“I say!”
“Battleaxes—”
“Saint George is right—”
“Hold your tongue.”
“Pikes twenty feet long.”
“Marching two and two.”
“Do stop.”
“I shall be general.”
“That you won’t.”
“Romans had shields.”
“Battleaxes are best.”
“Knobs with spikes.”
“I say—I say!”
“You’re a donkey!”
“They had flags—”
“And drums.”
“I’ve got a flute.”
“I—”
“You!”
“Yes, me.”
“Hi!”
“Tom.”
“If you hit me, I’ll hit you.”
“Now.”
“Don’t.”
“Be quiet.”
“Go on.”
“Let’s begin.”
“I will,”—buzz—buzz—buzz!
Phil, Tom, Ted, Jim, Frank, Walter, Bill, “Charl,” Val, Bob, Cecil, Sam, Fred, George, Harry, Michael, Jack, Andrew, Luke, and half a dozen more were talking all together, shouting across each other, occasionally fighting, wrestling, and rolling over on the sward under an oak. There were two up in the tree, bellowing their views from above, and little Charlie (“Charl”) was astride of a bough which he had got hold of, swinging up and down, and yelling like the rest. Some stood by the edge of the water, for the oak was within a few yards of the New Sea, and alternately made ducks and drakes, and turned to contradict their friends.
On higher ground beyond, a herd of cows grazed in perfect peace, while the swallows threaded a maze in and out between them, but just above the grass. The New Sea was calm and smooth as glass, the sun shone in a cloudless sky, so that the shadow of the oak was pleasant; but the swallows had come down from the upper air, and Bevis, as he stood a little apart listening in an abstracted manner to the uproar, watched them swiftly gliding in and out. He had convened a council of all those who wanted to join the war in the fields, because it seemed best to keep the matter secret, which could not be done if they came to the house, else perhaps the battle would be interfered with. This oak was chosen as it was known to every one.
It grew alone in the meadow, and far from any path, so that they could talk as they liked. They had hardly met ten minutes when the confusion led to frequent blows and pushes, and the shouting was so great that no one could catch more than disjointed sentences. Mark now came running with the map in his hand; it had been forgotten, and he had been sent to fetch it. As he came near, and they saw him, there was a partial lull.
“What an awful row you have been making,” he said, “I heard it all across the field. Why don’t you choose sides?”
“Who’s to choose?” said Ted, as if he did not know that he should be one of the leaders. He was the tallest and biggest of them all, a head and shoulders above Bevis.
“You, of course,” came in chorus.
“And you needn’t look as if you didn’t want to,” shouted somebody, at which there was a laugh.
“Now, Bevis, Bevis! Sides.” They crowded round, and pulled Bevis into the circle.
“Best two out of three,” said Mark. “Here’s a penny.”
“Lend me one,” said Ted.
Phil handed him the coin.
“You’ll never get it back,” cried one of the crowd. Ted was rather known for borrowing on the score of his superior strength.
“Bevis, you’re dreaming,” as Bevis stood quiet and motionless, still in his far-away mood. “Toss.”
Bevis tossed, the penny spun, and he caught it on the back of his hand; Mark nudged him.
“Cry.”
“Head,” said Ted. Mark nudged again; but it was a head. Mark stamped his foot.
“Tail,” and it was a tail; Ted won the toss.
“I told you how to do it,” whispered Mark to Bevis in a fierce whisper, “and you didn’t.”
“Choose,” shouted everybody. Ted beckoned to Val, who came and stood behind him. He was the next biggest, very easy tempered and a favourite, as he would give away anything.
“Choose,” shouted everybody again. It was Bevis’s turn, and of course he took Mark. So far it was all understood, but it was now Ted’s turn, and no one knew who he would select. He looked round and called Phil, a stout, short, slow-speaking boy, who had more pocket-money, and was more inclined to books than most of them.
“Who shall I have?” said Bevis aside to Mark.
“Have Bill,” said Mark. “He’s strong.”
Bill was called, and came over. Ted took another—rank and file—and then Bevis, who was waking up, suddenly called “Cecil.”
“You stupe,” said Mark. “He can’t fight.”
Cecil, a shy, slender lad, came and stood behind his leader.
“You’ll lose everybody,” said Mark. “Ted will have all the big ones. There, he’s got Tim. Have Fred; I saw him knock George over once.”
Fred came, and the choosing continued, each trying to get the best soldiers, till none were left but little Charlie, who was an odd one.
“He’s no good,” said Ted; “you can put him in your pocket.”
“I hate you,” said Charlie; “after all the times I’ve run with messages for you. Bevis, let me come your side.”
“Take him,” said Ted; “but mind, you’ll have one more if you do, and I shall get some one else.”
“Then he’ll get a bigger one,” said Mark. “Don’t have him; he’ll only be in the way.”
Charlie began to walk off with his head hanging.
“Cry-baby,” shouted the soldiery. “Pipe your eye.”
“Come here,” said Bevis; Charlie ran back delighted.
“Well, you have done it,” said Mark in a rage. “Now Ted will have another twice as big. What’s the use of my trying when you are so stupid! I never did see. We shall be whopped anyhow.”
Quite heedless of these reproaches, Bevis asked Ted who were to be his lieutenants.
“I shall have Val and Phil,” said Ted.
“And I shall have Mark and Cecil,” said Bevis. “Let us count. How many are there on each side? Mark, write down all ours. Haven’t you a pocket-book? well, do it on the back of the map. Ted, you had better do the same.”
“Phil,” said Ted, who was not much of a student, “you put down the names.”
Phil, a reader in a slow way, did as he was bidden. There were fifteen on Bevis’s side, and fourteen on Ted’s, who was to choose another to make it even.
“There’s the muster-roll,” said Mark, holding up the map.
“But how shall we know one another?” said George.
“Who’s friends, and who’s enemies,” said Fred.
“Else we shall all hit one another anyhow,” said another.
“Stick feathers in our hats.”
“Ribbons round our arms would be best,” said Cecil. “Hats may be knocked off.”
“Ribbons will do first-rate,” said Bevis. “I’ll have blue; Ted, you have red. You can buy heaps of ribbon for nothing.”
“Phil,” said Ted, “have you got any money?”
“Half-a-crown.”
“Lend us, then.”
“No, I shan’t,” said Phil: “I’ll buy the ribbons myself.”
“Let’s have a skirmish now,” said Bill. “Come on, Val,” and he began to whirl his hands about.
“Stop that,” said Bevis. “Ted, there’s a truce, and if you let your fellows fight it’s breaking it. Catch hold of Bill—Mark, Cecil, hold him.”
Bill was seized, and hustled round behind the oak, and kept there till he promised to be quiet.
“But when are we going to begin?” asked Jack.
“Be quick,” said Luke.
“War! war!” shouted half a dozen, kicking up their heels.
“Hold your noise,” said Ted, cuffing one of his followers. “Can’t you see we’re getting on as fast as we can. Bevis, where are we going to fight?”
“In the Plain,” said Bevis. “That’s the best place.”
“Plenty of room for a big battle,” said Ted. “O, you’ve got it on the map, I see.”
The Plain was the great pasture beside the New Sea, where Bevis and Mark bathed and ran about in the sunshine. It was some seventy or eighty acres in extent, a splendid battle-field.
“We’re not going to march,” said Mark, taking something on himself as lieutenant.
“We’re not going to march,” said Bevis. “But I did not tell you to say so; I mean we are not going to march the thousand miles, Ted; we will suppose that.”
“All right,” said Ted.
“But we’re going to have camps,” continued Bevis. “You’re going to have your camp just outside the hedge towards the hills, because you live that side, and you will come that way. Here,”—he showed Ted a circle, drawn on the map to represent a camp,—“that’s yours; and this is ours on this side, towards our house, as we shall come that way.”
“The armies will encamp in sight of each other,” said Phil. “That’s quite proper. Go on, Bevis. Shall we send out scouts?”
“We shall light fires and have proper camps,” said Bevis.
“And bring our great-coats and cloaks, and a hamper of grub,” interrupted Mark, anxious to show that he knew all about it.
Bevis frowned, but went on. “And I shall send one of my soldiers to be with you, and you will send one of yours to be with me—”
“Whatever for?” said Ted. “That’s a curious thing.”
“Well, it’s to know when to begin. When we are all there, we’ll hoist up a flag—a handkerchief will do on a stick—and you will hoist up yours, and then when the war is to begin, you will send back my soldier, and I will send back yours, and they will cross each other as they are running, and when your soldier reaches you, and mine reaches me—”
“I see,” said Ted, “I see. Then we are to march out so as to begin quite fair.”
“That’s it,” said Bevis. “So as to begin at the same minute, and not one before the other. I have got it all ready, and you need not have sent people to worry me to make haste about the war.”
“Well, how was I to know if you never said anything?” said Ted.
“And who are we to be?” said Val. “Saxons and Normans, or Crusaders, or King Arthur—”
“We’re all to be Romans,” said Bevis.
“Then it will be the Civil War,” said Phil, who had read most history.
“Of course it will,” said Bevis, “and I am to be Julius Caesar, and Ted is to be Pompey.”
“I won’t be Pompey,” said Ted; “Pompey was beat.”
“You must,” said Bevis.
“I shan’t.”
“But you must.”
“I won’t be beaten.”
“I shall beat you easily.”
“That you won’t,” very warmly.
“Indeed I shall,” said Bevis quite composedly, “as I am Caesar I shall beat you very easily.”
“Of course we shall,” added Mark.
“You won’t; I’ve got the biggest soldiers, and I shall drive you anyhow.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I’ve got Val and Phil and Tim, and I mean to have Ike, so now—”
“There, I told you,” said Mark to Bevis. “He’s got all the biggest, and Ike is a huge big donk of a fellow.”
“It’s no use,” said Bevis, not in the least ruffled; “I shall beat you.”
“Not you,” said Ted, hot and red in the face. “Why I’ll pitch you in the water first.”
“Take you all your time,” said Bevis, shutting his lips tighter and beginning to look a little dangerous. “Shut up,” said Val.
“Stop,” said Phil and Bill and George, pressing in.
“Hush,” said Cecil. “It’s a truce.”
“Well, I won’t be Pompey,” said Ted sullenly. “Then we must have somebody who will,” said Bevis sharply, “and choose again.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said some one in the crowd. “Nor I,” said another.
“If I was general I wouldn’t mind being Pompey. Let me, Bevis.”
“Who’s that,” said Ted. “If any one says that I’ll smash him.” When he found he could so easily be superseded he surrendered. “Well, I’ll be Pompey,” he said, “but mind I shan’t be beat.”
“Pompey ought to win if he can,” said Val; “that’s only fair.”
“What’s the use of fighting if we are to be beat?” said Phil.
“Of course,” said Bevis, “how very stupid you all are! Of course, Ted is to win if he can; he’s only to be called Pompey to make it proper. I know I shall beat him, but he’s to beat us if he can.”
“I’m only to be called Pompey, mind,” said Ted; “mind that. We are to win if we can.”
“Of course;” and so this delicate point was settled after very nearly leading to an immediate battle.
“Hurrah for Pompey!” shouted George, throwing up his hat.
“Hurrah for Caesar!” said Bill, hurling up his. This was the signal for a general shouting and uproar. They had been quiet ten minutes, and were obliged to let off their suppressed energy. There was a wild capering round the oak.
“Ted Pompey,” said Charlie, little and impudent, “what fun it will be to see you run away!” For which he had his ears pulled till he squealed.
“Now,” shouted Mark, “let’s get it all done. Come on.” The noise subsided somewhat, and they gathered round as Ted and Bevis began to talk again.
“Caesar,” said Phil to Bevis, “if you’re Caesar and Ted’s Pompey, who are we? We ought to have names too.”
“I’m Mark Antony,” said Mark, standing bolt upright.
“Very well,” said Bevis. “Phil, you can be—let me see, Varro.”
“All right, I’m Varro,” said Phil; “and who’s Val? Oh, I know,”—running names over in his mind,—“he’s Crassus. Val Crassus, do you hear?”
“Capital,” said Crassus. “I’m ready.”
“Then there’s Cecil,” said Mark; “who’s he?”
“Cecil!” said Phil. “Cecil—Cis—Cis—Scipio, of course.”
“First-rate,” said Mark. “Scipio Cecil, that’s your name.”
“Write it down on the roll,” said Bevis. The names were duly registered; Pompey’s lieutenants as Val Crassus and Phil Varro, and Caesar’s as Mark Antony and Scipio Cecil. After which there was a great flinging of stones into the water and more shouting.
“Let’s see,” said Ted. “If there’s fifteen each side, there will be five soldiers to each, five for captains, and five for lieutenants.”
“Cohorts,” said Phil. “A cohort each, hurrah!”
“Do be quiet,” said Ted. “How can we go on when you make such a row? Caesar Bevis, are all the swords ready?”
“No,” said Bevis. “We must fix the length, and have them all the same.”
They got a stick, and after much discussion cut it to a certain length as a standard; Mark took charge of it, and all the swords were to be cut off by it, and none to be any thicker. There were to be cross-pieces nailed or fastened on, but the ends were to be blunt and not sharp.
“No sticking,” said Ted. “Only knocking.”
“Only knocking and slashing,” said Bevis. “Stabbing won’t do, and arrows won’t do, nor spears.”
“Why not?” said Mark, who had been looking forward to darting his javelin at Ted Pompey.
“Because eyes will get poked out,” said Bevis, “and there would be a row. If anybody got stuck and killed, there would be an awful row.”
“So there would,” said Mark. “How stupid!” Just as if people could not kill one another without so much fuss!
“And no hitting at faces,” said Bevis, “else if somebody’s marked there will be a bother.”
“No,” said Ted. “Mind, no slashing faces. Knock swords together.”
“Knock swords together,” said Bevis. “Make rattling and shout.”
“Shout,” said Mark, bellowing his loudest.
“How shall we know when we’re killed?” said Cecil.
“Well, you are a stupe,” said Val. “Really you are.” They all laughed at Cecil.
“But I don’t know,” said Ted Pompey. “You just think, how shall we know who’s beat? Cecil’s not so silly.”
“No more he is,” said Mark. “Bevis, how is it to be managed?”
“Those who run away are beaten,” said Charlie. “You’ll see Ted run fast enough.” Away he scampered himself to escape punishment.
“Of course,” said Bevis. “One way will be if people run away. O! I know, if the camp is taken.”
“Or if the captain is taken prisoner,” said Phil; “and tied up with a cord.”
“Yes,” continued Bevis. “If the captain is taken prisoner, and if the eagles are captured—”
“Eagles,” said Ted Pompey.
“Standards,” said Phil. “That’s right: are we to have proper eagles, Caesar Bevis?”
“Yes,” said Bevis. “Three brass rings round sticks will do. Two eagles each, don’t you see, Ted, like flags, only eagles, that’s proper.”
“Who keeps the ground wins the victory,” said Cecil.
“Right,” said Ted. “I shall soon tie up Bevis—we must bring cords.”
“You must catch him first,” said Mark.
“Captains must be guarded,” said Val. “Strong guards round them and awful fighting there,” licking his lips at the thought of it.
“Captain Caesar Bevis,” said Tim, who had not spoken before, but had listened very carefully. “Is there to be any punching?”
“Hum!” Bevis hesitated, and looked at Ted.
“I think so,” said Ted, who had long arms and hard fists.
“If there’s punching,” cried Charlie from the oak, into which he had climbed for safety; “if there’s punching, only the big blokes can play.”
“No punching,” said Mark eagerly, not that he feared, being stout and sturdy, but seizing at anything to neutralise Ted’s big soldiers.
“No punching,” shouted a dozen at once; “only pushing.”
“Very well,” said Bevis, “no punching, and no tripping—pushing and wrestling quite fair.”
“Wrestling,” said Ted directly. “That will do.”
“Stupid,” said Mark to Bevis; then louder, “Only nice wrestling, no ‘scrumpshing.’”
“No ‘scrumpshing,’” shouted everybody.
Ted stamped his foot, but it was of no use. Everybody was for fair and pleasant fighting.
“Never mind,” said Ted. “We’ll shove you out of the field.”
“Yah! yah!” said Charlie, making faces at him.
“If anybody does what’s agreed shan’t be done,” said Mark, still anxious to stop Ted’s design; “that will lose the battle, even if it’s won.”
“It ought to be all fair,” said Val, who was very big, but straightforward.
“If anything’s done unfair, that counts against whoever does it,” said Cecil.
“No sneaking business,” shouted everybody. “No sneaking and hitting behind.”
“Certainly not,” said Bevis. “All quite fair.”
“Somebody must watch Ted, then,” said Charlie from the oak.
Ted picked up a piece of dead stick and threw it at him. He dodged it like a squirrel.
“If you say such things,” said Bevis, very angry, “you shan’t fight. Do you hear?”
“Yes,” said Charlie, penitent. “I won’t any more. But it’s true,” he whispered to Fred under him.
“Everything’s ready now, isn’t it?” said Ted.
“Yes, I think so,” said Bevis.
“You haven’t fixed the day,” said Val.
“No, more I have.”
“Let’s have it to-day,” said Fred.
They caught it up and clamoured to have the battle at once.
“The swords are not ready,” said Mark.
“Are the eagles ready?” asked Phil.
“Two are,” said Mark.
“The other two shall be made this afternoon,” said Bevis. “Phil, will you go in to Latten for the blue ribbon for us; here’s three shillings.”
“Yes,” said Phil, “I’ll get both at once—blue and red, and bring you the blue.”
“To-morrow, then,” said Fred. “Let’s fight to-morrow.”
But they found that three of them were going out to-morrow. So, after some more discussion, the battle was fixed for the day after, and it was to begin in the evening, as some of them could not come before. The camps were to be made as soon after six o’clock as possible, and, this agreed to, the council broke up, though it was understood that if anything else occurred to any one, or the captains wished to make any alterations, they were to send despatches by special messengers to each other. The swords and eagles for Ted’s party were to be fetched the evening before, and smuggled out of window when it was dark, that no one might see them.
“Hurrah!”
So they parted, and the oak was left in silence, with the grass all trampled under it. The cattle fed down towards the water, and the swallows wound in and out around them.