Copyright Story. The Frailties of Private Baker.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVII, Issue XIII, 28 September 1901, Page 582

Copyright Story. The Frailties of Private Baker.

By

FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE.

The Rev. Julius Delap was a parson of the good old Irish school. That school is now sadly reduced in numbers. Its few remaining scholars lean heavily on their walking sticks, and polish shiny crowns with yellow silk handkerchiefs. From them you may hear the brogue as the brogue ought to be; with a real Oi for I. and all the verbal adornments of Mrs Peggy O’Dowd. With them the Deans of Limerick are the Danes, and the ancient Danes are the Deans. You must remember this, and not attribute it to professional rancour, when you hear of the drunkenness and rapacity of the Deans, and how they have spoiled the gathedrals. Julius Delap was a great pulpit orator. Modern taste might fail to be seriously impressed by his peculiar fervour. In its day and place, however. it was greatly admired. He never preached — nearly always against the Pope and in favour of William of Orange —to a congregation much less packed than a box of sardines or jurymen. In moments of emotional abandonment he would lean over the pulpit in such preponderance that every logical mind was persuaded that the remnant must follow, and something of the combined charms of rope walking and receiving cavalry accompanied the sitting un-

der him. Occasionally when he rose to a very declamatory Oi, his excellent set of teeth would fall, like a materialised rapture, into an adjacent lap. Whereupon the organist, a man of resource, would strike up an inspiring hymn while a little boy handed up the gold and ivory. The Canon (Delap was a Canon) would retire behind his pocket handkerchief, and having readjusted his teeth would signal to the organist that he was again in battle array. Qi thank you. dear friends.” he would say, “for that sweet refreshment,” and so would pounce upon Thirdly with energy reborn. With such pulpit gifts, and social graces to correspond, Julius Delap was in constant request. No raid upon the lay pocket was judged well planned if it could not boast his leadership. He was the feather that winged home every arrow of philanthropy. Bazaars waited upon his convenience, societies timed their meetings by the clock of his engagements. When anybody asked if so-and-so were not considered a great orator, "Well. yes, he was once,” people would reply, "before the conquest of Julius.” And. mind, he was really a good fellow. Pugnacious and bumptious, and narrow as a needle, his heart was yet in the right place. Heaven only knows how much of his Income went in chaiity. He tried rather unfairly, lam afraid, to proselytize by the aid of such untheological articles as pounds of tea and yards of flannel.

But to “his own” he grudged nothing. His great oak hall chairs were chronically filled with waiters upon his providence. Some snuffy (and perhaps not over abstinent) widow had a cut off every joint. His windows and floors were always being scrubbed by some ill-favoured castaway whom the process appeared to afflict with a curious redness of nose and a strange indistinctness of speech. On the first of March the pension-

ers were wont to come and get their papers signed. f’p to the grim old house, in the once aristocratic but now fallen square, they toddled by

one, by two. from the swarming wynds around. Pathetic figures they were, often enough. A veteran of eighty-four, staggering on the arm of a lad of seventy odd. Here an empty sleeve fluttered in the air. Here a

wooden leg clumped on the cobble stones. There were wounds that officiated as recognised barometers of their neighbourhood. There were eyelids pulled smoothly down over nothing. The old lads had been with the colours all over the world. Some had memories of muddy marches, or stiff backs in the trenches. Some recollected having to take "a drarr of the pipe" instead of dinner. One or two recalled Sir Henry Havelock as a fine gintieman entirely. That was all. Not a soul of them knew anything about the country where he had fought his campaigns, or what the war was about, or how the victory was won. or what the sniff of battle was like. Some were maimed but all were dumb; they could tell nothing. So they came meekly in their turn and stood on the mat (if their robustness went so far), and handed out their dirty Identification Certificates, and touched the top of the pen (while the Canon made their mark) and went away grateful for the shilling that he gave. For they wouldn’t get their money for a month yet, and when it came it was not very much. "Shillin’ a day, Bloomin’ good pay— Lucky to touch it, a shillin’ a day." Lucky indeed! But few were born to inherit silver spoons like that in pampered second childhood. Most of them had only sixpence— and their corporeal barometers. Well, one first of March there eame at the tail of that forlorn old brigade a new pensioner. In that white-haired association, he looked crudely young. Perhaps he might be forty-five, but the Canon could not tell: it seemed as if a good dinner might bring him down ten years. Never had a suit—old, but not ragged—so little inside it. The Canon sent him down into the kitchen before he looked at the man’s paper. He was back in five minutes, but in that time he had, to use the cook’s subsequent phrase, eaten his way through all. She had to send for chops to eke the dinner out.

Then the Canon dealt with the paper. The man (not a whit fatter than before) stood curved out with over-erectness. He could not write his name, nor apparently was he perfectly clear as to what it was. He explained at great length the reasons for his indecision, but as he stuttered a good deal, and had to go back over four-and-twenty years, the Canon expressed the fulness of enlightenment a little before it actually came. The personal description of the Identification paper seemed unusually accurate. The height might be somewhere about the mark, and only one of his eyes was of a different colour from that set down to his credit. As to a mole (nn-

der his clothes), the man showed so earnest a desire to have no secrets that the Canon, ladies being liable to appear, was convinced on the spot. “And what.” asked Delap. as he put his name to the document, “and what do you do for a living, Baker?” "Starve,” said Baker. He got that word out without a stutter. “What are you able for?” “Your Riverence, I’m the handiest man at all. I'm n—n —nearly as good as a p —p —painter. I noticed that your Riverence’s front door wouldn’t be the worse for a coat. A nice olive green, or a blue, or might be a salmon. And ’deed, then,” he added, "your Riverence’s front would be none the worse for a good washing.” He meant his Reverence’s residential, not personal, front. With that he closed the door softly and took from his pocket a small prayer-book. He didn’t mind confessing that, Catholic as he was by birth, all his joy was in that book. “I does be reading it of nights, your Riverence. and ” “You told me,” the Canon broke in. “you couldn’t read.” ‘‘Then if I told your Riverence that, you may be sure I can’t. No, I’m not able to read, but I can find my way about a book.” Then, forcing even the stout Canon across the hall in his resolute attempts to whisper in his ear. he asked to be put under instruct ion. There was a little private talk, and then the Canon said: “You may try your hand at the white-washing. If you make a job of that, you can paint the door.” Baker required a small advance for the materials of whitewash (which it would seem are supplied by licensed victuallers), and having received it. withdrew. He made an excellent hand with the area, and proceeded to the door. Gradually he began to drop into the pogt of resident handy man. He was really happy up ladders, and sat out of upper windows, over spiked railings and area gulfs, with a whistling lightness of heart that had a sort of fascination. His earnings (for he was not constantly employed) amounted to nine shillings a week —and his instruction. One morning, a fortnight after his instalment. Baker, encountering the Canon in the hall, drew forth a small packet. Removing the blue handkerchief, he displayed a photograph—the photograph of a girl of sixteen. “Your daughter. Baker?” asked the cleric. Baker went into ecstacies behind his hand. “Your Reverence, that’s my wife. I’m just after marrying her. Faith. I axed her as soon as I had the place, and knew your noble Riverence would stand by me.” The Canon was very angry, but he was also very much amused. He gave the bridegroom a severe lecture and an admonitory five shillings. Baker replaced the photograph in the blue handkerchief with the comfortable feeling that he had struck a deeper root. That night there was a little party at his lodgings, and Baker’s health was drunk. To sax nothing of Baker herself. About a week after that the Canon (who had a corn that loved him) happened to pass in his stocking feet through the study, when Baker was

eleaning the windows. He came upon the pensioner in a singular attitude. At first he fancied the fellow was taking an astronomical observation.

for his head was flung back and between his two hands protruded a

cylindrical instrument. Standing there, however, the Canon beheld the cylinder rise slowly till it pointed to the zenith. Then he grew aware of gurglings connected with a purely terrestrial body, while the room waxed eloquent of Irish whisky. Suddenly, in the midst of a comfortable sigh. Baker became aware of the awful presence. “I was looking, your Riverence.” he said, "for an empty ould bottle.” "Were you. Baker?” answered the Canon. "In future there shall be no difficulty. Whenever you find a bottle you may rely upon its emptiness.” He was so delighted with that retort and with the extraordinary ardour with which Baker fell upon the windows (and once or twice through them) that he could not bear malice about the whisky. "It was my fault for leaving it in his way,” he said. "Temptation, old in bottle, and warranted bv John Jameson, is too much for Irish virtue.” However, he suggested to Baker that he should take the pledge—a suggestion enthusiastically adopted. Baker's only ground of dissatisfaction lay in the circumstance that he was not permitted tq sign with his blood. He had to make shift with red ink. That night Baker's voice was yelling in the Square, but Baker himself very fortunately for his reputation, was in bed with a trembling in the limbs. It left his blue eye black for a week. Other tints followed. Before that eye had settled down to the sober hues of common day. another thing happened. An old silver turnip watch, accustomed to hang on a nail in the Canon’s dressing-room, changed its habits and took to hanging in a pawnbroker’s window. It had been pledged by a long thin stuttering man who reluctantly confessed that his name was Butler. Delap shook his head. “The Butler and the Baker of the King of Egypt.” he said. "I am afraid there is no doubt. 1 preached oa Joseph’s interpretation last Sunday.” And then the Canon remembered how regular Baker was at Church, and how he drank in the sermons. "They have only one fault, your Riverence.” Baker had ventured to say apropos of that very Butler sermon, “but that’s a bad ’un.” “And what is that, Baker?” asked the smiling preacher.

“They’re too short by one half.” the pensioner replied. "That’s what all the congregation does be saying.” Now the Canon never gave his flock less than an hour’s solid feeding, and to know that this left it still with a sharp and whetted tooth was very gratifying. “Oh, they say that?” he answered. “Your Riverence,” Baker said, “they are like Pharaoh, King of Egypt, who swallowed the seven fat kine and was no stouter than before. 'Tis the same way with the wife and myself.” If Baker’s details were a little mixed. it was not so with his motives. The Canon, gazing on his watch, could not but remember Baker's Sunday face. Next day the pensioner and the turnip were confronted. “If I’d ha’ known," said the former, "if I'd ha' known that ould watch was of any value, I would never have touched it, your Riverence, I wouldn't. But how would a body suspect that when he seen it hanging on a nail?”

The argument, perhaps, was not very convincing, but Baker's truthful face ami earnest stutter carried a good deal of weight. “I believe, Baker,” the Canon said, “you are more fool than rogue.” "Now there you have it,” Baker replied. “I was always a very simple kind of man. The officers used to say it was no use being hard on me, anti that was the reason—not to tell your Riverence a lie—of me being kicked out of the army.” “Kicked out?” exclaimed the Canon. "Why, didn't they grant you a pension ?” Baker gave a little jump. "In course they did,” he said, after a moment’s pause: "but in a manner of sp—sp —spakin’, as one might say. according to the rigilations me being more like a child nor anything else—” And Baker plungeci into such depths of circumvolnte explanation, dragging the Canon with him, that in a little while the latter was grateful to escape with reason. He had to make a speech that night on a great political occasion, and it was necessary to retain mastery of a few elementary truths. “All right,” he said “all right, fasten to me now. You served with the colours and were the Private Baker of the Queen of England?” "I was then, your Riverence," tbe pensioner proudly replied. “Well, remember this. The Private Baker of the King of Egypt got into trouble. He was hanged.” The Canon retired chuckling to shut himself up in his study. A fiercelycontested election was agitating the town. Party feeling had seldom run so high. The Orangeites and Tories were in brilliant feather, and half expected to return their man to Parliament. Their man’s ordinary return was to his private address. The Canon made the speech of the evening. He was cheered to the echo, and five editions of it. But on his wayhome there were a good many cries of “Proddy Woddy,” and an orange knocked off his broad-brimmed hat. with the canonical rosette.

So things went on for several days. Never had the Canon been in such force. Never had the immortal memory of William of Orange been celebrated by thumps and jumps so worthy of their theme. It was thought by many that if the Pope were well advised he would contrive in some unostentatious way to cease to be.

However, as the Canon stumped stoutly home into his own dark region—the little dingy square pressed and pushed by its teeming Roman Catholic alleys—he received reminders of a possible other side to the question. Often he was hooted. Once he was hustled, and might have been hurt, but for a fist that shot out of nowhere and sent the ringleader thither. But the sturdy Canon eared for none of these things.

"The Pope shall get it pretty stiff next time," he said, as he mixed himself a glass of punch. "It shall be bot and strong, and without sugar.” A day or two later the Canon received notice that he was wanted by the Sergeant of Police. “Show him in here.” he said, facing round in his studv-chair. “Well, Hogan?”

Hogan shut the door. “It’s that man Baker,” he said. “ 'Deed he has made a fool of your Rive rence.”

“No.” answered the Canon. “When I trust a man and he deceives me, it is I that make a fool of him. Hope, faith and charity make a fool of nobody. But what has Baker done?”

"Stole a poor ould pensioner’s papers.” said the sergeant. “Himself was dismissed from the service as a worthless char-a-ter.” “The villain.” said the Canon. "I will dismiss him from my service too. 1 can forgive a good deal, but not that. He shall leave the place this minute. Cowardly dog." He was rushing excitedly to the door when the sergeant caught his sleeve. “Whist,” he said. “Your Riv ■rcnt-c will spoil all that-a-way. Give him a hint like that, and the feller will lie for clearing out altogether.” "Well, what do you want me to do?” "To-morrow he will be for getting his pafters signed agt«in. When he

has it done for him. your Riverence will just- look out of the window. That w ill lie the signal to the police. We will be looking out for it, and is he goes home we shall arrest him.” “.Vs you like about that. All the same I won’t keep the blackguard in my house a day longer. I won't say a word about the pension and there are reasons enough. 1 have ruiss-d money to-day. Don’t be arguing now. Out the blackguard goes.” The sergeant left, and, as soon as the door had closed behind him. the Canon summoned his doomed man. “Baker," he said, "I shall r.ot require your services after to-night.” “Ah, musha.” Baker muttered, “you don’t say that.” “Yes, I do say that. And perhaps you partly know the reason why?” “Well, in coorse, the wages is a good deal out of your Riverence’s pocket.” “No, that is not the reason. 1 was deceived in you. Why, man, because I don't ehoose to see everything, do you suppose 1 am born blind? You are a drunken rascal.” “Ah, your Riverence, the best of us is weak.” “And you are a thief. Now, don't say anything or I will give you in chaige. Take your wages and go and never let me see your face again.” “My pension. your Riverence. Wouldn’t 1 come to-morrow to get the paper signed?” "Yes.” said the Canon, with a bitter smile, “you may come for that. I wont grudge that trouble. Now go.” Baker turned his hat round in his hand. “I’m sorry, he said, "we artparting like this.” "No doubt. There may be a lit titdifficulty about finding another place. If anybody asks for your character he shall get it.” "It ain’t that, your Riverence.” Baker went on, still twisting the hat. “I was always, saving your presence, a damned rogue. But I am sorry I acted so ungrateful to you.” He sniffed, and then after an interval gulped noisily. "That will do.”said the Canon. “You have got your wages, and that is the last thing you will ever get out of me. You can go.” “I suppose,” said Baker, drawing himself up till he stood with his long back hooped in with very uprightness. “I suppose you Riverence wouldn’t shake hands?” “No.” said the Canon, "I would not. Go.” “Very well, your Riverence, tnats all right. 1 done very bad by you and 1 don’t deserve no better. I’m off. May God speed your Riverence and long may you reign. I was a damned rogue all my life, but I never regretted it till now.” He saluted and moved towards the door. Then he turned back. “There’s some that has more talk wouldn’t do as much for your Riverence as myself. If I ever get the chanst—-” “Go!” shouted the Canon.

“I will. God bless you!” said Baker and went. About two hours later the eloquent Canon began to make ready for his meeting. Big posters and a perambulating donkey cart the crown and blossom of local enterprise in the domain of publicity—had already wafted the news that he would positively appear. The Pope’s disappearance was not expressly announced. That was a mere corollary. Just as his hand was on the handle of his front door there w as an agitated knock—a timorous, importunate knoek that wanted not to be heard. The Canon opened the door and a man made a hurried movement as if to slip inside. But Delap recognised him as Baker and sternly thrust him back. “You!" he said, with withering contempt. “Your Riverence,” stuttered Baker, “for God’s sake keep indoors. They are coming for you—so they are. mad as d—d—divils.black thousands of 'em. If they lay hands on you they will tear you up like a—like a Notice to Quit. Hear to 'em now —roaring like the deep sea.” “Rubbish!” said the Canon, grasping his blackthorn. “Do you think I'm afraid of them? Do you think the blackguards shall dictate to me? Stand out of the way and —” Eor al! answer Baker shoved b in clean across the hall. He staggered into a chair as the door was pulled swiftly to. That gave Delap a moment to think. “It’s of no use." he said to himself; “I could never get through them. What’s best to be done? Let me see — let me see.’’ Krom the back of the little Rectory garden there ran, past mews and unsavoury dilapidations, a long private way, terminated at either extremity by a gate. Of both these gates the ( anon had a duplicate key. “Good, he said, “I’ll put on my fishing cap and coat —nobody has seen them here—and while they're yelling at this door I’ll slip past the tail of them."

Without a word he pulled the things on. took the key and crept out.

At that moment there broke a howl, and he knew that the mob was come.

“Lucky I was alone in the house," he said. “Ah. that’s glass. 1 thought they'd throw a few stones."

Tn two minutes he had emerged upon the little side street. All in front of him was quiet. Not a soul was in sight. But from below, from the old ill-lit square, with its one jumping central light, there rose a dreadful din—shrill and fierce: the inarticulate fury of an Irish mob.

The Canon stepped on. chuckling to himself. A little ahead there crawled a returning Irish car. He whistled, jumped in. and pointed to the station. The jarvey whipped up his

sorrv steed, ami the mud flew in showers. Suddenly there rose a yell such as neither driver nor fare had ever heard before; a yell of devils; a sound to hear once and remember, in nightmare sweats, for evermore. The driver pulled up short. Both men stood on the footboards and stared. The crowd was surging away from the Rectory. towards the middle of the Square'. Two or three pipes lit the midmost faces, and they were all turned towards the lamp. There was a sharp movement of hugging and hauling, and then something dangled from the transom. At first the Canon could not decipher its outline. Was it a sack? or a scarecrow? or Then, in a momentary stillness of the gas flame, the thing took shape. It became a body, a face: the face of Private Baker. There was another movement, and . he figure fell and swung. Great Heavens!" gasped the Canon, •they have hanged him." "Whist." said the driver; “if it was not himself, twould be your Riverenee. Muffle the eoat about you and

sit low." He lashed the horse into a gallop, hut as they reached the head of the street there came a cry of panic and helpless rage. Upon that broke a long rumble and a swift flash. The’ dragoons had ridden through Ihe mob.

That night the Canon made no speech. He was on his knees, within his guarded hotel, humbling his soul, and weeping aloud. Black Protestant as he was. I almost think he prayed for the repose of a soul the frail soul, so suddenly set loose, of eX-Private Timothy Baker. They had dragged him from the Canon's door, where he stood on guard. He broke many heads before they got him. and he died like a man. So. vou see, that speech was prophetic’ They hanged the “Queen s Baker.” (The end.)