CHAPTER V
Polson was gone, so far, only to his own room, but so swiftly that it was impossible to intercept him, and the snick of the bolt in the lock arrested his father before he had set a single foot upon the stair.
Grim and pale, Polson lit his candles and began to range about the apartment, drawing out from one recess a pair of heavy walking boots, and from another a well-worn suit of velveteens which had seen him through a year or two of sport in the spinny and at the river side. He cast off the clothes he wore, hastily assumed these stouter garments, and having encased his legs in a pair of strong leather leggings, he opened his bedroom door, blew out his candle, and went swiftly down the stairs into the hall. There the wreckage-of an hour or two ago was all piled together in one corner, but groping amongst it in the darkness with both hands, he found a long waterproof overcoat, and after more search a sealskin shooting cap; appropriating both of these he strode to the rear of the house, opened the door by which his father had entered on that night of evil omen, and walked out into the roaring darkness.
He was on the sheltered side of the building and did not as yet feel the force of the wind. For half a minute he stood with his heart in his throat, and his hand upon the hasp of the door, straining his ears to listen. He heard nothing but the insane noises of the night. Suddenly, he drew the door towards him violently, and it closed with a slam and a snap. He was outside, and the thing he had purposed was accomplished. He had said good-bye to the house in which he had learned to walk and talk—the house which had been his home for the whole of his life, except for a year or two of earliest infancy, and the sound of the closing door seemed as if it cut his life in two.
He walked rapidly until he reached the ridge before he encountered the full violence of the storm, for the wind had shifted within the last hour or two. Then, stalwart as he was, it caught and whirled him and sent him running willy-nilly for a hundred yards or more. But there was not a nail in his boots which was not familiar with every acre of that country-side for a mile or two, and he found the path with ease and certainty, and ploughed along it as surely as if it had been broad daylight, though the night was black as a wolf’s mouth. The bitter wind and driving rain were welcome to his hot eyes and scalded face, and he walked with a swift resolution until he had reached the spot from which in daylight the last view of the house would have been possible. There he turned, the waterproof coat whipping about his ankles like a torn sail, and the rain pattering its own music on his broad shoulders. Dimly, very dimly, he could see—or perhaps he only thought he saw—the chimneys of the old home rising against a little clearing in the distant lift of the sky.
So very brief a while ago he had been happy there. Only an hour or two since he was meditating, between the moves of the game, on the very words he meant to use in telling Irene that he loved her. Only an hour or two since every thought was full of hope and ambition, since the path of honour stood wide open with a vague bright figure beckoning in its far distance.
A frost in harvest time will ripen grain, and a great grief will give a sudden maturity to character. It was a boy who dreamed the happy dreams of that evening; it was a man who turned his back upon the old homestead, and set out upon his journey through the world.
He had a seven miles’ walk before him, and a black unsheltered night at the end of it; but he walked as swiftly and as resolutely as if a goal of comfort had awaited him. When once the hillside was cleared and he had reached level ground, progress was less difficult, and after the tremendous tempest of the day the wind gave signs of having blown itself out. There were pausings and relentings in it, and there were clear spaces in the sky out of which the stars began to shine keen and clear. The storm was over by the time when, after two hours of brisk walking, he had reached his journey’s end, and found himself before the long bleak wall of the cavalry barracks of the great Midland town. He had a long spell of waiting before him, and seating himself on a hewn stone at the side of the barrack gate he filled and lit his pipe, and prepared himself for a game of patience. Once or twice in the course of the long night a policeman passed him, turned his bull’s-eye lantern upon his face, and went by without questioning, and these events made the only break in the long monotony of the hours. He had at last fallen either into a stupor or a doze, when suddenly the notes of a bugle sounding the reveille startled him to his feet, with its urgent call of
Wake! Wake! Wake!
And wake in a hurry—a hurry—a hurry—a hurry,
And Wake! Wake! Wake!
There began to be a faint stir about the place, like the humming in a hive the inmates of which have been disturbed, and a little while later the bugle rang out again, in notes that were destined to become familiar to his ears.
All you that are able
Come down to the stable,
And water your horses and give ‘em some corn.
And if you don’t do it
The Colonel shall know it,
And you shall be punished the very next morn.
Soon afterwards the gates were opened, and a man in uniform appeared with a carbine tucked beneath his arm and began to pace up and down, just within the great bare barrack square. Polson marched up to him.
‘Are you recruiting here?’ he asked.
‘We are so,’ the man answered. ‘Do you want to join?’
Polson nodded.
‘Better see the Sergeant in the guardroom,’ the sentry told him. ‘Go through that door and you will find him there.’
People who read their Dickens, as all men who are privileged to speak the English language ought to do, will remember a striking little passage in ‘Oliver Twist,’ in which the author moralises upon the first dressing of a new-born pauper baby. Until the faded yellow garments which have done service for many predecessors are wrapped about it, the baby might be anybody’s child—a Duke’s, or a ploughman’s. But the livery of its unfortunate estate marks and stamps it at once and gives it the social caste and cachet it is doomed to wear. But it is not so when time has developed character, and a change of garb does not work an actual transformation in the grown man. Polson had purposely chosen the shabbiest outfit he could find in his whole kit; but he was recognisably a gentleman at a glance, and as he strode into the guard-room the Sergeant in charge, who was sitting on the edge of a sloping wooden bedstead, stood up and saluted him, a fact for which the recruit had to pay later on.
‘You want recruits here?’ said Polson, and the Sergeant, finding that he had been betrayed into a sign of respect for one who was willing to become his own inferior, answered him with a scowling ill-temper.
‘Yes!’ he snapped. ‘Wait there till the orderly room is opened.’
The young man was too full of his own concerns to take offence at a tone. He sat down quietly and waited. Uniformed men came and went, and nobody took heed of him until some two hours had gone by, when the Sergeant awoke him from his reverie.
‘Come this way.’
He followed the Sergeant across the square, and through an open doorway on the far side of it. The Sergeant turned on him. ‘Take your cap off, and walk into that room.’ Polson obeyed again, and found himself in the presence of a young officer who was bending over a sheaf of papers on a rough table, pen in hand.
‘Man wishes to join, sir,’ said the Sergeant.
The officer looked up and rose to his feet with an exclamation.
‘Good God, Jervase! What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to take the Queen’s shilling, Volnay,’ Polson answered.
‘Why, what’s become of the commission?’ the other asked. ‘Go outside, Sergeant. I want to have some talk in private with this gentleman.’
Now, chance had played a queer trick here, for it had led the intending recruit straight to his oldest and closest chum, his old schoolfellow, and old Oxford comrade. It had not occurred to him to think what regiment was quartered in Birmingham at that time, and he had walked straight towards his purpose without a thought of the possibility of such an encounter as this.
‘You ain’t serious, old fellow, are you?’ asked Captain Volnay.
‘Yes,’ said Polson, ‘I’m quite serious.’
‘Sit down,’ said Volnay. ‘Of course you’ll tell me just as much and just as little as you want to. But before you take a step that you can’t retreat from, you’d better think things over.’
‘No,’ said Polson, ‘I’ve done all the thinking I have need for, and I’ve made up my mind. You’ll take me, of course?’
‘Look here,’ said Volnay, ‘you won’t like it, and I take the liberty to tell you so. It’s an infernally disagreeable life—it’s a beast of a life for a gentleman to live. It’s all very well, of course, if you’re amongst your own set; but a gentleman ranker is certain to have a hell of a time. He has all the non-coms on to him out of jealousy; and he’s bullied and browbeaten beyond endurance. As for the mere rough side of the living, nobody minds that. But if you do what you intend, you’ll find before the week’s over that you’ve stepped into a whole tubful of scalding hot water, and you’ll wish yourself well out of it again.’
‘That’s all right, old chap,’ said Polson. ‘I shan’t be the first to try it, and I dare say I shall pull through as well as another.’
‘Now, here’s a sample,’ said Volnay with a laugh to take the edge from his words. ‘Here’s a sample of the sort of thing you’re walking into. It’ll be a piece of rank impertinence on your part to call me “old chap” in half an hour’s time, and you mustn’t do it. When you catch sight of me, it’ll be your business to stand up as stiff as a ramrod and salute me; and you’ll have to say “sir” when you talk to me. And you won’t like that. And I shan’t like it. And look here, old chap, you think twice about it.’
‘I’ve told you already,’ Polson answered, ‘I’ve done all my thinking.’
‘Well,’ said Volnay, ‘wilful must if wilful will. You haven’t been getting into any sort of mischief, have you?’
‘No,’ said Polson. ‘I’ve done nothing that I have a right to be ashamed of.’
‘Had a row with the old man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go home and make it up again, Jervase. A private soldier’s life is a dog’s life for a man of your breeding, and you’ll find it so.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Polson answered. ‘But I’ve quite made up my mind, and all the talking in the world will make no difference.’
Within reach of his hand there lay upon the table a loose bunch of ribbons, red, white, and blue, such as recruiting sergeants were wont to pin in the hats of their recruits. And Polson, toying with this, found that the bunch was held together at one end by a pin. He affixed it to his own cap.
‘Now,’ he said, putting on the cap and rising to his feet, ‘the trick’s done.’
‘Oh, dear no!’ said Volnay. ‘The trick isn’t done yet, old fellow. You’ve got to be formally enlisted, and to answer a rigmarole of questions, and be examined by the regimental doctor, and to take the oath. The trick isn’t done yet, by a long chalk.’
‘Well,’ said Polson, ‘I shall take it as a favour if you’ll put me through with as little waste of time as possible, for, to tell you the truth, I want that shilling, and the sooner I get it the nearer I shall be to bread and cheese.’
‘Oh!’ said Volnay, ‘I ain’t curious, old chap. I’m not a bit curious; but if you can do it, I should like you to take me into your confidence, because I might be of some use. I’m stinking rich, you know—disgracefully rich. And if that fact’s any good to you, why you’ve only to say so, and I’m your man.’
‘Oh, no, it isn’t money, Volnay. If it had been, I shouldn’t have made any scruple about saying so. I can’t talk about it. It’s likely enough that you may hear everything in time.’
‘There’s no changing you?’ Volnay asked. ‘There’s no getting you to wait for a week?’
‘There’s no changing me,’ Polson answered, ‘and no getting me to wait.’
‘Oh, very well,’ said Volnay. ‘Just take that and cut across to the canteen and get some breakfast. Come back here in a quarter of an hour’s time, and I’ll put you through. You needn’t scruple about taking it: you can pay me back, for there’s a five-pound bounty, ready money, declared yesterday, and you’ll have it handed over to you on enlisting.’
Polson took up the proffered sovereign, with something of a lump in his throat, and turned to go. He had scarce made a step towards the door when it opened suddenly. This was destined to be a day of strange encounters, for who should walk almost into his arms but that Major de Blacquaire who was the present owner of the Droitwich salt mine from which his father and his uncle had drawn an illicit fortune. There are men who are born to hate each other at sight; and this Major de Blacquaire and Polson, though they had but a slight knowledge of each other, had found time to develop a savage dislike on either side. De Blacquaire was a man with an exasperatingly cold and supercilious fashion of speech. He was a band-box dandy, and went scented like a lady. Polson had once threatened him with a horse-whip, and the Major had withdrawn from the conflict not because he had any want of physical courage, but solely because he was too much of a fine gentleman to brawl. He had never forgotten or forgiven the insult, and Polson had learned to hate him all the more because he mistook him for a coward. The two recoiled from each other just in time to avoid collision, for De Blacquaire had entered hastily. They regarded each other for an instant, and De Blacquaire’s cynical and contemptuous gaze took in the other from head to foot, obviously taking note of the mean attire and the signs of the night march Polson had made. His glance fastened on the bunch of ribbons floating from the cap, and at that he smiled.
‘Oh!’ he said, with a finicking drawl. ‘You’ve made a bolt of it, have you?’
‘Say that again,’ said Polson, ‘and I’ll ram it down your throat, and send a tooth or two along with it.’
‘Indeed,’ said De Blacquaire. ‘I think you’ll find that it won’t pay you to use such language in your present position, Private Jervase.’ He turned away and, with the whip he carried in his hand, struck a resounding blow upon the open door. ‘Sergeant!’ he called, ‘bring up a file of men, and take this man to the guardroom.’
‘On what authority, if you please?’ asked Polson.
‘On the authority of those ribbons, my man,’ De Blacquaire answered.
‘You mistake your authority, friend Popinjay,’ said Polson. ‘I am not in your service yet.’
‘Has this man enlisted, Volnay?’ asked the Major.
‘No,’ said Volnay, ‘he hasn’t. He means to. And now I see what terms you’re on, I shall advise him very strongly, as an old friend of mine, to choose another regiment.’
‘Yes,’ said Polson. ‘I think I’ll choose another regiment. I’m not hungry for the cat-o’-nine tails, and I should earn it if I were under this brute’s command five minutes. You’d be a handsome chap in your own way, Major, if it were not for that silly sneer you’re pleased to carry about with you. But I warn you that, under any circumstances whatsoever, if you should presume upon any difference in our rank to insult me by a word, a gesture, or a look I’ll spoil your beauty for you.’
‘This man’s a friend of yours, is he, Volnay?’ said De Blacquaire, ignoring his antagonist.
‘Yes,’ said Volnay. ‘A very old friend of mine.’
‘Well, you can keep him with you. I’ve just got my appointment on the Staff. I’m off for Varna to-morrow, and I don’t suppose that I shall meet the gentleman again. I want a private word with you. If Mr. Jervase will be so kind as to relieve us of his presence.’
‘I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour,’ said Polson.
‘All right, old chap,’ Volnay answered, and made haste to add, before his old chum had left the room, ‘I’m devilish glad you’re going, De Blacquaire, and the whole regiment will share my sentiments. The mess will be a devilish sight happier without you.’
At this, the Major’s pale face flushed for an instant, and Polson grinned sardonically as he strode away. He found his way into the canteen, made a rough breakfast there, and then returning found Volnay ready to put him through all the necessary formalities. An old Sergeant put the regulation questions as to name, age, and employment. Was he married? No. Was he an apprentice? No. Had he ever at any time offered himself for Her Majesty’s service, and been refused? No. Had he ever been tried for any criminal offence? No. Then here was the Queen’s shilling, and he was enlisted to serve Her Majesty for the term of twenty years, and was now to report himself to the doctor, and after passing his examination, would be required to present himself at noon to be sworn in before the Colonel, and failing so to present himself, he would be liable to arrest and imprisonment as a rogue and vagabond.
‘So now the trick is done,’ said Volnay, ‘and you can’t undo it. At another time you could have bought out for thirty pounds; but we shall be off to Varna in a week or two, and the Queen won’t spare a man she has once laid hands on for love or money until we have got through the little brush that’s coming with old Nick and his merry men.’