CHAPTER XLI
THE BEDESMAN OF ST SEPULCHRE
Philip lay long ill on board the hospital ship. If his heart hadbeen light, he might have rallied sooner; but he was so depressed hedid not care to live. His shattered jaw-bone, his burnt andblackened face, his many injuries of body, were torture to both hisphysical frame, and his sick, weary heart. No more chance for him,if indeed there ever had been any, of returning gay and gallant, andthus regaining his wife's love. This had been his poor, foolishvision in the first hour of his enlistment; and the vain dream hadrecurred more than once in the feverish stage of excitement whichthe new scenes into which he had been hurried as a recruit hadcalled forth. But that was all over now. He knew that it was themost unlikely thing in the world to have come to pass; and yet thosewere happy days when he could think of it as barely possible. Nowall he could look forward to was disfigurement, feebleness, and thebare pittance that keeps pensioners from absolute want.
Those around him were kind enough to him in their fashion, andattended to his bodily requirements; but they had no notion oflistening to any revelations of unhappiness, if Philip had been theman to make confidences of that kind. As it was, he lay very stillin his berth, seldom asking for anything, and always saying he wasbetter, when the ship-surgeon came round with his daily inquiries.But he did not care to rally, and was rather sorry to find that hiscase was considered so interesting in a surgical point of view, thathe was likely to receive a good deal more than the average amount ofattention. Perhaps it was owing to this that he recovered at all.The doctors said it was the heat that made him languid, for that hiswounds and burns were all doing well at last; and by-and-by theytold him they had ordered him 'home'. His pulse sank under thesurgeon's finger at the mention of the word; but he did not say aword. He was too indifferent to life and the world to have a will;otherwise they might have kept their pet patient a little longerwhere he was.
Slowly passing from ship to ship as occasion served; resting hereand there in garrison hospitals, Philip at length reached Portsmouthon the evening of a September day in 1799. The transport-ship inwhich he was, was loaded with wounded and invalided soldiers andsailors; all who could manage it in any way struggled on deck tocatch the first view of the white coasts of England. One man liftedhis arm, took off his cap, and feebly waved it aloft, crying, 'OldEngland for ever!' in a faint shrill voice, and then burst intotears and sobbed aloud. Others tried to pipe up 'Rule Britannia',while more sate, weak and motionless, looking towards the shoresthat once, not so long ago, they never thought to see again. Philipwas one of these; his place a little apart from the other men. Hewas muffled up in a great military cloak that had been given him byone of his officers; he felt the September breeze chill after hissojourn in a warmer climate, and in his shattered state of health.
As the ship came in sight of Portsmouth harbour, the signal flagsran up the ropes; the beloved Union Jack floated triumphantly overall. Return signals were made from the harbour; on board all becamebustle and preparation for landing; while on shore there was theevident movement of expectation, and men in uniform were seenpressing their way to the front, as if to them belonged the right ofreception. They were the men from the barrack hospital, that hadbeen signalled for, come down with ambulance litters and other marksof forethought for the sick and wounded, who were returning to thecountry for which they had fought and suffered.
With a dash and a great rocking swing the vessel came up to herappointed place, and was safely moored. Philip sat still, almost asif he had no part in the cries of welcome, the bustling care, theloud directions that cut the air around him, and pierced his nervesthrough and through. But one in authority gave the order; andPhilip, disciplined to obedience, rose to find his knapsack andleave the ship. Passive as he seemed to be, he had his likings forparticular comrades; there was one especially, a man as differentfrom Philip as well could be, to whom the latter had always attachedhimself; a merry fellow from Somersetshire, who was almost alwayscheerful and bright, though Philip had overheard the doctors say hewould never be the man he was before he had that shot through theside. This marine would often sit making his fellows laugh, andlaughing himself at his own good-humoured jokes, till so terrible afit of coughing came on that those around him feared he would die inthe paroxysm. After one of these fits he had gasped out some words,which led Philip to question him a little; and it turned out that inthe quiet little village of Potterne, far inland, nestled beneaththe high stretches of Salisbury Plain, he had a wife and a child, alittle girl, just the same age even to a week as Philip's own littleBella. It was this that drew Philip towards the man; and this thatmade Philip wait and go ashore along with the poor consumptivemarine.
The litters had moved off towards the hospital, the sergeant incharge had given his words of command to the remaining invalids, whotried to obey them to the best of their power, falling intosomething like military order for their march; but soon, very soon,the weakest broke step, and lagged behind; and felt as if the roughwelcomes and rude expressions of sympathy from the crowd around werealmost too much for them. Philip and his companion were aboutmidway, when suddenly a young woman with a child in her arms forcedherself through the people, between the soldiers who kept pressingon either side, and threw herself on the neck of Philip's friend.
'Oh, Jem!' she sobbed, 'I've walked all the road from Potterne. I'venever stopped but for food and rest for Nelly, and now I've got youonce again, I've got you once again, bless God for it!'
She did not seem to see the deadly change that had come over herhusband since she parted with him a ruddy young labourer; she hadgot him once again, as she phrased it, and that was enough for her;she kissed his face, his hands, his very coat, nor would she berepulsed from walking beside him and holding his hand, while herlittle girl ran along scared by the voices and the strange faces,and clinging to her mammy's gown.
Jem coughed, poor fellow! he coughed his churchyard cough; andPhilip bitterly envied him--envied his life, envied his approachingdeath; for was he not wrapped round with that woman's tender love,and is not such love stronger than death? Philip had felt as if hisown heart was grown numb, and as though it had changed to a coldheavy stone. But at the contrast of this man's lot to his own, hefelt that he had yet the power of suffering left to him.
The road they had to go was full of people, kept off in some measureby the guard of soldiers. All sorts of kindly speeches, and many acurious question, were addressed to the poor invalids as they walkedalong. Philip's jaw, and the lower part of his face, were bandagedup; his cap was slouched down; he held his cloak about him, andshivered within its folds.
They came to a standstill from some slight obstacle at the corner ofa street. Down the causeway of this street a naval officer with alady on his arm was walking briskly, with a step that told of healthand a light heart. He stayed his progress though, when he saw theconvoy of maimed and wounded men; he said something, of which Philiponly caught the words, 'same uniform,' 'for his sake,' to the younglady, whose cheek blanched a little, but whose eyes kindled. Thenleaving her for an instant, he pressed forward; he was close toPhilip,--poor sad Philip absorbed in his own thoughts,--so absorbedthat he noticed nothing till he heard a voice at his ear, having theNorthumbrian burr, the Newcastle inflections which he knew of old,and that were to him like the sick memory of a deadly illness; andthen he turned his muffled face to the speaker, though he knew wellenough who it was, and averted his eyes after one sight of thehandsome, happy man,--the man whose life he had saved once, andwould save again, at the risk of his own, but whom, for all that, heprayed that he might never meet more on earth.
'Here, my fine fellow, take this,' forcing a crown piece intoPhilip's hand. 'I wish it were more; I'd give you a pound if I hadit with me.'
Philip muttered something, and held out the coin to Captain Kinraid,of course in vain; nor was there time to urge it back upon thegiver, for the obstacle to their progress was suddenly removed, thecrowd pressed upon the captain and his wife, the procession moved
on, and Philip along with it, holding the piece in his hand, andlonging to throw it far away. Indeed he was on the point of droppingit, hoping to do so unperceived, when he bethought him of giving itto Jem's wife, the footsore woman, limping happily along by herhusband's side. They thanked him, and spoke in his praise more thanhe could well bear. It was no credit to him to give that away whichburned his fingers as long as he kept it.
Philip knew that the injuries he had received in the explosion onboard the _Theseus_ would oblige him to leave the service. He alsobelieved that they would entitle him to a pension. But he had littleinterest in his future life; he was without hope, and in a depressedstate of health. He remained for some little time stationary, andthen went through all the forms of dismissal on account of woundsreceived in service, and was turned out loose upon the world,uncertain where to go, indifferent as to what became of him.
It was fine, warm October weather as he turned his back upon thecoast, and set off on his walk northwards. Green leaves were yetupon the trees; the hedges were one flush of foliage and the wildrough-flavoured fruits of different kinds; the fields were tawnywith the uncleared-off stubble, or emerald green with the growth ofthe aftermath. The roadside cottage gardens were gay with hollyhocksand Michaelmas daisies and marigolds, and the bright panes of thewindows glittered through a veil of China roses.
The war was a popular one, and, as a natural consequence, soldiersand sailors were heroes everywhere. Philip's long drooping form, hisarm hung in a sling, his face scarred and blackened, his jaw boundup with a black silk handkerchief; these marks of active servicewere reverenced by the rustic cottagers as though they had beencrowns and sceptres. Many a hard-handed labourer left his seat bythe chimney corner, and came to his door to have a look at one whohad been fighting the French, and pushed forward to have a grasp ofthe stranger's hand as he gave back the empty cup into the goodwife's keeping, for the kind homely women were ever ready with milkor homebrewed to slake the feverish traveller's thirst when hestopped at their doors and asked for a drink of water.
At the village public-house he had had a welcome of a moreinterested character, for the landlord knew full well that hiscircle of customers would be large that night, if it was only knownthat he had within his doors a soldier or a sailor who had seenservice. The rustic politicians would gather round Philip, and smokeand drink, and then question and discuss till they were drouthyagain; and in their sturdy obtuse minds they set down the extraglass and the supernumerary pipe to the score of patriotism.
Altogether human nature turned its sunny side out to Philip justnow; and not before he needed the warmth of brotherly kindness tocheer his shivering soul. Day after day he drifted northwards,making but the slow progress of a feeble man, and yet this shortdaily walk tired him so much that he longed for rest--for themorning to come when he needed not to feel that in the course of anhour or two he must be up and away.
He was toiling on with this longing at his heart when he saw that hewas drawing near a stately city, with a great old cathedral in thecentre keeping solemn guard. This place might be yet two or threemiles distant; he was on a rising ground looking down upon it. Alabouring man passing by, observed his pallid looks and his languidattitude, and told him for his comfort, that if he turned down alane to the left a few steps farther on, he would find himself atthe Hospital of St Sepulchre, where bread and beer were given to allcomers, and where he might sit him down and rest awhile on the oldstone benches within the shadow of the gateway. Obeying thesedirections, Philip came upon a building which dated from the time ofHenry the Fifth. Some knight who had fought in the French wars ofthat time, and had survived his battles and come home to his oldhalls, had been stirred up by his conscience, or by what wasequivalent in those days, his confessor, to build and endow ahospital for twelve decayed soldiers, and a chapel wherein they wereto attend the daily masses he ordained to be said till the end ofall time (which eternity lasted rather more than a century, prettywell for an eternity bespoken by a man), for his soul and the soulsof those whom he had slain. There was a large division of thequadrangular building set apart for the priest who was to say thesemasses; and to watch over the well-being of the bedesmen. In processof years the origin and primary purpose of the hospital had beenforgotten by all excepting the local antiquaries; and the placeitself came to be regarded as a very pleasant quaint set ofalmshouses; and the warden's office (he who should have said or sunghis daily masses was now called the warden, and read daily prayersand preached a sermon on Sundays) an agreeable sinecure.
Another legacy of old Sir Simon Bray was that of a small croft ofland, the rent or profits of which were to go towards giving to allwho asked for it a manchet of bread and a cup of good beer. Thisbeer was, so Sir Simon ordained, to be made after a certain receiptwhich he left, in which ground ivy took the place of hops. But thereceipt, as well as the masses, was modernized according to theprogress of time.
Philip stood under a great broad stone archway; the back-door intothe warden's house was on the right side; a kind of buttery-hatchwas placed by the porter's door on the opposite side. After someconsideration, Philip knocked at the closed shutter, and the signalseemed to be well understood. He heard a movement within; the hatchwas drawn aside, and his bread and beer were handed to him by apleasant-looking old man, who proved himself not at all disinclinedfor conversation.
'You may sit down on yonder bench,' said he. 'Nay, man! sit i' thesun, for it's a chilly place, this, and then you can look throughthe grate and watch th' old fellows toddling about in th' quad.'
Philip sat down where the warm October sun slanted upon him, andlooked through the iron railing at the peaceful sight.
A great square of velvet lawn, intersected diagonally with broadflag-paved walks, the same kind of walk going all round thequadrangle; low two-storied brick houses, tinted gray and yellow byage, and in many places almost covered with vines, Virginiancreepers, and monthly roses; before each house a little plot ofgarden ground, bright with flowers, and evidently tended with theutmost care; on the farther side the massive chapel; here and therean old or infirm man sunning himself, or leisurely doing a bit ofgardening, or talking to one of his comrades--the place looked as ifcare and want, and even sorrow, were locked out and excluded by theponderous gate through which Philip was gazing.
'It's a nice enough place, bean't it?' said the porter, interpretingPhilip's looks pretty accurately. 'Leastways, for them as likes it.I've got a bit weary on it myself; it's so far from th' world, as aman may say; not a decent public within a mile and a half, where onecan hear a bit o' news of an evening.'
'I think I could make myself very content here,' replied Philip.'That's to say, if one were easy in one's mind.'
'Ay, ay, my man. That's it everywhere. Why, I don't think that Icould enjoy myself--not even at th' White Hart, where they give youas good a glass of ale for twopence as anywhere i' th' fourkingdoms--I couldn't, to say, flavour my ale even there, if my oldwoman lay a-dying; which is a sign as it's the heart, and not theale, as makes the drink.'
Just then the warden's back-door opened, and out came the wardenhimself, dressed in full clerical costume.
He was going into the neighbouring city, but he stopped to speak toPhilip, the wounded soldier; and all the more readily because hisold faded uniform told the warden's experienced eye that he hadbelonged to the Marines.
'I hope you enjoy the victual provided for you by the founder of StSepulchre,' said he, kindly. 'You look but poorly, my good fellow,and as if a slice of good cold meat would help your bread down.'
'Thank you, sir!' said Philip. 'I'm not hungry, only weary, and gladof a draught of beer.'
'You've been in the Marines, I see. Where have you been serving?'
'I was at the siege of Acre, last May, sir.'
'At Acre! Were you, indeed? Then perhaps you know my boy Harry? Hewas in the----th.'
'It was my company,' said Philip, warming up a little. Looking backupon his soldier's life, it seemed to him to have many charms,because
it was so full of small daily interests.
'Then, did you know my son, Lieutenant Pennington?'
'It was he that gave me this cloak, sir, when they were sending meback to England. I had been his servant for a short time before Iwas wounded by the explosion on board the _Theseus_, and he said Ishould feel the cold of the voyage. He's very kind; and I've heardsay he promises to be a first-rate officer.'
'You shall have a slice of roast beef, whether you want it or not,'said the warden, ringing the bell at his own back-door. 'I recognizethe cloak now--the young scamp! How soon he has made it shabby,though,' he continued, taking up a corner where there was an immensetear not too well botched up. 'And so you were on board the_Theseus_ at the time of the explosion? Bring some cold meat herefor the good man--or stay! Come in with me, and then you can tellMrs. Pennington and the young ladies all you know about Harry,--andthe siege,--and the explosion.'
So Philip was ushered into the warden's house and made to eat roastbeef almost against his will; and he was questioned andcross-questioned by three eager ladies, all at the same time, as itseemed to him. He had given all possible details on the subjectsabout which they were curious; and was beginning to consider how hecould best make his retreat, when the younger Miss Pennington wentup to her father--who had all this time stood, with his hat on,holding his coat-tails over his arms, with his back to the fire. Hebent his ear down a very little to hear some whispered suggestion ofhis daughter's, nodded his head, and then went on questioningPhilip, with kindly inquisitiveness and patronage, as the rich doquestion the poor.
'And where are you going to now?'
Philip did not answer directly. He wondered in his own mind where hewas going. At length he said,
'Northwards, I believe. But perhaps I shall never reach there.'
'Haven't you friends? Aren't you going to them?'
There was again a pause; a cloud came over Philip's countenance. Hesaid,
'No! I'm not going to my friends. I don't know that I've got anyleft.'
They interpreted his looks and this speech to mean that he hadeither lost his friends by death, or offended them by enlisting.
The warden went on,
'I ask, because we've got a cottage vacant in the mead. Old Dobson,who was with General Wolfe at the taking of Quebec, died a fortnightago. With such injuries as yours, I fear you'll never be able towork again. But we require strict testimonials as to character,' headded, with as penetrating a look as he could summon up at Philip.
Philip looked unmoved, either by the offer of the cottage, or theillusion to the possibility of his character not being satisfactory.He was grateful enough in reality, but too heavy at heart to carevery much what became of him.
The warden and his family, who were accustomed to consider asettlement at St Sepulchre's as the sum of all good to a worn-outsoldier, were a little annoyed at Philip's cool way of receiving theproposition. The warden went on to name the contingent advantages.
'Besides the cottage, you would have a load of wood for firing onAll Saints', on Christmas, and on Candlemas days--a blue gown andsuit of clothes to match every Michaelmas, and a shilling a day tokeep yourself in all other things. Your dinner you would have withthe other men, in hall.'
'The warden himself goes into hall every day, and sees thateverything is comfortable, and says grace,' added the warden's lady.
'I know I seem stupid,' said Philip, almost humbly, 'not to be moregrateful, for it's far beyond what I iver expected or thought foragain, and it's a great temptation, for I'm just worn out withfatigue. Several times I've thought I must lie down under a hedge,and just die for very weariness. But once I had a wife and a childup in the north,' he stopped.
'And are they dead?' asked one of the young ladies in a softsympathizing tone. Her eyes met Philip's, full of dumb woe. He triedto speak; he wanted to explain more fully, yet not to reveal thetruth.
'Well!' said the warden, thinking he perceived the real state ofthings, 'what I propose is this. You shall go into old Dobson'shouse at once, as a kind of probationary bedesman. I'll write toHarry, and get your character from him. Stephen Freeman I think yousaid your name was? Before I can receive his reply you'll have beenable to tell how you'd like the kind of life; and at any rate you'llhave the rest you seem to require in the meantime. You see, I takeHarry's having given you that cloak as a kind of character,' addedhe, smiling kindly. 'Of course you'll have to conform to rules justlike all the rest,--chapel at eight, dinner at twelve, lights out atnine; but I'll tell you the remainder of our regulations as we walkacross quad to your new quarters.'
And thus Philip, almost in spite of himself, became installed in abedesman's house at St Sepulchre.