He responded with great affability to greetings, acknowledged respectful bows graciously, magnificently ignored a following of less respectful small boys, and ogled every passable female through his quizzing-glass. It was evident that the citizens of Rye regarded him in the light of a raree-show, but if broad grins decorated male countenances, it was seldom that the female population failed to gratify him by taking in every detail of his attire with rapt eyes of admiration. Long before the bottom of The Mint had been reached, Hugo was moved to protest, which he did in blunt terms, informing Claud that he was not one who liked to be stared at, and would part company with his cousin unless he stopped behaving as though he were the chief exhibit in a procession.
“Why, I thought you wanted to see the town!” said Claud, rather hurt.
“Ay, so I do, but at this rate it will be time to have the horses put to before we’ve seen aught but one street. Nay then, lad, stop making an April-gowk of yourself, or we’ll have all the boys in the town at our heels!”
Claud, perceiving that the Major had every intention of propelling him along the street, averted the danger of having his coat-sleeve crushed by the grip of that large hand by quickening his pace. He complained, in an injured tone, that he would never have come down The Mint at all if he had not thought it his duty to show his cousin the Strand Gate; but when they reached the bottom of The Mint there was no gate to be seen, and, after a surprised moment, he suddenly remembered that it had been demolished a couple of years previously.
“Pity, because I daresay you’d have liked it,” he said. “Don’t come down here often myself, which accounts for my having forgotten they’d pulled it down. However, it don’t signify! We’ll stroll up Mermaid Street, and I’ll show you the old coaching-house. Shouldn’t think they’ve pulled that down, though it ain’t used any longer. Do you remember what we were saying t’other night, about the Hawkhurst Gang? Well, they’ll tell you here it was one of their kens. Used to stamp in, as bold as Beauchamp, and sit there, boozing and sluicing, with their pistols and cutlasses on the table in front of them. Enough to put up the shutters then and there, you’d think, but I rather fancy it went on being an inn for a good few years. Yes, and I’ll tell you another interesting thing about Mermaid Street,” he added, after a moment’s mental research. “At least, I think it was in Mermaid Street. House at the top, anyway. Fellow had a knife stuck into him. Seems to have made the devil of a stir at the time.” He paused, frowning. “Now I come to think of it, I fancy it happened in the churchyard, but I’m pretty sure they found the poor fellow in the house. Bled to death.”
“Who was it? Did they discover the murderer?”
“Yes, they did all right and tight. I rather fancy he was a butcher, or some such thing, who had a grudge against the Mayor.”
“No wonder it made a stir!” remarked—Hugo.
“Yes, but I’ve a notion it wasn’t the Mayor who was stabbed, but some other fellow. I’ve forgotten just how it was, but I do know they hanged the butcher on Gibbet Marsh, above the Tillingham Sluice. Kept his body in an iron cage there for a matter of fifty years. I never saw it myself, because they took it down before I was born, but m’father says it used to be quite a landmark.”
This engaging anecdote ended his account of Rye’s history, the rest of his conversation, as he picked his way between the ruts and channels of Mermaid Street, being confined to bitter animadversions on the shocking condition of the road. None of the streets that led up to the top of the hill were paved, and as they were very steep, every heavy fall of rain played havoc with their surfaces. By the time he had reached the Mermaid Inn, Claud, whose beautiful Hessians were not meant for rough walking, was a good deal ruffled; and when he discovered a serious scratch on the shining leather he came near to losing his temper. “It’s no use asking me how old the place is, because I don’t know, and what’s more I dashed well don’t care!” he said testily. “Don’t stand there gaping at it! Just look at this boot of mine! Do you realize I’ve only had this pair a couple of months? Now they’re ruined, all because nothing will do for you but to go prowling about this ramshackle town!”
“I shouldn’t worry,” said Hugo, with only the most cursory glance at the damaged boot. “I daresay Polyphant will know what to do. Can we get into this place?”
“No, we can’t, and as for not worrying, anyone can see
With this disjointed utterance he made his way across the street, sweeping off his hat, and executing a superb bow to a blushing damsel in a print dress, and a straw bonnet tied over a mop of yellow curls, who was coming down the street with a basket over one mittened arm. “La, Mr. Darracott, to think of meeting you!” she said coyly, dropping him a curtsy. “And me on my way to the chandler’s, never dreaming you was in the town! Well, I do declare!”
“Allow me to carry your basket!” begged Claud gallantly.
“How can you, Mr. Darracott? As though I’d think of such a thing!”
“At least you won’t refuse me the pleasure of escorting you!” said Claud.
Perceiving that the lady had no intention of refusing him this pleasure, the Major seized the opportunity to make good his escape, tolerably confident that Claud would be happily engaged in flirtation for some time to come. The yellow-haired charmer spoke in far from refined accents, but the Major felt no surprise at his elegant cousin’s effusive behaviour, for he had discovered Claud two days previously, trysting with the blacksmith’s pretty daughter. Claud’s disposition was mildly amorous, but as he was terrified of falling a victim to a matchmaking mama, he rarely attempted to flirt with girls of his own order, indulging instead in a form of innocuous dalliance (which made his more robust brother feel very unwell) with chambermaids, milliners’ apprentices, village maidens, or, in fact, any personable young female of humble origin who was ready to encourage his attentions without for a moment imagining that those were serious.
So the Major deserted him with a clear conscience, and explored the town by himself. At the end of Watchbell Street he fell into conversation with a venerable citizen, who gave him much interesting information about Rye’s history, not all of which was apocryphal, and directed him to the Flushing Inn, which was the scene of the murderous butcher’s last drink before his execution. The Major thanked him, but preferred to visit the church, after which he wandered on until he found himself at the end of the town, in front of the ancient Ypres Tower, which provided Rye with its jail. Close by it the town-wall had been breached to allow those wishing to reach the quay below to do so by way of the Baddyng Steps. The Major walked towards the steps, and reached them just as Lieutenant Ottershaw arrived, somewhat out of breath, at the top of them.
The Lieutenant stared for a moment, and then saluted the Major, who greeted him pleasantly, and said, looking over the low wall at the precipitous slope of the hill: “A stiff climb!”
The Lieutenant agreed to this monosyllabically, and hesitated, as though he were in two minds whether to continue on his way, or to linger. Hugo settled the matter for him by nodding towards the rugged jail, and saying: “I take it that must have been a mediaeval Martello Tower. I’ve been talking to one of the inhabitants of the town, and from what I could gather—but my ear’s not used yet to the Sussex tongue!—the Frogs made a habit of raiding Rye.”
“Yes, sir, I believe they did land here on more than one occasion. Is it your first visit?”
“Ay, it is. I was never in Sussex, think on, before I came to stay with my grandfather. I don’t know Kent either, beyond what I saw when I was at Shorncliffe, and that wasn’t much. Are you a native of these parts?”
“No, sir. I was born in London, but my father’s people were from Yorkshire,” disclosed the Lieutenant.
“No, is that so? Ee, lad, that’s gradely! Is ta from t’West Riding?” exclaimed Hugo broadly.
The Lieutenant’s severe countenance relaxed into a reluctant grin. “No, sir—North Riding, not far from York. I was never in Yorkshire myself, though.”
Hugo shook his head over this, and by dint of a few friendly questions succeeded in thawing some of the ice in which the Riding officer seemed to wish to encase himself. Ottershaw ventured, in his turn, to enquire after Hugo’s military service; and in a very short while had relaxed sufficiently to perch beside him on the wall, listening with keen interest to what he had to say about the war in the Peninsula, and allowing himself to be beguiled into talking a little about his own career. It was evident that he had chosen his profession as the next best to joining the army; he spoke of it in a defensive manner, as though he suspected Hugo of despising it; whereupon Hugo said, with his slow smile: “From all I can discover, yours is a harder job than any I ever met with, and a thankless one, too.”
Ottershaw gave a short laugh. “It’s thankless enough! I don’t care for that, but these people—in Kent and Sussex both: there’s nothing to choose between ’em!—well, sir, they say Cornish folk are double-faced, but I’ll swear they’re nothing to what I’ve met with here! You saw that barrel-bellied fellow who doffed his hat to me a
