The Distracted Preacher (10 page)

Lulworth Cove
Illustration from
Hardy Country Water-Colours
by Walter Tyndale.

Selection from
The Wessex of Thomas Hardy
by
B.C.A. Windle & E.H. New.

In this excursion the road leads east instead of west, and crossing that gentle slope which is called Greenhill, takes us past the malodorous marsh called Lodmore and under Jordan Hill, once the site of a Roman watering-place, where many relics of imperial times have been turned up by the plough and spade. A couple of miles further, the road crosses a stream, and looking to our left there is to be seen a little one-arched bridge of exceedingly rude construction. This may date back to Roman times, though some authorities have been inclined to assign it to the Norman period. It may possibly have been the bridge without a parapet under which Anne Garland and Matilda Johnson hid Bob Loveday from the press-gang, for the houses near which it stands form part of the village of Sutton Poyntz, the Overcombe of “The Trumpet-Major.” The village may be approached by the footpath near this bridge, or by taking the next turn on the left beyond it. Whichever way is chosen, the visitor will eventually reach a flour-mill driven by the waters of the little stream running through the valley in which the village nestles. The Hardyite, who is really familiar with the novels, will at first experience a sense of disappointment, for in no way can what he sees be made to fit in with the details given in the story. His mind will, however, be relieved when he learns that the mill of the story has been pulled down, that which now occupies its site being a modern erection. Modern, too, is the tall chimney of the waterworks, which ensure to Weymouth a constant and excellent supply of that fluid, to the serious detriment of the scene, and the great attenuation of the stream which drives the mill. If one passes the mill and halts upon the tiny bridge which spans the stream a little higher up the road, and then endeavours to eliminate from the prospect the aforesaid chimney and a new and obtrusive inn, too often noisy with hordes of trippers from the neighbouring watering-place, a good idea can be obtained of what the village and the mill-pond looked like on the day when John Loveday and the troopers descended from the hill to water their horses in the pool.

This is the prospect which Anne surveyed from her chamber window. “Immediately before her was the large, smooth mill-pond, over-f, and intruding into the hedge and into the road. The water, with its flowing leaves and spots of froth, was stealing away, like Time, under the dark arch, to tumble over the great slimy wheel within. On the other side of the mill-pond was an open place called the Cross, because it was three-quarters of one, two lanes and a cattle-drive meeting there. It was the general rendezvous and arena of the surrounding village. Behind this a steep slope rose high into the sky, merging in a wide and open down, now littered with sheep newly shorn. The upland by its height completely sheltered the mill and village from north winds, making summers of springs, reducing winters to autumn temperatures, and permitting myrtles to flourish in the open air.” John Loveday pointed out to Anne one day that the soldiers were “cutting out a huge picture of the king on horseback in the earth of the hill. The king's head is to be as big as our mill-pond, and his body as big as this garden; he and the horse will cover more than an acre.” Those who wish to climb up and closely examine this work of art had better do so from here. Those who are content with a distant view of it can obtain it from the long hill which has to be climbed after the main road has been regained. This hill climbed and the descent of its opposite side accomplished, the village of Osmington, where there is nothing to detain us, is reached.

The next village is Poxwell, whose name is a corruption of Puck's well. It is the Oxwell of “The Trumpet-Major,” and contains the fine Jacobean manor-house of the Hennings at which old Derriman lived—though, for the purposes of his story, Mr. Hardy has placed it considerably nearer to Overcombe than it really is. Like Waterston, it was once the residence of one of the smaller families of the country, and, like it, has descended in the social scale to the status of a farmhouse. It closely corresponds with the description given in the story, though it is in a better state of repair than in the days of the penurious Derriman. The eye will at once be caught by the arched gateway which screens the main front, and the porter's lodge above it, reached by a spiral staircase. The visitor should, after having examined the front of this fine old house, walk round to the east side, with its row of gable-ends, and investigate, if he is allowed, the yard at the back, after which he will come to the conclusion that few modern houses can compete in beauty with this ancient residence.

A mile or so beyond Poxwell the road meets that from Dorchester at Warmwell Cross, and here we are on ground which we have already traversed. We pass the road which turns down to Owermoigne, and take the turn by the Red Lion leading to Lulworth, through Winfrith Newburgh. Beyond West Lulworth is Lulworth Cove, the goal of our journey. This is the “small basin of sea enclosed by the cliffs” in which Troy bathed after his night in Puddletown church porch, and at its mouth can be seen “the two projecting spurs of rock which formed the pillars of Hercules to this miniature Mediterranean.” It is the Lulstead of the novels, where the dead bodies of Stephen Hardcome and his cousin's wife were washed up, and where Cytherea Graye met Edward Springrove for the first time. It is also one of the places where Mrs. Lizzie Newberry's associates were in the habit of running their cargoes of smuggled spirit, and seems, indeed, by nature to have been intended for clandestine operations of one sort or another. During the time when the Catholic religion was proscribed in this country, and those who professed it were subjected to the rigours of a harsh penal code, the introduction of priests into England was one of the things most strictly forbidden. Yet many a seminary priest did find his way into the country, and a large number of these were landed, under cover of night, in this secluded basin, and hurried off to the neighbouring Catholic house of Lulworth Castle, the seat of the Weld family. Finally, this is “the three-quarter round Cove, screened from every mortal eye,” where old Solomon Selby, when a young man, saw Bonaparte exploring the land in search of a suitable place for the landing of his fleet of flat-bottomed boats, as narrated in the “Tradition of Eighteen Hundred and Four.” It is difficult, until one examines the broadsheets and other ephemeral literature of the day, to realize how great was the terror of a French descent upon these shores. Some idea we gain of it from the scenes in “The Trumpet-Major;” but, then, Mr. Hardy has had the advantage of hearing accounts of that time from the lips of actual eye-witnesses, who are now laid to rest. In the novel just mentioned there is a transcription of a Proclamation to the people of England, telling them how they should prepare for the expected invasion. An original copy of this Proclamation may be seen in the Museum at Salisbury, and by it hangs another document of the same kind, which is less well known. It throws so much light upon the state of feeling at the period, that it will not be loss of space to quote it here
in extenso.

“Fellow-Citizens,—Bonaparte threatens to invade us. He promises to enrich his soldiers with our property: To glut their lust with our Wives and Daughters: To incite his Hell-hounds to execute his vengeance he has
sworn
to permit everything. Shall we merit, by our cowardice, the titles of Sordid Shopkeepers, Cowardly Scum and Dastardly Wretches, which in every proclamation he gives us: No; we will loudly give him the
lie:
let us make ourselves ready to shut our Shops and march to give him the reception his malicious calumnies deserve: let every brave young fellow instantly join the
Army
or
Navy;
and those among us, who, from being married or so occupied in business, cannot, let us join some Volunteer Corps, where we may learn the use of arms and yet attend our business; let us encourage recruiting in our neighbourhood, and loudly silence the tongues of those whose Ignorance or Defection (if any such there be) lead them to doubt of the attempt to invade, or inveigh against the measures taken to resist it. By doing this, and feeling confidence in ourselves, we shall probably prevent the attempt, or, if favoured by a dark night, the enemy should reach our shores, our Unanimity and Strength will paralize his efforts and render him an easy prey to our brave
Army.
Let
us
in our families and neighbourhood, thus contribute to so desirable an event, and the
blood-stained banners of the vaunted Conquerors of Europe will soon be hung up in our Churches, the humble trophies of our brave Army:
an Army ever victorious when not doubled in numbers; and the only Army who can stand the charge of Bayonets.What
Army
ever stood THEIRS !!!—
let the welfare of our country animate all—and
‘
come the world in arms against us, we'll shock ‘em.'

A Shopkeeper.

Thee Haughty Tyrants ne'er shall tame,

All their attempts to pull thee down

Shall but arouse thy gen'rous flame

To light their woe and thy renown.—R.B.

Rule Brittannia.

Printed for J. Ginger,169, Piccadilly.

Price Sixpence per Dozen for Distribution.

W. Marchant, Printer, 3, Greville St., Holborn.”

One more instance of the careful study of the literature of the time which Mr. Hardy has made, and of the vivid picture which he has thus been enabled to throw upon the canvas of his tale, may be found in the data on which are based Corporal Tullidge's instructions for firing his beacon.

“‘Did you get your signal to fire it from the east?' said the miller hastily.

“‘No; from Abbotsea Beach.'

“‘But you are not to go by a coast signal!'

“‘Chok' it all, wasn't the Lord-Lieutenant's direction, whenever you see Rainbarrow's Beacon burn to the nor'-east'ard, or Haggardon to the nor'-west'ard, or the actual presence of the enemy on the shore?'”

Now, in Bankes' “Story of Corfe Castle,” will be found a copy of a letter sent by the Earl of Dorchester, the Lord-Lieutenant of the County of Dorset, to Henry Bankes, Esq., then member of Parliament for Corfe Castle, which, with a substitution of names, contains very much the same directions which Tullidge recited.

Private.

Milton Abbey, Blandford,

October 12, 1803.

“My Dear Bankes,— The spring-tides take place next Saturday, and the information to Government is so precise that the Isle of Wight is the enemy's object, that it is not improbable they may avail themselves of this ensuing spring-tide; if they do not, their attempt must be postponed another month. Under these circumstances I would not fail of giving you this notice in confidence, that you will keep it to yourself, and only so far prepare Mrs. Bankes and your family as to be able to remove them upon the first intelligence of the enemy's being off the coast. I have to beg of you that you will give directions for an assemblage of fagots, furze, and other fuel, also of straw to be stacked and piled on the summit of Badbury Rings, so as the whole may take fire instantly, and the fire be maintained for two hours. The general direction, if you will take the trouble of ordering the execution, is that this beacon may be fired whenever the beacon off St. Catherine's (Christ Church) is fired to the eastward, or whenever the beacons on Lytchet Heath or Woodbury Hill are fired to the westward, but not from the demonstration of any coast signal.

I am, my dear Bankes,

Yours most sincerely,

Dorchester.”

One word more to the visitor to Lulworth. It is a good plan to time one's visit to that spot so as to catch the steamer from Weymouth, which visits that place on certain days during the summer, on its return trip. Thus the fatigue of the journey will be avoided, and an opportunity will be afforded for seeing the coast scenery between the two places. The rocks near Lulworth, Durdle Door, that strange natural archway, and Ringstead Cove, where the smuggling parishioners of the Distracted Preacher ran their tubs, will all be seen on this short voyage.

The widely discussed possibility of an invasion of England through a Channel tunnel has more than once recalled old Solomon Selby's story to my mind.

The occasion on which I numbered myself among his audience was one evening when he was sitting in the yawning chimney-corner of the inn-kitchen, with some others who had gathered there, and I entered for shelter from the rain. Withdrawing the stem of his pipe from the dental notch in which it habitually rested, he leaned back in the recess behind him and smiled into the fire. The smile was neither mirthful nor sad, not precisely humorous nor altogether thoughtful. We who knew him recognized it in a moment: it was his narrative smile. Breaking off our few desultory remarks we drew up closer, and he thus began:

“My father, as you mid know, was a shepherd all his life, and lived out by the Cove four miles yonder, where I was born and lived likewise, till I moved here shortly afore I was married. The cottage that first knew me stood on the top of the down, near the sea; there was no house within a mile and a half of it; it was built o' purpose for the farm-shepherd, and had no other use. They tell me that it is now pulled down, but that you can see where it stood by the mounds of earth and a few broken bricks that are still lying about. It was a bleak and dreary place in winter-time, but in summer it was well enough, though the garden never came to much, because we could not get up a good shelter for the vegetables and currant bushes; and where there is much wind they don't thrive.

“Of all the years of my growing up the ones that bide clearest in my mind were eighteen hundred and three, four, and five. This was for two reasons: I had just then grown to an age when a child's eyes and ears take in and note down everything about him, and there was more at that date to bear in mind than there ever has been since with me. It was, as I need hardly tell ye, the time after the first peace, when Bonaparte was scheming his descent upon England. He had crossed the great Alp mountains, fought in Egypt, drubbed the Turks, the Austrians, and the Proossians, and now thought he'd have a slap at us. On the other side of the Channel, scarce out of sight and hail of a man standing on our English shore, the French army of a hundred and sixty thousand men and fifteen thousand horses had been brought together from all parts, and were drilling every day. Bonaparte had been three years a-making his preparations; and to ferry these soldiers and cannon and horses across he had contrived a couple of thousand flat-bottomed boats. These boats were small things, but wonderfully built. A good few of ‘em were so made as to have a little stable on board each for the two horses that were to haul the cannon carried at the stern. To get in order all these, and other things required, he had assembled there five or six thousand fellows that worked at trades—carpenters, blacksmiths, wheelwrights, saddlers, and what not. O ‘twas a curious time!

“Every morning Neighbour Boney would muster his multitude of soldiers on the beach, draw ‘em up in line, practise ‘em in the manoeuvre of embarking, horses and all, till they could do it without a single hitch. My father drove a flock of ewes up into Sussex that year, and as he went along the drover's track over the high downs thereabout he could see this drilling actually going on—the accoutrements of the rank and file glittering in the sun like silver. It was thought and always said by my uncle Job, sergeant of foot (who used to know all about these matters), that Bonaparte meant to cross with oars on a calm night. The grand query with us was, Where would my gentleman land? Many of the common people thought it would be at Dover; others, who knew how unlikely it was that any skilful general would make a business of landing just where he was expected, said he'd go either east into the River Thames, or west'ard to some convenient place, most likely one of the little bays inside the Isle of Portland, between the Beal and St. Alban's Head—and for choice the three-quarter-round Cove, screened from every mortal eye, that seemed made o' purpose, out by where we lived, and which I've climmed up with two tubs of brandy across my shoulders on scores o' dark nights in my younger days. Some had heard that a part o' the French fleet would sail right round Scotland, and come up the Channel to a suitable haven. However, there was much doubt upon the matter; and no wonder, for after-years proved that Bonaparte himself could hardly make up his mind upon that great and very particular point, where to land. His uncertainty came about in this wise, that he could get no news as to where and how our troops lay in waiting, and that his knowledge of possible places where flat-bottomed boats might be quietly run ashore, and the men they brought marshalled in order, was dim to the last degree. Being flat-bottomed, they didn't require a harbour for unshipping their cargo of men, but a good shelving beach away from sight, and with a fair open road toward London. How the question posed that great Corsican tyrant (as we used to call him), what pains he took to settle it, and, above all, what a risk he ran on one particular night in trying to do so, were known only to one man here and there; and certainly to no maker of newspapers or printer of books, or my account o't would not have had so many heads shaken over it as it has by gentry who only believe what they see in printed lines.

“The flocks my father had charge of fed all about the downs near our house, overlooking the sea and shore each way for miles. In winter and early spring father was up a deal at nights, watching and tending the lambing. Often he'd go to bed early, and turn out at twelve or one; and on the other hand, he'd sometimes stay up till twelve or one, and then turn in to bed. As soon as I was old enough I used to help him, mostly in the way of keeping an eye upon the ewes while he was gone home to rest. This is what I was doing in a particular month in either the year four or five—I can't certainly fix which, but it was long before I was took away from the sheepkeeping to be bound prentice to a trade. Every night at that time I was at the fold, about half a mile, or it may be a little more, from our cottage, and no living thing at all with me but the ewes and young lambs. Afeard? No; I was never afeard of being alone at these times; for I had been reared in such an out-step place that the lack o' human beings at night made me less fearful than the sight of ‘em. Directly I saw a man's shape after dark in a lonely place I was frightened out of my senses.

“One day in that month we were surprised by a visit from my uncle Job, the sergeant in the Sixty-first foot, then in camp on the downs above King George's watering-place, several miles to the west yonder. Uncle Job dropped in about dusk, and went up with my father to the fold for an hour or two. Then he came home, had a drop to drink from the tub of sperrits that the smugglers kept us in for housing their liquor when they'd made a run, and for burning ‘em off when there was danger. After that he stretched himself out on the settle to sleep. I went to bed: at one o'clock father came home, and waking me to go and take his place, according to custom, went to bed himself. On my way out of the house I passed Uncle Job on the settle. He opened his eyes, and upon my telling him where I was going he said it was a shame that such a youngster as I should go up there all alone; and when he had fastened up his stock and waist-belt he set off along with me, taking a drop from the sperrit-tub in a little flat bottle that stood in the corner-cupboard.

“By and by we drew up to the fold, saw that all was right, and then, to keep ourselves warm, curled up in a heap of straw that lay inside the thatched hurdles we had set up to break the stroke of the wind when there was any. To-night, however, there was none. It was one of those very still nights when, if you stand on the high hills anywhere within two or three miles of the sea, you can hear the rise and fall of the tide along the shore, coming and going every few moments like a sort of great snore of the sleeping world. Over the lower ground there was a bit of a mist, but on the hill where we lay the air was clear, and the moon, then in her last quarter, flung a fairly good light on the grass and scattered straw.

“While we lay there Uncle Job amused me by telling me strange stories of the wars he had served in and the wownds he had got. He had already fought the French in the Low Countries, and hoped to fight ‘em again. His stories lasted so long that at last I was hardly sure that I was not a soldier myself, and had seen such service as he told of. The wonders of his tales quite bewildered my mind, till I fell asleep and dreamed of battle, smoke, and flying soldiers, all of a kind with the doings he had been bringing up to me.

“How long my nap lasted I am not prepared to say. But some faint sounds over and above the rustle of the ewes in the straw, the bleat of the lambs, and the tinkle of the sheep-bell brought me to my waking senses. Uncle Job was still beside me; but he too had fallen asleep. I looked out from the straw, and saw what it was that had aroused me. Two men, in boat-cloaks, cocked hats, and swords, stood by the hurdles about twenty yards off.

“I turned my ear thitherward to catch what they were saying, but though I heard every word o't, not one did I understand. They spoke in a tongue that was not ours—in French, as I afterward found. But if I could not gain the meaning of a word, I was shrewd boy enough to find out a deal of the talkers' business. By the light o' the moon I could see that one of ‘em carried a roll of paper in his hand, while every moment he spoke quick to his comrade, and pointed right and left with the other hand to spots along the shore. There was no doubt that he was explaining to the second gentleman the shapes and features of the coast. What happened soon after made this still clearer to me.

“All this time I had not waked Uncle Job, but now I began to be afeared that they might light upon us, because uncle breathed so heavily through's nose. I put my mouth to his ear and whispered, ‘Uncle Job.'

“‘What is it, my boy?' he said, just as if he hadn't been asleep at all.

“‘Hush!' says I. ‘Two French generals—'

“‘French?' says he.

“‘Yes,' says I. ‘Come to see where to land their army!'

“I pointed ‘em out; but I could say no more, for the pair were coming at that moment much nearer to where we lay. As soon as they got as near as eight or ten yards, the officer with a roll in his hand stooped down to a slanting hurdle, unfastened his roll upon it, and spread it out. Then suddenly he sprung a dark lantern open on the paper, and showed it to be a map.

“‘What be they looking at?' I whispered to Uncle Job.

“‘A chart of the Channel,' says the sergeant (knowing about such things).

“The other French officer now stooped likewise, and over the map they had a long consultation, as they pointed here and there on the paper, and then hither and thither at places along the shore beneath us. I noticed that the manner of one officer was very respectful toward the other, who seemed much his superior, the second in rank calling him by a sort of title that I did not know the sense of. The head one, on the other hand, was quite familiar with his friend, and more than once clapped him on the shoulder.

“Uncle Job had watched as well as I, but though the map had been in the lantern-light, their faces had always been in shade. But when they rose from stooping over the chart the light flashed upward, and fell smart upon one of ‘em's features. No sooner had this happened than Uncle Job gasped, and sank down as if he'd been in a fit.

“‘What is it—what is it, Uncle Job?' said I.

“‘O good God!' says he, under the straw.

“‘What?' says I.

“‘Boney!' he groaned out.

“‘Who?' says I.

“‘Bonaparty,” he said. ‘The Corsican ogre. O that I had got but my new-flinted firelock, that there man should die! But I haven't got my new-flinted firelock, and that there man must live. So lie low, as you value your life!'

“I did lie low, as you mid suppose. But I couldn't help peeping. And then I too, lad as I was, knew that it was the face of Bonaparte. Not know Boney? I should think I did know Boney. I should have known him by half the light o' that lantern. If I had seen a picture of his features once, I had seen it a hundred times. There was his bullet head, his short neck, his round yaller cheeks and chin, his gloomy face, and his great glowing eyes. He took off his hat to blow himself a bit, and there was the forelock in the middle of his forehead, as in all the draughts of him. In moving, his cloak fell a little open, and I could see for a moment his white-fronted jacket and one of his epaulets.

“But none of this lasted long. In a minute he and his general had rolled up the map, shut the lantern, and turned to go down toward the shore.

“Then Uncle Job came to himself a bit. ‘Slipped across in the night-time to see how to put his men ashore,' he said. ‘The like o' that man's coolness eyes will never again see! Nephew, I must act in this, and immediate, or England's lost!'

“When they were over the brow, we crope out, and went some little way to look after them. Half-way down they were joined by two others, and six or seven minutes brought them to the shore. Then, from behind a rock, a boat came out into the weak moonlight of the Cove, and they jumped in; it put off instantly, and vanished in a few minutes between the two rocks that stand at the mouth of the Cove as we all know. We climmed back to where we had been before, and I could see, a little way out, a larger vessel, though still not very large. The little boat drew up alongside, was made fast at the stern as I suppose, for the largest sailed away, and we saw no more.

“My uncle Job told his officers as soon as he got back to camp; but what they thought of it I never heard—neither did he. Boney's army never came, and a good job for me; for the Cove below my father's house was where he meant to land, as this secret visit showed. We coast-folk should have been cut down one and all, and I should not have sat here to tell this tale.”