THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER

The Adventures of Harry Rochester

A Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene

BY

HERBERT STRANG

AUTHOR OF "TOM BURNABY" "BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE" "KOBO: A STORY OF THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR"

Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I.

NEW YORK G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 27 AND 29 WEST 230 STREET 1905

"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.

HERBERT STRANG.

Michaelmas Day, 1905.

Contents

The Queen's Purse-Bearer

Sherebiah Shouts

Master and Man

Mynheer Jan Grootz and Another

A Message from the Squire

My Lord Marlborough makes a Note

Snared

Flotsam

Monsieur de Polignac Presses his Suit

Bluff

The Battle of Lindendaal

Harry is Discharged

Concerning Sherebiah

Harry Rides for a Life

The Water of Affliction

Knaves All Three

In the Dusk

A Little Plot

Marlborough's March to the Danube

The Castle of Rauhstein

Across the Fosse

The Fight in the Keep

Blenheim

The Wages of Sin

A Bundle of Letters

The New Squire

Visitors at Winton Hall

List of Illustrations

The Fight in the Castle Yard . . . . . . Frontispiece

Harry makes a Diversion

My Lord Marlborough

At the Last Gasp

"Mon Colonel, we are surrounded!"

The Stroke of Eight

"Fire and Fury!" shouted Aglionby

Mein Wirth is Surprised

Map And Plan

Map of the Low Countries in 1703

Plan of the Battle of Blenheim

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:

"'Twas on a jolly summer's morn, the twenty-first of May, Giles Scroggins took his turmut-hoe, and with it trudged away. For some delights in hay-makin', and some they fancies mowin', But of all the trades as I likes best, give I the turmut hoein'. For the fly, the fly, the fly is on the turmut; And 'tis all my eye for we to try, to keep fly off the turmut."