E-text prepared by Lionel Sear
THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY REVEL.
by
ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH.
1903
This e-text prepared from a reprint of a version published in 1903
PREFACE
When I started to set down these early adventures of Harry Revel,I meant to dedicate them to my friend Mr. W. F. Collier of Woodtown,Horrabridge: but he died while the story was writing, and now cannottwit me with the pranks I have played among his stories of bygonePlymouth, nor send me his forgiveness--as he would have done.Peace be to him for a lover of Dartmoor and true gentleman of Devon!
So now I have only to beg, by way of preface, that no one will botherhimself by inquiring too curiously into the geography, topography,etc. of this tale, or of any that I have written or may write.If these tales have any sense of locality, they certainly will notsquare with the ordnance maps; and even the magnetic pole works looseand goes astray at times--a phenomenon often observed by sailors offthe sea-coast of Bohemia.
It may be permissible to add that the story which follows by no meansexhausts the adventures, civil and military, of Harry Revel. But therecital of his further campaigning in company with Mr. Benjamin Jope,and of the verses in which Miss Plinlimmon commemorated it, willdepend upon public favour.
A.T. QUILLER-COUCH.
THE HAVEN, FOWEY,March 28th, 1903.
CONTENTS.
Chapter
I. I FIND MYSELF A FOUNDLING.
II. I START IN LIFE AS AN EMINENT PERSON.
III. I AM BOUND APPRENTICE.
IV. MISS PLINLIMMON.
V. THE SHADOW OF ARCHIBOLD.
VI. I STUMBLE INTO HORRORS.
VII. I ESCAPE FROM THE JEW'S HOUSE.
VIII. POOR TOM BOWLING.
IX. SALTASH FERRY.
X. I GO ON A HONEYMOON.
XI. FLIGHT.
XII. I FALL AMONG SMUGGLERS.
XIII. THE MAN IN THE VERANDAH.
XIV. THE MOCK-ORANGE BUSH.
XV. MINDEN COTTAGE.
XVI. MR. JACK ROGERS AS A MAN OF AFFAIRS.
XVII. LYDIA BELCHER INTERVENES.
XVIII. THE OWL'S CRY.
XIX. CHECKMATE.
XX. ISABEL'S REVENGE.
XXI. I GO CAMPAIGNING WITH LORD WELLINGTON.
XXII. ON THE GREATER TESSON.
XXIII. IN CIUDAD RODRIGO.
XXIV. I EXCHANGE THE LAUREL FOR THE OLIVE.
CHAPTER I.
I FIND MYSELF A FOUNDLING.
My earliest recollections are of a square courtyard surrounded byhigh walls and paved with blue and white pebbles in geometricalpatterns--circles, parallelograms, and lozenges. Two of these wallswere blank, and had been coped with broken bottles; a third,similarly coped, had heavy folding doors of timber, leaden-grey incolour and studded with black bolt-heads. Beside them stood aleaden-grey sentry-box, and in this sat a red-faced man with a woodenleg and a pigtail, whose business was to attend to the wicket andkeep an eye on us small boys as we played. He owned two books whichhe read constantly: one was Foxe's _Martyrs_, and the other (whichhad no title on the binding) I opened one day and found to be_The Devil on Two Sticks_.
The arch over these gates bore two gilt legends. That facing theroadway ran: "_Train up a Child in the Way he should Go,_" whichprepared the visitor to read on the inner side: "_When he is Old hewill not Depart from it._" But we twenty-five small foundlings, whoseldom evaded the wicket, and so passed our days with the second halfof the quotation, found in it a particular and dreadful meaning.
The fourth and last wall was the front of the hospital, atwo-storeyed building of grey limestone, with a clock and a smallcupola of copper, weather-greened, and a steeply pitched roof ofslate pierced with dormer windows, behind one of which (because of atendency to walk in my sleep) I slept in the charge of MissPlinlimmon, the matron. Below the eaves ran a line of eight tallwindows, the three on the extreme right belonging to the chapel; andbelow these again a low-browed colonnade, in the shelter of which weplayed on rainy days, but never in fine weather--though its smoothlimestone slabs made an excellent pitch for marbles, whereas onthe pebbles in the yard expertness could only be attained byheart-breaking practice. Yet we preferred them. If it did nothingelse, the Genevan Hospital, by Plymouth Dock, taught us to suitourselves to the world as we found it.
I do not remember that we were unhappy or nursed any sense of injury,except over the porridge for breakfast. The Rev. Mr. Scougall, ourpastor, had founded the hospital some twenty years before with themoney subscribed by certain Calvinistic ladies among whom heministered, and under the patronage of a Port Admiral of like belief,then occupying Admiralty House. His purpose (to which we had not thesmallest objection) was to rescue us small jetsam and save us frommany dreadful Christian heresies, more especially those of Rome.But he came from the north of Britain and argued (I suppose) thatwhat porridge had done for him in childhood it might well do for us--a conclusion against which our poor little southern stomachsrebelled. It oppressed me worse than any, for since the discovery ofmy sleep-walking habit my supper (of plain bread and water) had beendocked, so that I came ravenous to breakfast and yet could not eat.
Nevertheless, I do not think we were unhappy. Perhaps we were tooyoung, and at any rate we had nothing with which to contrast our lot.Across the roadway outside lay blue water, and of this and of rovingships and boats and free passers-by glimpses came to us through thewicket when Mr. George, the porter (we always addressed him as "Mr."and supposed him to resemble the King in features), admitted avisitor, or the laundress, or the butcher's boy. And sometimes webroke off a game to watch the topmasts of a vessel gliding bysilently, above the wall's coping. But if at any time the worldcalled to us, we took second thoughts, remembering our clothes.
We wore, I dare say, the most infernal costume ever devised by man--atightish snuff-coloured jacket with diminutive tails, an orangewaistcoat, snuff-coloured breeches, grey-blue worsted stockings, andsquare-toed shoes with iron toe-plates. Add a flat-topped cap withan immense leathern brim; add Genevan neck-bands; add, last of all, aleathern badge with "G.F.H." (Genevan Foundling Hospital) dependingfrom the left breast-button; and you may imagine with what diffidencewe took our rare walks abroad. The dock-boys, of course, greeted uswith cries of "Yellow Hammer!" The butcher-boy had once even daredto fling that taunt at us within our own yard; and we left him in nodoubt about the hammering, gallant fellow though he was and wore aspur on his left heel. But no bodily deformity could have corrodedus as did those thrice-accursed garments with terror of the worldwithout and of its laughter.
Of a world yet more distant we were taught the gloomiest views.Twice a week regularly, and incidentally whenever he found occasion,Mr. Scougall painted the flames of hell for us in the liveliestcolours. We never doubted his word that our chances of escaping themwere small indeed; but somehow, as life did not allure, so eternitydid not greatly frighten us. Meanwhile we played at our marbles.We knew, in spite of the legend over the gateway, that at the age often or so our elder companions disappeared. They went, as a fact,into various trades and callings, like ordinary parish apprentices.Perhaps we guessed this; if so, it must have been vaguely, and Iincline to believe that we confused their disappearance with death inour childish musings on the common lot. They never came back to seeus; and I remember that we were curiously shy of speaking about them,once gone.
From Miss Plinlimmon's window above the eaves I could look over thefront wall on to an edge of roadway, a straight dock like a canal--c
rowded with shipping--and a fort which fired a gun in the earlymorning and again at sunset. And every morning, too, the drums wouldsound from the hill at our back; and be answered by a soldier, whocame steadily down the roadway beside the dock, halted in front ofour gates, and blew a call on his bugle. Other bugle-calls soundedall around us throughout the day and far into our sleep-time: butthis was the only performer I ever saw. He wore a red coat, a highjapanned hat, and clean white pantaloons with black gaiters: and Itook it for granted that he was always the same soldier. Yet I hadplenty of opportunities for observing him, for Miss Plinlimmon madeit a rule that I should stand at the window and continue to gaze outof it while she dressed.
One day she paused in the act of plaiting her hair. "Harry," saidshe, "I shall always think of you and that tune together. It iscalled the Revelly, which is a French word."
"But the soldier is English?" said I.
"Oh, I truly trust so--a heart of oak, I should hope! England cannothave too many of them in these days, when a weak woman can scarce layherself down in her bed at night with the certainty of getting up inthe same position in the morning."
(They were days when, as I afterwards learnt, Napoleon's troops andflat-bottomed boats were gathered at Boulogne and waiting theiropportunity to invade us. But of this scarcely an echo penetrated toour courtyard, although the streets outside were filled daily withthe tramping of troops and rolling of store-wagons. We knew that ourcountry--whatever that might mean--was at war with France, and weplayed in our yard a game called "French and English." That was all:and Miss Plinlimmon, good soul, if at times she awoke in the nightand shuddered and listened for the yells of Frenchmen in the town,heroically kept her fears to herself. This was as near as she evercame to imparting them.)
"I have often thought of you, Harry," she went on, "as embracing amilitary career. Mr. Scougall very kindly allows me to choosesurnames for you boys when you--when you leave us. He says (but Ifear in flattery) that I have more invention than he." And here,though bound on my word of honour not to look, I felt sure she wassmiling to herself in the glass. "What would you say if I christenedyou Revelly?"
"Oh, please, no!" I entreated. "Let mine be an English name.Why--why couldn't I be called Plinlimmon? I would rather have thatthan any name in the world."
"You are a darling!" exclaimed she, much to my surprise; and, thenext moment, I felt a little pecking kiss on the back of my neck.She usually kissed me at night, after my prayers were said: butsomehow this was different, and it fetched tears to my eyes--greatlyto my surprise, for we were not given to tears at the GenevanHospital. "Plinlimmon is a mountain in Wales, and that, I dare say,is what makes me so romantic. Now, you are not romantic in theleast: and, besides, it wouldn't do. No, indeed. But you shall becalled by an English name, if you wish, though to my mind there's a_je ne sais quoi_ about the French. I once knew a Frenchman, awriting and dancing master, called Duvelleroy, which always seemedthe beautifullest name."
"Was he beautiful himself?" I asked.
"He used to play a kit--which is a kind of small fiddle--holding itacross his waist. It made him look as if he were cutting himself inhalf; which did not contribute to that result. But suppose, now, wecall you Revel--Harry Revel? That's English enough, and will remindme just the same--if Mr. Scougall will not think it tooAnacherontic."
I saw no reason to fear this: but then I had no idea what shemeant by it, or by calling herself romantic. She was certainlysoft-hearted. She possessed many books, as well as an album in herown handwriting, and encouraged me to read aloud to her on summermornings when the sun was up and ahead of us. And once, in the storyof _Maximilian, or Quite the Gentleman: Founded on Fact and Designedto excite the Love of Virtue in the Rising Generation_, at a pointwhere the hero's small brother Felix is carried away by an eagle, shedissolved in tears. "In my native Wales," she explained afterwards,"the wild sheep leap from rock to rock so much as a matter of coursethat you would, in time, be surprised if they didn't. And thatnaturally gives me a sympathy with all that is sublime on the onehand or affecting on the other."
Yet later--but I cannot separate these things accurately in time--Iawoke in my cot one night and heard Miss Plinlimmon sobbing.The sound was dreadful to me and I longed to creep across the room toher dark bedside and comfort her; though I could tell she was tryingto suppress it for fear of disturbing me. In the end her sobs ceasedand, still wondering, I dropped off to sleep, nor next day did I dareto question her.
But it could not have been long after this that we boys got wind ofMr. Scougall's approaching marriage with a wealthy lady of the town.I must speak of this ceremony, because, as the fates ordained, itgave me my first start in life.