Book 3 — chapter two: The Baiting

AS I came nearer I saw that, as the custom was, not only all the women of Lullingford were there, but all the children as well. I thought it shame to bring these poor things, that would soon enough know the evil of the world, to see the dogs torn to ribbons and the hapless beast killed. I said so after to Gideon, but he thought nothing of it.

“Why, you’d make ’em as soft as ’ool,” he said. “They mun be brave and well-plucked.”

I said I couldna see that it was soft not to like to see a cruel deed, and that it seemed to me to be braver not to like seeing another’s pain.

“Well, well, we canna make the world, for it’s made already,” says Gideon.

There it all was, then, the crowd, the shouting and betting, the yapping and snarling of the dogs, people elbowing and pushing, men crying hot taters and chestnuts, apples, spiced ale, and gingerbread, children in their white pinnies watching the bull, very skeered, for it was grumbling to itself. Poor thing, it was thinking of its own big blackberry pasture at the back of Callard’s Dingle, I make no doubt. It hated neither men nor dogs, and had no grudge against any if only it could be back there, roving the meadows in the dew. There they all were, and there was Kester. I lost sight of him in the crowd, and hastened my steps, with a wonder in my heart the while what he could be doing in such a place. For I thought him to be a different kind of man from all these. Yet such faith I had in him that I was sure, if he was here, that he was here for good. And something drove me on, so that I must seek him in the crowd, and keep nigh him, as if I was his angel for that day. A poor angel, but God minds not much, I think, what like His angels be, so that they do His work proper. The shepherd’s collie that runs home to warn the missus that her man has fallen down the rock, is his angel sure enough, though he may be a mongrel of the very worst, with ears as flat as a spaniel.

Blindly and without reason, like the shepherd’s dog, I kept close to Kester Woodseaves, yet not so close that he might see me. So it was that I heard all he said to the men who stood round about the ring with their dogs, a bit apart from the crowd. And though they were men of my own countryside, and some of them known to me, yet I must say that there were among them a tuthree very evil faces. The dogs were fierce and ugly, many of ’em with great jowls, snarling and slavering and showing the red of their eyes. Yet if I had been bound to choose between men and dogs, I’d have chosen the dogs. Mostly they were terriers, but there were a good few bulldogs, and of these Grimble’s new one was far the worst, with a grin that sent me cold. There were one or two with a lot of mastiff in them, and there were a mort of mongrels.

The men all turned towards Kester when he came up, and Farmer Huglet, the chief of them, called out—

“Where’s your dawg?”

Mister Huglet was a great raw-looking man who seemed as if he’d come together accidental and was made up of two or three other people’s bodies. He was a giant, very nearly, and clumsy, with tremendous long arms, and so big round the middle that tailors who brought their own stuff always charged extra for his clothes. He’d got a mouth like a frog, and a round red snub nose, and such little eyes that they were lost in the mountains of flesh that made up his face. Whenever he couldna understand anything, he laughed, and his laugh was enough to frighten you. It came pretty often too. Grimble was hand-in-glove with him, and while Huglet stuck his red snub nose in the air, Grimble kept his long pale one down, so between them they didna miss much. They’d each got two dogs.

“Why, it’s weaver,” says Grimble. “Dunna you know weaver, Huglet?”

“Why, no, we hanna crossed paths afore. My brother-law weaves for me, you mind. Well, weaver, where’s your dawg?”

“I’ve got none.”

“No dawg? Stand aside, then.”

But he stood where he was. It so happed that he was about at the mid of the half-moon of grey stone that made the bull-ring, and the men with the dogs fell away a bit on either hand, so he was alone. Standing there so slim and straight in his green coat, with the airs blowing his hair a bit, so that a lock of it fell o’er his brow, his hat being under arm, he seemed to have nought to do with any there, but to be a part of the fair meadow, that matched his coat. He wore no beard nor whiskers, so you could see the shape and colour and the lines of all his face, which seemed to me to be a face you could never tire of looking on. Times I wonder if heaven will be thus, a long gazing on a face you canna tire of, but must ever have one more glimpse. He had a kind of arrowy look, so that though Huglet towered over him, he seemed to tower over Huglet. He looked round about and said—

“Chaps, I’ve come to ask ye to stop this.”

There was a long, bepuzzled silence. Then Huglet laughed and slapped his thigh, and roared again. Grimble looked at his boots and gave a snigger.

“Well, that’s a good un!” shouted Huglet “Stop the bull-baiting, oot, young fellow?”

“Ah. I’d lief stop it.”

“And what for would you stop it, dear ’eart?” asked Grimble in a soft, sing-song voice.

“Stop it?” roars Huglet, “he canna stop it.”

“I’d lief it was stopped over all England.”

“You’d lief a deal, young man. Why, I tell ye there’s bin bull-baiting in England ever since it was England! Take away the good old sport and it wouldna be England!”

All this he said in the same loud roaring voice.

“I asked ye, what for would ye stop it?” repeated Grimble, soft and obstinate.

“Because it’s a cruel, miserable business.”

“It inna cruel. The dawgs like it. They enjoy it. And the bull likes it right well.”

Mister Grimble looked down at the trampled grass for all the world as if he was reading the words there.

“What’s it matter if they enjoy it or not? I enjoy it!” says Huglet. “That’s enough, inna it?”

The other men drew round. For though it was the ordinary thing to hear Mister Huglet shouting fit to burst, it was out of the common to hear him shouting so long at one person. When Huglet shouted like he was doing now, folk said that the person he was shouting at always gave in and went away quiet.

“What be trouble?” asked Mister Callard, the owner of the bull. Mister Huglet turned round and spluttered out—

“This here borsted fellow wants to stop the baiting. The baiting, mind, as we all come a many weary mile to see.”

“Rising up a great while afore day,” puts in Mister Grimble.

“Dear now! And missus and me at such trouble to bring the beast along bright and early. Whatever ails the mon?”

He looked at Kester as the apothecary will look at a man a long while sick.

“Ah,” says the landlord of the Mug o’ Cider, “I’ve heard tell of folks as wanted to stop the long kneeling. I’ve even heard of a tuthree as wanted to stop wars and rumours of wars, but bull-baiting? Never in life! Whoever, save a few fratchety parsons, did ever want to stop a baiting?”

“He must be going a bit simple, poor fellow,” says Grimble. “Feel well, weaver?”

The miller came up and had a look, shook his head, and went away, which was a great deal for the miller to do.

“But what for do ye want to stop it, like?” says Mister Callard, very puzzled.

“I’ve told ’em why. Never mind all that. Look ye, Mister Callard, ool ye sell the bull to me?”

“Sell un?”

“Ah, I wunna argle and bargle over the price.”

“But it wouldna be worth my while. I’ll get more, a power, by letting un fight. Win, and I’ll be a rich mon. Lose, and I get best butcher’s price from the ring owners, seesta?”

“What ud you make if he won?”

“Twenty pound.”

“I’ll give you twenty pound, and you can take the beast away.”

“God bless me!” says Mister Callard. “Oh, God bless me, I’m sure.”

He stared at Kester as if he was spirit-struck.

“Bargain?” says Kester.

Missis Callard, who never spoke but after Callard spoke, and then said the same thing, and never did ought but what she was told to do, came up all in a flusker, leading the bull.

“Take the gentleman’s offer, Father! Take it, my dear!” she said, all out of breath. “Take the twenty pound and us’ll lead the darling whome.”

Callard was so astounded at her daring to speak that he could only keep on saying—

“God bless me!”

“God bless ye, is it?” says Huglet, beginning to roar again. “I’ll give ye God bless ye if you do any such thing, Callard. Dang me! Spoil all our sport for twenty pound! I’ll larn ye! And you too, young man!”

“Oh, but he mun be worse than sawft or simple, he mun be stark raving mad to offer twenty pound for the little beast and then give back what he’s bought,” says Grimble. “Oh, I could cry! Yet the poor chap was all right Monday was a fortnit, weaving for us as nice as nice. But he’s gone wrong in the yead since, surely to goodness! Oh, dear me!”

He wiped his face and seemed quite taken-to.

Kester pulled out his wallet and offered Callard the money. It was pretty well all his uncle left him, I doubt.

By this, Missis Callard had called all the children to her, for they had five children as well as the baby, and she whispered ’em, and all of a sudden they cried out together, “Take it, Feyther! Take it, honoured Feyther! We beseech thee to hear us!”

At the surprise of that, Mister Callard seemed to be quite moithered, and he reached out his hand to Kester for the money. But Mister Huglet struck it down.

“I wunna be robbed of my sport!” he said. “Dunna you dare take it, Callard. We want our sport, I tell ye!”

All the men with dogs looked black and muttered—

“Ah, that’s righteous! That’s gospel! We want our sport!”

“Chaps,” says Kester, very pleading, “it be pity on so fine a day to set one poor creature to tear another. Devil’s work, it be. If it’s fighting you want, why canna you wrostle, or box man to man? Look ye! To make a bit of sport, I’ll take any six of ye on, one after other, to wrostle. The one that beats me by most shall take my coat, and the next shall take my hat and weskit. Now then!”

Nobody said anything, only they shuffled a bit, and looked here and there. Everybody seemed to know that Kester was a very good wrostler, and nobody seemed to take to the job. Mister Grimble looked at Kester as if he hated him. And it was plain, by what came next, that he did, in very truth. For now, having made up his mind not to play second any more to Mister Huglet, he up and said—

“The young man speaks well. Now, I’ll fall in with all he says and agree to the stopping of the baiting this day, on one condition.”

“Out with it,” says Kester.

“That you take on the dawgs yerself.”

Mister Grimble gave a spiteful cackling laugh, and Mister Huglet roared agen.

“Got ye there, me lad!” he shouted. And Grimble said—

“You may love the dumb creatures ooth yer purse, but ye wunna go so far as to love em ooth yer own blood!”

“Go on with the baiting!” orders Mister Huglet.

“Tie the beast up agen,” says Mister Callard to his missus, who was standing by, eager to hand it over to Kester, so as he could give it back as he said.

“Whose dawg drew first?”

Mister Huglet took no more notice of Kester, but went on with the arrangements.

“Mister Towler’s dawg drew first, and Mug o’ Cider second,” said one of the owners of the bull-ring.

“Come forrard, Towler.”

Kester stood very still, eyeing Mister Grimble till he got quite put about. For he didna seem to want to meet Kester’s eye.

“That ud be the best bit of sport ever you had, eh, Mister Grimble?” says Kester at last. “To see a man baited like a bull.”

“Why, nobody ud be such a fool.”

Kester looked round.

“Chaps!” he says, “if so be as I agree to Mister Grimble’s plan and take on the dogs one by one, not to kill ’em, but to put ’em on chain with nought but my bare hands, and they as savage as you like, if I do this at my own risk, will ye give it me in writing as there wunna be another baiting in Lullingford for ten years? And if I fail to put any dog on chain, I’ve lost and the baiting goes on.”

Everybody’s tongue was loosed at that.

“God bless me!”

“Dear to goodness!”

“Domm it!”

“Well, that beats all, dang it!”

“Daze my ’ouns!”

There was a regular clack of voices.

One or two called out that they wouldna agree to it. But mostly they were very curious to see what would come of it, and as it was known that the parson didna like the baitings and had been werriting the squire to put a stop to them, everybody thought they might be stopped soon anyway, and so they might as well have the fun, for this was a chance of rare sport, and the like of it had never been seen in the place.

When Mister Huglet could speak for laughing, he explained to all the people what was doing.

“Hands up for it!” he called out.

All but about a dozen held up their hands.

“Done!” says Mister Huglet “And done for, my fine feller!”

I caught hold of Miller’s Tim and told him to go to Kester and whisper as Grimble’s dog was a new one, and extra bad in temper. But indeed I felt that neither this nor anything was any manner of use, and I couldna think of ought to do. But one thing I was determined on, I’d keep nigh him, and when he was down I’d rush in and drag him away, and if Grimble interfered it ud be the worse for un. There’s none so fierce as a loving woman, and it always seemed a strange thing to me that the Mother of Jesus could keep her hands off the centurion, and it could only have been because her Son had given orders afore. But indeed if it had been me, I think I should have forgot the orders.

Tim came running back, and I saw those strong blue eyes follow and settle on me for a breath. Then I hid behind Missis Callard.

“He knowed it,” says Tim. “But obleeged all the same.”

I went to the refreshment booth and stole the carving-knife. But almost afore it was hidden under my flounced skirt I saw that there was to be no need of it, anyway for a while. There was to be summat more like a miracle than anything I’ve seen afore. This was the way of it.

“Go to the mid of the wall,” says Huglet, “and fasten the dawgs to the bull chain. And if you fasten either of mine, I’ll give ye five shilling, me lad! Oh, I could bust a-laughing to see anybody be such a fool!”

“Mister Towler’s dawg!” says the head of the ring.

“Ready!”

They loosed Towler’s terrier, the savagest little beast in the place.

“At ’im! Bite ’im!” shouts Towler, and I was like to faint. And then it came to pass.

Kester stepped forward.

“Well, Bingo!” he says. “Good dog!”

Bingo stopped, looked at Towler as much as to say he’d made a mistake, and ran to Kester as pleased as Punch, wagging tail and fawning round.

“We be friends, binna we?” says Kester.

Towler gave a curse, and Huglet looked as black as night. But nobody could say it wunna fair and square, and some of the better sort laughed and said, “Good for you, lad!”

It was the same with the Mug o’ Cider dog, and the next. As the owners came up to fetch them when they were on the chain, they looked very old-fashioned and taken aback.

Kester laughed.

“I like a dog,” he says. “Dumb things be my fancy. You couldna know it, but so it is, and I can only see one dog here as inna friend to me, being new-come to these parts.”

“Ah,” says Grimble, “you wunna play yer May-games with Toby. Indeed to goodness, if you get off with your life you’ll do well.”

All in a minute I thought of a better thing than the carving-knife, though I kept that in case of need. I’d run to the town for the apothecary, there being no doctor in the place, to have him there in case of harm. There were a sight more dogs yet, for they wouldna let him off any. There met be time if I was quick. So, with the carving-knife still under my dress, I edged out of the crowd, got into the road and ran for dear life. But afore I went, I took one look at him I did love, since if I wasna quick enough I might never see him alive again.

He was laughing, and Huglet was leading one of his dogs away. Though Kester didna weave for Huglet, he’d made friends with his dogs on market days, outside the Mug o’ Cider, seemingly. He’d such a way with animals that a tuthree minutes was enough, and they were friends to him for ever.

And as I looked back, it seemed to me, though I told myself it must be fancy, that those eyes, so live and bright, dwelt on me, and smiled at me, friended me and pled with me, being as are the eyes of a man when he looks long upon his dear acquaintance, who has given her peace for his, her soul to his keeping, and her body for his joy.

But as I ran I said to myself—

“Nay, Prue Sarn, you be nought but his angel, and a poor daggly sort of angel, too.”

And all the blue bird’s eye in the hedge banks went into a mist of tears as I ran, and looked no more like flowers, but like a blue tide of sorrow to drown me.