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Sir John Constantine, a novel by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch |
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Chapter 8. Tribulations Of A Mayor |
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_ CHAPTER VIII. TRIBULATIONS OF A MAYOR "Like the Mayor of Falmouth, who thanked God when the Town Jail was enlarged." ---Old Byword.
"Eh? eh? What is this? What is the meaning of all this?" demanded his Worship, magisterially, as, having drawn rein, he fumbled in his tail pocket, drew forth a pair of horn spectacles, adjusted them on his nose, and glared round upon the throng. "That, sir," answered my father, stepping forward, "is what we are waiting to learn." "Sir John Constantine?" The Mayor bowed from his saddle. "You will pardon me, Sir John, that for the moment I missed to recognize you. The fact is, I suffer, Sir John, from some--er--shortness of sight: a grave inconvenience, at times, to one in my position." "Indeed?" said my father, gravely. "And yet, as I have heard, 'tis a malady most incident to borough magistrates." "You don't say so?" The Mayor considered this for a moment. "The visitations of Providence are indeed inscrutable, Sir John. It would give me pleasure to discuss them with you, on some--er--more suitable occasion, if I might have the honour. But as I was about to say, I am delighted to see you, Sir John: your presence here will strengthen my hands in dealing with this--er--unlawful assembly." "_Is_ this an unlawful assembly?" my father asked. "It is worse, Sir John; it is far worse. I have been studying the law, and the law admits of no dubiety. It is unlawful assembly where three or more persons meet together to carry out some private enterprise in circumstances calculated to excite alarm. Mark those words, Sir John--" some private enterprise. "When the enterprise is not private but meant to redress a public grievance, or to reform religion, the offence becomes high treason." "Does the law indeed say so?" "It does, Sir John. The law, let me tell you, is very fierce against any reforming of religion. Nay more, Sir John, under the first of King George the First, statute two--I forget what chapter--by the Act commonly called the Riot Act, it is enacted that if a dozen or more go about reforming of religion or otherwise upsetting the public peace and refuse to go about their business within the space of one hour after I tell 'em to, the same becomes felony without benefit of clergy." "Good Lord!" exclaimed Billy Priske, pulling off his hat and eyeing the rose in its band. "And further," his Worship continued, "any man wearing the badge or ensign of the rioters shall himself be considered a rioter without benefit of clergy." All this while the crowd had been pressing closer and closer upon us, under compulsion (as it seemed) of reinforcements from the waterside, the purlieus of the Market Strand being, by now, so crowded that men and women were crying out for room. At this moment, glancing across the square, I was puzzled to see a woman leaning forth from a first-floor window and dropping handfuls of artificial flowers upon the heads of the throng. While I watched, she retired--her hands being empty--came back with a band-box, and scattered its contents broadcast, pausing to blow a kiss towards the Mayor. I plucked my father's sleeve to call his attention to this; but he and the Mayor were engaged in argument, his Worship maintaining that the Methodists--and my father that their assailants--were the prime disturbers of the peace. "And how, pray," asked my father, "are these poor women to disperse, if your ruffians won't let 'em?" "As to that, sir, you shall see," promised the Mayor, and turned to the town crier. "John Sprott, call silence. Make as much noise about it as you can, John Sprott. And you, Nandy Daddo, catch hold of my horse's bridle here." He rose in his stirrups and, searching again in his tail-pocket, drew forth a roll of paper. "Silence!" bawled the crier. "Louder, if you please, John Sprott: louder, if you can manage it! And say 'In the name of King George,' John Sprott; and wind up with 'God save the King.' For without 'God save the King' 'tis no riot, and a man cannot be hanged for it. So be very particular to say 'God save the King,' John Sprott, and put 'em all in the wrong." John Sprott bawled again, and this time achieved the whole formula. "That's better, John Sprott. And you--" his Worship turned upon the Methodists, "you just listen to this, now--" "_Our sovereign Lord the King--_" Here, as the Methodists stood before him with folded hands, a lump of filth flew past the Mayor's ear and bespattered the lamp-post. "Damme, who did that?" his Worship demanded. "John Sprott, who threw that muck?" "I don't know the man's name, your Worship: but he's yonder, there, in a striped shirt open at the neck, with a little round hat on the back of his head; and, what's more, I see'd him do it." "Then take down his description, John Sprott, and write that at the words 'Our sovereign Lord' he shied a lump of muck." John Sprott pulled out a note-book and entered the offence. "And after 'muck,' John Sprott, write 'God save the King.' I don't know that 'tis necessary, but you'll be on the safe side." His Worship unfolded the proclamation again, cleared his throat, and resumed: "_Our sovereign Lord the King chargeth and commandeth all persons, being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves and peacefully to depart to their habitations or to their lawful business, upon the pains contained in the Act made in the first year of George the First for preventing--_" A handful of more or less liquid mud here took him on the nape of the neck and splashed over the paper which he held in both hands. "Arrest that man!" he shouted, bouncing about in a fury. At the same moment my father gripped my elbow as a volley of missiles darkened the air, and we fell back--all the Company of the Rose--shoulder to shoulder, to protect the Methodists, as a small but solid phalanx of men came driving through the crowd with mischief in their faces. "But wait awhile! wait awhile!" called out Billy Priske, as my father plucked out his sword. "These be no enemies, master, to us or the Methodists, but honest sea-fardingers--packet-men all--and, look you, with roses in their hats!" "Roses? Faith, and so they have!" cried my father, lowering his guard. "But what the devil, then, is the meaning of it?" He was answered on the moment. The official whom his Worship called Nandy Daddo had made a rush into the crowd, charging it with his mace as with a battering-ram, and was in the act of clutching the man who had thrown the filth, when the phalanx of packet-men broke through and bore him down. A moment later I saw his gold-laced hat fly skimming over the heads of the throng, and his mace wrenched from him and held aloft in the hands of a red-faced man, who flourished it twice and rushed upon the Mayor, shouting at the same time with all his lungs: "Townshends! This way, Townshends!" whereat the packet-men cheered and pressed after him, driving the crowd of Falmouth to right and left. Clearly what mischief they meant was intended for the Mayor: and the Mayor, for a short-sighted man, detected this very promptly. Also he showed surprising agility in tumbling out of his saddle; which he had scarcely done before the crupper resounded with a whack, of which one of the borough maces bears an eloquent dent to this day. The Mayor, catching his toe in the stirrup as he slipped off, staggered and fell at our feet. But the body of his horse, interposed between him and the rioters, protected him for an instant, and in that instant my father and Nat Fiennes dragged him up and thrust him to the rear while we faced the assault. For now, and without a word said, the Methodists were forgotten, and we of the Rose were standing for law and order against this other company of the Rose, of whose quarrel we knew nothing at all. Our attitude indeed, and the sight of drawn swords (to oppose which they had no weapons but short cudgels), appeared to take them aback for the moment. The press, however, closing on us, as we backed to cover the Mayor's retreat, offered less and less occasion for sword play; and, the seamen still advancing and outnumbering us by about three to one, the whole affair began to wear an ugly look. At this juncture relief came to us in the strangest fashion. I had clean forgotten the little Methodist man in black; whom, to be sure, I had no occasion to remember but for the quiet resolution of his carriage as he had stood with the burst egg trickling over his face. But now, to the surprise of us all, he sprang forward upon the second mace-bearer, snatched the mace from his hand and laid about him in a sudden frenzy; at the first blow, delivered at unawares, catching the ringleader on the crown and felling him like an ox. For a second, perhaps, he stared, amazed at his own prowess, and with that the lust of battle seized him. He rained blows; yet with cunning, running forth and back into our ranks as each was delivered; and between the blows he capered, uttering shrill inarticulate cries. This diversion indeed saved us. For the rabble, pressing up to see the fun, left a space more or less clear on the far side of the Market Strand, and for this space we stampeded, dragging the Mayor along with us. The next thing I remember was fighting side by side with Nat before a door beneath the window where I had seen the woman throwing down her handfuls of artificial flowers. The lower windows were barred, but the door stood open; and we fought to defend it whilst my father lifted the Mayor of Falmouth by his coat-collar and the seat of his breeches and flung him inside. Then we too backed and, ducking indoors under the arms of the little man in black--who stood on the step swinging the borough mace as though to scythe off the head of any one who approached within five feet of it--seized him by the coat-tails, dragged him inside and, slamming to the door (which shut with two flaps), locked and bolted it and leant against it with all our weight. Yet a common house-door is but a flimsy barricade against a mob, especially if that mob be led by five-and-twenty stout-bodied seaman. We had shut it merely to gain time, and when the cudgels outside began to play tattoo upon its upper panels I looked for no more than a minute's respite at the best. It puzzled me therefore when--and immediately upon two ugly blows that had well-nigh shaken the lock from its fastenings--the shouting suddenly subsided into a confused hubbub of voices, followed by a clang and rattle of arms upon the cobblestones. This last sound appeared to hush the others into silence. I stood listening, with my hip pressed against the lock to hold it firm against the next concussion. None came: but presently some one rapped with his knuckles on the upper panel and a voice, authoritative but civil enough, challenged us in the name of King George to open. To this I had almost answered bidding him go to the devil, when a damsel put her head over the stair-rail of the landing above and called down to us to obey and open at once: and looking up in the dim light of the passage I recognized her for the one who had scattered the flowers, just now, to the rioters. "Pardon me," said I, "but how shall I know you are not playing us a trick?" "My good child," she replied, "open the door and don't stand arguing. The riot is over and the square full of military. The person who knocks is Captain Bright of the Pendennis Garrison. If you don't believe me, step upstairs here and look out of window." "My father--" I began. "Your father is right enough, and so is that fool of a Mayor--or will be when he has drunk down a glass of cordial." Nevertheless I would not obey her until I had sent Nat Fiennes upstairs to look; who within a minute called over the stair-head that the woman told the truth and I had my father's leave to open. Thereupon I pulled open the upper flap of the door, and stood blinking at a tall officer in gorgeous regimentals. "Hullo!" said he. "Good morning!" "Good morning!" said I. "And forgive me that I kept you waiting." "Don't mention it," said he very affably. "My fault entirely, for coming late; or rather the Mayor's, who sent word that we weren't needed. I took the liberty to doubt this as soon as my sentries reported that a couple of boats' crews were putting ashore from the _Townshend_ packet: and here we are in consequence. Got him safe?" "The Mayor?" said I. "Yes, I believe he is upstairs at this moment, drinking brandy-and-water and pulling himself together." The Captain grinned amiably. "Sorry to disturb him," said he; "but the mob is threatening to burn his house, and I'd best take him along to read the Riot Act and put things ship-shape." "He has read it already, or some part of it." "Some part of it won't do. He must read the whole proclamation, not forgetting 'God save the King.'" "If you can find the paper," said I, "there's a lump of mud on it, marking the place where he left off." The Captain grinned again. "I doubt he'll have to begin afresh after breaking off to drink brandy-and-water with Moll Whiteaway. For a chief magistrate that will need some explaining. And yet," mused the Captain, as he stepped into the passage, "you may have done him a better turn than ever you guessed; for, when the mob sees the humour of it, belike it'll be more for laughing than setting fire to his house." "But who is Moll Whiteaway?" I asked. He stared at me. "You mean to say you didn't know?" he asked slowly. "You didn't bring him here for a joke?" "A joke?" I echoed. "A mighty queer joke, sir, you'd have thought it, if your men had been five minutes earlier." He leaned back against the wall of the passage. "And you brought him here _by accident?_ Well, if this don't beat cock-fighting!" "But who is this Moll Whiteaway?" I repeated. The question again seemed to take his breath away. For answer he could only point to a small brass plate in the lower flap of the door; and, stooping, I read: _Miss Whiteaway, Milliner, Modes and Robes_. "Oh!" said I. "That accounts for the band-box of flowers." "Does it?" he asked. "She flung them out of window to the packet-men." "Which, doubtless, seemed to you an everyday proceeding--just a milliner's usual way of getting rid of her summer stock. My good young sir, did you ever hear tell of a 'troacher'? Nay, spare that ingenuous blush: Moll is a loose fish, but I mean less than your modesty suspects. A 'troacher' is a kind of female smuggler that disposes of the goods the packet-men bring home in their bunks; and Moll Whiteaway is the head of the profession in Falmouth. Now, our worthy Mayor took oath the other day to put down this smuggling on board the packets; and he began yesterday with the _Townshend_. He and the Port Searcher swept the ship, sir. They dug Portuguese brandy in kegs out of the seamen's beds and parcels of silk out of the very beams. They shook two case-bottles out of the chaplain's breeches, which must have galled him sorely in his devotions. They netted close on two hundred pounds' worth of contraband in the fo'c's'le alone--" "Good Heavens!" I interjected. "And as the riot began he was calling himself short-sighted!" Captain Bright laughed, clapped me on the shoulder and led the way upstairs, where (strange to say) we found the Mayor again deploring his defective vision. He lay in an easy-chair amid an army of band-boxes, bonnet stands, and dummies representing the female figure; and sipped Miss Whiteaway's brandy while he discoursed in broken sentences to an audience consisting of that lady, my father, Nat Fiennes, Mr. Fett, and the little man in black (who, by the way, did not appear to be listening, but stood and pondered the borough mace, which he held in his hands, turning it over and examining the dents). "It is a great drawback, Sir John--a great drawback," his Worship lamented. "A man in my position, sir, should have the eye of an eagle; instead of which on all public occasions I have to rely on John Sprott. My good woman"--he turned to Miss Whiteaway--"would you mind taking a glance out of window and telling me what has become of John Sprott?" "He's down below under protection of the soldiers," announced Miss Whiteaway; "and no harm done but his hat lost and his gown split up the back." "I shall never have the same confidence in John Sprott. He takes altogether too sanguine a view of human nature. Why, only last November--you remember the great gale of November the 1st, Sir John? I was very active in burying the poor bodies brought ashore next day and for several days after; for, as you remember, a couple of Indymen dragged their anchors and broke up under Pendennis Battery: and John Sprott said to me in the most assured way, 'The town'll never forget your kindness, sir. You mark my words,' he said, 'this here action will stand you upon the pinnacles of honour till you and me, if I may respectfully say it, sit down together in the land of marrow and fatness.' After that you'd have thought a man might count on some popularity. But what happened? A day or two later--that is to say, on November the 5th--I was sitting in my shop with a magnifying glass in my eye, cleaning out a customer's watch, when in walked half a dozen boys carrying a man's body between 'em. You could tell that life was extinct by the way his head hung back and his legs trailed limp on the floor as they brought him in, and his face looked to me terribly swollen and discoloured. 'Dear, dear!' said I. 'What? Another poor soul? Take him up to the mortewary, that's good boys,' I said; 'and you shall have twopence apiece out of the poor-box.' How d'ye think they answered me? They bust out a-laughing, and cries one: 'If you please, sir, 'tis meant for _you!_ 'Tis the fifth of November, and we'm goin' to burn you in effigy.' I chased 'em out of the shop, and later on in the day I spoke to John Sprott about it. 'Well now,' said John Sprott,' I passed a lot of boys just now, burning a guy at the top of the Moor, and I had my suspicions; but the thing hadn't a feature of yours to take hold on, barrin' the size of its feet.' And that's what you call popularity!" wound up the Mayor with bitterness. "That's what a man gets for rising early and lying down late to serve his country!" "Excuse me, Mr. Mayor," put in Captain Bright, "but they are threatening to burn worse than your effigy fact I heard some talk of setting fire to your house and shop. Nay," he went on as the Mayor bounced up to his feet, "there's no real cause for alarm. I have sent on my lieutenant with fifty men to keep the mob on the move, and have stationed a dozen outside here to escort you home." "The Riot Act--where's my Riot Act?" cried his Worship, searching his pockets. "I never read out 'God save the King,' and without 'God save the King' a man may burn all my valybles and make turbulent gestures and show of arms, and harry and murder to the detriment of the public peace, and refuse to move on when requested, and all the time in the eyes of the law be a babe unborn. Where's the Riot Act, I say? for without it I'm a lost man and good-bye to Falmouth!" "Then 'tis lucky that I came provided with a copy." Captain Bright produced a paper from the breast of his tunic. The Mayor took it with trembling hands. "Why, 'tis a duplicity!" he cried. "A very duplicity! and, what's more, printed in the same language word for word." He caught the mace from the little man in black. "Lead the way, Captain!" _ |
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