Grandfather Bridgeman

‘HEIGH, boys!’ cried Grandfather Bridgeman, ‘it’s time before dinnerto-day.’He lifted the crumpled letter, and thumped a surprising ‘Hurrah!’Up jumped all the echoing young ones, but John, with the starch in histhroat,Said, ‘Father, before we make noises, let’s see the contents of thenote.’The old man glared at him harshly, and twinkling made answer: ‘Toobad!John Bridgeman, I’m always the whisky, and you are the water, my lad!’

But soon it was known thro’ the house, and the house ran over for joy,That news, good news, great marvels, had come from the soldier boy;Young Tom, the luckless scapegrace, offshoot of Methodist John;His grandfather’s evening tale, whom the old man hailed as his son.And the old man’s shout of pride was a shout of his victory, too;For he called his affection a method: the neighbours’ opinions heknew.

Meantime, from the morning table removing the stout breakfast cheer,The drink of the three generations, the milk, the tea, and the beer(Alone in its generous reading of pints stood the Grandfather’s jug),The women for sight of the missive came pressing to coax and to hug.He scattered them quick, with a buss and a smack; thereupon he beganDiversions with John’s little Sarah: on Sunday, the naughty old man!

Then messengers sped to the maltster, the auctioneer, miller, and allThe seven sons of the farmer who housed in the range of his call.Likewise the married daughters, three plentiful ladies, prime cooks,Who bowed to him while they condemned, in meek hope to stand high inhis books.‘John’s wife is a fool at a pudding,’ they said, and the light cartsup hillWent merrily, flouting the Sabbath: for puddings well made mend awill.

The day was a van-bird of summer: the robin still piped, but the blue,As a warm and dreamy palace with voices of larks ringing thro’,Looked down as if wistfully eyeing the blossoms that fell from itslap:A day to sweeten the juices: a day to quicken the sap.All round the shadowy orchard sloped meadows in gold, and the dearShy violets breathed their hearts out: the maiden breath of the year!

Full time there was before dinner to bring fifteen of his blood,To sit at the old man’s table: they found that the dinner was good.But who was she by the lilacs and pouring laburnums concealed,When under the blossoming apple the chair of the Grandfather wheeled?She heard one little child crying, ‘Dear brave Cousin Tom!’ as itleapt;Then murmured she: ‘Let me spare them!’ and passed round the walnuts,and wept.

Yet not from sight had she slipped ere feminine eyes could detectThe figure of Mary Charlworth. ‘It’s just what we all might expect,’Was uttered: and: ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Of Mary the rumour resounds,That she is now her own mistress, and mistress of five thousandpounds.’Twas she, they say, who cruelly sent young Tom to the war.Miss Mary, we thank you now! If you knew what we’re thanking you for!

But, ‘Have her in: let her hear it,’ called Grandfather Bridgeman,elate,While Mary’s black-gloved fingers hung trembling with flight on thegate.Despite the women’s remonstrance, two little ones, lighter than deer,Were loosed, and Mary, imprisoned, her whole face white as a tear,Came forward with culprit footsteps. Her punishment was to commence:The pity in her pale visage they read in a different sense.

This prelude dismally lengthened, till Mary, starting, exclaimed,‘A letter, Sir, from your grandson?’ ‘Tom Bridgeman that rascal isnamed,’The old man answered, and further, the words that sent Tom to theranksRepeated as words of a person to whom they all owed mighty thanks.But Mary never blushed: with her eyes on the letter, she sate,And twice interrupting him faltered, ‘The date, may I ask, Sir, thedate?’

‘Why, that’s what I never look at in a letter,’ the farmer replied:‘Facts first! and now I’ll be parson.’ The Bridgeman women descriedA quiver on Mary’s eyebrows. One turned, and while shifting her comb,Said low to a sister: ‘I’m certain she knows more than we about Tom.She wants him now he’s a hero!’ The same, resuming her place,Begged Mary to check them the moment she found it a tedious case.

Then as a mastiff swallows the snarling noises of cats,The voice of the farmer opened. ‘“Three cheers, and off with yourhats!”—That’s Tom. “We’ve beaten them, Daddy, and tough work it was, to besure!A regular stand-up combat: eight hours smelling powder and gore.I entered it Serjeant-Major,”—and now he commands a salute,And carries the flag of old England! Heigh! see him lift foes on hisfoot!

‘—An officer! ay, Miss Charlworth, he is, or he is so to be;You’ll own war isn’t such humbug: and Glory means something, you see.“But don’t say a word,” he continues, “against the brave French anymore.”—That stopt me: we’ll now march together. I couldn’t read furtherbefore.That “brave French” I couldn’t stomach. He can’t see their cunning togetUs Britons to fight their battles, while best half the winnings theynet!’

The old man sneered, and read forward. It was of that desperatefight;—The Muscovite stole thro’ the mist-wreaths that wrapped the chillInkermann height,Where stood our silent outposts: old England was in them that day!O sharp worked his ruddy wrinkles, as if to the breath of the frayThey moved! He sat bareheaded: his long hair over him slowSwung white as the silky bog-flowers in purple heath-hollows thatgrow.

And louder at Tom’s first person: acute and in thunder the ‘I’Invaded the ear with a whinny of triumph, that seem’d to defyThe hosts of the world. All heated, what wonder he little could brookTo catch the sight of Mary’s demure puritanical look?And still as he led the onslaught, his treacherous side-shots he sentAt her who was fighting a battle as fierce, and who sat there unbent.

‘“We stood in line, and like hedgehogs the Russians rolled under usthick.They frightened me there.”—He’s no coward; for when, Miss, they cameat the quick,The sight, he swears, was a breakfast.—“My stomach felt tight: in aglimpseI saw you snoring at home with the dear cuddled-up little imps.And then like the winter brickfields at midnight, hot fire lengthenedout.Our fellows were just leashed bloodhounds: no heart of the lot facedabout.

‘“And only that grumbler, Bob Harris, remarked that we stood one toten:‘Ye fool,’ says Mick Grady, ‘just tell ’em they know to complimentmen!’And I sang out your old words: ‘If the opposite side isn’t God’s,Heigh! after you’ve counted a dozen, the pluckiest lads have theodds.’Ping-ping flew the enemies’ pepper: the Colonel roared, Forward, andweWent at them. ’Twas first like a blanket: and then a long plunge inthe sea.

‘“Well, now about me and the Frenchman: it happened I can’t tell youhow:And, Grandfather, hear, if you love me, and put aside prejudice now”:He never says “Grandfather”—Tom don’t—save it’s a serious thing.“Well, there were some pits for the rifles, just dug on ourFrench-leaning wing:And backwards, and forwards, and backwards we went, and at last I wasvexed,And swore I would never surrender a foot when the Russians chargednext.

‘“I know that life’s worth keeping.”—Ay, so it is, lad; so it is!—“But my life belongs to a woman.”—Does that mean Her Majesty, Miss?—“These Russians came lumping and grinning: they’re fierce at it,though they are blocks.Our fellows were pretty well pumped, and looked sharp for the littleFrench cocks.Lord, didn’t we pray for their crowing! when over us, on the hill-top,Behold the first line of them skipping, like kangaroos seen on thehop.

‘“That sent me into a passion, to think of them spying our flight!”Heigh, Tom! you’ve Bridgeman blood, boy! And, “‘Face them!’ Ishouted: ‘All right;Sure, Serjeant, we’ll take their shot dacent, like gentlemen,’ Gradyreplied.A ball in his mouth, and the noble old Irishman dropped by my side.Then there was just an instant to save myself, when a short wheezeOf bloody lungs under the smoke, and a red-coat crawled up on hisknees.

‘“’Twas Ensign Baynes of our parish.”—Ah, ah, Miss Charlworth, the oneOur Tom fought for a young lady? Come, now we’ve got into the fun!—“I shouldered him: he primed his pistol, and I trailed my musket,prepared.”Why, that’s a fine pick-a-back for ye, to make twenty Russians lookscared!“They came—never mind how many: we couldn’t have run very well,We fought back to back: ‘face to face, our last time!’ he said,smiling, and fell.

‘“Then I strove wild for his body: the beggars saw glittering rings,Which I vowed to send to his mother. I got some hard knocks and sharpstings,But felt them no more than angel, or devil, except in the wind.I know that I swore at a Russian for showing his teeth, and he grinnedThe harder: quick, as from heaven, a man on a horse rode between,And fired, and swung his bright sabre: I can’t write you more of thescene.

‘“But half in his arms, and half at his stirrup, he bore me rightforth,And pitched me among my old comrades: before I could tell south fromnorth,He caught my hand up, and kissed it! Don’t ever let any man speakA word against Frenchmen, I near him! I can’t find his name, tho’ Iseek.But French, and a General, surely he was, and, God bless him! thro’himI’ve learnt to love a whole nation.”’ The ancient man paused, winkingdim.

A curious look, half woeful, was seen on his face as he turnedHis eyes upon each of his children, like one who but faintly discernedHis old self in an old mirror. Then gathering sense in his fist,He sounded it hard on his knee-cap. ‘Your hand, Tom, the Frenchfellow kissed!He kissed my boy’s old pounder! I say he’s a gentleman!’ StraightThe letter he tossed to one daughter; bade her the remainder relate.

Tom properly stated his praises in facts, but the lady preferredTo deck the narration with brackets, and drop her additional word.What nobler Christian natures these women could boast, who, ’twasknown,Once spat at the name of their nephew, and now made his praises theirown!The letter at last was finished, the hearers breathed freely, and signWas given, ‘Tom’s health!’—Quoth the farmer: ‘Eh, Miss? are you weakin the spine?’

For Mary had sunk, and her body was shaking, as if in a fit.Tom’s letter she held, and her thumb-nail the month when the letterwas writFast-dinted, while she hung sobbing: ‘O, see, Sir, the letter is old!O, do not be too happy!’—‘If I understand you, I’m bowled!’Said Grandfather Bridgeman, ‘and down go my wickets!—not happy! whenhere,Here’s Tom like to marry his General’s daughter—or widow—I’ll swear!

‘I wager he knows how to strut, too! It’s all on the cards that theQueenWill ask him to Buckingham Palace, to say what he’s done and he’sseen.Victoria’s fond of her soldiers: and she’s got a nose for a fight.If Tom tells a cleverish story—there is such a thing as a knight!And don’t he look roguish and handsome!—To see a girl snivellingthere—By George, Miss, it’s clear that you’re jealous’—‘I love him!’ sheanswered his stare.

‘Yes! now!’ breathed the voice of a woman.—‘Ah! now!’ quiver’d low thereply.‘And “now”’s just a bit too late, so it’s no use your piping youreye,’The farmer added bluffly: ‘Old Lawyer Charlworth was rich;You followed his instructions in kicking Tom into the ditch.If you’re such a dutiful daughter, that doesn’t prove Tom is a fool.Forgive and forget’s my motto! and here’s my grog growing cool!’

But when again she stammered in this bewildering way,The farmer no longer could bear it, and begged her to go, or to stay,But not to be whimpering nonsense at such a time. Pricked by a goad,’Twas you who sent him to glory:—you’ve come here to reap what yousowed.Is that it?’ he asked; and the silence the elders preserved plainlysaid,On Mary’s heaving bosom this begging-petition was read.

And that it was scarcely a bargain that she who had driven him wildShould share now the fruits of his valour, the women expressed, asthey smiled.The family pride of the Bridgemans was comforted; still, withcontempt,They looked on a monied damsel of modesty quite so exempt.‘O give me force to tell them!’ cried Mary, and even as she spoke,A shout and a hush of the children: a vision on all of them broke.

Wheeled, pale, in a chair, and shattered, the wreck of their hero wasseen;The ghost of Tom drawn slow o’er the orchard’s shadowy green.Could this be the martial darling they joyed in a moment ago?‘He knows it?’ to Mary Tom murmured, and closed his weak lids at her‘No.’‘Beloved!’ she said, falling by him, ‘I have been a coward: I thoughtYou lay in the foreign country, and some strange good might bewrought.

‘Each day I have come to tell him, and failed, with my hand on thegate.I bore the dreadful knowledge, and crushed my heart with its weight.The letter brought by your comrade—he has but just read it aloud!It only reached him this morning!’ Her head on his shoulder shebowed.Then Tom with pity’s tenderest lordliness patted her arm,And eyed the old white-head fondly, with something of doubt and alarm.

O, take to your fancy a sculptor whose fresh marble offspring appearsBefore him, shiningly perfect, the laurel-crown’d issue of years:Is heaven offended? for lightning behold from its bosom escape,And those are mocking fragments that made the harmonious shape!He cannot love the ruins, till, feeling that ruins aloneAre left, he loves them threefold. So passed the old grandfather’smoan.

John’s text for a sermon on Slaughter he heard, and he did notprotest.All rigid as April snowdrifts, he stood, hard and feeble; his chestJust showing the swell of the fire as it melted him. Smiting a rib,‘Heigh! what have we been about, Tom! Was this all a terrible fib?’He cried, and the letter forth-trembled. Tom told what the cannon haddone.Few present but ached to see falling those aged tears on his heart’sson!

Up lanes of the quiet village, and where the mill-waters rush redThro’ browning summer meadows to catch the sun’s crimsoning head,You meet an old man and a maiden who has the soft ways of a wifeWith one whom they wheel, alternate; whose delicate flush of new lifeIs prized like the early primrose. Then shake his right hand, in thechair—The old man fails never to tell you: ‘You’ve got the French General’sthere!’