  Produced by Al Haines. [image] Cover art [image] The Fight in the Castle Yard The Adventures of A Tale of the BY HERBERT STRANG AUTHOR OF "TOM BURNABY" "BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE" Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I. NEW YORK "Honour hath three things in it: the vantage-ground to do good; the approach to kings and principal persons; and the raising of a man's own fortunes." —Bacon. My dear Tom, You received my former books so kindly that I feel assured you will not object to have this volume inscribed with your name. I am not the less convinced of this because you know well the country in which my opening scenes are laid, and I had the pleasure last year of playing cricket with you within a few miles of the village here disguised as Winton St. Mary. I hope you will bear with me for one minute while I explain that in writing this book I had three aims. First, to tell a good story: that of course. Secondly, to give some account of the operations that resulted in one of the most brilliant victories ever gained by our British arms. Thirdly, to throw some light—fitful, it may be, but as clear as the circumstances of my story admitted—on life and manners two hundred years ago. History, as you have no doubt already learnt, is not merely campaigning; and I shall be well pleased if these pages enlarge your knowledge, in ever so slight a degree, of an interesting period in our country's annals. And if you, or any other Christ's Hospital boy, should convict me of borrowing a week from the life of a great personage, or of antedating by a little a development in our national pastime—well, I shall feel complimented by such evidence of careful reading, and not be in the least abashed. I take the opportunity of this open letter to acknowledge my indebtedness to the monumental "MÉmoires militaires rÉlatifs À la succession d'Espagne" issued by the French General Staff; to Mr. Austin Dobson for a detail which only his perfect knowledge of the 18th century could so readily have supplied; and to Lord Wolseley's brilliant life of Marlborough, which every student of military history must hope so competent a hand will continue and complete.
Michaelmas Day, 1905. Contents
List of Illustrations
Map And Plan CHAPTER I The Queen's Purse-Bearer Winton St. Mary—Cricket: Old Style—Last Man In—Bowled—The Gaffer Explains—More Explanations—Parson Rochester—"The Boy"—Cambridge in the Field—Village Batsmen—Old Everlasting makes One—The Squire—An Invitation—Lord Godolphin is Interested—An Uphill Game—Young Pa'son—The Winning Hit "Stap me, Frank, if ever I rattle my old bones over these roads again! Every joint in me aches; every wrinkle—and I've too many—is filled with dust; and my wig—plague on it, Frank, my wig's a doormat. Look at it—whew!" My lord Godolphin took off his cocked hat, removed his full periwig, and shook it over the side of the calash, wrying his lips as the horse of one of his escort started at the sudden cloud. My lord had good excuse for his petulance. It was a brilliant June day, in a summer of glorious weather, and the Wiltshire roads, no better nor worse than other English highways in the year 1702, were thick with white dust, which the autumn rains would by and by transform into the stickiest of clinging mud. The Lord High Treasurer, as he lay back wearily on his cushions, looked, with his lean, lined, swarthy face and close-cropt grizzled poll, every day of his fifty-eight years. He was returning with his son Francis, now nearly twenty-three, from a visit to his estates in Cornwall. Had he been a younger man he would no doubt have ridden his own horse; had he been of lower rank he might have travelled by the public coach; but being near sixty, a baron, and lord of the Treasury to boot, he drove in his private four-horsed calash, with two red-coated postilions, and four sturdy liveried henchmen on horseback, all well armed against the perils of footpads and highwaymen. It was nearing noon on this bright, hot morning, and my lord had begun to acknowledge to himself that he would barely complete his journey to London that day. "Where are we now, Dickory?" he asked languidly of the nearest rider on the off-side. "Nigh Winton St. Mary, my lord," replied the man. "Down the avenue yonder, my lord; then the common, and the church on the right, and the village here and there bearing to the left, as you might say, my lord." "Look 'ee, Frank, we'll draw up at Winton St. Mary and wet our whistles. My lady Marlborough expects us in town to-night, to be sure; but she must e'en be content to wait. Time was——eh, my boy?—but now, egad, I'll not kill myself for her or any woman." "'Twould be a calamity—for the nation, sir," said Frank Godolphin with a grin. "So it would, i' faith. Never fear, Frank, I'll not make way for you for ten years to come. But what's afoot yonder? A fair, eh?" The carriage had threaded a fine avenue of elms, and come within sight of the village common, which stretched away beyond and behind the church, an expanse of rough turf now somewhat parched and browned, broken here by a patch of shrub, there by a dwindling pond, and bounded in the distance by the thick coverts of the manor-house. My lord's exclamation had been called forth by the bright spectacle that met his eyes. At the side of the road, and encroaching also on the grass, were ranged a number of vehicles of various sizes and descriptions, from the humble donkey-cart of a sherbet seller to the lofty coach of some county magnate. Between the carriages the travellers caught glimpses of a crowd; and indeed, as they drew nearer to the scene, their ears were assailed by sundry shoutings and clappings that seemed to betoken incidents of sport or pastime. My lord Godolphin, for all his coldness and reserve in his official dealings, was in his moments a keen sportsman; from a horse-race to a main of cock-fighting or a sword-match, nothing that had in it the element of sport came amiss to him; and as he replaced his wig and settled his hat upon it his eyes lit up with an anticipation vastly different from his air of weary discontent. "Split me, Frank," he cried in a more animated tone than was usual with him; "whatever it is, 'twill cheer us up. John," he added to the postilion, "drive on to the grass, and stop at the first opening you find in the ring. Odsbodikins, 'tis a game at cricket; we'll make an afternoon of it, Frank, and brave your mother-in-law's anger, come what may." The postilions whipped up their horses, wheeled to the right, and drove with many a jolt on to the common, passing behind the row of vehicles until they came to an interval between one of the larger sort and a dray heaped with barrels of cider. There they pulled up sideways to the crowd, over whose heads the occupants of the calash looked curiously towards the scene of the game. It was clearly an exciting moment, for beyond a casual turning of the head the nearest spectators gave no heed to the new-comers. A space was roped in at some distance in front of the church, and within the ring the wickets were pitched—very primitive compared with the well-turned polished apparatus of to-day. The stumps were two short sticks forked at the top, stuck at a backward slant into the turf about a foot apart, with one long bail across them. Nothing had been done to prepare the pitch; the grass was short and dry and stubby, with a tuft here and there likely to trip an unwary fielder headlong. There was no crease, but a hole in the ground. Nor was there any uniformity of attire among the players: all had the stockings and pantaloons of daily wear, and if there was any difference in their shirts, it was due merely to their difference in rank and wealth. "Over" had just been called as Lord Godolphin and his son drove up, and something in the attitude of the crowd seemed to show that the game was at a crisis. The umpires, armed with rough curved bats somewhat like long spoons, had just taken their new places, and the batsman who was to receive the first ball of the new over was taking his block. A tall, loose-limbed young fellow, he held his bat with an air of easy confidence. "Egad, sir, 'tis Gilbert Young," said Frank Godolphin to his father. "I knew him at Cambridge: a sticker. Who's the bowler? I don't know him." The bowler was a youth, a mere stripling of some sixteen or seventeen years, who stood at his end of the wicket, ball in hand, awaiting the word to "play". His loose shirt was open at the neck; his black hair, not yet cropt for a wig, fell in a strong thick mass over his brow; and as he waited for the batsman to complete his somewhat fastidious preparations, he once or twice pushed up the heavy cluster with his left hand. "Gibs was ever a tantalising beast," said Frank aside. "Hi, you fellow!" he shouted to a broad-shouldered yokel who stood just in front of him by the rope, "how stands the score?" The man addressed looked over his shoulder, and seeing that the speaker was one of the "quality" he doffed his cap and replied: "'Tis ninety-four notches, your honour, and last man in. Has a'ready twenty-vive to hisself, and the Winton boys can't get un out." "Play!" cried the umpire. The batsman stood to his block, and looked round the field with a smile of confidence. The bowler gave a quick glance around, took a light run of some three yards, and delivered the ball—underhand, for round-arm bowling was not yet invented. The ball travelled swiftly, no more than two or three feet above the ground, pitched in front of the block-hole, and was driven hard to the off towards a thick-set, grimy-looking individual—the village smith. He, bending to field the ball, missed it, swung round to run after it, and fell sprawling over a tussock of grass, amid yells of mingled derision and disappointment. "Pick theeself up, Lumpy!" roared the man to whom Frank Godolphin had spoken. But the ball had already been fielded by Long Robin the tanner, running round from long-on. Sir Gilbert meanwhile had got back to his end of the wicket, and the scorer, seated near the umpire, had cut two notches in the scoring stick. Again the ball was bowled, with an even lower delivery than before. The batsman stepped a yard out of his ground and caught the ball on the rise; it flew high over the head of the remotest fieldsman, over the rope, over the crowd, and dropped within a foot of the lych-gate of the church. Loud cheers from a party of gentlemen mounted on coaches in front of a tent greeted this stroke; four notches were cut to the credit of the side, bringing the score to a hundred. There was dead silence among the crowd now; it was plain that their sympathies lay with the out side, and this ominous opening of the new bowler's over was a check upon their enjoyment. Sir Gilbert once more stood to his block. For his third ball the bowler took his run on the other side of the wicket. His delivery this time was a little higher: the ball pitched awkwardly, and the batsman seemed to be in two minds what to do with it. His hesitation was fatal. With a perplexing twist the ball slid along the ground past his bat, hit the off stump, and just dislodged the bail, which fell perpendicularly and lay across between the sticks. Sir Gilbert looked at it for a moment with rueful countenance, then marched towards the tent, while the crowd cheered and, the innings being over, made for the stalls and carts, at which ale and cider and gingerbread were to be had. "Egad, 'twas well bowled," ejaculated Lord Godolphin; "a cunning ball, a most teasing twist; capital, capital!" "I'll go and speak to Gibs," said Frank. "Will you come, sir?" "Not I, i' faith. 'Tis too hot. Bring him to me. I'll drink a glass of cider here and wait your return." There was a cider cart near at hand, and his man Dickory brought my lord a brimming bumper drawn from the wood. He winced as the tart liquor touched his palate, unaccustomed to such homely drink; but it was at least cool and refreshing, and he finished the bumper. As he gave it back he noticed an old man slowly approaching, leaning with one hand upon a stout knobby stick of oak, and holding in the other a rough three-legged stool, which he placed between my lord's calash and the rope. He was a fine-looking old man, dressed in plain country homespun; his cheeks were seamed and weather-beaten, but there was still a brightness in his eyes and an erectness in his figure that bespoke health and the joy of life. He sat down on the stool, took off his hat and wiped his brow, then, resting both hands on his stick, looked placidly around him. There was no one near to him; the space was clear, for players and spectators had all flocked their several ways to get refreshment, and for some minutes the old man sat alone. Then Lord Godolphin, to ease his limbs and kill time, stepped out of his carriage and went towards the veteran. "Well, gaffer," he said, "have ye come out to get a sunning?" The old man looked up. "Ay sure, your honour," he said, "and to zee the match. You med think me too old; true, I be gone eighty; come Martinmas I shall be eighty-one, and I ha'n't a wamblen tooth in my head—not one, old as I be. A man's as old as he feels, says my boy—one o' the wise sayens he has: I ha'n't felt no older this twenty year, nay, nor twenty-vive year neither." "By George! I wish I could say the same. What's the match, gaffer?" "Well, they do say 'tis for a wager; 'tis all 'I'll lay ye this' and 'I'll lay ye that' in these days. I don't know the rights on't, but 'tis said it all come about at a supper up at Squire's.—Do 'ee know Squire? Eh well, there be the house, yonder among the trees. Squire's son be hot wi' his tongue, and at this same supper—I tell 'ee as I yeard it—he wagered young Master Godfrey of the Grange he'd bring eleven young gen'lmen from Cambridge college as would beat our village players at the cricket. A hunnerd guineas was the wager, so 'tis said. Master Godfrey he ups and says 'Done wi' 'ee', and so 'tis come about. The Cambridge younkers be all high gentry, every man on 'em; our folks, as your honour med see, be just or'nary folks in the main: there's Long Robin the tanner and Lumpy the smith—he that turned topsy-turvy a-hunten the ball by there; and Honest John the miller: Old Everlasten they calls un, 'cause he never gets cotched out nor bowled neither: ay, a good stick is Old Everlasten, wi' a tough skin of his own. And there be Soapy Dick the barber, and Tom cobbler, and more of the village folk; and the only gentry among 'em is Master Godfrey hisself and pa'son's son, and he don't count for gentry wi' some. Do 'ee know pa'son? a good man, saven your honour, ay, a right good man is Pa'son Rochester, and stands up to old Squire like a game-cock, so he do—a right good man is pa'son, ay sure. And his son Harry—well, to tell 'ee the truth, I'm main fond of the lad; main fond; 'tis a well-favoured lad, well spoken too, and he thinks a deal o' me, he do, and I thinks a deal o' he. Why, 'twas he bowled that artful ball as put out t' last man from Cambridge college.—There, my old tongue runs on; I don't offend your honour?" "Not a whit," said my lord. "The young bowler is the parson's son, eh? Bred for a parson too, I suppose?" "He's over young yet, your honour, but a month gone seventeen. He said to me only yesterday: 'Gaffer,' says he, 'what'll 'ee do 'ithout me when I go up to Oxford?' He be gwine come October, a' believe. 'Twas at Oxford college they made his feyther a pa'son, so belike the lad'll put on the petticoats too, though sure he's fit for summat better. But he'll make a good pa'son if he takes arter his feyther. Bless 'ee, Pa'son Rochester be the only man in the parish as a'n't afeard o' Squire. I be afeard o' Squire, I be, though 'ee med not think it. Ah! he's a hard man, is Squire. A' fell out with pa'son first 'cause he wouldn't be his chaplain—goo up t' hall an' say grace and eat the mutton and turmuts, an' come away wi'out pudden. Wi'out pudden!—I wouldn't goo wi'out pudden for no man; that's why I first took a fancy for pa'son. Then Squire, he wanted to fence in a big slice of this common land, as ha' belonged to the folks of Winton Simmary time wi'out mind; and pa'son stood up to 'n, and told 'n flat to his face 'twas agen the law, an' he had the law on 'm, he did; an' the wise judges up in Lun'on town said as how Squire were wrong. But Lor' bless 'ee, Squire be as obstinate as a pig; he don't care nowt for judges; he ups and 'peals to King Willum hisself. Then King Willum dies, poor feller, an' Queen Anne sits proud on the gold throne, an' there 'tis; 'twill take a time for her poor woman's mind to understand the rights o' the matter; her don't know pa'son so well as we." "Or she might make him a bishop, eh? Perhaps I can put in a word for him," said my lord jestingly. The old man stared. "And who med 'ee be, your honour, if I mebbe so bold to axe?" he said slowly. "I? Oh—well, I have care of the Queen's purse." "There now, and I've been talken to 'ee just as if 'ee were a knight or squire, when I med ha' known 'ee by your cut for one of the mighty o' the earth. But 'ee'll forgive a old man—ay, gone eighty year. I was born three year afore Scotch Jamie died; no sart of a king was Jamie, a wamblen loon, so I've yeard tell. And Charles One, he was well-favoured before the Lord, true, but not a man of his word. Nay, Noll Crum'ell was the right sart o' king; I mind un well. I was a trooper in his regiment, and we was as fine a set o' men as ever trod neat's leather, true, we was. I rode wi' un to Marston Moor in '44, nigh zixty year back. Ay, a right king was old Noll. And I fought in Flanders when Noll was friends with the French king; but I left that line o' life when Charles Two come back with his French madams; and now we be a-fighten the French, so 'tis said; 'twas what us Englishmen was born for, to be sure; ay, that 'tis." Here my lord's attention was attracted towards a group of villagers approaching. They were led by a short well-set-up fellow with a humorous cast of face; his thumbs were stuck into his arm-pits, and as he walked he was singing to the accompaniment of a flute played by the man at his side. The old man looked towards him and smiled affectionately. "'Tis my boy a-comen," he said. "Was born in '59, your honour, the year afore Charles Two coom back; and I chrisomed un Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless out of Nehemiah nine; a good boy, though wilful." The boy of forty-three was singing lustily:
"Mum, boy, mum!" said his father. "The boy has a sweet breast, your honour," he added, turning to Godolphin, "and 'tis my belief 'twill lead un into bad company in the days o' his youth. He will sing 'Sir Simon the King' and 'Bobbing Joan', and other sinful ditties. Ah! I had a good breast in my time; and you should ha' yeard Noll's men sing as we marched into Preston fight; I could sing counter to any man.—Boy, doff your hat to the Queen's purse-bearer.—Ay, 'twas psa'ms an' hymns an' speritual songs in my time, as the Book says." "Sarvant, yer honour," said the new-comer, bobbing to Godolphin. "Feyther been taken away my good name? 'Tis a wise feyther knows his own child; feyther o' mine forgot that when he named me Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless. Beant the fault o' my name I ha'n't took to bad courses. But there, he's a old ancient man, nigh ready for churchyard—bean't 'ee, dad?" "Not till I make a man on 'ee, boy." "May I present my friend Sir Gilbert Young, sir?" said Frank Godolphin, coming up at this moment through the gathering crowd. My lord bowed and swept off his hat in the courtly fashion of the day, in response to a still lower salutation from the young Cambridge man. "I am honoured, my lord," said Sir Gilbert. "My lard, i' fecks!" ejaculated Sherebiah's father, with a startled look. "My lard,—an' I ha'n't even pulled my forelock! Boy, doff your cap to my lard! And the Book says, 'They shall stand afore princes', and I'm a-sitten!" The old fellow began to struggle to his feet with the aid of his staff, but Godolphin laid his hand on his arm, and pressed him down. "Sit fast, gaffer," he said. "See, the players are coming out again. I am pleased to have met one of Noll's veterans so hale and hearty, and I hope your son will turn out as great a comfort to you as mine." He put his arm fondly through Frank's, and returned to his carriage. The crowd was collecting about the rope, and the Cambridge men were already taking their places in the field. Their score of a hundred was higher than the average in those days, and the villagers were eagerly discussing the chances of their team excelling it. They had seen nothing of the other side's bowling powers, but as they compared notes on the various merits as batsmen of Honest John, and Long Robin, and Lumpy, and the rest, many of them shook their heads and looked rather down in the mouth. The first pair of batsmen came to the wickets. They were Old Everlasting and Soapy Dick. The former took the first over, bowled by Gilbert Young, the captain of the team, and calmly blocked every ball of the four, giving a wink to his friends in the crowd when over was called. Soapy Dick, at the other wicket, was a little man with very red hair brushed up into a sort of top-knot in front. He handled his bat in a nervous manner, and was made still more nervous by the cries of the crowd. "Hit un, Soapy!" cried one yokel. "Doan't be afeard, man." "Gi't lather, Soapy!" shouted another, whose cheeks cried out for the barber's attentions. Dick grinned mirthlessly, and fixed his eyes on the bowler at the other end. The ball came towards him—a slow, tempting lob that was too easy to let pass. Dick lifted his bat and smote; the ball returned gently to the bowler's hands, and a roar of derision sped the shame-faced little barber back to the tent. One wicket down, and no notches!—a bad beginning for Winton St. Mary. Lumpy was the next to appear. He waddled across the grass turning up his sleeves—a fat little fellow with bandy legs, and arms as thick as most men's thighs. As he stood to take his block, he seemed to handle the bat with contemptuous surprise, as though wondering what use that was to a man accustomed to wield the sledgehammer at the anvil. Satisfied with his position, he planted his feet firmly, drew his left hand across his mouth, and glared fiercely at the bowler. He was not to be so easily tempted as poor Soapy Dick had been. He waited for the ball, and as it rose brought his bat down upon it with a perpendicular blow that appeared to drive it into the turf, where it lay dead. The Cambridge men roared with laughter, the crowd applauded vigorously, and Lumpy once more wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The third ball of the over came, pitching slightly to leg. Lumpy jumped completely round as the ball reached him, and with a tremendous swipe sent it high over long-stop's head into a patch of gorse, whence it was not recovered until he had had three notches cut to his credit. The last ball of the over thus came to Old Everlasting, who solemnly blocked it, and beamed upon the spectators with his usual smug smile. Lumpy had but a short life, after all. There was no cunning about him; if he hit a ball it was bound to travel far, but he struck out every time with the same violence, and when he missed could hardly recover his balance. In twenty minutes he had scored eleven notches, Old Everlasting having consistently done nothing but block the balls that fell to him; then, in hitting out, Lumpy, never too steady on his bow leg's, overbalanced himself and fell flat, and the long bail was promptly knocked off by the wicket-keeper. Two wickets down for eleven. After this, disaster followed disaster in such rapid succession that the villagers looked blue. Long Robin the tanner was caught second ball, and was afterwards heard complaining bitterly of the bad leather the ball was made of. Tom the cobbler came to the wicket with a bat of his own—one that he kept hanging behind his kitchen door, and took down every week for a thorough greasing. He scored six notches, then hit a ball into his wicket, and in the tent afterwards explained to his cronies that another week's greasing would have prevented the accident. Four wickets were now down for seventeen, and Godfrey Fanshawe himself came in, amid a great outburst of cheers from the crowd, with whom he was very popular, and who looked to him, as the originator of the match and the captain of the team, to retrieve the fortunes of the day. He snicked his first ball for one; then Old Everlasting evoked intense enthusiasm by poking a ball between slip and point, and scoring his first notch. The score rose slowly to thirty-one, Fanshawe making all the runs, and then he ran himself out in trying to snatch an extra from an overthrow. The fifth wicket was down. Fanshawe was reputed the best batsman in the team, and Winton St. Mary was still sixty-nine behind. There was much shaking of the head among the villagers, and they waited in glum silence for the next man to appear. "Look 'ee!" exclaimed the old trooper suddenly, "beant that old Squire a-comen down-along by covert fence?" "True, Gaffer Minshull," said a by-stander; "what eyes 'ee've got, for a old ancient soul! 'Tis old Squire sure enough, and young Squire and the Cap'n wi' un." Old Minshull leant forward on his stick, and with pursed lips peered at the three figures approaching. One was a burly man in the prime of life, dressed in semi-military garb—a feathered hat, long red coat marked with many stains and wanting some buttons, leather breeches, and spurred boots. His features were coarse and red, his eyes prominent and blood-shot; he walked with a swagger, his left hand on his sword-hilt. The second was a youth of some twenty years, dressed in the extremity of foppishness. A black hat, looped up and cocked over one eye, crowned a full auburn wig fastidiously curled. The coat was blue, the waistcoat purple, open to display a fine holland shirt. A laced steinkirk was tucked in at the breast. The breeches matched the vest, the stockings were of red silk, the shoes had high red heels and large silver buckles. In Mr. Piers Berkeley's mouth was a toothpick; from one of the buttons of his coat dangled an amber-headed cane. The third figure was a striking contrast to the others. He was tall and thin and bent, with pale wrinkled cheeks and bushy white eyebrows that ill matched his dark wig. He scarcely lifted his eyes from the ground as he moved slowly along, leaning heavily upon a silver-knobbed stick. His dress was fusty and of a bygone mode; to a Londoner the old man must have resembled a figure out of a picture of Charles the Second's time. "Who's this queer old put ambling along, Frank?" asked my lord. "The rascals there avoid him as he had the plague." "On my life I don't know, sir," replied Mr. Godolphin. "The fellow with him might stand for Bobadil himself." "Or for Captain Bluffe in Mr. Congreve's play." "And the young sprig wants a kicking." "Sarvant, my lord," put in Sherebiah, who was standing by; "'tis old Squire, and young Squire, and—— No, I won't say 't; a wise head keeps a still tongue; I won't say 't, leastways when a fowl o' the air med carry it where 'twould do me and feyther o' mine no manner o' good." The crowd parted with a kind of sullen unwilling respect to make way for the new-comers. Suddenly the squire paused, as the elder of his two companions addressed him; flashing an angry glance at him, he said a few vehement words in a low tone that no one else could hear. Captain Ralph Aglionby laughed aloud, shrugged carelessly, and sauntered across the common towards the tent. The squire followed him with a dark glance for a moment, then resumed his slow progress with his son, and came to within a few feet of Lord Godolphin's carriage. "Your lordship's servant," he said with a profound bow, copied with elaborate elegance by his son. His voice was thin and hard, a voice that set the teeth on edge. "I heard your lordship was on the ground, and made bold to come and pay my duty to your lordship." "I am vastly beholden to you, Mr.——" "Berkeley, my lord, Nicolas Berkeley of Winton Hall; and would your lordship but favour me, I should be proud, when the match is over, to offer your lordship a cover at my table—poor country fare, I fear, but such as it is, freely at your lordship's disposal." "'Tis handsome of you, Mr. Berkeley, but I fear our business will not permit us to accept of your hospitality.—Ah! I perceive the next batsman is coming to the wicket. I hope you're as keen a sportsman as I am myself, and will forgive me if I fix my attention on the game." Mr. Berkeley bowed again with expressionless face, and after a moment's irresolution moved away. Gaffer Minshull might have been observed to lick his old lips with appreciation at this the very courtliest of cold shoulders. Piers Berkeley, the young squire, stayed for a minute or two, gazing with silly face at my lord; then, finding that he remained unnoticed, he stuck the head of his cane into his mouth and walked away sucking it. The game was resumed. For an hour it was tedious watching. The new batsman snatched a run now and then, while Old Everlasting blocked every ball that came to him with the same want of enterprise and the same boundless self-satisfaction. At length his partner was caught in the long field; the sixth wicket had fallen, and the score was no more than forty-five. "Give you three to one against the rustics, Frank," said Lord Godolphin. "I'll take you, sir, though 'tis a risk. Who's our next man?" "'Tis our bowler friend, the young sprig of a parson, unless I mistake," said my lord. "What's the lad's name, gaffer?" "'Tis Henry Winterborne Rochester, my lard, by the water o' baptism; too rich a name for poor folks like we. Young pa'son we calls un mostly." "A limber youth. I like his looks, eh, Frank? Does he bat as well as he bowls?" "Middlen, my lord, middlen," said Sherebiah. "Has a good eye, but a deal o' growen to do afore he can smite the ball as it should. But there, my lord, he as can't do what he would must do what he can, as you med say." "Nothen truer, boy," said his father approvingly. "Ay, 'tis a pretty lad. Gi' un a cheer, souls." "Mum, feyther," expostulated Sherebiah. "Old Squire's comen back-along this way; little sticks kindle fires, as you med say." "True. I be a timbersome man, afeard o' Squire, though you med n't think it. Well!" But though Gaffer Minshull forbore to cheer, the rest of the crowd had no scruples, and the warmth of their greeting brought a flush to the new batsman's honest face. He stood at the wicket with quiet ease and watched Old Everlasting block the last ball of the over; then he glanced around, stooped to his bat, and fixed his gray eyes steadily on the bowler. The rest of the afternoon provided an unfailing subject for gossip in the village for six months afterwards. Playing at first with patient wariness, Harry never let a ball pass his bat, but treated all with a respectful consideration that was as noticeable as his graceful style. He played two overs without getting a notch; then, after another excellent blocking performance by his partner, came a change. The first ball of the next over was rather loose; Lord Godolphin, who, perhaps alone of the spectators, kept his gaze fixed on the batsman's face, saw his lips come together with a slight pressure and his eyes suddenly gleam—and there was the ball, flying straight over the bowler's head, passing between two coaches into the road. Gaffer Minshull was on the point of raising his stick to wave it, but was stopped by his son with a "Mind old Squire, feyther o' mine." "Varty-vive and vour makes varty-nine," muttered the old man. "I could do a bit o' cipheren in my time. Ay, varty-nine." Nothing came of the next ball, but the third rose most happily to Harry's bat, and with a neat little cut he sent it under the rope among the crowd, who nimbly parted to let it roll. Three notches were cut to his credit. Old Everlasting complacently blocked the next ball, and Harry treated the bowler at the other end with great respect till the fourth ball, which he snicked away for a single. Getting back thus to the wicket at which he had started, he delighted the spectators by driving every ball of the over, at the close of which the score had risen to sixty-three. "'Tis the eye doos it," said the old man delightedly; "Master Harry has'n clear an' steady. Ay sure, a' would ha' made a good captain for Noll Crum'ell; if so be he's a pa'son, all the use he can make o' his eye, 'twill be to tarrify poor sinners like you an' me, my lard." But misfortune was in store for the Winton St. Mary men. Old Everlasting had the first ball of the next over, delivered by a new bowler, a lanky fellow with a tremendous pace, for whom two long-stops were placed. The batsman was taken by surprise; he missed the ball, the stumps went flying, and Old Everlasting walked away scratching his poll, rejoicing in the magnificent score of one. Harry accompanied him to the tent, and held a short conversation with the next man. The fruit of this was seen as soon as they reached the wickets. The first ball missed bat, stumps, wicket-keeper, and both long-stops; Harry called his partner for a bye, and though there was plenty of time for a second run he was contented with a single, thus securing the next ball. This he hit round to leg, a stroke that ought to have made two, but his partner was somewhat bulky, and suffered for his misfortune by being promptly run out after one run had been scored. Eight wickets were now down, and the score was sixty-five—thirty-five behind that of the Cambridge eleven. A restlessness was observable in the crowd; it seemed impossible that the home team could win; and there was general despondency when it was noticed that the incoming batsman was a spindle-legged fellow known as Soft Jemmy, who did odd jobs about the village. Only Sherebiah still appeared full of confidence. "A fight bean't lost till it be won," he said. "Keep up your sperits, souls." Soft Jemmy never got a chance to miss the ball. Such scheming was never seen on a cricket-field before. Harry had privately instructed Jemmy to do just as he was told, and the half-witted youth at least knew how to obey. When Harry called him he ran; when told to stand in his ground he remained fixed like a post; and so, snatching byes, blocking, hitting when it was safe, Harry defied all the bowling, and the score rose by ones and twos and threes. A change came over the attitude of the spectators. From dejection they passed to almost delirious joy. Every hit was cheered to the echo; every little manoeuvre of "young pa'son" added to their delight. The effect on the out side was equal and opposite. They became irritated at the altered aspect of the game. Bowlers bowled wildly; fieldsmen fielded loosely, and got in one another's way; and the more agitated they became, the more coolly and confidently did Harry ply his bat. At last, stepping out to a full pitch, he made a magnificent drive over the bowler's head, and brought the total to a hundred and two. The cheer that rose from the crowd might have been heard a mile away. Some of the men made a rush for Harry, and bore him shoulder-high to the tent. Others flew to secure their winnings, and celebrate the famous victory in cider or home-brewed ale. Gaffer Minshull was with difficulty dissuaded from whirling his hat round on the top of his stick, and nothing could check his gleeful exclamation: "A flick to young Squire; a terrible douse, ay sure!" "By George, a notable match!" said Godolphin. "Your young parson is a lad of mettle, gaffer; he'll be a sportsman an he lives long enough. Here, man, drink his health, and tell him from me that the Lord Treasurer loves pretty play. Come, Frank, we'll drive on." He flung a coin to the old man, remounted his carriage, and drove off. Gaffer looked at the money, then after the calash. "Ah, 'tis a mighty fine thing to hold the Queen's purse, my lads, mighty fine! There be a power o' these same shinen bright ones in the Queen's purse; eh, lads?" A shout came from the distance, and the eyes of the small group around old Minshull were turned towards the road. Lord Godolphin's carriage had broken down. The axle had snapped in two; the horses were plunging, and my lord and his son were clinging to the sides of the vehicle. A score of sturdy fellows rushed to lend a hand, and Gaffer Minshull was left to himself. |
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