Rookwood — Bk. 1, Chapter 09 - An English Adventurer
_Beggar's Opera.
_ Jack Palmer was a good-humored, good-looking man, with immense bushy, red whiskers, a freckled, florid complexion, and sandy hair, rather inclined to scantiness towards the scalp of the head, which garnished the nape of his neck with a ruff of crisp little curls, like the ring on a monk's shaven crown.
Notwithstanding this tendency to baldness, Jack could not be more than thirty, though his looks were some five years in advance.
His face was one of those inexplicable countenances, which appear to be proper to a peculiar class of men--a regular Newmarket physiognomy--compounded chiefly of cunning and assurance; not low cunning, nor vulgar assurance, but crafty sporting subtlety, careless as to results, indifferent to obstacles, ever on the alert for the main chance, game and turf all over, eager, yet easy, keen, yet quiet.
He was somewhat showily dressed, in such wise that he looked half like a fine gentleman of that day, half like a jockey of our own.
His nether man appeared in well-fitting, well-worn buckskins, and boots with tops, not unconscious of the saddle; while the airy extravagance of his broad-skirted, sky-blue riding coat, the richness of his vest--the pockets of which were beautifully exuberant, according to the mode of 1737--the smart luxuriance of his cravat, and a certain curious taste in the size and style of his buttons, proclaimed that, in his own esteem at least, his person did not appear altogether unworthy of decoration; nor, in justice to Jack, can we allow that he was in error.
He was a model of a man for five feet ten; square, compact, capitally built in every particular, excepting that his legs were slightly imbowed, which defect probably arose from his being almost constantly on horseback; a sort of exercise in which Jack greatly delighted, and was accounted a superb rider.
It was, indeed, his daring horsemanship, upon one particular occasion, when he had outstripped a whole field, that had procured him the honor of an invitation to Rookwood.
Who he was, or whence he came, was a question not easily answered--Jack, himself, evading all solution to the inquiry.
Sir Piers never troubled his head about the matter: he was a "deuced good fellow--rode well, and stood on no sort of ceremony;"
that was enough for him.
Nobody else knew anything about him, save that he was a capital judge of horseflesh, kept a famous black mare, and attended every hunt in the West Riding--that he could sing a good song, was a choice companion, and could drink three bottles without feeling the worse for them.
Sensible of the indecorum that might attach to his appearance, Dr. Small had hastily laid down his pipe, and arranged his wig.
But when he saw who was the intruder, with a grunt of defiance he resumed his occupation, without returning the bow of the latter, or bestowing further notice upon him.
Nothing discomposed at the churchman's displeasure, Jack greeted Titus cordially, and carelessly saluting Mr. Coates, threw himself into a chair.
He next filled a tumbler of claret, and drained it at a draught.
"Have you ridden far, Jack?"
asked Titus, noticing the dusty state of Palmer's azure attire.
"Some dozen miles," replied Palmer; "and that, on such a sultry afternoon as the present, makes one feel thirstyish.
I'm as dry as a sandbed.
Famous wine this--beautiful tipple--better than all your red fustian.
Ah, how poor Sir Piers used to like it!
Well, that's all over--a glass like this might do him good in his present quarters!
I'm afraid I'm intruding.
But the fact is, I wanted a little information about the order of the procession, and missing you below, came hither in search of you.
You're to be chief mourner, I suppose, Titus--_rehearsing_ your part, eh?"
"Come, come, Jack, no joking," replied Titus; "the subject's too serious.
I am to be chief mourner--and I expect you to be a mourner--and everybody else to be mourners.
We must all mourn at the proper time.
There'll be a power of people at the church."
"There _are_ a power of people here already," returned Jack, "if they all attend."
"And they all _will_ attend, or what is the eating and drinking to go for?
I sha'n't leave a soul in the house."
"Excepting one," said Jack, archly.
"Lady Rookwood won't attend, I think."
"Ay, excepting her ladyship and her ladyship's abigail.
All the rest go with me, and form part of the procession.
You go too."
"Of course.
At what time do you start?"
"Twelve precisely.
As the clock strikes, we set out--all in a line, and a long line we'll make.
I'm waiting for that ould coffin-faced rascal, Peter Bradley, to arrange the order."
"How long will it all occupy, think you?"
asked Jack, carelessly.
"That I can't say," returned Titus; "possibly an hour, more or less.
But we shall start to the minute--that is, if we can get all together, so don't be out of the way.
And hark ye, Jack, you must contrive to change your toggery.
That sky-blue coat won't do.
It's not the thing at all, at all."
"Never fear that," replied Palmer.
"But who were those in the carriages?"
"Is it the last carriage you mean?
Squire Forester and his sons.
They're dining with the other gentlefolk, in the great room up-stairs, to be out of the way.
Oh, we'll have a grand _berrin'_.
And, by St. Patrick!
I
must be looking after it."
"Stay a minute," said Jack; "let's have a cool bottle first.
They are all taking care of themselves below, and Peter Bradley has not made his appearance, so you need be in no hurry.
I'll go with you presently.
Shall I ring for the claret?"
"By all means," replied Titus.
Jack accordingly arose; and a butler answering the summons, a long-necked bottle was soon placed before them.
"You heard of the affray last night, I presume?"
said Jack, renewing the conversation.
"With the poachers?
To be sure I did.
Wasn't I called in to examine Hugh Badger's wounds the first thing this morning; and a deep cut there was, just over the eye, besides other bruises."
"Is the wound dangerous?"
inquired Palmer.
"Not exactly mortal, if you mean that," replied the Irishman;
"dangerous, certainly."
"Humph!"
exclaimed Jack; "they'd a pretty hardish bout of it, I understand.
Anything been heard of the body?"
"What body?"
inquired Small, who was half-dozing.
"The body of the drowned poacher," replied Jack; "they were off to search for it this morning."
"Found it--not they!"
exclaimed Titus.
"Ha, ha!
--I can't help laughing, for the life and _sowl_ of me; a capital trick he played 'em,--capital--ha, ha!
What do you think the fellow did?
Ha, ha!
--after leading 'em the devil's dance, all around the park, killing a hound as savage as a wolf, and breaking Hugh Badger's head, which is as hard and thick as a butcher's block, what does the fellow do but dive into a pool, with a great rock hanging over it, and make his way to the other side, through a subterranean cavern, which nobody knew anything about, till they came to drag it, thinking him snugly drowned all the while--ha, ha!"
"Ha, ha, ha!"
chorused Jack; "bravo!
he's a lad of the right sort--ha, ha!"
"He!
who?"
inquired the attorney.
"Why, the poacher, to be sure," replied Jack; "who else were we talking about?"
"Beg pardon," returned Coates; "I thought you might have heard some intelligence.
We've got an eye upon him.
We know who it was."
"Indeed!"
exclaimed Jack; "and who was it?"
"A fellow known by the name of Luke Bradley."
"Zounds!"
cried Titus, "you don't say it was he?
Murder in Irish!
that bates everything; why, he was Sir Piers's----" "Natural son," replied the attorney; "he has not been heard of for some time--shockingly incorrigible rascal--impossible to do anything with him."
"You don't say so?"
observed Jack.
"I've heard Sir Piers speak of the lad; and, by his account, he's as fine a fellow as ever crossed tit's back; only a little wildish and unreasonable, as the best of us may be;
wants breaking, that's all.
Your skittish colt makes the best horse, and so would he.
To speak the truth, I'm glad he escaped."
"So am I," rejoined Titus; "for, in the first place, I've a foolish partiality for poachers, and am sorry when any of 'em come to hurt; and, in the second, I'd be mighty displeased if any ill had happened to one of Sir Piers's flesh and blood, as this young chap appears to be."
"Appears to be!"
repeated Palmer; "there's no _appearing_ in the case, I take it.
This Bradley's an undoubted offshoot of the old squire.
His mother was a servant-maid at the hall, I rather think.
You sir," continued he, addressing Coates, "perhaps, can inform us of the real facts of the case."
"She was something better than a servant," replied the attorney, with a slight cough and a knowing wink.
"I remember her quite well, though I was but a boy then; a lovely creature, and so taking, I don't wonder that Sir Piers was smitten with her.
He was mad after the women in those days, and pretty Sue Bradley above all others.
She lived with him quite like his lady."
"So I've heard," returned Jack; "and she remained with him till her death.
Let me see, wasn't there something rather odd in the way in which she died, rather suddenish and unexpected,--a noise made about it at the time, eh?"
"Not that I ever heard," replied Coates, shaking his head, and appearing to be afflicted with an instantaneous ignorance; while Titus affected not to hear the remark, but occupied himself with his wine-glass.
Small snored audibly.
"I was too young, then, to pay any attention to idle rumors," continued Coates.
"It's a long time ago.
May I ask the reason of your inquiry?"
"Nothing further than simple curiosity," replied Jack, enjoying the consternation of his companions.
"It is, as you say, a long while since.
But it's singular how that sort of thing is remembered.
One would think people had something else to do than talk of one's private affairs for ever.
For my part, I despise such tattle.
But there _are_ persons in the neighborhood who still say it was an awkward business.
Amongst others, I've heard that this very Luke Bradley talks in pretty plain terms about it."
"Does he, indeed?"
said Coates.
"So much the worse for him.
Let me once lay hands upon him, and I'll put a gag in his mouth that shall spoil his talking in the future."
"That's precisely the point I desire to arrive at," replied Jack; "and I advise you by all means to accomplish that, for the sake of the family.
Nobody likes his friends to be talked about.
So I'd settle the matter amicably, were I you.
Just let the fellow go his way; he won't return here again in a hurry, I'll be bound.
As to clapping him in quod, he might prattle--turn stag."
"Turn stag!"
replied Coates, "what the deuce is that?
In my opinion, he has 'turned stag' already.
At all events, he'll pay _deer_ for his night's sport, you may depend upon it.
What signifies it what _he_ says?
Let me lay hands upon him, that's all."
"Well, well," said Jack, "no offence.
I only meant to offer a suggestion.
I thought the family, young Sir Ranulph, I mean, mightn't like the story to be revived.
As to Lady Rookwood, she don't, I suppose, care much about idle reports.
Indeed, if I've been rightly informed, she bears this youngster no particular good-will to begin with, and has tried hard to get him out of the country.
But, as you say, what _does_ it signify what he says?
he can _only_ talk.
Sir Piers is dead and gone."
"Humph!"
muttered Coates, peevishly.
"But it does seem a little hard, that a lad should swing for killing a bit of venison in his own father's park."
"Which he'd a _nat'ral_ right to do," cried Titus.
"He had no natural right to bruise, violently assault, and endanger the life of his father's, or anybody else's gamekeeper," retorted Coates.
"I tell you, sir, he's committed a capital offence, and if he's taken----" "No chance of that, I hope," interrupted Jack.
"That's a wish I can't help wishing myself," said Titus: "on my conscience, these poachers are fine boys, when all's said and done."
"The finest of all boys," exclaimed Jack, with a kindred enthusiasm, "are those birds of the night, and minions of the moon, whom we call, most unjustly, poachers.
They are, after all, only _professional sportsmen_, making a business of what we make a pleasure; a nightly pursuit of what is to us a daily relaxation; there's the main distinction.
As to the rest, it's all in idea; they merely thin an overstocked park, as _you_ would reduce a plethoric patient, doctor; or as _you_ would work a moneyed client, if you got him into Chancery, Mister Attorney.
And then how much more scientifically and systematically they set to work than we amateurs do!
how noiselessly they bag a hare, smoke a pheasant, or knock a buck down with an air-gun!
how independent are they of any license, except that of a good eye, and a swift pair of legs!
how unnecessary is it for them to ask permission to shoot over Mr. So-and-so's grounds, or my Lord That's preserves!
they are free of every cover, and indifferent to any alteration in the game laws.
I've some thoughts, when everything else fails, of taking to poaching myself.
In my opinion, a poacher's a highly respectable character.
What say you, Mr. Coates?"
turning very gravely to that gentleman.
"Such a question, sir," replied Coates, bridling up, "scarcely deserves a serious answer.
I make no doubt you will next maintain that a highwayman is a gentleman."
"Most undoubtedly," replied Palmer, in the same grave tone, which might have passed for banter, had Jack ever bantered.
"I'll maintain and prove it.
I don't see how he can be otherwise.
It is as necessary for a man to be a gentleman before he can turn highwayman, as it is for a doctor to have his diploma, or an attorney his certificate.
Some of the finest gentlemen of their day, as Captain Lovelace, Hind, Hannum, and Dudley, were eminent on the road, and they set the fashion.
Ever since their day a real highwayman would consider himself disgraced, if he did not conduct himself in every way like a gentleman.
Of course, there are pretenders in this line, as in everything else.
But these are only exceptions, and prove the rule.
What are the distinguishing characteristics of a fine gentleman?
--perfect knowledge of the world--perfect independence of character--notoriety--command of cash--and inordinate success with the women.
You grant all these premises?
First, then, it is part of a highwayman's business to be thoroughly acquainted with the world.
He is the easiest and pleasantest fellow going.
There is Tom King, for example: he is the handsomest man about town, and the best-bred fellow on the road.
Then whose inclinations are so uncontrolled as the highwayman's, so long as the mopuses last?
who produces so great an effect by so few words?
--'STAND
AND DELIVER!'
is sure to arrest attention.
Every one is captivated by an address so _taking_.
As to money, he wins a purse of a hundred guineas as easily as you would the same sum from the faro table.
And wherein lies the difference?
only in the name of the game.
Who so little need of a banker as he?
all he has to apprehend is a check--all he has to draw is a trigger.
As to the women, they dote upon him: not even your red-coat is so successful.
Look at a highwayman mounted on his flying steed, with his pistols in his holsters, and his mask upon his face.
What can be a more gallant sight?
The clatter of his horse's heels is like music to his ear--he is in full quest--he shouts to the fugitive horseman to stay--the other flies all the faster--what chase can be half so exciting as that?
Suppose he overtakes his prey, which ten to one he will, how readily his summons to deliver is obeyed!
how satisfactory is the appropriation of a lusty purse or corpulent pocket-book!
--getting the brush is nothing to it.
How tranquilly he departs, takes off his hat to his accommodating acquaintance, wishes him a pleasant journey, and disappears across the heath!
England, sir, has reason to be proud of her highwaymen.
They are peculiar to her clime, and are as much before the brigand of Italy, the contrabandist of Spain, or the cut-purse of France--as her sailors are before all the rest of the world.
The day will never come, I hope, when we shall degenerate into the footpad, and lose our _Night Errantry_.
Even the French borrow from us--they have only one highwayman of eminence, and he learnt and practised his art in England."
"And who was he, may I ask?"
said Coates.
"Claude Du-Val," replied Jack; "and though a Frenchman, he was a deuced fine fellow in his day--quite a tip-top macaroni--he could skip and twirl like a figurant, warble like an opera-singer, and play the flageolet better than any man of his day--he always carried a lute in his pocket, along with his snappers.
And then his dress--it was quite beautiful to see how smartly he was rigg'd out, all velvet and lace; and even with his vizard on his face, the ladies used to cry out to see him.
Then he took a purse with the air and grace of a receiver-general.
All the women adored him--and that, bless their pretty faces!
was the best proof of his gentility.
I wish he'd not been a Mounseer.
The women never mistake.
_They_ can always discover the true gentlemen, and they were all, of every degree, from the countess to the kitchen-maid, over head and ears in love with him."
"But he was taken, I suppose?"
asked Coates.
"Ay," responded Jack, "the women were his undoing, as they've been many a brave fellow's before, and will be again."
Touched by which reflection, Jack became for once in his life sentimental, and sighed.
"Poor Du-Val!
he was seized at the Hole-in-the-Wall in Chandos-street by the bailiff of Westminster, when dead drunk, his liquor having been drugged by his dells--and was shortly afterwards hanged at Tyburn."
"It was thousand pities," said Mr. Coates, with a sneer, "that so fine a gentleman should come to so ignominious an end!"
"Quite the contrary," returned Jack.
"As his biographer, Doctor Pope, properly remarks, 'Who is there worthy of the name of man, that would not prefer such a death before a mean, solitary, inglorious life?'
By-the-by, Titus, as we're upon the subject, if you like I'll sing you a song about highwaymen."
"I should like it of all things," replied Titus, who entertained a very favorable opinion of Jack's vocal powers, and was by no means an indifferent performer; "only let it be in a minor key."
Jack required no further encouragement, but disregarding the hints and looks of Coates, sang with much unction the following ballad to a good old tune, then very popular--the merit of which "nobody can deny."
A CHAPTER OF HIGHWAYMEN
Of every rascal of every kind, The most notorious to my mind, Was the Cavalier Captain, gay JEMMY HIND!
[7] _Which nobody can deny.
_ But the pleasantest coxcomb among them all For lute, coranto, and madrigal, Was the galliard Frenchman, CLAUDE DU-VAL!
[8] _Which nobody can deny.
_ And Tobygloak never a coach could rob, Could lighten a pocket, or empty a fob, With a neater hand than OLD MOB, OLD MOB!
[9] _Which nobody can deny.
_ Nor did housebreaker ever deal harder knocks On the stubborn lid of a good strong box, Than that prince of good fellows, TOM COX, TOM COX!
[10] _Which nobody can deny.
_ A blither fellow on broad highway, Did never with oath bid traveller stay, Than devil-may-care WILL HOLLOWAY!
[11] _Which nobody can deny.
_ And in roguery naught could exceed the tricks Of GETTINGS and GREY, and the five or six Who trod in the steps of bold NEDDY WICKS!
[12] _Which nobody can deny.
_ Nor could any so handily break a lock As SHEPPARD, who stood on the Newgate dock, And nicknamed the jailers around him "_his flock_!"
[13] _Which nobody can deny.
_ Nor did highwaymen ever before possess For ease, for security, danger, distress, Such a mare as DICK TURPIN'S Black Bess!
Black Bess!
_Which nobody can deny.
_ "A capital song, by the powers!"
cried Titus, as Jack's ditty came to a close.
"But your English robbers are nothing at all, compared with our Tories[14] and Rapparees--nothing at all.
They were the _raal_ gentlemen--they were the boys to cut a throat _aisily_."
"Pshaw!"
exclaimed Jack, in disgust, "the gentlemen I speak of never maltreated any one, except in self-defence."
"Maybe not," replied Titus; "I'll not dispute the point--but these Rapparees were true brothers of the blade, and gentlemen every inch.
I'll just sing you a song I made about them myself.
But meanwhile don't let's forget the bottle--talking's dry work.
My service to you, doctor!"
added he, winking at the somnolent Small.
And tossing off his glass, Titus delivered himself with much joviality of the following ballad; the words of which he adapted to the tune of the _Groves of the Pool_: THE RAPPAREES
Let the Englishman boast of his Turpins and Sheppards, as cocks of the walk, His Mulsacks, and Cheneys, and Swiftnecks[15]--it's all botheration and talk;
Compared with the robbers of Ireland, they don't come within half a mile, There never were yet any rascals like those of my own native isle!
First and foremost comes REDMOND O'HANLON, allowed the first thief of the world,[16] That o'er the broad province of Ulster the Rapparee banner unfurled;
Och!
he was an elegant fellow, as ever you saw in your life, At fingering the blunderbuss trigger, or handling the throat-cutting knife.
And then such a dare-devil squadron as that which composed REDMOND'S _tail_!
Meel, Mactigh, Jack Reilly, Shan Bernagh, Phil Galloge, and Arthur O'Neal;
_Shure_ never were any boys like 'em for rows, _agitations_, and sprees, Not a _rap_ did they leave in the country, and hence they were called _Rap_parees.
[17] Next comes POWER, the great Tory[18] of Munster, a gentleman born every inch, And strong JACK MACPHERSON of Leinster, a horse-shoe who broke at a pinch;
The last was a fellow so _lively_, not death e'en his courage could damp, For as he was led to the gallows, he played his own "march to the camp."
[19] PADDY FLEMING, DICK BALF, and MULHONI, I think are the next on my list, All adepts in the beautiful science of giving a pocket a twist;
JEMMY CARRICK must follow his leaders, _ould_ PURNEY who put in a huff, By dancing a hornpipe at Tyburn, and bothering the hangman for snuff.
There's PAUL LIDDY, the curly-pate Tory, whose noddle was stuck on a spike, And BILLY DELANEY, the "_Songster_,"[20] we never shall meet with his like;
For his neck by a witch was anointed, and warranted safe by her charm, No hemp that was ever yet twisted his wonderful throttle could harm.
And lastly, there's CAHIR NA CAPPUL, the handiest rogue of them all, Who only need whisper a word, and your horse will trot out of his stall;
Your tit is not safe in your stable, though you or your groom should be near, And devil a bit in the paddock, if CAHIR gets _hould_ of his ear.
Then success to the Tories of Ireland, the generous, the gallant, the gay!
With them the best _Rumpads_[21] of England are not to be named the same day!
And were further proof wanting to show what precedence we take with our _prigs_, Recollect that _our_ robbers are Tories, while those of _your_ country are Whigs.
"Bravissimo!"
cried Jack, drumming upon the table.
"Well," said Coates, "we've had enough about the Irish highwaymen, in all conscience.
But there's a rascal on our side of the Channel, whom you have only incidentally mentioned, and who makes more noise than them all put together."
"Who's that?"
asked Jack, with some curiosity.
"Dick Turpin," replied the attorney: "he seems to me quite as worthy of mention as any of the Hinds, the Du-Vals, or the O'Hanlons, you have either of you enumerated."
"I did not think of him," replied Palmer, smiling; "though, if I had, he scarcely deserves to be ranked with those illustrious heroes."
"Gads bobs!"
cried Titus; "they tell me Turpin keeps the best nag in the United Kingdom, and can ride faster and further in a day than any other man in a week."
"So I've heard," said Palmer, with a glance of satisfaction.
"I should like to try a run with him.
I warrant me, I'd not be far behind."
"I should like to get a peep at him," quoth Titus.
