THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS
IN THREE CHAPTERS
CHAPTER I—IN THE OLD CITY OF ROCHESTER
Strictly speaking, there were only six Poor Travellers; but, being
a Traveller myself, though an idle one, and being withal as poor as
I hope to be, I brought the number up to seven. This word of explanation
is due at once, for what says the inscription over the quaint old door?
RICHARD WATTS, Esq.
by his Will, dated 22 Aug. 1579,
founded this Charity
for Six poor Travellers,
who not being ROGUES, or PROCTORS,
May receive gratis for one Night,
and Fourpence each.
It was in the ancient little city of Rochester in Kent, of all the
good days in the year upon a Christmas-eve, that I stood reading this
inscription over the quaint old door in question. I had been wandering
about the neighbouring Cathedral, and had seen the tomb of Richard Watts,
with the effigy of worthy Master Richard starting out of it like a ship’s
figure-head; and I had felt that I could do no less, as I gave the Verger
his fee, than inquire the way to Watts’s Charity. The way
being very short and very plain, I had come prosperously to the inscription
and the quaint old door.
“Now,” said I to myself, as I looked at the knocker,
“I know I am not a Proctor; I wonder whether I am a Rogue!”
Upon the whole, though Conscience reproduced two or three pretty
faces which might have had smaller attraction for a moral Goliath than
they had had for me, who am but a Tom Thumb in that way, I came to the
conclusion that I was not a Rogue. So, beginning to regard the
establishment as in some sort my property, bequeathed to me and divers
co-legatees, share and share alike, by the Worshipful Master Richard
Watts, I stepped backward into the road to survey my inheritance.
I found it to be a clean white house, of a staid and venerable air,
with the quaint old door already three times mentioned (an arched door),
choice little long low lattice-windows, and a roof of three gables.
The silent High Street of Rochester is full of gables, with old beams
and timbers carved into strange faces. It is oddly garnished with
a queer old clock that projects over the pavement out of a grave red-brick
building, as if Time carried on business there, and hung out his sign.
Sooth to say, he did an active stroke of work in Rochester, in the old
days of the Romans, and the Saxons, and the Normans; and down to the
times of King John, when the rugged castle—I will not undertake
to say how many hundreds of years old then—was abandoned to the
centuries of weather which have so defaced the dark apertures in its
walls, that the ruin looks as if the rooks and daws had pecked its eyes
I was very well pleased, both with my property and its situation.
While I was yet surveying it with growing content, I espied, at one
of the upper lattices which stood open, a decent body, of a wholesome
matronly appearance, whose eyes I caught inquiringly addressed to mine.
They said so plainly, “Do you wish to see the house?” that
I answered aloud, “Yes, if you please.” And within
a minute the old door opened, and I bent my head, and went down two
steps into the entry.
“This,” said the matronly presence, ushering me into
a low room on the right, “is where the Travellers sit by the fire,
and cook what bits of suppers they buy with their fourpences.”
“O! Then they have no Entertainment?” said I.
For the inscription over the outer door was still running in my head,
and I was mentally repeating, in a kind of tune, “Lodging, entertainment,
and fourpence each.”
“They have a fire provided for ’em,” returned the
matron—a mighty civil person, not, as I could make out, overpaid;
“and these cooking utensils. And this what’s painted
on a board is the rules for their behaviour. They have their fourpences
when they get their tickets from the steward over the way,—for
I don’t admit ’em myself, they must get their tickets first,—and
sometimes one buys a rasher of bacon, and another a herring, and another
a pound of potatoes, or what not. Sometimes two or three of ’em
will club their fourpences together, and make a supper that way.
But not much of anything is to be got for fourpence, at present, when
provisions is so dear.”
“True indeed,” I remarked. I had been looking about
the room, admiring its snug fireside at the upper end, its glimpse of
the street through the low mullioned window, and its beams overhead.
“It is very comfortable,” said I.
“Ill-conwenient,” observed the matronly presence.
I liked to hear her say so; for it showed a commendable anxiety to
execute in no niggardly spirit the intentions of Master Richard Watts.
But the room was really so well adapted to its purpose that I protested,
quite enthusiastically, against her disparagement.
“Nay, ma’am,” said I, “I am sure it is warm
in winter and cool in summer. It has a look of homely welcome
and soothing rest. It has a remarkably cosey fireside, the very
blink of which, gleaming out into the street upon a winter night, is
enough to warm all Rochester’s heart. And as to the convenience
of the six Poor Travellers—”
“I don’t mean them,” returned the presence.
“I speak of its being an ill-conwenience to myself and my daughter,
having no other room to sit in of a night.”
This was true enough, but there was another quaint room of corresponding
dimensions on the opposite side of the entry: so I stepped across to
it, through the open doors of both rooms, and asked what this chamber
“This,” returned the presence, “is the Board Room.
Where the gentlemen meet when they come here.”
Let me see. I had counted from the street six upper windows
besides these on the ground-story. Making a perplexed calculation
in my mind, I rejoined, “Then the six Poor Travellers sleep upstairs?”
My new friend shook her head. “They sleep,” she
answered, “in two little outer galleries at the back, where their
beds has always been, ever since the Charity was founded. It being
so very ill-conwenient to me as things is at present, the gentlemen
are going to take off a bit of the back-yard, and make a slip of a room
for ’em there, to sit in before they go to bed.”
“And then the six Poor Travellers,” said I, “will
be entirely out of the house?”
“Entirely out of the house,” assented the presence, comfortably
smoothing her hands. “Which is considered much better for
all parties, and much more conwenient.”
I had been a little startled, in the Cathedral, by the emphasis with
which the effigy of Master Richard Watts was bursting out of his tomb;
but I began to think, now, that it might be expected to come across
the High Street some stormy night, and make a disturbance here.
Howbeit, I kept my thoughts to myself, and accompanied the presence
to the little galleries at the back. I found them on a tiny scale,
like the galleries in old inn-yards; and they were very clean.
While I was looking at them, the matron gave me to understand that
the prescribed number of Poor Travellers were forthcoming every night
from year’s end to year’s end; and that the beds were always
occupied. My questions upon this, and her replies, brought us
back to the Board Room so essential to the dignity of “the gentlemen,”
where she showed me the printed accounts of the Charity hanging up by
the window. From them I gathered that the greater part of the
property bequeathed by the Worshipful Master Richard Watts for the maintenance
of this foundation was, at the period of his death, mere marsh-land;
but that, in course of time, it had been reclaimed and built upon, and
was very considerably increased in value. I found, too, that about
a thirtieth part of the annual revenue was now expended on the purposes
commemorated in the inscription over the door; the rest being handsomely
laid out in Chancery, law expenses, collectorship, receivership, poundage,
and other appendages of management, highly complimentary to the importance
of the six Poor Travellers. In short, I made the not entirely
new discovery that it may be said of an establishment like this, in
dear old England, as of the fat oyster in the American story, that it
takes a good many men to swallow it whole.
“And pray, ma’am,” said I, sensible that the blankness
of my face began to brighten as the thought occurred to me, “could
one see these Travellers?”
“Well!” she returned dubiously, “no!”
“Not to-night, for instance!” said I.
“Well!” she returned more positively, “no.
Nobody ever asked to see them, and nobody ever did see them.”
As I am not easily balked in a design when I am set upon it, I urged
to the good lady that this was Christmas-eve; that Christmas comes but
once a year,—which is unhappily too true, for when it begins to
stay with us the whole year round we shall make this earth a very different
place; that I was possessed by the desire to treat the Travellers to
a supper and a temperate glass of hot Wassail; that the voice of Fame
had been heard in that land, declaring my ability to make hot Wassail;
that if I were permitted to hold the feast, I should be found conformable
to reason, sobriety, and good hours; in a word, that I could be merry
and wise myself, and had been even known at a pinch to keep others so,
although I was decorated with no badge or medal, and was not a Brother,
Orator, Apostle, Saint, or Prophet of any denomination whatever.
In the end I prevailed, to my great joy. It was settled that at
nine o’clock that night a Turkey and a piece of Roast Beef should
smoke upon the board; and that I, faint and unworthy minister for once
of Master Richard Watts, should preside as the Christmas-supper host
of the six Poor Travellers.
I went back to my inn to give the necessary directions for the Turkey
and Roast Beef, and, during the remainder of the day, could settle to
nothing for thinking of the Poor Travellers. When the wind blew
hard against the windows,—it was a cold day, with dark gusts of
sleet alternating with periods of wild brightness, as if the year were
dying fitfully,—I pictured them advancing towards their resting-place
along various cold roads, and felt delighted to think how little they
foresaw the supper that awaited them. I painted their portraits
in my mind, and indulged in little heightening touches. I made
them footsore; I made them weary; I made them carry packs and bundles;
I made them stop by finger-posts and milestones, leaning on their bent
sticks, and looking wistfully at what was written there; I made them
lose their way; and filled their five wits with apprehensions of lying
out all night, and being frozen to death. I took up my hat, and
went out, climbed to the top of the Old Castle, and looked over the
windy hills that slope down to the Medway, almost believing that I could
descry some of my Travellers in the distance. After it fell dark,
and the Cathedral bell was heard in the invisible steeple—quite
a bower of frosty rime when I had last seen it—striking five,
six, seven, I became so full of my Travellers that I could eat no dinner,
and felt constrained to watch them still in the red coals of my fire.
They were all arrived by this time, I thought, had got their tickets,
and were gone in.—There my pleasure was dashed by the reflection
that probably some Travellers had come too late and were shut out.
After the Cathedral bell had struck eight, I could smell a delicious
savour of Turkey and Roast Beef rising to the window of my adjoining
bedroom, which looked down into the inn-yard just where the lights of
the kitchen reddened a massive fragment of the Castle Wall. It
was high time to make the Wassail now; therefore I had up the materials
(which, together with their proportions and combinations, I must decline
to impart, as the only secret of my own I was ever known to keep), and
made a glorious jorum. Not in a bowl; for a bowl anywhere but
on a shelf is a low superstition, fraught with cooling and slopping;
but in a brown earthenware pitcher, tenderly suffocated, when full,
with a coarse cloth. It being now upon the stroke of nine, I set
out for Watts’s Charity, carrying my brown beauty in my arms.
I would trust Ben, the waiter, with untold gold; but there are strings
in the human heart which must never be sounded by another, and drinks
that I make myself are those strings in mine.
The Travellers were all assembled, the cloth was laid, and Ben had
brought a great billet of wood, and had laid it artfully on the top
of the fire, so that a touch or two of the poker after supper should
make a roaring blaze. Having deposited my brown beauty in a red
nook of the hearth, inside the fender, where she soon began to sing
like an ethereal cricket, diffusing at the same time odours as of ripe
vineyards, spice forests, and orange groves,—I say, having stationed
my beauty in a place of security and improvement, I introduced myself
to my guests by shaking hands all round, and giving them a hearty welcome.
I found the party to be thus composed. Firstly, myself.
Secondly, a very decent man indeed, with his right arm in a sling, who
had a certain clean agreeable smell of wood about him, from which I
judged him to have something to do with shipbuilding. Thirdly,
a little sailor-boy, a mere child, with a profusion of rich dark brown
hair, and deep womanly-looking eyes. Fourthly, a shabby-genteel
personage in a threadbare black suit, and apparently in very bad circumstances,
with a dry suspicious look; the absent buttons on his waistcoat eked
out with red tape; and a bundle of extraordinarily tattered papers sticking
out of an inner breast-pocket. Fifthly, a foreigner by birth,
but an Englishman in speech, who carried his pipe in the band of his
hat, and lost no time in telling me, in an easy, simple, engaging way,
that he was a watchmaker from Geneva, and travelled all about the Continent,
mostly on foot, working as a journeyman, and seeing new countries,—possibly
(I thought) also smuggling a watch or so, now and then. Sixthly,
a little widow, who had been very pretty and was still very young, but
whose beauty had been wrecked in some great misfortune, and whose manner
was remarkably timid, scared, and solitary. Seventhly and lastly,
a Traveller of a kind familiar to my boyhood, but now almost obsolete,—a
Book-Pedler, who had a quantity of Pamphlets and Numbers with him, and
who presently boasted that he could repeat more verses in an evening
than he could sell in a twelvemonth.
All these I have mentioned in the order in which they sat at table.
I presided, and the matronly presence faced me. We were not long
in taking our places, for the supper had arrived with me, in the following
Myself with the pitcher.
Ben with Beer.
Inattentive Boy with hot plates. Inattentive Boy with hot plates.
Female carrying sauces to be heated on the spot.
Man with Tray on his head, containing Vegetables and Sundries.
Volunteer Hostler from Hotel, grinning,
And rendering no assistance.
As we passed along the High Street, comet-like, we left a long tail
of fragrance behind us which caused the public to stop, sniffing in
wonder. We had previously left at the corner of the inn-yard a
wall-eyed young man connected with the Fly department, and well accustomed
to the sound of a railway whistle which Ben always carries in his pocket,
whose instructions were, so soon as he should hear the whistle blown,
to dash into the kitchen, seize the hot plum-pudding and mince-pies,
and speed with them to Watts’s Charity, where they would be received
(he was further instructed) by the sauce-female, who would be provided
with brandy in a blue state of combustion.
All these arrangements were executed in the most exact and punctual
manner. I never saw a finer turkey, finer beef, or greater prodigality
of sauce and gravy;—and my Travellers did wonderful justice to
everything set before them. It made my heart rejoice to observe
how their wind and frost hardened faces softened in the clatter of plates
and knives and forks, and mellowed in the fire and supper heat.
While their hats and caps and wrappers, hanging up, a few small bundles
on the ground in a corner, and in another corner three or four old walking-sticks,
worn down at the end to mere fringe, linked this smug interior with
the bleak outside in a golden chain.
When supper was done, and my brown beauty had been elevated on the
table, there was a general requisition to me to “take the corner;”
which suggested to me comfortably enough how much my friends here made
of a fire,—for when had I ever thought so highly of the
corner, since the days when I connected it with Jack Horner? However,
as I declined, Ben, whose touch on all convivial instruments is perfect,
drew the table apart, and instructing my Travellers to open right and
left on either side of me, and form round the fire, closed up the centre
with myself and my chair, and preserved the order we had kept at table.
He had already, in a tranquil manner, boxed the ears of the inattentive
boys until they had been by imperceptible degrees boxed out of the room;
and he now rapidly skirmished the sauce-female into the High Street,
disappeared, and softly closed the door.
This was the time for bringing the poker to bear on the billet of
wood. I tapped it three times, like an enchanted talisman, and
a brilliant host of merry-makers burst out of it, and sported off by
the chimney,—rushing up the middle in a fiery country dance, and
never coming down again. Meanwhile, by their sparkling light,
which threw our lamp into the shade, I filled the glasses, and gave
my Travellers, CHRISTMAS!—CHRISTMAS-EVE, my friends, when the
shepherds, who were Poor Travellers, too, in their way, heard the Angels
sing, “On earth, peace. Good-will towards men!”
I don’t know who was the first among us to think that we ought
to take hands as we sat, in deference to the toast, or whether any one
of us anticipated the others, but at any rate we all did it. We
then drank to the memory of the good Master Richard Watts. And
I wish his Ghost may never have had worse usage under that roof than
it had from us.
It was the witching time for Story-telling. “Our whole
life, Travellers,” said I, “is a story more or less intelligible,—generally
less; but we shall read it by a clearer light when it is ended.
I, for one, am so divided this night between fact and fiction, that
I scarce know which is which. Shall I beguile the time by telling
you a story as we sit here?”
They all answered, yes. I had little to tell them, but I was
bound by my own proposal. Therefore, after looking for awhile
at the spiral column of smoke wreathing up from my brown beauty, through
which I could have almost sworn I saw the effigy of Master Richard Watts
less startled than usual, I fired away.
CHAPTER II—THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLEDICK
In the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, a relative
of mine came limping down, on foot, to this town of Chatham. I
call it this town, because if anybody present knows to a nicety where
Rochester ends and Chatham begins, it is more than I do. He was
a poor traveller, with not a farthing in his pocket. He sat by
the fire in this very room, and he slept one night in a bed that will
be occupied to-night by some one here.
My relative came down to Chatham to enlist in a cavalry regiment,
if a cavalry regiment would have him; if not, to take King George’s
shilling from any corporal or sergeant who would put a bunch of ribbons
in his hat. His object was to get shot; but he thought he might
as well ride to death as be at the trouble of walking.
My relative’s Christian name was Richard, but he was better
known as Dick. He dropped his own surname on the road down, and
took up that of Doubledick. He was passed as Richard Doubledick;
age, twenty-two; height, five foot ten; native place, Exmouth, which
he had never been near in his life. There was no cavalry in Chatham
when he limped over the bridge here with half a shoe to his dusty feet,
so he enlisted into a regiment of the line, and was glad to get drunk
and forget all about it.
You are to know that this relative of mine had gone wrong, and run
wild. His heart was in the right place, but it was sealed up.
He had been betrothed to a good and beautiful girl, whom he had loved
better than she—or perhaps even he—believed; but in an evil
hour he had given her cause to say to him solemnly, “Richard,
I will never marry another man. I will live single for your sake,
but Mary Marshall’s lips”—her name was Mary Marshall—“never
address another word to you on earth. Go, Richard! Heaven
forgive you!” This finished him. This brought him
down to Chatham. This made him Private Richard Doubledick, with
a determination to be shot.
There was not a more dissipated and reckless soldier in Chatham barracks,
in the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, than Private
Richard Doubledick. He associated with the dregs of every regiment;
he was as seldom sober as he could be, and was constantly under punishment.
It became clear to the whole barracks that Private Richard Doubledick
would very soon be flogged.
Now the Captain of Richard Doubledick’s company was a young
gentleman not above five years his senior, whose eyes had an expression
in them which affected Private Richard Doubledick in a very remarkable
way. They were bright, handsome, dark eyes,—what are called
laughing eyes generally, and, when serious, rather steady than severe,—but
they were the only eyes now left in his narrowed world that Private
Richard Doubledick could not stand. Unabashed by evil report and
punishment, defiant of everything else and everybody else, he had but
to know that those eyes looked at him for a moment, and he felt ashamed.
He could not so much as salute Captain Taunton in the street like any
other officer. He was reproached and confused,—troubled
by the mere possibility of the captain’s looking at him.
In his worst moments, he would rather turn back, and go any distance
out of his way, than encounter those two handsome, dark, bright eyes.
One day, when Private Richard Doubledick came out of the Black hole,
where he had been passing the last eight-and-forty hours, and in which
retreat he spent a good deal of his time, he was ordered to betake himself
to Captain Taunton’s quarters. In the stale and squalid
state of a man just out of the Black hole, he had less fancy than ever
for being seen by the captain; but he was not so mad yet as to disobey
orders, and consequently went up to the terrace overlooking the parade-ground,
where the officers’ quarters were; twisting and breaking in his
hands, as he went along, a bit of the straw that had formed the decorative
furniture of the Black hole.
“Come in!” cried the Captain, when he had knocked with
his knuckles at the door. Private Richard Doubledick pulled off
his cap, took a stride forward, and felt very conscious that he stood
in the light of the dark, bright eyes.
There was a silent pause. Private Richard Doubledick had put
the straw in his mouth, and was gradually doubling it up into his windpipe
and choking himself.
“Doubledick,” said the Captain, “do you know where
you are going to?”
“To the Devil, sir?” faltered Doubledick.
“Yes,” returned the Captain. “And very fast.”
Private Richard Doubledick turned the straw of the Black hole in
his month, and made a miserable salute of acquiescence.
“Doubledick,” said the Captain, “since I entered
his Majesty’s service, a boy of seventeen, I have been pained
to see many men of promise going that road; but I have never been so
pained to see a man make the shameful journey as I have been, ever since
you joined the regiment, to see you.”
Private Richard Doubledick began to find a film stealing over the
floor at which he looked; also to find the legs of the Captain’s
breakfast-table turning crooked, as if he saw them through water.
“I am only a common soldier, sir,” said he. “It
signifies very little what such a poor brute comes to.”
“You are a man,” returned the Captain, with grave indignation,
“of education and superior advantages; and if you say that, meaning
what you say, you have sunk lower than I had believed. How low
that must be, I leave you to consider, knowing what I know of your disgrace,
and seeing what I see.”
“I hope to get shot soon, sir,” said Private Richard
Doubledick; “and then the regiment and the world together will
be rid of me.”
The legs of the table were becoming very crooked. Doubledick,
looking up to steady his vision, met the eyes that had so strong an
influence over him. He put his hand before his own eyes, and the
breast of his disgrace-jacket swelled as if it would fly asunder.
“I would rather,” said the young Captain, “see
this in you, Doubledick, than I would see five thousand guineas counted
out upon this table for a gift to my good mother. Have you a mother?”
“I am thankful to say she is dead, sir.”
“If your praises,” returned the Captain, “were
sounded from mouth to mouth through the whole regiment, through the
whole army, through the whole country, you would wish she had lived
to say, with pride and joy, ‘He is my son!’”
“Spare me, sir,” said Doubledick. “She would
never have heard any good of me. She would never have had any
pride and joy in owning herself my mother. Love and compassion
she might have had, and would have always had, I know but not—Spare
me, sir! I am a broken wretch, quite at your mercy!”
And he turned his face to the wall, and stretched out his imploring
“My friend—” began the Captain.
“God bless you, sir!” sobbed Private Richard Doubledick.
“You are at the crisis of your fate. Hold your course
unchanged a little longer, and you know what must happen. I
know even better than you can imagine, that, after that has happened,
you are lost. No man who could shed those tears could bear those
“I fully believe it, sir,” in a low, shivering voice
said Private Richard Doubledick.
“But a man in any station can do his duty,” said the
young Captain, “and, in doing it, can earn his own respect, even
if his case should be so very unfortunate and so very rare that he can
earn no other man’s. A common soldier, poor brute though
you called him just now, has this advantage in the stormy times we live
in, that he always does his duty before a host of sympathising witnesses.
Do you doubt that he may so do it as to be extolled through a whole
regiment, through a whole army, through a whole country? Turn
while you may yet retrieve the past, and try.”
“I will! I ask for only one witness, sir,” cried
Richard, with a bursting heart.
“I understand you. I will be a watchful and a faithful
I have heard from Private Richard Doubledick’s own lips, that
he dropped down upon his knee, kissed that officer’s hand, arose,
and went out of the light of the dark, bright eyes, an altered man.
In that year, one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, the French
were in Egypt, in Italy, in Germany, where not? Napoleon Bonaparte
had likewise begun to stir against us in India, and most men could read
the signs of the great troubles that were coming on. In the very
next year, when we formed an alliance with Austria against him, Captain
Taunton’s regiment was on service in India. And there was
not a finer non-commissioned officer in it,—no, nor in the whole
line—than Corporal Richard Doubledick.
In eighteen hundred and one, the Indian army were on the coast of
Egypt. Next year was the year of the proclamation of the short
peace, and they were recalled. It had then become well known to
thousands of men, that wherever Captain Taunton, with the dark, bright
eyes, led, there, close to him, ever at his side, firm as a rock, true
as the sun, and brave as Mars, would be certain to be found, while life
beat in their hearts, that famous soldier, Sergeant Richard Doubledick.
Eighteen hundred and five, besides being the great year of Trafalgar,
was a year of hard fighting in India. That year saw such wonders
done by a Sergeant-Major, who cut his way single-handed through a solid
mass of men, recovered the colours of his regiment, which had been seized
from the hand of a poor boy shot through the heart, and rescued his
wounded Captain, who was down, and in a very jungle of horses’
hoofs and sabres,—saw such wonders done, I say, by this brave
Sergeant-Major, that he was specially made the bearer of the colours
he had won; and Ensign Richard Doubledick had risen from the ranks.
Sorely cut up in every battle, but always reinforced by the bravest
of men,—for the fame of following the old colours, shot through
and through, which Ensign Richard Doubledick had saved, inspired all
breasts,—this regiment fought its way through the Peninsular war,
up to the investment of Badajos in eighteen hundred and twelve.
Again and again it had been cheered through the British ranks until
the tears had sprung into men’s eyes at the mere hearing of the
mighty British voice, so exultant in their valour; and there was not
a drummer-boy but knew the legend, that wherever the two friends, Major
Taunton, with the dark, bright eyes, and Ensign Richard Doubledick,
who was devoted to him, were seen to go, there the boldest spirits in
the English army became wild to follow.
One day, at Badajos,—not in the great storming, but in repelling
a hot sally of the besieged upon our men at work in the trenches, who
had given way,—the two officers found themselves hurrying forward,
face to face, against a party of French infantry, who made a stand.
There was an officer at their head, encouraging his men,—a courageous,
handsome, gallant officer of five-and-thirty, whom Doubledick saw hurriedly,
almost momentarily, but saw well. He particularly noticed this
officer waving his sword, and rallying his men with an eager and excited
cry, when they fired in obedience to his gesture, and Major Taunton
It was over in ten minutes more, and Doubledick returned to the spot
where he had laid the best friend man ever had on a coat spread upon
the wet clay. Major Taunton’s uniform was opened at the
breast, and on his shirt were three little spots of blood.
“Dear Doubledick,” said he, “I am dying.”
“For the love of Heaven, no!” exclaimed the other, kneeling
down beside him, and passing his arm round his neck to raise his head.
“Taunton! My preserver, my guardian angel, my witness!
Dearest, truest, kindest of human beings! Taunton! For God’s
The bright, dark eyes—so very, very dark now, in the pale face—smiled
upon him; and the hand he had kissed thirteen years ago laid itself
fondly on his breast.
“Write to my mother. You will see Home again. Tell
her how we became friends. It will comfort her, as it comforts
He spoke no more, but faintly signed for a moment towards his hair
as it fluttered in the wind. The Ensign understood him.
He smiled again when he saw that, and, gently turning his face over
on the supporting arm as if for rest, died, with his hand upon the breast
in which he had revived a soul.
No dry eye looked on Ensign Richard Doubledick that melancholy day.
He buried his friend on the field, and became a lone, bereaved man.
Beyond his duty he appeared to have but two remaining cares in life,—one,
to preserve the little packet of hair he was to give to Taunton’s
mother; the other, to encounter that French officer who had rallied
the men under whose fire Taunton fell. A new legend now began
to circulate among our troops; and it was, that when he and the French
officer came face to face once more, there would be weeping in France.
The war went on—and through it went the exact picture of the
French officer on the one side, and the bodily reality upon the other—until
the Battle of Toulouse was fought. In the returns sent home appeared
these words: “Severely wounded, but not dangerously, Lieutenant
At Midsummer-time, in the year eighteen hundred and fourteen, Lieutenant
Richard Doubledick, now a browned soldier, seven-and-thirty years of
age, came home to England invalided. He brought the hair with
him, near his heart. Many a French officer had he seen since that
day; many a dreadful night, in searching with men and lanterns for his
wounded, had he relieved French officers lying disabled; but the mental
picture and the reality had never come together.
Though he was weak and suffered pain, he lost not an hour in getting
down to Frome in Somersetshire, where Taunton’s mother lived.
In the sweet, compassionate words that naturally present themselves
to the mind to-night, “he was the only son of his mother, and
she was a widow.”
It was a Sunday evening, and the lady sat at her quiet garden-window,
reading the Bible; reading to herself, in a trembling voice, that very
passage in it, as I have heard him tell. He heard the words: “Young
man, I say unto thee, arise!”
He had to pass the window; and the bright, dark eyes of his debased
time seemed to look at him. Her heart told her who he was; she
came to the door quickly, and fell upon his neck.
“He saved me from ruin, made me a human creature, won me from
infamy and shame. O, God for ever bless him! As He will,
“He will!” the lady answered. “I know he
is in heaven!” Then she piteously cried, “But O, my
darling boy, my darling boy!”
Never from the hour when Private Richard Doubledick enlisted at Chatham
had the Private, Corporal, Sergeant, Sergeant-Major, Ensign, or Lieutenant
breathed his right name, or the name of Mary Marshall, or a word of
the story of his life, into any ear except his reclaimer’s.
That previous scene in his existence was closed. He had firmly
resolved that his expiation should be to live unknown; to disturb no
more the peace that had long grown over his old offences; to let it
be revealed, when he was dead, that he had striven and suffered, and
had never forgotten; and then, if they could forgive him and believe
him—well, it would be time enough—time enough!
But that night, remembering the words he had cherished for two years,
“Tell her how we became friends. It will comfort her, as
it comforts me,” he related everything. It gradually seemed
to him as if in his maturity he had recovered a mother; it gradually
seemed to her as if in her bereavement she had found a son. During
his stay in England, the quiet garden into which he had slowly and painfully
crept, a stranger, became the boundary of his home; when he was able
to rejoin his regiment in the spring, he left the garden, thinking was
this indeed the first time he had ever turned his face towards the old
colours with a woman’s blessing!
He followed them—so ragged, so scarred and pierced now, that
they would scarcely hold together—to Quatre Bras and Ligny.
He stood beside them, in an awful stillness of many men, shadowy through
the mist and drizzle of a wet June forenoon, on the field of Waterloo.
And down to that hour the picture in his mind of the French officer
had never been compared with the reality.
The famous regiment was in action early in the battle, and received
its first check in many an eventful year, when he was seen to fall.
But it swept on to avenge him, and left behind it no such creature in
the world of consciousness as Lieutenant Richard Doubledick.
Through pits of mire, and pools of rain; along deep ditches, once
roads, that were pounded and ploughed to pieces by artillery, heavy
waggons, tramp of men and horses, and the struggle of every wheeled
thing that could carry wounded soldiers; jolted among the dying and
the dead, so disfigured by blood and mud as to be hardly recognisable
for humanity; undisturbed by the moaning of men and the shrieking of
horses, which, newly taken from the peaceful pursuits of life, could
not endure the sight of the stragglers lying by the wayside, never to
resume their toilsome journey; dead, as to any sentient life that was
in it, and yet alive,—the form that had been Lieutenant Richard
Doubledick, with whose praises England rang, was conveyed to Brussels.
There it was tenderly laid down in hospital; and there it lay, week
after week, through the long bright summer days, until the harvest,
spared by war, had ripened and was gathered in.
Over and over again the sun rose and set upon the crowded city; over
and over again the moonlight nights were quiet on the plains of Waterloo:
and all that time was a blank to what had been Lieutenant Richard Doubledick.
Rejoicing troops marched into Brussels, and marched out; brothers and
fathers, sisters, mothers, and wives, came thronging thither, drew their
lots of joy or agony, and departed; so many times a day the bells rang;
so many times the shadows of the great buildings changed; so many lights
sprang up at dusk; so many feet passed here and there upon the pavements;
so many hours of sleep and cooler air of night succeeded: indifferent
to all, a marble face lay on a bed, like the face of a recumbent statue
on the tomb of Lieutenant Richard Doubledick.
Slowly labouring, at last, through a long heavy dream of confused
time and place, presenting faint glimpses of army surgeons whom he knew,
and of faces that had been familiar to his youth,—dearest and
kindest among them, Mary Marshall’s, with a solicitude upon it
more like reality than anything he could discern,—Lieutenant Richard
Doubledick came back to life. To the beautiful life of a calm
autumn evening sunset, to the peaceful life of a fresh quiet room with
a large window standing open; a balcony beyond, in which were moving
leaves and sweet-smelling flowers; beyond, again, the clear sky, with
the sun full in his sight, pouring its golden radiance on his bed.
It was so tranquil and so lovely that he thought he had passed into
another world. And he said in a faint voice, “Taunton, are
you near me?”
A face bent over him. Not his, his mother’s.
“I came to nurse you. We have nursed you many weeks.
You were moved here long ago. Do you remember nothing?”
The lady kissed his cheek, and held his hand, soothing him.
“Where is the regiment? What has happened? Let
me call you mother. What has happened, mother?”
“A great victory, dear. The war is over, and the regiment
was the bravest in the field.”
His eyes kindled, his lips trembled, he sobbed, and the tears ran
down his face. He was very weak, too weak to move his hand.
“Was it dark just now?” he asked presently.
“It was only dark to me? Something passed away, like
a black shadow. But as it went, and the sun—O the blessed
sun, how beautiful it is!—touched my face, I thought I saw a light
white cloud pass out at the door. Was there nothing that went
She shook her head, and in a little while he fell asleep, she still
holding his hand, and soothing him.
From that time, he recovered. Slowly, for he had been desperately
wounded in the head, and had been shot in the body, but making some
little advance every day. When he had gained sufficient strength
to converse as he lay in bed, he soon began to remark that Mrs. Taunton
always brought him back to his own history. Then he recalled his
preserver’s dying words, and thought, “It comforts her.”
One day he awoke out of a sleep, refreshed, and asked her to read
to him. But the curtain of the bed, softening the light, which
she always drew back when he awoke, that she might see him from her
table at the bedside where she sat at work, was held undrawn; and a
woman’s voice spoke, which was not hers.
“Can you bear to see a stranger?” it said softly.
“Will you like to see a stranger?”
“Stranger!” he repeated. The voice awoke old memories,
before the days of Private Richard Doubledick.
“A stranger now, but not a stranger once,” it said in
tones that thrilled him. “Richard, dear Richard, lost through
so many years, my name—”
He cried out her name, “Mary,” and she held him in her
arms, and his head lay on her bosom.
“I am not breaking a rash vow, Richard. These are not
Mary Marshall’s lips that speak. I have another name.”
She was married.
“I have another name, Richard. Did you ever hear it?”
He looked into her face, so pensively beautiful, and wondered at
the smile upon it through her tears.
“Think again, Richard. Are you sure you never heard my
“Don’t move your head to look at me, dear Richard.
Let it lie here, while I tell my story. I loved a generous, noble
man; loved him with my whole heart; loved him for years and years; loved
him faithfully, devotedly; loved him without hope of return; loved him,
knowing nothing of his highest qualities—not even knowing that
he was alive. He was a brave soldier. He was honoured and
beloved by thousands of thousands, when the mother of his dear friend
found me, and showed me that in all his triumphs he had never forgotten
me. He was wounded in a great battle. He was brought, dying,
here, into Brussels. I came to watch and tend him, as I would
have joyfully gone, with such a purpose, to the dreariest ends of the
earth. When he knew no one else, he knew me. When he suffered
most, he bore his sufferings barely murmuring, content to rest his head
where your rests now. When he lay at the point of death, he married
me, that he might call me Wife before he died. And the name, my
dear love, that I took on that forgotten night—”
“I know it now!” he sobbed. “The shadowy
remembrance strengthens. It is come back. I thank Heaven
that my mind is quite restored! My Mary, kiss me; lull this weary
head to rest, or I shall die of gratitude. His parting words were
fulfilled. I see Home again!”
Well! They were happy. It was a long recovery, but they
were happy through it all. The snow had melted on the ground,
and the birds were singing in the leafless thickets of the early spring,
when those three were first able to ride out together, and when people
flocked about the open carriage to cheer and congratulate Captain Richard
But even then it became necessary for the Captain, instead of returning
to England, to complete his recovery in the climate of Southern France.
They found a spot upon the Rhône, within a ride of the old town
of Avignon, and within view of its broken bridge, which was all they
could desire; they lived there, together, six months; then returned
to England. Mrs. Taunton, growing old after three years—though
not so old as that her bright, dark eyes were dimmed—and remembering
that her strength had been benefited by the change resolved to go back
for a year to those parts. So she went with a faithful servant,
who had often carried her son in his arms; and she was to be rejoined
and escorted home, at the year’s end, by Captain Richard Doubledick.
She wrote regularly to her children (as she called them now), and
they to her. She went to the neighbourhood of Aix; and there,
in their own château near the farmer’s house she rented,
she grew into intimacy with a family belonging to that part of France.
The intimacy began in her often meeting among the vineyards a pretty
child, a girl with a most compassionate heart, who was never tired of
listening to the solitary English lady’s stories of her poor son
and the cruel wars. The family were as gentle as the child, and
at length she came to know them so well that she accepted their invitation
to pass the last month of her residence abroad under their roof.
All this intelligence she wrote home, piecemeal as it came about, from
time to time; and at last enclosed a polite note, from the head of the
château, soliciting, on the occasion of his approaching mission
to that neighbourhood, the honour of the company of cet homme si justement
célèbre, Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick.
Captain Doubledick, now a hardy, handsome man in the full vigour
of life, broader across the chest and shoulders than he had ever been
before, dispatched a courteous reply, and followed it in person.
Travelling through all that extent of country after three years of Peace,
he blessed the better days on which the world had fallen. The
corn was golden, not drenched in unnatural red; was bound in sheaves
for food, not trodden underfoot by men in mortal fight. The smoke
rose up from peaceful hearths, not blazing ruins. The carts were
laden with the fair fruits of the earth, not with wounds and death.
To him who had so often seen the terrible reverse, these things were
beautiful indeed; and they brought him in a softened spirit to the old
château near Aix upon a deep blue evening.
It was a large château of the genuine old ghostly kind, with
round towers, and extinguishers, and a high leaden roof, and more windows
than Aladdin’s Palace. The lattice blinds were all thrown
open after the heat of the day, and there were glimpses of rambling
walls and corridors within. Then there were immense out-buildings
fallen into partial decay, masses of dark trees, terrace-gardens, balustrades;
tanks of water, too weak to play and too dirty to work; statues, weeds,
and thickets of iron railing that seemed to have overgrown themselves
like the shrubberies, and to have branched out in all manner of wild
shapes. The entrance doors stood open, as doors often do in that
country when the heat of the day is past; and the Captain saw no bell
or knocker, and walked in.
He walked into a lofty stone hall, refreshingly cool and gloomy after
the glare of a Southern day’s travel. Extending along the
four sides of this hall was a gallery, leading to suites of rooms; and
it was lighted from the top. Still no bell was to be seen.
“Faith,” said the Captain halting, ashamed of the clanking
of his boots, “this is a ghostly beginning!”
He started back, and felt his face turn white. In the gallery,
looking down at him, stood the French officer—the officer whose
picture he had carried in his mind so long and so far. Compared
with the original, at last—in every lineament how like it was!
He moved, and disappeared, and Captain Richard Doubledick heard his
steps coming quickly down own into the hall. He entered through
an archway. There was a bright, sudden look upon his face, much
such a look as it had worn in that fatal moment.
Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick? Enchanted to receive
him! A thousand apologies! The servants were all out in
the air. There was a little fête among them in the garden.
In effect, it was the fête day of my daughter, the little cherished
and protected of Madame Taunton.
He was so gracious and so frank that Monsieur le Capitaine Richard
Doubledick could not withhold his hand. “It is the hand
of a brave Englishman,” said the French officer, retaining it
while he spoke. “I could respect a brave Englishman, even
as my foe, how much more as my friend! I also am a soldier.”
“He has not remembered me, as I have remembered him; he did
not take such note of my face, that day, as I took of his,” thought
Captain Richard Doubledick. “How shall I tell him?”
The French officer conducted his guest into a garden and presented
him to his wife, an engaging and beautiful woman, sitting with Mrs.
Taunton in a whimsical old-fashioned pavilion. His daughter, her
fair young face beaming with joy, came running to embrace him; and there
was a boy-baby to tumble down among the orange trees on the broad steps,
in making for his father’s legs. A multitude of children
visitors were dancing to sprightly music; and all the servants and peasants
about the château were dancing too. It was a scene of innocent
happiness that might have been invented for the climax of the scenes
of peace which had soothed the Captain’s journey.
He looked on, greatly troubled in his mind, until a resounding bell
rang, and the French officer begged to show him his rooms. They
went upstairs into the gallery from which the officer had looked down;
and Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick was cordially welcomed
to a grand outer chamber, and a smaller one within, all clocks and draperies,
and hearths, and brazen dogs, and tiles, and cool devices, and elegance,
“You were at Waterloo,” said the French officer.
“I was,” said Captain Richard Doubledick. “And
Left alone with the sound of his own stern voice in his ears, he
sat down to consider, What shall I do, and how shall I tell him?
At that time, unhappily, many deplorable duels had been fought between
English and French officers, arising out of the recent war; and these
duels, and how to avoid this officer’s hospitality, were the uppermost
thought in Captain Richard Doubledick’s mind.
He was thinking, and letting the time run out in which he should
have dressed for dinner, when Mrs. Taunton spoke to him outside the
door, asking if he could give her the letter he had brought from Mary.
“His mother, above all,” the Captain thought. “How
shall I tell her?”
“You will form a friendship with your host, I hope,”
said Mrs. Taunton, whom he hurriedly admitted, “that will last
for life. He is so true-hearted and so generous, Richard, that
you can hardly fail to esteem one another. If He had been spared,”
she kissed (not without tears) the locket in which she wore his hair,
“he would have appreciated him with his own magnanimity, and would
have been truly happy that the evil days were past which made such a
man his enemy.”
She left the room; and the Captain walked, first to one window, whence
he could see the dancing in the garden, then to another window, whence
he could see the smiling prospect and the peaceful vineyards.
“Spirit of my departed friend,” said he, “is it
through thee these better thoughts are rising in my mind? Is it
thou who hast shown me, all the way I have been drawn to meet this man,
the blessings of the altered time? Is it thou who hast sent thy
stricken mother to me, to stay my angry hand? Is it from thee
the whisper comes, that this man did his duty as thou didst,—and
as I did, through thy guidance, which has wholly saved me here on earth,—and
that he did no more?”
He sat down, with his head buried in his hands, and, when he rose
up, made the second strong resolution of his life,—that neither
to the French officer, nor to the mother of his departed friend, nor
to any soul, while either of the two was living, would he breathe what
only he knew. And when he touched that French officer’s
glass with his own, that day at dinner, he secretly forgave him in the
name of the Divine Forgiver of injuries.
* * * * *
Here I ended my story as the first Poor Traveller. But, if
I had told it now, I could have added that the time has since come when
the son of Major Richard Doubledick, and the son of that French officer,
friends as their fathers were before them, fought side by side in one
cause, with their respective nations, like long-divided brothers whom
the better times have brought together, fast united.
CHAPTER III—THE ROAD
My story being finished, and the Wassail too, we broke up as the
Cathedral bell struck Twelve. I did not take leave of my travellers
that night; for it had come into my head to reappear, in conjunction
with some hot coffee, at seven in the morning.
As I passed along the High Street, I heard the Waits at a distance,
and struck off to find them. They were playing near one of the
old gates of the City, at the corner of a wonderfully quaint row of
red-brick tenements, which the clarionet obligingly informed me were
inhabited by the Minor-Canons. They had odd little porches over
the doors, like sounding-boards over old pulpits; and I thought I should
like to see one of the Minor-Canons come out upon his top stop, and
favour us with a little Christmas discourse about the poor scholars
of Rochester; taking for his text the words of his Master relative to
the devouring of Widows’ houses.
The clarionet was so communicative, and my inclinations were (as
they generally are) of so vagabond a tendency, that I accompanied the
Waits across an open green called the Vines, and assisted—in the
French sense—at the performance of two waltzes, two polkas, and
three Irish melodies, before I thought of my inn any more. However,
I returned to it then, and found a fiddle in the kitchen, and Ben, the
wall-eyed young man, and two chambermaids, circling round the great
deal table with the utmost animation.
I had a very bad night. It cannot have been owing to the turkey
or the beef,—and the Wassail is out of the question—but
in every endeavour that I made to get to sleep I failed most dismally.
I was never asleep; and in whatsoever unreasonable direction my mind
rambled, the effigy of Master Richard Watts perpetually embarrassed
In a word, I only got out of the Worshipful Master Richard Watts’s
way by getting out of bed in the dark at six o’clock, and tumbling,
as my custom is, into all the cold water that could be accumulated for
the purpose. The outer air was dull and cold enough in the street,
when I came down there; and the one candle in our supper-room at Watts’s
Charity looked as pale in the burning as if it had had a bad night too.
But my Travellers had all slept soundly, and they took to the hot coffee,
and the piles of bread-and-butter, which Ben had arranged like deals
in a timber-yard, as kindly as I could desire.
While it was yet scarcely daylight, we all came out into the street
together, and there shook hands. The widow took the little sailor
towards Chatham, where he was to find a steamboat for Sheerness; the
lawyer, with an extremely knowing look, went his own way, without committing
himself by announcing his intentions; two more struck off by the cathedral
and old castle for Maidstone; and the book-pedler accompanied me over
the bridge. As for me, I was going to walk by Cobham Woods, as
far upon my way to London as I fancied.
When I came to the stile and footpath by which I was to diverge from
the main road, I bade farewell to my last remaining Poor Traveller,
and pursued my way alone. And now the mists began to rise in the
most beautiful manner, and the sun to shine; and as I went on through
the bracing air, seeing the hoarfrost sparkle everywhere, I felt as
if all Nature shared in the joy of the great Birthday.
Going through the woods, the softness of my tread upon the mossy
ground and among the brown leaves enhanced the Christmas sacredness
by which I felt surrounded. As the whitened stems environed me,
I thought how the Founder of the time had never raised his benignant
hand, save to bless and heal, except in the case of one unconscious
tree. By Cobham Hall, I came to the village, and the churchyard
where the dead had been quietly buried, “in the sure and certain
hope” which Christmas time inspired. What children could
I see at play, and not be loving of, recalling who had loved them!
No garden that I passed was out of unison with the day, for I remembered
that the tomb was in a garden, and that “she, supposing him to
be the gardener,” had said, “Sir, if thou have borne him
hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.”
In time, the distant river with the ships came full in view, and with
it pictures of the poor fishermen, mending their nets, who arose and
followed him,—of the teaching of the people from a ship pushed
off a little way from shore, by reason of the multitude,—of a
majestic figure walking on the water, in the loneliness of night.
My very shadow on the ground was eloquent of Christmas; for did not
the people lay their sick where the more shadows of the men who had
heard and seen him might fall as they passed along?
Thus Christmas begirt me, far and near, until I had come to Blackheath,
and had walked down the long vista of gnarled old trees in Greenwich
Park, and was being steam-rattled through the mists now closing in once
more, towards the lights of London. Brightly they shone, but not
so brightly as my own fire, and the brighter faces around it, when we
came together to celebrate the day. And there I told of worthy
Master Richard Watts, and of my supper with the Six Poor Travellers
who were neither Rogues nor Proctors, and from that hour to this I have
never seen one of them again.