I

Frindsbury, Kent, 1786

Bang!

Bang!

Tap!

Tap-a-tap! Rap!

All through the lead and silver Winter days,

All through the copper of Autumn hazes.

Tap to the red rising sun,

Tap to the purple setting sun.

Four years pass before the job is done.

Two thousand oak trees grown and felled,

Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald,

Sussex had yielded two thousand oaks

With huge boles

Round which the tape rolls

Thirty mortal feet, say the village folks.

Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir;

Planking from Dantzig.

My! What timber goes into a ship!

Tap! Tap!

Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways,

Tapping, tapping.

You can hear, though theres nothing where you gaze.

Through the fog down the reaches of the river,

The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever.

The church-bells chime

Hours and hours,

Dropping days in showers.

Bang! Rap! Tap!

Go the hammers all the time.

They have planked up her timbers

And the nails are driven to the head;

They have decked her over,

And again, and again.

The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain.

Black and blue breeches,

Pigtails bound and shining:

Like ants crawling about,

The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out.

Joiners, calkers,

And they are all terrible talkers.

Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful tales

Of whales, and spice islands,

And pirates off the Barbary coast.

He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails.

Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice,

He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings:

The second in command was blear-eyed Ned:

While the surgeon his limb

was a-lopping,

A nine-pounder came and smack went his head,

Pull away, pull away, pull

away! I say;

Rare news for my Meg of Wapping!

Every Sunday

People come in crowds

(After church-time, of course)

In curricles, and gigs, and wagons,

And some have brought cold chicken and flagons

Of wine,

And beer in stoppered jugs.

Dear! Dear! But I tell ee twill be a fine

ship.

Theres none finer in any of the slips at Chatham.

The third Summers roses have started in to blow,

When the fine stern carving is begun.

Flutings, and twinings, and long slow swirls,

Bits of deal shaved away to thin spiral curls.

Tap! Tap! A cornucopia is nailed into place.

Rap-a-tap! They are putting up a railing filigreed like

Irish lace.

The Three Towns people never saw such grace.

And the paint on it! The richest gold leaf!

Why, the glitter when the sun is shining passes belief.

And that row of glass windows tipped toward the sky

Are rubies and carbuncles when the day is dry.

Oh, my! Oh, my!

They have coppered up the bottom,

And the copper nails

Stand about and sparkle in big wooden pails.

Bang! Clash! Bang!

And he swiggd, and Nick swiggd,

And Ben swiggd, and Dick swiggd,

And I swiggd, and all of us swiggd it,

And swore there was nothing

like grog.

It seems they sing,

Even though coppering is not an easy thing.

What a splendid specimen of humanity is a true British workman,

Say the people of the Three Towns,

As they walk about the dockyard

To the sound of the evening church-bells.

And so artistic, too, each one tells his neighbour.

What immense taste and labour!

Miss Jessie Prime, in a pink silk bonnet,

Titters with delight as her eyes fall upon it,

When she steps lightly down from Lawyer Greens whisky;

Such amazing beauty makes one feel frisky,

She explains.

Mr. Nichols says he is delighted

(He is the firm);

His work is all requited

If Miss Jessie can approve.

Miss Jessie answers that the ship is a love.

The sides are yellow as marigold,

The port-lids are red when the ports are up:

Blood-red squares like an even chequer

Of yellow asters and portulaca.

There is a wide black strake at the waterline

And above is a blue like the sky when the weather is fine.

The inner bulwarks are painted red.

Why? asks Miss Jessie. Tis a horrid note.

Mr. Nichols clears his throat,

And tells her the launching day is set.

He says, Be careful, the paint is wet.

But Miss Jessie has touched it, her sprigged muslin gown

Has a blood-red streak from the shoulder down.

It looks like blood, says Miss Jessie with a frown.

Tap! Tap! Rap!

An October day, with waves running in blue-white lines and a capful

of wind.

Three broad flags ripple out behind

Where the masts will be:

Royal Standard at the main,

Admiralty flag at the fore,

Union Jack at the mizzen.

The hammers tap harder, faster,

They must finish by noon.

The last nail is driven.

But the wind has increased to half a gale,

And the ship shakes and quivers upon the ways.

The Commissioner of Chatham Dockyard is coming

In his ten-oared barge from the Kings Stairs;

The Marines band will play God Save Great George Our King

And there is to be a dinner afterwards at the Crown, with speeches.

The wind screeches, and flaps the flags till they pound like hammers.

The wind hums over the ship,

And slips round the dog-shores,

Jostling them almost to falling.

There is no time now to wait for Commissioners and marine bands.

Mr. Nichols has a bottle of port in his hands.

He leans over, holding his hat, and shouts to the men below:

Let her go!

Bang! Bang! Pound!

The dog-shores fall to the ground,

And the ship slides down the greased planking.

A splintering of glass,

And port wine running all over the white and copper stem timbers.

Success to his Majestys ship, the Bellerophon!

And the red wine washes away in the waters of the Medway.

II

Paris, March, 1814

Fine yellow sunlight down the rue du Mont Thabor.

Ten oclock striking from all the clock-towers of Paris.

Over the door of a shop, in gilt letters:

Martin -- Parfumeur, and something more.

A large gilded wooden something.

Listen! What a ringing of hammers!

Tap!

Tap!

Squeak!

Tap! Squeak! Tap-a-tap!

Blaise.

Oui, Msieu.

Dont touch the letters. My name stays.

Bien, Msieu.

Just take down the eagle, and the shield with the bees.

As Msieu pleases.

Tap! Squeak! Tap!

The man on the ladder hammers steadily for a minute or two,

Then stops.

He! Patron!

They are fastened well, Nom dun Chien!

What if I break them?

Break away,

You and Paul must have them down to-day.

Bien.

And the hammers start again,

Drum-beating at the something of gilded wood.

Sunshine in a golden flood

Lighting up the yellow fronts of houses,

Glittering each window to a flash.

Squeak! Squeak! Tap!

The hammers beat and rap.

A Prussian hussar on a grey horse goes by at a dash.

From other shops, the noise of striking blows:

Pounds, thumps, and whacks;

Wooden sounds: splinters -- cracks.

Paris is full of the galloping of horses and the knocking of hammers.

Hullo! Friend Martin, is business slack

That you are in the street this morning? Dont turn your

back

And scuttle into your shop like a rabbit to its hole.

Ive just been taking a stroll.

The stinking Cossacks are bivouacked all up and down the Champs

Elysees.

I cant get the smell of them out of my nostrils.

Dirty fellows, who dont believe in frills

Like washing. Ah, mon vieux, youd have to go

Out of business if you lived in Russia. So!

Weve given up being perfumers to the Emperor, have we?

Blaise,

Be careful of the hen,

Maybe I can find a use for her one of these days.

That eagles rather well cut, Martin.

But Im sick of smelling Cossack,

Take me inside and let me put my head into a stack

Of orris-root and musk.

Within the shop, the light is dimmed to a pearl-and-green dusk

Out of which dreamily sparkle counters and shelves of glass,

Containing phials, and bowls, and jars, and dishes; a mass

Of aqueous transparence made solid by threads of gold.

Gold and glass,

And scents which whiff across the green twilight and pass.

The perfumer sits down and shakes his head:

Always the same, Monsieur Antoine,

You artists are wonderful folk indeed.

But Antoine Vernet does not heed.

He is reading the names on the bottles and bowls,

Done in fine gilt letters with wonderful scrolls.

What have we here? `Eau Imperial Odontalgique.

I must say, mon cher, your names are chic.

But it wont do, positively it will not do.

Elba doesnt count. Ah, here is another:

`Baume du Commandeur. Thats better. He needs

something to smother

Regrets. A little lubricant, too,

Might be useful. I have it,

`Sage Oil, perhaps hell be good now; with it well submit

This fine German rouge. I fear he is pale.

Monsieur Antoine, dont rail

At misfortune. He treated me well and fairly.

And you prefer him to Bourbons, admit it squarely.

Heaven forbid! Bang! Whack!

Squeak! Squeak! Crack!

CRASH!

Oh, Lord, Martin! That shield is hash.

The whole street is covered with golden bees.

They look like so many yellow peas,

Lying there in the mud. Id like to paint it.

`Plum pudding of Empire. Thats rather quaint, it

Might take with the Kings. Shall I try? Oh,

Sir,

You distress me, you do. Poor old Martins purr!

But he hasnt a scratch in him, I know.

Now let us get back to the powders and patches.

Foolish man,

The Kings are here now. We must hit on a plan

To change all these titles as fast as we can.

`Bouquet Imperatrice. Tut! Tut! Give

me some ink --

`Bouquet de la Reine, what do you think?

Not the same receipt?

Now, Martin, put away your conceit.

Who will ever know?

`Extract of Nobility -- excellent, since most of them are killed.

But, Monsieur Antoine --

You are self-willed,

Martin. You need a salve

For your conscience, do you?

Very well, well halve

The compliments, also the pastes and dentifrices;

Send some to the Kings, and some to the Empresses.

`Oil of Bitter Almonds -- the Empress Josephine can have that.

`Oil of Parma Violets fits the other one pat.

Rap! Rap! Bang!

What a hideous clatter!

Blaise seems determined to batter

That poor old turkey into bits,

And pound to jelly my excellent wits.

Come, come, Martin, you mustnt shirk.

`The night cometh soon -- etc. Dont jerk

Me up like that. `Essence de la Valliere --

That has a charmingly Bourbon air.

And, oh! Magnificent! Listen to this! --

`Vinaigre des Quatre Voleurs. Nothing amiss

With that -- England, Austria, Russia and Prussia!

Martin, youre a wonder,

Upheavals of continents cant keep you under.

Monsieur Antoine, I am grieved indeed

At such levity. What France has gone through --

Very true, Martin, very true,

But never forget that a man must feed.

Pound! Pound! Thump!

Pound!

Look here, in another minute Blaise will drop that bird on the

ground.

Martin shrugs his shoulders. Ah, well, what then? --

Antoine, with a laugh: ll give you two sous for that

antiquated hen.

The Imperial Eagle sells for two sous,

And the lilies go up.

A man must choose!

III

Paris, April, 1814

Cold, impassive, the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel.

Haughty, contemptuous, the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel.

Like a woman raped by force, rising above her fate,

Borne up by the cold rigidity of hate,

Stands the marble arch of the Place du Carrousel.

Tap! Clink-a-tink!