The trumpet-major now contrived to place himself near her, Anne’s presence having evidently been a great pleasure to him since the moment of his first seeing her. She was quite at her ease with him, and asked him if he thought that Buonaparte would really come during the summer, and many other questions which the gallant dragoon could not answer, but which he nevertheless liked to be asked. William Tremlett, who had not enjoyed a sound night’s rest since the First Consul’s menace had become known, pricked up his ears at sound of this subject, and inquired if anybody had seen the terrible flat-bottomed boats that the enemy were to cross in.
‘My brother Robert saw several of them paddling about the shore the last time he passed the Straits of Dover,’ said the trumpet-major; and he further startled the company by informing them that there were supposed to be more than fifteen hundred of these boats, and that they would carry a hundred men apiece. So that a descent of one hundred and fifty thousand men might be expected any day as soon as Boney had brought his plans to bear.
‘Lord ha’ mercy upon us!’ said William Tremlett.
‘The night-time is when they will try it, if they try it at all,’ said old Tullidge, in the tone of one whose watch at the beacon must, in the nature of things, have given him comprehensive views of the situation. ‘It is my belief that the point they will choose for making the shore is just over there,’ and he nodded with indifference towards a section of the coast at a hideous nearness to the house in which they were assembled, whereupon Fencible Tremlett, and Cripplestraw of the Locals, tried to show no signs of trepidation.
‘When d’ye think ’twill be?’ said Volunteer Comfort, the blacksmith.
‘I can’t answer to a day,’ said the corporal, ‘but it will certainly be in a down-channel tide; and instead of pulling hard against it, he’ll let his boats drift, and that will bring ’em right into Budmouth Bay. ’Twill be a beautiful stroke of war, if so be ’tis quietly done!’
‘Beautiful,’ said Cripplestraw, moving inside his clothes. ‘But how if we should be all abed, corpel? You can’t expect a man to be brave in his shirt, especially we Locals, that have only got so far as shoulder fire-locks.’
‘He’s not coming this summer. He’ll never come at all,’ said a tall sergeant-major decisively.
Loveday the soldier was too much engaged in attending upon Anne and her mother to join in these surmises, bestirring himself to get the ladies some of the best liquor the house afforded, which had, as a matter of fact, crossed the Channel as privately as Buonaparte wished his army to do, and had been landed on a dark night over the cliff. After this he asked Anne to sing, but though she had a very pretty voice in private performances of that nature, she declined to oblige him; turning the subject by making a hesitating inquiry about his brother Robert, whom he had mentioned just before.
‘Robert is as well as ever, thank you, Miss Garland,’ he said. ‘He is now mate of the brig Pewit—rather young for such a command; but the owner puts great trust in him.’ The trumpet-major added, deepening his thoughts to a profounder view of the person discussed, ‘Bob is in love.’
Anne looked conscious, and listened attentively; but Loveday did not go on.
‘Much?’ she asked.
‘I can’t exactly say. And the strange part of it is that he never tells us who the woman is. Nobody knows at all.’
‘He will tell, of course?’ said Anne, in the remote tone of a person with whose sex such matters had no connexion whatever.
Loveday shook his head, and the tete-a-tete was put an end to by a burst of singing from one of the sergeants, who was followed at the end of his song by others, each giving a ditty in his turn; the singer standing up in front of the table, stretching his chin well into the air, as though to abstract every possible wrinkle from his throat, and then plunging into the melody. When this was over one of the foreign hussars—the genteel German of Miller Loveday’s description, who called himself a Hungarian, and in reality belonged to no definite country—performed at Trumpet-major Loveday’s request the series of wild motions that he denominated his national dance, that Anne might see what it was like. Miss Garland was the flower of the whole company; the soldiers one and all, foreign and English, seemed to be quite charmed by her presence, as indeed they well might be, considering how seldom they came into the society of such as she.
Anne and her mother were just thinking of retiring to their own dwelling when Sergeant Stanner of the --th Foot, who was recruiting at Budmouth, began a satirical song:—
When law’-yers strive’ to heal’ a breach’,
And par-sons prac’-tise what’ they preach’;
Then lit’-tle Bo-ney he’ll pounce down’,
And march’ his men’ on Lon’-don town’!
Chorus.—Rol’-li-cum ro’-rum, tol’-lol-lo’-rum,
Rol’-li-cum ro’-rum, tol’-lol-lay.
When jus’-ti-ces’ hold e’qual scales’,
And rogues’ are on’-ly found’ in jails’;
Then lit’tle Bo’-ney he’ll pounce down’,
And march’ his men’ on Lon’-don town’!
Chorus.—Rol’-li-cum ro’-rum, tol’-lol-lo’-rum,
Rol’-li-cum ro’-rum, tol’-lol-lay.
When rich’ men find’ their wealth’ a curse’,
And fill’ there-with’ the poor’ man’s purse’;
Then lit’-tle Bo’-ney he’ll pounce down’,
And march’ his men’ on Lon’-don town’!
Chorus.—Rol’-li-cum ro’-rum, tol’-lol-lo’-rum,
Rol’-li-cum ro’-rum, tol’-lol-lay.
Poor Stanner! In spite of his satire, he fell at the bloody battle of Albuera a few years after this pleasantly spent summer at the Georgian watering-place, being mortally wounded and trampled down by a French hussar when the brigade was deploying into line under Beresford.
While Miller Loveday was saying ‘Well done, Mr. Stanner!’ at the close of the thirteenth stanza, which seemed to be the last, and Mr. Stanner was modestly expressing his regret that he could do no better, a stentorian voice was heard outside the window shutter repeating,
Rol’-li-cum ro’-rum, tol’-lol-lo’-rum,
Rol’-li-cum ro’-rum, tol’-lol-lay.
The company was silent in a moment at this reinforcement, and only the military tried not to look surprised. While all wondered who the singer could be somebody entered the porch; the door opened, and in came a young man, about the size and weight of the Farnese Hercules, in the uniform of the yeomanry cavalry.
‘’Tis young Squire Derriman, old Mr. Derriman’s nephew,’ murmured voices in the background.
Without waiting to address anybody, or apparently seeing who were gathered there, the colossal
