Springhaven: A Tale of the Great War by R. D. Blackmore (best novels ever .txt) 📕

you, and you pull up with your horse hanging down his head, as if dead-beaten. Using your accomplishment again, you say: 'Here, take this on to Admiral Darling. My nag is quite done, and I must get to Stonnington to call Colonel James. For your life, run, run. You'll get a guinea, if you look sharp.' Before he can think of it, turn your horse, and make back to the lane, as if for Stonnington. But instead of that, gallop back to our ruins; and we'll go up the hill, and see what comes of it.”

“It is very good, it is magnificent. But will not the sentinel perceive my voice and accent?”

“Not he; he is a very honest and therefore stupid fellow. Give him no time, answer no questions. Be all in a rush, as you so generally are. I would do it myself, but I am too well known. Say, will you undertake it? It will be a fine joke for you.”

About half an hour after this, the Lord-Lieutenant having hammered on the table with an empty bottle, stood up to propose the chief toast of the evening—the gallant crew of the Leda, and the bold sailors of Springhaven. His lordship had scarcely had a bottle and a half, and was now in the prime of his intellect. A very large man, with a long brocaded coat of ruby-coloured cloth, and white satin breeches, a waistcoat of primrose plush emblazoned with the Union-jack (then the popular device) in gorgeous silks with a margin of bright gold, and a neckcloth pointed and plaited in with the rarest lace, worth all the rest put together—what a pity it seemed that such a man should get drunk, or at any rate try so hard to do it. There was not a pimple on his face, his cheeks were rosy and glistening, but not flushed; and his eyes were as bright and clear and deep as a couple of large sapphires.

This nobleman said a few words, without any excitement, or desire to create it, every word to the point, and the best that could be chosen not to go beyond the point. There was no attempt at eloquence, and yet the speech was eloquent, because it suggested so much more than was said. More excitable natures, overcome by half a bottle, resolved to have the other half, in honour of that toast.

Then the Marquis did a very kind and thoughtful thing, for which he deserved a bottle of the Royal Tokay, such as even Napoleon could not obtain. When the cheering was done, and every eye was fixed upon the blushing Scudamore—who felt himself, under that fixture, like an insect under a lens which the sun is turning into a burning-glass—the Chairman perceived his sad plight, and to give him more time and more spirit, rose again.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “or I would rather call you brother Englishmen at this moment, I have forgotten one thing. Before our young hero replies to his health, let us give him that spirited song 'Billy Blue,' which is well known to every man here, I'll be bound. Tell the drummer down there to be ready for chorus.” Billy Blue, though almost forgotten now (because the enemy would not fight him), the blockader of Brest, the hardy, skilful, and ever watchful Admiral Cornwallis, would be known to us nearly as well as Nelson, if fame were not a lottery.

As the Lord-Lieutenant waved his hand, the company rose with one accord, and followed the lead of his strong clear voice in the popular song, called

“BILLY BLUE” 1 “'Tis a terrible time for Englishmen; All tyrants do abhor them; Every one of them hath to fight with ten, And the Lord alone is for them. But the Lord hath given the strong right hand, And the courage to face the thunder; If a Frenchman treads this English land, He shall find his grave thereunder. CHORUS Britannia is the Ocean-Queen, and she standeth staunch and true, With Nelson for her faulchion keen, and her buckler Billy Blue. 2 “They are mustering on yon Gallic coasts, You can see them from this high land, The biggest of all the outlandish hosts That ever devoured an island. There are steeds that have scoured the Continent, Ere ever one might say, 'Whoa, there!' And ships that would fill the Thames and Trent, If we would let them go there. CHORUS But England is the Ocean-Queen, and it shall be hard to do; Not a Frenchman shall skulk in between herself and her Billy Blue. 3 “From the smiling bays of Devonshire To the frowning cliffs of Filey, Leaps forth every son of an English sire, To fight for his native isley. He hath drawn the sword of his father now From the rusty sheath it rattled in; And Dobbin, who dragged the peaceful plough, Is neighing for the battle-din. CHORUS For Albion still is Ocean-Queen, and though her sons be few, They challenge the world with a dauntless mien, and the flag of Billy Blue. 4 “Then pledge me your English palm, my lad; Keep the knuckles for Sir Frenchman; No slave can you be till you change your dad, And no son of yours a henchman. The fight is to come; and we will not brag, Nor expect whatever we sigh for, But stand as the rock that bears the flag Our duty is to die for. CHORUS For Englishmen confront serene whatever them betideth; And England shall be Ocean's Queen as long as the world abideth.”

What with the drum and the fifes of one of the regiments now at Stonnington, and the mighty bass of some sea-captains vehement in chorus, these rough and rolling lines were enough to frighten a thousand Frenchmen, while proving the vigour of British nerve, and fortitude both of heart and ear. When people have done a thing well, they know it, and applaud one another to include themselves; and even the ladies, who were meant to be unseen, forgot that and waved their handkerchiefs. Then up and spoke Blyth Scudamore, in the spirit of the moment; and all that he said was good and true, well-balanced and well-condensed, like himself. His quiet melodious voice went further than the Lord-Lieutenant's, because it was new to the air of noise, and that fickle element loves novelty. All was silence while he spoke, and when he ceased—great uproar.

“That lad will do,” said the Marquis to his supporter on the right hand; “I was just like him at that age myself. Let me draw this cork—it is the bottle of the evening. None but my own fellows understand a cork, and they seem to have got away somewhere. What the doose are they about—why, halloa, Darling! What's the meaning of all this, at such a time?”

“Well, my lord, you must judge for yourself,” said the Admiral, who had made his way quietly from the bottom of the table. “We