Martin Chuzzlewit
must have the books inspected and the accounts gone over immediate. Here
we are. Everything in its proper place. Here’s the salt pork. Here’s the
biscuit. Here’s the whiskey. Uncommon good it smells too. Here’s the
tin pot. This tin pot’s a small fortun’ in itself! Here’s the blankets.
Here’s the axe. Who says we ain’t got a first-rate fit out? I feel as if
I was a cadet gone out to Indy, and my noble father was chairman of the
Board of Directors. Now, when I’ve got some water from the stream afore
the door and mixed the grog,’ cried Mark, running out to suit the action
to the word, ‘there’s a supper ready, comprising every delicacy of
the season. Here we are, sir, all complete. For what we are going to
receive, et cetrer. Lord bless you, sir, it’s very like a gipsy party!’
It was impossible not to take heart, in the company of such a man as
this. Martin sat upon the ground beside the box; took out his knife; and
ate and drank sturdily.
‘Now you see,’ said Mark, when they had made a hearty meal; ‘with your
knife and mine, I sticks this blanket right afore the door. Or where, in
a state of high civilization, the door would be. And very neat it looks.
Then I stops the aperture below, by putting the chest agin it. And very
neat THAT looks. Then there’s your blanket, sir. Then here’s mine. And
what’s to hinder our passing a good night?’
For all his light-hearted speaking, it was long before he slept himself.
He wrapped his blanket round him, put the axe ready to his hand, and lay
across the threshold of the door; too anxious and too watchful to close
his eyes. The novelty of their dreary situation, the dread of some
rapacious animal or human enemy, the terrible uncertainty of their means
of subsistence, the apprehension of death, the immense distance and the
hosts of obstacles between themselves and England, were fruitful sources
of disquiet in the deep silence of the night. Though Martin would have
had him think otherwise, Mark felt that he was waking also, and a prey
to the same reflections. This was almost worse than all, for if he began
to brood over their miseries instead of trying to make head against them
there could be little doubt that such a state of mind would powerfully
assist the influence of the pestilent climate. Never had the light of
day been half so welcome to his eyes, as when awaking from a fitful
doze, Mark saw it shining through the blanket in the doorway.
He stole out gently, for his companion was sleeping now; and having
refreshed himself by washing in the river, where it snowed before the
door, took a rough survey of the settlement. There were not above a
score of cabins in the whole; half of these appeared untenanted; all
were rotten and decayed. The most tottering, abject, and forlorn among
them was called, with great propriety, the Bank, and National Credit
Office. It had some feeble props about it, but was settling deep down in
the mud, past all recovery.
Here and there an effort had been made to clear the land, and something
like a field had been marked out, where, among the stumps and ashes of
burnt trees, a scanty crop of Indian corn was growing. In some quarters,
a snake or zigzag fence had been begun, but in no instance had it been
completed; and the felled logs, half hidden in the soil, lay mouldering
away. Three or four meagre dogs, wasted and vexed with hunger; some
long-legged pigs, wandering away into the woods in search of food; some
children, nearly naked, gazing at him from the huts; were all the living
things he saw. A fetid vapour, hot and sickening as the breath of an
oven, rose up from the earth, and hung on everything around; and as his
foot-prints sunk into the marshy ground, a black ooze started forth to
blot them out.
Their own land was mere forest. The trees had grown so think and close
that they shouldered one another out of their places, and the weakest,
forced into shapes of strange distortion, languished like cripples.
The best were stunted, from the pressure and the want of room; and high
about the stems of all grew long rank grass, dank weeds, and frowsy
underwood; not divisible into their separate kinds, but tangled all
together in a heap; a jungle deep and dark, with neither earth nor water
at its roots, but putrid matter, formed of the pulpy offal of the two,
and of their own corruption.
He went down to the landing-place where they had left their goods last
night; and there he found some half-dozen men--wan and forlorn to look
at, but ready enough to assist--who helped him to carry them to the
log-house. They shook their heads in speaking of the settlement, and had
no comfort to give him. Those who had the means of going away had all
deserted it. They who were left had lost their wives, their children,
friends, or brothers there, and suffered much themselves. Most of
them were ill then; none were the men they had been once. They frankly
offered their assistance and advice, and, leaving him for that time,
went sadly off upon their several tasks.
Martin was by this time stirring; but he had greatly changed, even in
one night. He was very pale and languid; he spoke of pains and weakness
in his limbs, and complained that his sight was dim, and his voice
feeble. Increasing in his own briskness as the prospect grew more and
more dismal, Mark brought away a door from one of the deserted houses,
and fitted it to their own habitation; then went back again for a rude
bench he had observed, with which he presently returned in triumph;
and having put this piece of furniture outside the house, arranged the
notable tin pot and other such movables upon it, that it might represent
a dresser or a sideboard. Greatly satisfied with this arrangement, he
next rolled their cask of flour into the house and set it up on end in
one corner, where it served for a side-table. No better dining-table
could be required than the chest, which he solemnly devoted to that
useful service thenceforth. Their blankets, clothes, and the like, he
hung on pegs and nails. And lastly, he brought forth a great placard
(which Martin in the exultation of his heart had prepared with his own
hands at the National Hotel) bearing the inscription, CHUZZLEWIT & CO.,
ARCHITECTS AND SURVEYORS, which he displayed upon the most conspicuous
part of the premises, with as much gravity as if the thriving city of
Eden had a real existence, and they expected to be overwhelmed with
business.
‘These here tools,’ said Mark, bringing forward Martin’s case of
instruments and sticking the compasses upright in a stump before the
door, ‘shall be set out in the open air to show that we come provided.
And now, if any gentleman wants a house built, he’d better give his
orders, afore we’re other ways bespoke.’
Considering the intense heat of the weather, this was not a bad
morning’s work; but without pausing for a moment, though he was
streaming at every pore, Mark vanished into the house again, and
presently reappeared with a hatchet; intent on performing some
impossibilities with that implement.
‘Here’s ugly old tree in the way, sir,’ he observed, ‘which’ll be all
the better down. We can build the oven in the afternoon. There never was
such a handy spot for clay as Eden is. That’s convenient, anyhow.’
But Martin gave him no answer. He had sat the whole time with his head
upon his hands, gazing at the current as it rolled swiftly by; thinking,
perhaps, how fast it moved towards the open sea, the high road to the
home he never would behold again.
Not even the vigorous strokes which Mark dealt at the tree awoke him
from his mournful meditation. Finding all his endeavours to rouse him of
no use, Mark stopped in his work and came towards him.
‘Don’t give in, sir,’ said Mr Tapley.
‘Oh, Mark,’ returned his friend, ‘what have I done in all my life that
has deserved this heavy fate?’
‘Why, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘for the matter of that, everybody as is here
might say the same thing; many of ‘em with better reason p’raps than
you or me. Hold up, sir. Do something. Couldn’t you ease your mind, now,
don’t you think, by making some personal obserwations in a letter to
Scadder?’
‘No,’ said Martin, shaking his head sorrowfully: ‘I am past that.’
‘But if you’re past that already,’ returned Mark, ‘you must be ill, and
ought to be attended to.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ said Martin. ‘Do the best you can for yourself. You’ll
soon have only yourself to consider. And then God speed you home, and
forgive me for bringing you here! I am destined to die in this place. I
felt it the instant I set foot upon the shore. Sleeping or waking, Mark,
I dreamed it all last night.’
‘I said you must be ill,’ returned Mark, tenderly, ‘and now I’m sure of
it. A touch of fever and ague caught on these rivers, I dare say; but
bless you, THAT’S nothing. It’s only a seasoning, and we must all be
seasoned, one way or another. That’s religion that is, you know,’ said
Mark.
He only sighed and shook his head.
‘Wait half a minute,’ said Mark cheerily, ‘till I run up to one of our
neighbours and ask what’s best to be took, and borrow a little of it to
give you; and to-morrow you’ll find yourself as strong as ever again. I
won’t be gone a minute. Don’t give in while I’m away, whatever you do!’
Throwing down his hatchet, he sped away immediately, but stopped when he
had got a little distance, and looked back; then hurried on again.
‘Now, Mr Tapley,’ said Mark, giving himself a tremendous blow in the
chest by way of reviver, ‘just you attend to what I’ve got to say.
Things is looking about as bad as they CAN look, young man. You’ll not
have such another opportunity for showing your jolly disposition, my
fine fellow, as long as you live. And therefore, Tapley, Now’s your time
to come out strong; or Never!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
REPORTS PROGRESS IN CERTAIN HOMELY MATTERS OF LOVE, HATRED, JEALOUSY,
AND REVENGE
‘Hallo, Pecksniff!’ cried Mr Jonas from the parlour. ‘Isn’t somebody
a-going to open that precious old door of yours?’
‘Immediately, Mr Jonas. Immediately.’
‘Ecod,’ muttered the orphan, ‘not before it’s time neither. Whoever it
is, has knocked three times, and each one loud enough to wake the--’ he
had such a repugnance to the idea of waking the Dead, that he stopped
even then with the words upon his tongue, and said, instead, ‘the Seven
Sleepers.’
‘Immediately, Mr Jonas; immediately,’ repeated Pecksniff. ‘Thomas
Pinch’--he couldn’t make up his mind, in his great agitation, whether to
call Tom his dear friend or a villain, so he shook his fist at him
PRO TEM--‘go up to my daughters’ room, and tell them who is here. Say,
Silence. Silence! Do you hear me, sir?
‘Directly, sir!’ cried Tom, departing, in a state of much amazement, on
his errand.
‘You’ll--ha, ha, ha!--you’ll excuse me, Mr Jonas, if I close this door
a moment, will you?’ said Pecksniff. ‘This may be a professional call.
Indeed I am pretty sure it is. Thank you.’ Then Mr Pecksniff, gently
warbling a rustic stave, put on his garden hat, seized a spade, and
opened the street door; calmly appearing on the threshold, as if he
thought he had, from his vineyard, heard a modest rap, but was not quite
certain.
Seeing a gentleman and lady before him, he started back in as much
confusion as a good man with a crystal conscience might betray in mere
surprise. Recognition came upon him the next moment, and he cried:
‘Mr Chuzzlewit! Can I believe my eyes! My dear sir; my good sir! A
joyful hour, a happy hour indeed. Pray, my dear sir, walk in. You find
me in my garden-dress. You will excuse it, I know. It is an ancient
pursuit, gardening. Primitive, my dear sir. Or, if I am not mistaken,
Adam was the first of our calling. MY Eve, I grieve to say is no more,
sir; but’--here he pointed to his spade, and shook his head as if he