Captains of Harley: A School Story

by Hylton Cleaver

“Look here, the fellows have come no end of a distance and some of them may not get back before roll-call, but it’s in our power to give them a game that’ll keep them talking till the end of the year and make them proud to have been at school this term instead of half ashamed. I want you to do it. This is the only chance we shall have. Let’s make this match worth having played in.”

He stopped abruptly. It suddenly occurred to him that he was talking heroics for perhaps the first time in his life. And so with a sudden awkward smile he turned and led the way out. No one spoke; but as they followed him out into the open the spirit that had prompted Rouse was stirring in every breast.

The moments passed. The teams were lining up. The whistle blew. Rouse stood in readiness behind his team, casting an affectionate eye over each member of it as he moved to his appointed place. Then at last, to the tune of the most whole-hearted shout of “Harley” that Rouse had ever heard, the Rainhurst captain lifted the ball gently over the heads of Harley’s forwards and the school half had misfielded. There was a rush of hurrying forwards towards the mark and the Rainhurst pack were down and shoving. Now the handicap of a lean year was transparent. The school men were slow in getting down. Before they were properly packed the ball had been in and out, and the Rainhurst threes were slinging it away to the wing, where a youngster with the pace of a stag was coming down the touch-line to take his pass. There flew across Rouse’s view sudden patches of the Harley colours; the school backs racing across and bringing down man after man; but the ball had travelled too fast for them to reach and the Rainhurst wing took it safely, ran in and kicked high and faithfully across. Rouse watched with set eyes as in mid-air the wind caught the ball and carried it swerving out of its course; then, as it began to fall, he saw his chance, darted along the goal-line and cut in under it. He had one hurried vision of a man in the Rainhurst grey and green flying towards him and gazing upward. He took no notice. He just fetched out a sudden burst of resolute speed, took the ball from the other’s reach in his stride, bowled him over and left him on the grass. Then he kicked. The ball sailed up-field like a bird and, far over the distant touch-line by the Rainhurst twenty-five, fell neatly out of play.

He had gained the school relief, but now he grew gravely anxious for the future. He did not like the way those Rainhurst threes had come away to threaten his line so early. It was ominous. He contracted his mouth severely as he saw the ball thrown out of touch and the forwards scrambling round it for possession. Once his own men had it, but the pack were not properly together and it was lost. Then the game opened up and the Rainhurst backs got on the move again. Somebody dropped a pass. There came another scrum. Rouse saw that Rainhurst had it once more and were heeling like clockwork. The Harley forwards were being beaten every time. From his own position on the field he could watch all this as if from the pit stalls of a theatre, and it kept him on tenterhooks. Once he was moving up happily behind his team, driving them on with mighty punts up-field whenever the ball came within his reach, when, quite suddenly, there flashed into the picture the Rainhurst backs racing across the field, wheeling and coming down upon him with the ball, and the whole phase of the game was changed. He drew back. He saw the Harley men move up against the coming line, watching with beating heart to see if they could shatter it. But the combination of this team in the attack was paramount. Every Harley back had made his tackle, and the ball was still in the hands of a man in grey and green. There were others running beside him. Where they had come from he had no time to guess. But so soon as a Rainhurst man was down another seemed to have darted into his place. He waited cautiously. He was the last line of defence. If he made but one mistake now Rainhurst were through. He must choose the psychological moment and he must pick the right man. There was not one second to spare. Everything in his wide field of view faded away, and the only thing that he could see was the fast magnifying picture of a line of figures in grey and green on top of him. The moment had come. He picked his man, and as he moved to take the ball, Rouse hurtled across his front, swung round his legs, and, breathless with the thud of collision, hung on. The ball flew wide, but he was too late to reach it; a gigantic boot whizzed past his face and carried it on towards the Harley line. The Rainhurst forwards pattered past him. The game had gone by and he was out of it, but he had given his own side time and the Harley men were back and defending stoutly.

After that it was give and take, and the game would not shift out of the Harley twenty-five. One high punt carried the ball out of the ruck, and Smythe came in from the wing and gathered it neatly. There was a quick expectant hush whilst he started away, and Terence was up alongside with safe hands ready for his pass. The ball jumped into his arms and he had it safely and was cutting with lowered head into the bunch of forwards who were hovering round him. A new shout of hope went up from the Harley side of the ground, but it was premature. The last to be seen of Terence was the vision of his body being dragged to earth by three men in grey and green, whilst the ball worked out into the open. Without delay those dangerous Rainhurst forwards, perfectly together, were round it in a herd. They were coming down-field with it at their toes as if it were merely a practice dribble. The sight of Coles darting into the picture, and flinging himself upon it, relieved anxiety for a moment, but he was somehow bundled out of the way and the pack came on. Rouse got ready again. The fellows on the touch-line saw him crouching for his spring and knew that he would never let them through. But in the tenseness of the moment their voices grew hushed and they could only wait. A sudden diversion saved the day. One hulking forward in the front rank of the Rainhurst pack had kicked the ball too hard and it had bounced out of reach. In a flash their chance had gone. Smythe came across their front at a sprint, gathered the ball with extended hands and carried it clear.

Again the shouting started. Smythe had it safely and his wing was clear for twenty yards. He bent to his task and ran. One of the Rainhurst halfbacks was pounding behind him, but had not the pace to make the tackle. Smythe shook him off and looked for his own three-quarters. They had shaped out into position and were well in motion. Then the Rainhurst wing, whose duty was to mark Smythe, came in with a rush and he passed the ball; but as he spun sideways and was dragged down on to his back he had the horrifying vision vouchsafed him of another man in grey and green speeding away with that same ball on his chest, whilst Terence was pounding after him and reaching desperately for his jersey. There was one tense moment of doubt and fear, then the sprinting man had swerved past Lister and had only Rouse to beat. Just as before, Rouse came into the picture with a dashing enthusiasm and took his man at a gallop. The Rainhurst runner had no chance. In two seconds it was all over and Rouse was scrambling to his feet, whilst the school forwards, a badly bustled pack, came round and struggled for the ball. It came out and somebody fell on it, so that there followed another scrum. Again it worked loose on the Rainhurst side, but Coles smothered the lucky half before he could get it away, and not an inch was gained. At last Saville, seeing the ball bouncing before his eyes, grabbed at it and punted for touch. But the Rainhurst blood was up and they meant to score. The game had settled upon the Harley twenty-five and nothing could move it on. Rainhurst were too good. Every scrum went in their favour. They could do everything but cross the line. Time and again their threes seemed safely away and would have scored, had not there shone from out the Harley Fifteen a wondrous individuality of play that held them. There was always one who darted in at the critical moment and scooped the ball into his keeping or downed the man who had it. His instinct of defence was magical. He seemed ubiquitous and impregnable, and through Harley’s rough time he held together a team that were weary of tackling by an outstanding energy that made him a standard-bearer to his side.

Wherever he could be seen at grips with the attacking host the Harley men rallied around him. He grew discoloured with mud and the bruises of continuous collision and became unlike himself, but so long as they could identify his shape the vast crowd never ceased to shout his name.

And so when half time came and play stopped suddenly there was set upon the field a tableau.

Yesterday’s captain stood unconquered upon his line, with his scratch team gathered round him, and the Rainhurst men were held.

There came a gracious interval, and on to the field moved streams of enthusing Harleyans who clapped upon the back each member of the team that they could reach, whilst Rouse moved this way and that amongst his men, whispering words of counsel for the even greater battle that was to come.