CHAPTER VIII

RECRUITING

The Squire's lecture was an immense success. The village school-house overbrimmed with his "people." With a big blackboard behind him, and chalk in hand, the lecturer talked simply and convincingly upon a subject at that time unfamiliar to his audience, a subject vital to any understanding of military movements. He explained the nature of platoons, companies, battalions, brigades, divisions and army corps. He presented, in short, an army in being. Loud applause greeted this first half of the lecture. The second half was devoted to the urgent cause of recruiting, and was not, perhaps, quite so enthusiastically acclaimed. The Squire, abandoning chalk and blackboard, thrust his hands in his pockets, and spoke trenchantly. We need not chronicle what he said. Men like him, all over the country, used the same arguments, almost exactly the same words. Such speakers forgot what had been said by Tweedledum and Tweedledee during the piping times of peace. Men and women, herded together, were invited to scrap the slow judgments and convictions of their lives. They had been assured again and again by politicians of variegated complexions that a mighty navy was fully adequate to defend our Empire against attack. Need it be added that such assurance, embodying as it did the accumulated wisdom and experience of generations, could not be cast incontinently as rubbish to the void. English politicians--using the word in the strongest antithesis to statesmen--have never realised the temper of the country towards themselves, the curious and striking indifference of the average man, engrossed in his own avocation, to any policy that he has not the wits or leisure to assimilate thoroughly. The confidence of this average man in the government of the moment has always been poignantly touching, a confidence stolidly based upon a belief in the fundamental common sense of the nation as a whole. Upset that belief, and the average man becomes at once helplessly befogged.

After the Squire had spoken, old Captain Davenant said a few words in a more Cambyses' vein. Unhappily, the Captain lacked the geniality and persuasiveness of Sir Geoffrey. He believed in the choleric word, snapped out viciously. He spoke as he had often spoken in the barrack-yard, or in the hunting-field when some heavy-witted yokel had headed a fox. Probably he was shrewd enough to realise that this fox of recruiting might be headed, and governed himself accordingly. The Captain read the lessons on Sunday in the same peremptory tones, raising a rasping voice and glaring at the congregation--a very mirth-provoking performance. Uncle embodied the Nether-Applewhite verdict on such readings of the Scriptures:

"'Tis a rare lark to hear 'un!"

Fancy and Alfred attended the lecture together, and Alfred accompanied his sweetheart to the Vicarage _au clair de la lune_. They had sat at the back of the school-house amongst the younger people, and had listened attentively to sundry comments. Alfred, of course, accepted as gospel whatever the lord of so goodly a manor might be gracious enough to say. Being a carrier, and passing daily through many manors, he had made obvious comparisons between his Squire and others to the advantage of Sir Geoffrey Pomfret. Remember, also, that as yet, although he kept silence on the point, he had not considered the possibility of England wanting him, a widow's only son, actively engaged in the prosecution of a business vital to the needs and necessities of a prosperous village. He hadn't a doubt in his mind, after listening to a burning harangue, that the younger men ought to down tools of peace and shoulder rifles at the word of command. Some of the half-whispered comments disturbed him.

"Are they cowards?" he demanded of Fancy.

"Oh, I can't think that, Alfie."

"You heard them growling like a lot of cantankerous hounds. I'd a strong notion to speak my mind, I had. 'Twas lucky for them that Uncle Habakkuk was sitting quiet and peaceful amongst the quality. I'll be bound he picked up a shilling or two, being the happy father of the hero. George, pore soul, stands higher than I ever expected to see him. 'Tis a sad pity the boy ain't able to hear the brave words as was said to-night by Squire and Captain. He's standing on a giddy pinnacle, to be sure, and I mind me, in cricket-field, how he'd shut both eyes when a ball came at his legs. I see him like that, quavering, on the field of battle."

Alfred chuckled. Fancy squeezed his arm, whispering fears not for George Mucklow, but for a better man:

"Alfie, please don't joke about that."

"Ah, well, Fancy, 'tis a fact that many of our boys are like George. Shifting manure's their proper job, and they do that so slow that I get weary watching 'em. Young Master Teddy is the real right sort. What he's done, giving up a grand position, fills me nose-high with pride. And too little was said about him,--a very notable oversight."

"That was because Mr. Teddy is quality."

"You're right, my pretty maid. Are you aware, Miss Broomfield, that your fingers are playing the piano on my ribs?"

Love-making put to flight the less agreeable theme.

Mrs. Yellam and Jane Mucklow went home side by side. Jane, as the mother of the hero, maintained an aggressive silence. Susan Yellam said, with a faint inflection of interrogation:

"You be a proud 'ooman to-night, Jane?"

"You be wrong, as usual. I bain't nothing of the sart."

"Squire and old Captain spoke up so handsome about your Garge."

"Be I the old fool they takes me for? 'Twas soft soap, Susan, ladled out in a big spoon; flimflam I calls it. Habakkuk can ha' the pride, and welcome. He be fair swollen wi' that and ale as Garge is payin' for."

"I listen to no ill talk about my brother, Jane."

"Then you'd better walk wi' some one else, Susan Yellam. You sees God A'mighty's hand i' this; I don't."

She stamped along home in a silence Mrs. Yellam was too wise to break. Jane was a Christian and a churchgoer. But chronic dyspepsia seemed to have affected her conscience and principles.

She had predicted aright. At the _Sir John Barleycorn_ Uncle was drinking much ale paid for, indirectly, by the hero of the hour. The gaffers and married men, including George's married brothers, listened approvingly. Uncle "understudied" the Squire as he addressed his friends, thrusting his hands into his pockets and standing very upright.

"'Twas a notable evening, neighbours, but not a thing fresh to me, you understand? Me and Squire went over his so heart-stirrin' remarks two days ago, and me and old Captain had talk together this very marning. Far be it from me to say as they used my own words egzactly; I bain't a scollard, although I can an' do hold me own wheresomedever I finds myself. And I tell 'ee, just as Squire did to-night, 'tis our duty to cry 'Forrard' and keep on a-hollerin' so long as breath be left in our dear bodies. We got to jine in the hunt, boys, and roll our big buck over in open. I means, some way, to be in at death, and 'twould be a grand privilege to slit his royal throat. I tell 'ee, one and all, that the eyes o' the world be on Nether-Applewhite."

Uncle drank some ale, amidst much applause. An old gaffer piped up:

"Neighbours and true friends, this be a wondersome time, but I makes bold to say that we country fellers bain't properly esteemed in Lunnon town. I minds me when I jined what they called a deppitation to that gert city. I'd no stomach to go along, seein' as I'd no better clothes than I stands up in to-day. But I was out-talked, sonnies, as has happened to me by my own wife, time and time agen. We marched very proper down such a noble street as I'd reckoned might be found in Kingdom Come and nowheres else. And marchin' along so proud and joyous as never was, a tremenjous, red-faced man, a-settin' top side of a 'bus, wi' the reins in his hand, sings out: 'Halt!' Well, neighbours, we comes to a full stop, a-lookin' up at he, and, dang me, if he don't ask a very ridic'lous and shameless question."

The old man paused solemnly, looking about him. Some had heard the story before; one of the others said curiously:

"Whatever did he say?"

"He says this, sonnies, loud and clear: 'Tell me this,' he says, 'how do they keep the crows off the wheat when you fellers comes to town?' Neighbours, they was his words. And it struck me all of a heap as we wasn't, so to speak, properly esteemed in Lunnon town; and, more, 'tis hard to believe that what Habakkuk Mucklow here says is true. There be too much i' the world, neighbours all, for it to be gapin' at we."

Uncle felt that he had overstrained a figure of speech. But he dealt faithfully with his aged interrupter.

"What did 'ee up and reply to 'un, Granfer?"

The old gaffer gazed around.

"Ah-h-h! I says nothing at the time, Habakkuk Mucklow, but a very forcible remark comes into my mind just one week too late, when I was makin' spars in Hollywell Wood. I could ha' downscrambled 'un. 'Twas in the month o' November that we marched so gay adown that there Regency Street. And in November ther bain't no wheat to keep crows off. 'Twas a shameless and very ignerunt remark."

He cackled joyously as a good Samaritan refilled his glass. William Saint, feeling cautiously the pulse of his customers, hazarded a remark:

"The likely young fellers sat together at the end of the room, and they kept together afterwards. I see none of them here with us to-night. What does that mean?"

"I'll tell 'ee," replied Uncle promptly, "and in duty bound, being so moral a man, I means to tell Squire to-morrow marning. They be afeard, as my Garge was, till I talked to 'un. Such talk as mine, soul-stirrin', upliftin' words, be wanted bad in Nether-Applewhite. The young fellers has got to fight for they as brought 'un into this wicked world. I fought in my time, as you all knows."

"Where?" asked William Saint.

Uncle replied scornfully:

"Never you mind where, Willum Saint. I can fight still, let me tell 'ee. If you doubts that, take off your coat and come wi' me to stable-yard."

William Saint declined politely the invitation.

"Why, Uncle, I meant no offence. We all want to fight the Germans, not to quarrel amongst ourselves. You have a glass o' ale with me."

Harmony was restored. Those present, who could hardly be expected to fight, agreed cordially that others must do the job for them. The youngsters needed encouragement.

"Wi' the end of a boot," concluded Uncle.

The lecture had taken place at seven. At nine the port circulated round Sir Geoffrey's mahogany. Hamlin was present and Lionel Pomfret. How sadly one recalls the chatter of those early days, the high hopes, the confidence that Might would crumble away against Right, the belief in the steam-roller--Russia. On paper, a swift result seemed assured. The Squire had thrown off London vapours. His own words had intoxicated him. He admitted that recruiting might hang fire in villages like Ocknell, but not amongst _his_ people. Lionel backed him up. Lady Pomfret and Joyce said nothing. The Parson hoped that it would be so. When Sir Geoffrey had said everything to be said, twice over, he turned as usual to his wife for an approving nod strangely withheld.

"Well, my dear Mary, you agree with me?"

"About the necessity of getting men--yes. But I am not so sanguine as you, Geoffrey, about the patriotism in our village."

"Bless my soul!"

"I think Mr. Hamlin shares my apprehensions."

"I do," admitted the Parson gravely.

Lady Pomfret continued gently:

"I was talking, this afternoon, with Susan Yellam. She looks ahead. She faces facts, as we do. But she knows the village better than we do."

"My dear----!"

"I have been talking, too, with Ben."

"So have I, Mary; so have I."

Lady Pomfret smiled.

"Are you quite sure, Geoffrey, that you have been talking with Ben, and not at him? He is too courteous to interrupt you and too kind to contradict you."

"What does old Ben say to you?"

"What Susan Yellam says. The villagers, generally, believe that our present army and navy can beat a world in arms against us. You disabused them of that this evening, but Captain Davenant undid some of your stitches."

The Squire fumed a little.

"The old boy let them have it straight from the shoulder."

"Exactly. Personally, I deplore such methods."

"Sheep have to be yapped into the fold."

"I wonder if Mr. Hamlin thinks so?"

Thus challenged, Hamlin spoke--tentatively.

"I have never been able to regard men and women as animals. I admit a superficial similarity. Dogs are nearest to us, but what an Atlantic stretches between us and them! Would any training turn a Pekinese into a pointer? Or a pug into a greyhound? But you can train any child, of any nationality, into what you reasonably please, provided always that you are dealing with a sound mind in a sound body. Sheep, under certain conditions, have to be yapped into folds, because they are sheep. The Prussian system yaps men into the ranks. I would sooner try other methods."

The Squire inclined his handsome head.

"Try your own methods, Hamlin, and good luck to you."

He answered quietly: "I shall try them next Sunday."

"You don't say so? From the pulpit?"

"Why not?"

"I approve with all my heart."

For the moment it rested there. Lionel began to talk of his coming campaign. The elder men and both the women, wife and mother, listened to his young, eager voice. How keen he was! How sure of himself and of his men, particularly the men. He talked persistently of Mr. Thomas Atkins, of his artful divagations in peace and his whole-souled valour in war. Hamlin reflected that it was good to listen to such talk, good to be young and valiant, at such a time, good even to die, if the supreme sacrifice were demanded, clean of limb and mind, leaping joyously upward, unfettered by disease or vice, _fit_--to use the boy's own word--for the greatest adventure of all.

He heard his own boy speaking, just such another! Britain had thousands of them, the fine flower of careful training, of a courtesy constantly exercised, of a courage sharpened to finest edge by the grindstone of games and sports, of an intelligence not quite so keenly tempered, but alert enough in moments of stress, of a "morale" which nothing could dismay.

Surely they would be invincible?

When Lionel waxed anecdotal, Hamlin's thoughts wandered to the women. He had been a stalwart champion of the "Cause," till the militant suffragettes took to smashing windows and smacking policemen. One effect of the war, and no inconsiderable national asset, was the subsidence of these tempestuous petticoats, never to flutter again, so he hoped. From women this essentially virile parson had always expected and exacted great things. The true prosperity of any country, so he held, flowed from them and culminated in them. He had recognised, even at college, their immeasurable potentialities--a favourite word of his. To ignore their claims, politically, he contended in and out of print, was a colossal blunder. But, quite apart from the granting or withholding of female suffrage, he desired ardently to see women doing intelligently and thoroughly the work peculiarly their own, whether as matrons or spinsters. The death-rate amongst babies appalled him; the physique of young girls overworked in over-crowded, over-heated factories and shops roused this austere parish priest to fever-heat. He had marvelled at the astigmatic insight displayed by sincere statesmen and philanthropists, an insight ludicrously so-called, which overlooked women as the mightiest lever to raise and regenerate a nation.

And now, in the dim twilight of a world in gloom, he perceived a beacon steadily shining. The women would have their opportunity. One could adumbrate triumph or disaster by the effort, sustained or otherwise, made by them. The men would play their part, if the inspiration of the women lay behind them. And in the inevitable dislocations of all human enterprise, both during and after the war, he beheld women stimulating the men either upward or downward, for good or ill, according to the spirit which burned within them.

He gazed at Lady Pomfret and his daughter Joyce, as their eyes dwelt upon the son and husband about to sail for France. He could guess what sensibilities lacerated their hearts. Outwardly, each remained calm. They would be so when the moment of parting came, speeding their warrior on his way with smiles, keeping back the tears till he was out of sight.

Hamlin walked home across the park, and let himself into the Vicarage with his latch-key. It was past eleven, and, to his surprise, Fancy had not gone to bed. As she lit his candle he chided her with the touch of testiness which had ceased to frighten her.

She said quickly:

"I wanted to see you, sir."

"See me at nearly midnight? What about? Surely to-morrow morning would do?"

"I wanted to sleep well to-night."

Without a word, he led the way into his study, and lighted two more candles.

"Sit down," he commanded. "You look tired."

"I feel excited like, sir."

He examined her more attentively, noticing the dilation of her pupils, so marked as to alter her expression. Big black eyes seemed to be burning out of a white face, but he attributed this seeming pallor to an ill-lit room.

"What excites you, Fancy?"

"I sat with Alfred Yellam at the back of school-house amongst the young fellows."

"Well?"

"Before Alfred left me, he told me to tell you, sir, that the young fellows was not too well pleased with what Captain Davenant said. Alfred was real vexed at their remarks. He thought you did ought to know."

"I'm much obliged to Alfred for a timely hint. But couldn't this have kept till the morning?"

"There's something else, sir."

"Out with it!" He smiled more encouragingly.

"After Alfred went, Molly told me as everybody in village was saying as how George Mucklow's father _made_ him go, and that upset the other young men.... And then...."

Her soft voice faltered and died away.

"And then...?"

"Molly and me fell to talking about Mr. Edward."

The sympathy in her voice was almost too much for the Parson. He shaded his eyes with his hand. She continued in a lower tone:

"Excuse me, sir, for asking you something, but I do want to know so bad."

"Ask your question, Fancy."

"Did you tell Mr. Edward to go?"

"No."

"Ah! He wanted to go, and you didn't raise a finger to prevent him. If you had, maybe he'd have stayed."

"I--I don't think so."

The Parson's voice was not too steady. How sorely he had been tempted to raise that finger none would ever know. Fancy went on, breathlessly:

"Molly and me thinks that those who can least be spared may have to go, if--if the others hold back."

"I see. You are thinking of your Alfred?"

He lowered his hand, looking straight at her.

"If you please, sir. He be terrible put out at the others hanging back."

"I give my opinion for what it is worth, Fancy. In these deep matters none can speak for another. I do not presume to speak for Alfred. But Lord Kitchener, if he were here, would assure you that Alfred is certainly not needed yet, nor likely to be for a long time."

"Thank you, sir. That does hearten me. But, if he should want to go, and if--if he left it to me, what should I do? What ought I to do?"

Her big eyes were flaming with interrogation. The Parson dared not temporise with her. All his thoughts concerning women seemed to have become focussed on this individual case. All that the finest gentlewomen in the Empire were feeling expressed itself poignantly from the mouth of his parlourmaid. All his convictions concerning the potentialities of the soul became fortified. They burst suddenly into full flower. Yet he answered curtly, distrustful of sentiment when tremendous issues were at stake.

"You will tell him, Fancy, to act according to the dictates of his own conscience."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you mean that you will tell him that, regardless of your own feelings?"

"Yes, sir."

She got up, begging his pardon for keeping him out of bed. As he rose from his chair, he wondered what he could say to comfort her; some word of solace that might woo sleep to her tired brain. They went together into the small hall. He took her hand.

"Have courage and faith. Pray that these may be vouchsafed to you and to all of us. Something tells me that you have both already. And if so, Fancy, it is well with you. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir."