Wandering Heath | Page 7

this moment.
"'Look at this,' he says to my father, showing him the lock; 'I picked it
up off a starving brass-worker in Lisbon, and it is not one of your

common locks that one word of six letters will open at any time.
There's janius in this lock; for you've only to make the rings spell any
six-letter word you please, and snap down the lock upon that, and never
a soul can open it--not the maker, even--until somebody comes along
that knows the word you snapped it on. Now, Johnny here's goin', and
he leaves his drum behind him; for, though he can make pretty music
on it, the parchment sags in wet weather, by reason of the sea-water
getting at it; an' if he carries it to Plymouth, they'll only condemn it and
give him another. And, as for me, I shan't have the heart to put lip to
the trumpet any more when Johnny's gone. So we've chosen a word
together, and locked 'em together upon that; and, by your leave, I'll
hang 'em here together on the hook over your fireplace. Maybe
Johnny'll come back; maybe not. Maybe, if he comes, I'll be dead an'
gone, an' he'll take 'em apart an' try their music for old sake's sake. But
if he never comes, nobody can separate 'em; for nobody beside knows
the word. And if you marry and have sons, you can tell 'em that here
are tied together the souls of Johnny Christian, drummer of the Marines,
and William George Tallifer, once trumpeter of the Queen's Own
Hussars. Amen.'
"With that he hung the two instruments 'pon the hook there; and the
boy stood up and thanked my father and shook hands; and the pair went
forth of the door, towards Helston.
"Somewhere on the road they took leave of one another; but nobody
saw the parting, nor heard what was said between them. About three in
the afternoon the trumpeter came walking back over the hill; and by the
time my father came home from the fishing, the cottage was tidied up
and the tea ready, and the whole place shining like a new pin. From that
time for five years he lodged here with my father, looking after the
house and tilling the garden; and all the while he was steadily failing,
the hurt in his head spreading, in a manner, to his limbs. My father
watched the feebleness growing on him, but said nothing. And from
first to last neither spake a word about the drummer, John Christian;
nor did any letter reach them, nor word of his doings.
"The rest of the tale you'm free to believe, sir, or not, as you please. It

stands upon my father's words, and he always declared he was ready to
kiss the Book upon it before judge and jury. He said, too, that he never
had the wit to make up such a yarn; and he defied anyone to explain
about the lock, in particular, by any other tale. But you shall judge for
yourself.
"My father said that about three o'clock in the morning, April
fourteenth of the year 'fourteen, he and William Tallifer were sitting
here, just as you and I, sir, are sitting now. My father had put on his
clothes a few minutes before, and was mending his spiller by the light
of the horn lantern, meaning to set off before daylight to haul the
trammel. The trumpeter hadn't been to bed at all. Towards the last he
mostly spent his nights (and his days, too) dozing in the elbow-chair
where you sit at this minute. He was dozing then (my father said), with
his chin dropped forward on his chest, when a knock sounded upon the
door, and the door opened, and in walked an upright young man in
scarlet regimentals.
"He had grown a brave bit, and his face was the colour of wood-ashes;
but it was the drummer, John Christian. Only his uniform was different
from the one he used to wear, and the figures '38' shone in brass upon
his collar.
"The drummer walked past my father as if he never saw him, and stood
by the elbow-chair and said:
"'Trumpeter, trumpeter, are you one with me?'
"And the trumpeter just lifted the lids of his eyes, and answered, 'How
should I not be one with you, drummer Johnny--Johnny boy? The men
are patient. 'Till you come, I count; while you march, I mark time; until
the discharge comes.'
"'The discharge has come to-night,' said the drummer, 'and the word is
Corunna no longer'; and stepping to the chimney-place, he unhooked
the drum and trumpet, and began to twist the brass rings of the lock,
spelling the word aloud, so--C-O-R-U-N-A. When he had fixed the last