Our Neighbours' Sport Beyond the Seas Read online

  Our Neighbours’ Sport Beyond the Seas

  Being the further adventures of Mr. Bennet, of Longbourn

  By

  Ronald McGowan

  Copyright Ronald McGowan

  2018

  All rights reserved.

  To the love of my life, who has borne patiently with me for almost fifty years, from Kerkyra to Kalamata and back again.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One: After the fair

  Chapter Two: London Town

  Chapter Three:Confabulations

  Chapter Four:Decisions

  Chapter Five :Preparations

  Chapter Six :John Company

  Chapter Seven :Apes and Peacocks

  Chapter Eight : Modern Corsairs

  Chapter Nine :Not Wanted on the Voyage

  Chapter Ten :Bella Napoli

  Chapter Eleven :Salerno to Salento

  Chapter Twelve : The Wine-Dark Sea

  Chapter Thirteen : Family Reunions

  Chapter Fourteen : Welcome to Corfu

  Chapter Fifteen :Enlightened Colonialism

  Chapter Sixteen : Research and Development

  Chapter Seventeen:Grubbing in the Earth

  Chapter Eighteen :Winter in Corfu

  Chapter Nineteen : Embarkment for Cythera

  Chapter Twenty: Aphrodite’s Island

  Chapter twenty-one To Sandy Pylos – or Not?

  Chapter Twenty-two : The Master of the Mani

  Chapter Twenty-three : A Climate of Revolution

  Chapter Twenty-four : The Feast of the Ten Thousand Martyrs

  Chapter Twenty-five : The Terrible Turk

  Chapter Twenty-six : Unintended Consequences

  Chapter Twenty-seven : Zito Hellas

  Chapter Twenty-eight : Kalamatianos

  Chapter Twenty-nine : The Return of the Heroes

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  The small but vital part played by the Bennet family in the events which shook the Near East in the opening years of the second decade of the nineteenth century has gone unrecorded by history, and must ever remain so. The stability of the region, and the reputation of our country, depends upon it, or so they tell me. Personally, I find such a claim hard to believe, but I am constrained to admit that, when I look back on those few tumultuous days I find that recollection incredible too, even though I was there at the time.

  Those who took part in these events have all been sworn to secrecy, and this account may never be published, at least in my lifetime. I think it right, however, to set down a true narration of the causes of the early start of a certain conflict, which still rages, and which may yet herald the collapse of an empire, and the eventual establishment of one of the kingdoms of modern Europe.

  This account will, I hope, provide a few hours of amusement – and, perhaps, enlightenment - for my daughters Jane and Elizabeth, who wisely attended to their own domestic concerns and declined to jaunt about the Continent on a whim, but who have since been very minute in their requirement of every detail of our adventure.

  I do this while the events are still comparatively fresh in my mind, in an effort to be as accurate as possible. My companions on my journey have been of great assistance in correcting my errors, but I must stress that any that remain are mine alone.

  I am all too aware that I am embarking on a literary voyage quite as perilous as any real-life journey, and I beg the indulgence of any future reader for the reminiscences of an old, but not yet wise, man.

  Chapter One: After the fair

  “Well, Mrs. Bennet,” I said to the wife of my bosom one fine summer’s morning, “have you given thought to what we are to do with ourselves now that the ceremony is concluded and the happy couple are on their way? We shall be Darby and Joan, you know.”

  The ceremony to which I referred was the marriage of our daughter Kitty to the Reverend Golightly, the new curate of Pemberley. What it is about curates that has always fascinated Kitty I cannot comprehend. One can see the advantages of a well-connected rector, or even a vicar, with a good living and prospects of a deanery or a cathedral stall, but what good is there in a curate? The very word implies failure to obtain a proper living.

  And yet, curates it has always been for Kitty, right from her earliest efforts with young Dobbs at Meryton. The most persistent, and most dangerous, or so I thought at the time, was Mr. Tomkins, the Pemberley curate when we first visited Lizzie and Darcy in their great house. So persistent had he been that he even pursued us to Newcastle when we went on to visit Lydia and her new baby. The attractions of the northern metropolis proved too much for him, however, and he very soon found other interests there.

  To do him justice, Mr. Golightly was cut of rather different cloth. He was a clergyman, admittedly, but of the fashionable, metropolitan variety. He had quite enough money of his own, even if it was all in the Funds rather than land. The happy couple had met in London, at one of Lizzie’s soirées there, and he had pursued her all the way to Pemberley when she left, taking the post of curate there, purely so as to have an excuse to be near her. I had heard, indeed, that inducements had been offered to the previous incumbent to vacate the post to him. If this tale be true, then I know not whether to applaud Mr. Golightly’s constancy or deplore his want of sense.

  I am not quite sure that I like Mr. Golightly, but I do believe I have never seen any man so much in love, and I make no doubt they will be happy together. They are both silly and ignorant, but silliness and ignorance seem to be very much the thing these days. Things were different when I was young.

  It was this feeling of the degeneracy of the times that prompted me to question Mrs. Bennet as to our future plans. I did not expect any great deal in the way of enlightenment from her reply, and I was not disappointed.

  “Why, Mr. Bennet,” she responded, “I wonder you should ask such a thing. I have been far too busy to be thinking about the future, as you must know. Besides, we shall be going to Pemberley, shall we not, or to Garthdale, or perhaps to Mary’s at your friend Mr. Casaubon’s house, whose name I can never recall?”

  “Strange as it may seem, my dear, neither Lizzie nor Jane have as yet said anything, to me at least, that could be construed as an invitation. They may do so, it is true, but the offer is as yet wanting. And Mr. Casaubon and I are fallen out with each other, for the moment, at least. I find I cannot agree with the conclusions he draws from rather flimsy evidence, evidence which I consider quite insufficient, and I believe, moreover, that he has no real faith in my Palimpsestus Dunelmensis. I am almost convinced he thinks I made it all up. I told Potts it would be so, when he burnt the original with his foolish, extravagant gestures.”

  “I dare say both Jane and Lizzie are only waiting their time. When have they ever failed to ask us for the summer? And if they do not, what is wrong with having Longbourn to ourselves for a while? Why it will be just like when we were first married.”

  “I fear that you may be only too right, my dear, if we were to have it to ourselves, at any rate. But that is hardly likely to be the case. Lady Lucas will be calling every day, with Charlotte and Maria and her gaggle of grandchildren, and, as likely as not, Mr. Collins. That gentleman has taken to lurking about Meryton far too much for my liking. Every time I see him, I can feel his eyes measuring me for my coffin.”

  “You know I have always said how foolish and wicked it was that you should leave your estate to someone like Mr. Collins, instead of your own daughters. But I will say no more of that just now, for you will only lecture me about the entail, until I have a headache and must lie down.”

  “I have certainly lectured you quite enough o
n that subject, my dear, but I wish I could make you understand that the entail cannot be broken without the consent of the heir presumptive. I think, however, you will agree with me that Mr. Collins is hardly likely to give his agreement to something which will deprive him of the estate which even now he can scarcely wait to take possession of.”

  “I dare say you are right, Mr. Bennet. After all, look how shabbily he treated Lizzie. I will never forgive Charlotte Lucas.”

  “So you tell her, every time she calls, my dear. But will Longbourn suit you, with just the two of us, penned up alone together, with not even one daughter to talk to?”

  “It is true, Kitty was invaluable that way, for when you are shut up with your dusty books. Not that she was anything like as good company as Lydia used to be. What a shame that Lydia has gone so far away! And she never even writes! For I do not count a note once a year announcing the arrival of her latest baby – another grandchild that I will never even see – as writing. She never sends me a nice, comfortable letter, full of gossip and news. It would certainly not have done in our day for a daughter to neglect her parents so. I am quite out of countenance with her.”

  “I cannot deny it, my love, girls are quite different from what they were when we were young. There is something wanting in their upbringing, I fear. But should you in fact like to see Lydia again?”

  “Oh, do not talk to me of Lydia! We shall never see her more, and I am quite tired of thinking about her. I never want to hear her name again.”

  “Then perhaps, it is just as well that this letter, which arrived this morning, bears a rather different signature. I would recommend you read it, nonetheless.”

  So saying, I handed over the small piece of card which I had first extracted from the envelope of a missive which had obviously come a long way by sea, being wrapped in tarred canvas against the elements.

  My darling wife held it close to her eyes, squinting all the while. She is adamant that she does not need spectacles, but admits that her eyes sometimes get tired.

  “Lady Wickham,” she read, “presents her compliments to Mr. Bennet, and begs him to present the enclosed to Mrs. Bennet at his earliest convenience.”

  “Lady Wickham?” she said, “Who is Lady Wickham. Does Wickham have relations among the aristocracy? I certainly never heard of any.”

  “Nor I,” I agreed. “But perhaps this cutting from last month’s Gazette may throw some light on the proceedings?”

  “Oh, my eyes are far too tired to be reading newsprint. What could anything in a newspaper have to do with us? And last month’s, too! If there had been anything worth remarking in it, you would have remarked upon it at the time, would you not?”

  “In fact, I did,” I replied, “but you were discussing a matter of far more pressing importance with Kitty at the time, something beginning with B, if I recollect, bonnets or buttons or bouquets, or basilisks, something of that nature. In any case, you did not attend, and I saved the cutting for a more convenient time.”

  “Well, my eyes are too tired to read it. You must read it to me.”

  “So I shall, my dear.”

  And so I did.

  “Colonel (brevet Brigadier General) Wickham, currently serving on the staff of the Governor of New South Wales Colony, is today admitted into the military division of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, and transferred to the staff of the High Commissioner of the Ionian Islands Protectorate.”

  “But what does it mean Mr. Bennet? Is that indeed our Wickham? And what is the rest of it about?”

  “It means, my dear, that that rascal Wickham is now Sir George Wickham, K.B., and that the lady Wickham to whom this card belongs is none other than your daughter Lydia.”

  I do not recall ever having seen Mrs. Bennet so much at a loss for words before. She sat there, open mouthed, a glassy expression on her face, for a full minute according to my Breguet repeater. She had, apparently, lost the power to think, speak or even breathe.

  It was want of breath, I conjecture, that woke her from her trance, for she gave a sudden gulp, shook her head, and said,

  “Oh, of course, this is one of your take-ins. Mr. Bennet, I do think it is cruel of you to jest so, when you know how much I miss Lydia.”

  “You will have to say her ladyship, now,” I replied, “or Lady Wickham, and you will have to give way to her when next you meet.”

  “That is likely to be never, as you know. I should so like to see little Fizzy again, and my two new grandsons whom I have never laid eyes upon. But who ever heard of anyone coming back from so far away?”

  “If they are truly translated from New South Wales to the Ionian Islands, then the meeting may be sooner than you think. No doubt they will have to go by London at some point.”

  “But, are you serious, Mr. Bennet? Is Lydia, little Lydia, our Lydia, is she truly Lady Wickham now? And would you really go to all the trouble of going to London to see her. We all know how you feel about London.”

  “London is a sink of corruption, as all the world knows, but Lizzie seems to do very well there, and Mrs. Fitzwilliam. As for the rest, they do say that one should not believe everything one reads in the papers, but we have the evidence of the card, too, do we not? And I believe you might find even more information in the enclosed letter, if you would give yourself the trouble to open it.”

  “Oh, Mr. Bennet, I fear my poor nerves will never permit it. I know you do not believe in my nerves, but it is so, it truly is. I am in such a state as to what I may find inside that my fingers are all a-fumble. And my eyes are very tired this morning. Open it and read it to me, do.”

  “You underestimate my regard for your nerves, my dear. They are my old, particular friends. I have known them intimately for many years now, and my respect grows with every year that passes. But give me the wrapper and I will read whatever it contains out to you, for I see we shall get nowhere this morning if I do not.”

  So I attacked the missive with a butter knife. Like most of these things that had come a long way by sea, it was wrapped in many layers of tarred canvas to protect it from the elements, and the butter knife proved lamentably inadequate to the task.

  We must, perforce, await the return of Hill from the kitchen with a sharpened carving knife before we could examine the contents. I had scarce commenced to slit the narrow end when some wisps of nondescript, fluffy material fell out. I took them for scraps of oakum or some such nautical rubbish and swept them into the fire before continuing.

  It was a prime example of one of Lydia’s letters,

  “Dear Mama,” it began, “How shall I tell you the wonderful news? How excited you will all be when you hear it! I should so adore seeing the faces of everyone at Meryton when you tell them. How jealous that cat Maria Lucas will be! But it is true, it is quite true.

  My own darling George is to be a knight, and I am to be Lady Wickham! And what is more, we are to come home, so that the king can tap him on the shoulder, as is only right, and then he is to have a new post, of much greater consequence, and- even more important- much nearer home!

  He is to be Surveyor-General of the Heptanesian Republic, with an office and a palace on the island of Corfu, which is but a trifling distance from home to those of us who have sailed to the Antipodes and back.

  We must go by London first, of course, for George to receive his accolade and his commission. Do you know if Lizzie and Darcy have kept on that house in Marlborough Street that my dear sister Georgiana used to occupy? It would be very convenient if we all could meet there.

  I write this from Gibraltar in haste to catch the packet, which leaves on the morning tide. We will follow on in due course on the ‘Lord Mornington’, which has already conveyed us from Cape Town. John Company’s ships travel at their own pace, however, and I cannot say when we will see the white cliffs of Dover, but George assures me it will not be until some time after this reaches you.

  Could you not come to London so that we can all go to the Palace together? I should so love to see my pa
rents and my sisters again! Lizzie and Jane and their husbands, too, if they can be persuaded to come and have time to get there before we arrive.

  Papa will see to all that, I am sure. Is it not exciting?

  Do come to London and see us before we have to go away again. I am so longing to introduce you to little Frankie and baby Charlotte. She has such sweet, blond curls and such winning ways. I enclose a lock of her hair for you to admire and treasure, as I know you will.

  But I must stop now if I am to catch the packet. Do come to Marlborough Street as quickly as may be, and delight the heart of

  Your loving daughter,

  Lydia.

  P.S. Sir George sends his regards, too.

  I had begun my reading accompanied by the usual background twitterings and exclamations from Mrs. Bennet that I had grown to know and disregard for many years now, but for the last few paragraphs I had become aware of an unaccustomed silence. Looking up from the paper I beheld my wife sitting open-mouthed, eyes agape, staring, apparently, at the fireplace, and quite motionless.

  “Mrs. Bennet,” I called, “Mrs. Bennet, are you there?”

  Answer came there none. I was in the act of picking up the bell to ring for a servant when she gave a great shudder, and sprang up with a cry.

  “Lydia! Lydia is to be Lady Wickham! And she is coming to London. We must be there to meet her, Mr. Bennet. We must go at once.”

  And, positively running to the door, she flung it open and called for the housekeeper.

  “Hill!” she cried, “Hill, come quickly. You must send a boy on our fastest horse after Miss Kitty, that is to say, Mrs. Golightly, and tell her to come back at once. Oh, Hill, Miss Lydia’s husband, that is to say, Mrs. Wickham’s husband, Mr. Wickham I mean, is to be knighted. He is to be Sir George Wickham and Miss Lydia will be Lady Wickham. We are all to go to London for the ceremony, and to meet again after all these years. Quick, send after them. Oh! I shall faint, I shall expire…”