry.
“He be gone off by a side road,” replied Sherebiah.
“So your curiosity is not to be satisfied after all?”
“Well, he rid away hard to the left, wi’ his back towards me, an’ ’tis growen duskish, an’ nowt but a owl could see clear.”
But when Sherebiah clambered to his place he wore a sober look which did not escape the clear little eyes of Jan Grootz, who silently extended his pouch to him. Sherebiah refilled and puffed away, every now and then removing the pipe from his mouth and staring contemplatively at the bowl.