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The Looe Die-Hards
by
“Times hev’ marvellously altered in the meanwhile, to be sure,” put in Sergeant Pengelly of the “Sloop” Inn.
“Well, then,” Uncle Issy continued, without pressing his triumph, “”Tis all over with East Looe,’ I said, ‘an’ this is a black day for King Gearge,’ an’ then I spoke them verses o’ Solomon. ‘Let none of us,’ I said, ‘go without his due part of our voluptuousness’; and with that I went home and dined on tatties an’ bacon. It hardly seems a thing to be believed at this distance o’ time, but I never relished tatties an’ bacon better in my life than that day–an’ yet not meanin’ the laste disrespect to King Gearge. Disrespect? If his Majesty only knew it, he’ve no better friend in the world than Israel Spettigew. God save the King!”
And with this Uncle Issy pulled off his cap and waved it round his head, thereby shedding a moulinet of raindrops full in the faces of his comrades around.
This was observed by Captain Pond, standing on the platform above, beside Thundering Meg, the big 24-pounder, which with four 18-pounders on the shore-wall formed the lower defences of the haven.
“Mr. Clogg,” he called to his junior lieutenant, “tell Gunner Spettigew to put on his hat at once. Ask him what he means by taking his death and disgracing the company.”
The junior lieutenant–a small farmer from Talland parish–touched his cap, spread his hand suddenly over his face and sneezed.
“Hullo! You’ve got a cold.”
“No, sir. I often sneezes like that, and no reason for it whatever.”
“I’ve never noticed it before.”
“No, sir. I keeps it under so well as I can. A great deal can be done sometimes by pressing your thumb on the upper lip.”
“Ah, well! So long as it’s not a cold–” returned the Captain, and broke off to arrange his air-cushion over the depressed muzzle of Thundering Meg. Hereupon he took his seat, adjusted the lapels of his great-coat over his knees, and gave way to gloomy reflection.
Sergeant Fugler was at the bottom of it. Sergeant Fugler, the best marksman in the Company, was a hard drinker, with a hobnailed liver. He lay now in bed with that hobnailed liver, and the Doctor said it was only a question of days. But why should this so extraordinarily discompose Captain Pond, who had no particular affection for Fugler, and knew, besides, that all men–and especially hard drinkers–are mortal?
The answer is that the East and West Looe Volunteer Artillery was no ordinary Company. When, on the 16th of May, 1803, King George told his faithful subjects, who had been expecting the announcement for some time, that the Treaty of Amiens was no better than waste paper, public feeling in the two Looes rose to a very painful pitch. The inhabitants used to assemble before the post-office, to hear the French bulletins read out; and though it was generally concluded that they held much falsehood, yet everybody felt misfortune in the air. Rumours flew about that a diversion would be made by sending an army into the Duchy to draw the troops thither while the invaders directed their main strength upon London. Quiet villagers, therefore, dwelt for the while in a constant apprehension, fearing to go to bed lest they should awake at the sound of the trumpet, or in the midst of the French troops; scarcely venturing beyond sight of home lest, returning, they should find the homestead smoking and desolate. Each man had laid down the plan he should pursue. Some were to drive off the cattle, others to fire the corn. While the men worked in the fields, their womankind–young maids and grandmothers, and all that could be spared from domestic work–encamped above the cliffs, wearing red cloaks to scare the Frenchmen, and by night kept big bonfires burning continually. Amid this painful disquietude of the public mind “the great and united Spirit of the British People armed itself for the support of their ancient Glory and Independence against the unprincipled Ambition of the French Government.” In other words, the Volunteer movement began. In the Duchy alone no less than 8,362 men enrolled themselves in thirty Companies of foot, horse, and artillery, as well out of enthusiasm as to escape the general levy that seemed probable–so mixed are all human actions.