FullReads

“And you overslept yourself,” Captain Paul briskly interrupted, alert as ever to protect the credit of his Company. He was aware that several of the Die-hards, in extra-military hours, took an occasional trip across to Guernsey: and Guernsey is a good deal more than half-way to France.

“The point is,” observed the Doctor, “that you play the cornet.”

“It is certain that I do so, monsieur; but how that can be the point–“

“And instruct in music?”

“Decidedly!”

“Do you know the Dead March?”

M. Trinquier was unfeignedly bewildered.

Said Captain Pond: “Listen while I explain. You are my prisoner, and it becomes my duty to send you back to Dartmoor under escort. But you are exhausted; and notwithstanding my detestation of that infernal tyrant, your master, I am a humane man. At all events, I’m not going to expose two of my Die-hards to the risks of a tramp to Dartmoor just now–I wouldn’t turn out a dog in such weather. It remains a question what I am to do with you in the meanwhile. I propose that you give me your parole that you will make no attempt to escape, let us say, for a month: and on receiving it I will at once escort you to my house, and see that you are suitably clothed, fed, and entertained.”

“I give it willingly, M. le Capitaine. But how am I to thank you?”

“By playing the Dead March upon the cornet-a-piston and teaching others to do the like.”

“That seems a singular way of showing one’s gratitude. But why the Dead March, monsieur? And, excuse me, there is more than one Dead March. I myself, par exemple, composed one to the memory of my adored Philomene but a week before Hippolyte came with his so sad proposition.”

“I doubt if that will do. You see,” said Captain Pond, lifting his voice for the benefit of the Die-hards, who by this time were quite as sorely puzzled as their prisoner, “we are about to bury one of our Company, Sergeant Fugler–“

“Ah! he is dead?”

“He is dying,” Captain Pond pursued, the more quickly since he now guessed, not without reason, that Fugler was the “good Cornishman” to whose door M. Trinquier had been directed. “He is dying of a hobnailed liver. It is his wish to have the Dead March played at his burying.”

“He whistled the tune over to me,” said the Doctor; “but plague take me if I can whistle it to you. I’ve no ear: but I’d know it again if I heard it. Dismal isn’t the word for it.”

“It will be Handel. I am sure it will be Handel–the Dead March in his Saul.”

“In his what?”

“In his oratorio of Saul. Listen–poum, poum, prrr, poum–“

“Be dashed, but you’ve got it!” cried the Doctor, delighted; “though you do give it a sort of foreign accent. But I daresay that won’t be so noticeable on the key-bugle.”

“But about this key-bugle, monsieur? And the other instruments?–not to mention the players.”

“I’ve been thinking of that,” said Captain Pond. “There’s Butcher Tregaskis has a key-bugle. He plays ‘Rule Britannia’ upon it when he goes round with the suet. He’ll lend you that till we can get one down from Plymouth. A drum, too, you shall have. Hockaday’s trader calls here to-morrow on her way to Plymouth; she shall bring both instruments back with her. Then we have the church musicians–Peter Tweedy, first fiddle; Matthew John Ede, second ditto; Thomas Tripconey, scorpion–“

“Serpent,” the Doctor corrected.

“Well, it’s a filthy thing to look at, anyway. Israel Spettigew, bass-viol; William Henry Phippin, flute; and William Henry Phippin’s eldest boy Archelaus to tap the triangle at the right moment. That boy, sir, will play the triangle almost as well as a man grown.”

“Then, monsieur, take me to your house. Give me a little food and drink, pen, ink, and paper, and in three hours you shall have la partition.”