When I was old enough, I was to be apprenticed to Joe. Therefore, I was not only odd-boy about the forge, but also had to familiarize myself with the use of the various weapons he made. Proper instruction, however, was in short supply.
Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt kept an evening school of combat in the village; that is to say, she was a ridiculous old woman of limited means and unlimited infirmity, who used to go to sleep from six to seven every evening, in the society of youth who paid twopence per week each, for the improving opportunity of seeing her do it. There was a fiction that Mr. Wopsle "examined" the young warriors once a quarter. What he did on those occasions was to turn up his cuffs, stick up his hair, and give us Mark Anthony's oration over the body of Caesar. This was always followed by free-for-all battle, during which the students would aimlessly have at one another with sticks.
The only assistance I received in the martial arts came from Biddy, who was Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt's granddaughter. She was an orphan like myself; and like me, too, had been brought up by hand. She was hardly noticeable, I thought, with the exception that, in our practice sessions, she assumed an unnatural grace, possessing proficiency far beyond her years.
Much of my unassisted self, and more by the help of Biddy, I struggled through Stamwick’s Forms of Combat as if it had been a bramble-bush; getting considerably worried and scratched by every new thrust or parry. But, at last I began, in a purblind groping way, to hold a practice sword properly.
One night, I was practicing alone in Joe’s forge, expending great efforts to recreate the correct sequence of stances pictured in the manual. I think it must have been a full year after the Hunt upon the marshes, for it was a long time after, and it was winter and a hard frost.
Weary from practice, I took an errant step backward into a rack heavy with spike-swords, sending the lot of them tumbling on top of me. Rather than succumbing to the blanket of sharp steel, I rolled to the side. The tumult freed a spear from its high stand, which happenstance seemed fit to aim directly at my head. Having no time to dodge, I set my legs to absorb the impact and used my practice stick shunt the spear aside.
"I say, Pip, old chap!" cried Joe, who had been watching me through the window, and was now stepping inside. "What a battler you are! An't you?"
"I should like to be," said I, glancing at the rack of weapons with a misgiving that the Brutal Hunt was not the sort of battle I wanted to be a part of.
"Why, there was a perfect quat’re parry,” said Joe. “An’ a good stance to boot!”
I had never heard Joe speak of proper combat, aside from the brief exchanges with the Hunters concerning weapons he mended. And, judging from the way he let my sister pummel him, one would think he never knew that he could raise his hands at all. Wishing to embrace the present occasion of finding out whether Joe had anything to teach me, I asked, "But how could I counter one that came at me from the left?”
"The left, eh, Pip?" said Joe, looking about with a slowly searching eye, "I’ll show you.” He found in the corner of a forge a small broom. Taking it in hand, bristles facing outwards, he showed me the positions: “One, two, three. Why, here's three steps and there it is, Pip!"
I mimicked the steps.
"Astonishing!" said Joe, when I had finished. "You ARE a battler." Joe pronounced this word, as if it began with at least twelve capital Bs.
"And how do you go up against a Howl Beast, Joe?" I asked him, giddily.
His jovial manner changed in an instant, becoming sullen and reserved: "Oh, Pip. I don't at all."
"But supposing you did?"
"It can't be supposed," said Joe. “I wouldn’t have it.”
I could not understand how this could be. Pursuing the subject, I inquired:
"But you make the best weapons of anyone. Don’t you like seeing them used to put down the Howl Beasts?"
"No, Pip," said Joe.
“Why not?”
“Never had much of a stomach for it, I guess.”
Whatever puzzled expression my face took, it seemed encouragement enough for Joe to elaborate.
