Chapter Nine.
How I caught the Miséricorde.
So restless and anxious was I as the day passed that I hastened back to my hiding-place in the wood early in the afternoon, determined rather to lie there than run the risk of being seen in the village. It was well I did so, for I had not been there half-an-hour when I heard Ludar’s heavy tramp crashing through the underwood.
He threw himself beside me, haggard and dejected.
“How is she to know of this?” said he.
“Tell her,” I answered.
He smiled scornfully.
“Had you ever seen the maiden,” said he, “you would know that it is no light task. She has me at arm’s length. If I tell her of her peril and offer my protection she will perhaps say she needs not my protection, or that, if I like not the peril, I need not face it. Or she may suspect me of serving myself while I denounce my enemy. Or she may take the case to Sir William, whom I believe to be the Captain’s friend. To speak plain, Humphrey, I am afraid to speak to her, and for that reason I have come to you.”
“Indeed,” said I; “if she would not hear you, how would she be like to heed a plain London ’prentice like me?”
“At least she would not suspect you of any motive but that of serving her.”
Little he knew! Yet I never saw him less courageous or more humble than now. He was a rude, uncouth outlaw, he said, and knew none of the arts and speeches of a fine gentleman. She laughed at his clumsy ways and despised his ignorance. She would as soon think of trusting her safety to him as to this elderly rascal Laker.
I did my best to reason with him, but in vain. At length, by sheer compulsion, he dragged me with him towards the park, reminding me of my vow, and bidding me, as I loved him, be his deputy in this matter.
By a lucky fortune, as we approached the gate, who should ride up on her palfrey but our maiden herself. She was alone and without attendant. Ludar told me afterwards that such was her wont. Once he had offered his escort, and she had replied he might come if he could promise her merrier company than her own. “Whereat,” said Ludar, “I stayed behind.”
She reined up as she saw us in the path before her, and a flush of surprise and pleasure sprang to her cheeks. How much may a man see in a moment! As she sat there, glowing with her rapid ride, and glancing from one to the other of us, I read a long history in her eyes. They were frank and fearless as ever; but as ever and anon they lit on Ludar, where he stood uneasy and blushing, they seemed to me to soften for a moment into a gentleness in which I had no share. If before I had only guessed my fate, something in her air made me sure of it now. And yet, had you seen her there, you would have said the maiden thinks no better of one of these lads than the other; nor does she think over much of either.
“Humphrey, my friend,” said she, “I am glad to see you, and in this brave company. Have you taken service under our Knight of the Rueful Countenance, or does he follow you?”
“May it please you,” said I, gallantly, “Sir Ludar and I know no service but yours.”
“I knew not that you knew one another,” said she, ignoring my speech. “Have you been hunting the English Queen’s deer again, Sir Knight?”
“No, maiden,” said Ludar, gravely. “But Humphrey here hath news for you if you will hear it.”
Thus put forward, I related as shortly as possible what I had overheard in the park. She listened calmly; but I could tell by the paling of her cheeks and the heaving of her bosom that my story was a shock to her.
“If this be true,” said she presently, “as I suppose it is, why stand we idly here?”
“The Captain quitted the Hall at daybreak,” said I. “I saw him go. To-night the letter should reach Sir William announcing his detention at Court, and committing you to the charge of this man Laker.”
“Before which time,” said the maiden, resolutely, “I shall be far enough away, and with a better escort. What say you, Sir Ludar? When shall we set out?”
So she had accepted our protection before ever we offered it! It would have done you good to mark the joyous smile on Ludar’s face as he saw all his difficulties vanish at a word, and found that she took him after all for her champion.
“In an hour’s time,” said he, “if it be not too speedy a making ready.”
“’Tis a long journey,” said she. “Which way do we go? and are we to gallop from here to Ireland all the way with the enemy at our heels?”
Then I spoke.
“By your leave,” said I, “I know of an easier and safer way than the road. There is a trading ship sails to-morrow from London Bridge to Leith. I know the captain, a Frenchman. If the lady will trust herself by sea—”
“Trust the sea!” cried she, with a laugh. “Why Humphrey, my heart bounds at the thought of it. I was born on the sea. I played by it as a child. It is the only thing free under heaven. Of course we will go by sea. And while our pursuers play hide and seek by road, we shall be drinking the salt breezes, listening to the music of the waves, and watching the happy gulls as they wheel round our heads or speed forward to those we love with tidings of our coming.”
And she laughed like a child to whom a holiday is offered, so that we, had there been a thousand roads, could have chosen no other for her or ourselves.
Two hours later, as it grew dusk, I lay in a boat beneath the willows, where the Park sloped down to the river’s edge. Thanks to Sir William’s gout, and the absence of the Captain, his guest, no one had taken the trouble to recognise me and ask me my business. And any one who may have seen me there would certainly have set me down as waterman to some visitor at the Hall, waiting my orders.
So indeed I was; and as the moments passed, I grew impatient and anxious. The tide would scarcely serve us all the way; and should the Frenchman haul his anchor too early on the morrow, we might find him gone. Besides, every moment they delayed, the man Laker might perchance suspect what was afoot and take measures to spoil our escape.
At length they came, Ludar supporting the old nurse, the serving man carrying a box, the maiden walking quietly in front, as calmly as if she were taking an evening walk to hear the nightingale sing. Not a word was spoken as they embarked, or until the boat, with Ludar and me at the oars, was dropping swiftly down the stream. Then the old woman broke out in a torrent.
“A plague on all these schoolboy antics!” cried she. “Here be we, at an hour when honest folk should be abed, slinking down the river like pirates, with ne’er a pillow to our backs or a covering to our bones—and for why? What am I to say to my master your father, child, when he knows of your running thus from your lawful guardian, and committing yourself to a brace of raw-boned gallow-glasses that ye scarce know the names of, and for all we know, are bringing us into worse plight than ever they pretend to save us from? Ochone? glad I shall be to see ye safe under O’Neill’s roof; for since the day I had charge of ye, I never knew a moment’s peace. Are ye not ashamed, hussy? Had ye not lesson enough among the low ’prentices, that day in the fields, and among the gallants here at Richmond, that ye trust yourself now, ay and me to, poor body that deserve better of you, to a parcel of loons on a wild voyage like this? Are ye fool enough to expect any good of such as they? Was not I myself served thus when I was a fresh young maid like you? Innocent indeed! I fancy I can see the ship they talk of, and the hills of old Tirconnell! Take my word, ’tis a trap to lead ye back to London, girl, and no more. And then, you had better have gone west with the Captain, than east with these smooth-faced schemers.”
Thus she complained, and the maiden soothed her as best she could, and composed her gently to rest. Amongst us, we made the poor body a bed on the floor of the boat, where she might at least lay her limbs at ease.
For an hour or more she broke fitfully into murmurs and complaints, but presently, as we neared Chiswick, sleep came to her help and ours.
After that, the night seemed to me like a dream. The serving man lay snoring in the prow, and only we three sat up to feast on the beauty of the night. The moon rode high above our heads, changing the river into a silver band, and deepening the mysterious shadows of the crowding woods on either bank. Not a sound was heard but the regular plash of our blades; naught moved but our gliding boat, and the silent water which bore us. Ludar, lugging steadily at his oar, spoke not a word. Yet I knew, though I was at his back, where his eyes rested, and what was the big content in his heart. As for me, lulled by music of our oars, and entranced by the balmy brightness of the night, I forgot my great sorrow, and with my eyes on naught but one fair face, felt a strange peace. Nor I think was she, as she sat there, erect, in the stern, her form clear cut against the silver water behind, indifferent to the restfulness of the scene. Her eyes, gazing far away, seemed to gather in them the wandering rays of the moon; and when presently, scarce heeding, perhaps, what she did, she broke into a soft murmuring chant, which rose and fell with the cadence of our oars, I, at least, felt the bewitchment complete.
Little dreamed any of us how soon the peace of that brief voyage was to be broken.
When the midsummer dawn chased the moonbeams from off the water, we had reached Battersea, on a fast failing tide. Before we reached Lambeth, the stream was turning against us; and it needed all the strength of our arms after that to make headway. Yet how could we tire? She never drooped the livelong night, nor, when she perceived what vigour her music lent to our rowing, did she weary of chanting to us. Keeping close under the marshy southern bank to escape the current, we slowly made our way, till we came at length within sight of the Bridge.
Then ensued a toil beside which the labours of the night were as nothing; for the angry tide swirled fiercely through the narrow way, threatening, when we approached it, to drive us back up stream. Yet, by dint of much effort and clinging to the piles, and, more than all, Ludar’s notable exploits with the oars, we won through at last.
The first sound that met our ears was a cheery “Yeo-ho!” somewhere near, and looking up, I saw the Frenchman, with the Queen’s flag at his mast-head, making ready, so soon as the tide turned, to weigh anchor and drop seaward.
He looked over at us doubtfully, as we hailed him and came alongside; but when he saw me and heard what was in the wind, he lowered his ladder and had us up into the ship.
He was a poor man, he said, and his ship ill-fitted for so brave a company; yet if we misliked not his price, and the ladies would put up with the rest, why, then, he would take us.
Then the maiden told him to make himself easy about the price. She had wherewithal to satisfy him on that score. Whereupon the Frenchman grew monstrous civil and bade her consider the ship as her own; while as for Ludar and the serving man and me, what we lacked in money, said he, he would take out of us in work. This suited us well, and the business was settled.
As it wanted two hours yet to the turn of the tide, I begged my new captain’s leave, while we waited, to take the boat in which we had come to where it would be restored to its rightful owner. The Frenchman agreed, not without difficulty; “For,” said he, “so soon as the tide gives, I must weigh anchor, with you, or without you. Nevertheless, if you must go, go.”
Ludar, too, dissuaded me from venturing. But the maiden said: “Why hinder him, Sir Knight? Humphrey is no child that he cannot be trusted; and to prove it, my friend,” said she, drawing forth her purse, “as you return, pray buy me a large warm cloak for my good old nurse, who is ill used to the sea and is shivering already. Spend what you need, and bring me back the rest.”
The purse was a heavy one, and I wondered at her freak in trusting it all to me, when one piece from it would have sufficed. However, it was not for me to question her; so, promising to be back in good time, I let myself down to the boat, and rowed lustily to the steps below the Bridge. I durst not venture further citywards where I was known; but I remembered my old enemy, Will Peake on the Bridge, and resolved to commit the boat to his care, knowing him for an honest ’prentice who would see it duly returned to its owner. Besides, where better, thought I, could I find a shawl for old Judy than among the Mercers on the Bridge?
So up to the Bridge I clambered, merry to think how soon I, and all I loved best, would be far away on the free sea, with our enemies all behind, and our hopes all before.
Will Peake hailed me civilly, and hearing of my plight, readily charged himself with the business of the boat. Then it seemed to me I could not do better than consult him about the cloak, and I did so; whereat he puffed himself very big, and said, if I meant to make the garment myself, he could sell me the stuff, if not, I must go into Cheap, and buy one ready made at the shops. So I thanked him, and hastened with quick strides citywards.
I had hoped to get my merchandise over on the Bridge. Yet there was ample time to spare even without haste. For all that, I ran, longing to be safe back on the Miséricorde.
Now, just as I came near the Steel yard (where you turn by Dowgate towards Wallbrook), I met a party of soldiers loitering in the road, as it seemed in quest of somebody. Seeing me running their way, they closed upon me as I came up, and bade me halt. I bade them, angrily enough, unhand me and let me go by, as I was an honest citizen, and pressed on an errand to Cheapside. At this they laughed, and said that was what every man they caught vowed, and since they did not like the looks of me, I must away with them to see what their captain would think of me.
I protested in vain that I was in urgent haste; they laughed over again, and had me away to a tavern hard by, where, said they, their captain lodged and would see me anon.
All this time the minutes were flying, and I was at my wits’ end what to do. It seemed to me wisest, if I could, to humour them, if perchance they might be cajoled to let me go. But when, after waiting half-an-hour, the captain did not appear, I felt I must do something, or give up hope of reaching the ship in time. So I beckoned the leader of the band to me.
“Friend,” said I, as civilly as I could, “indeed I am not the man you take me for; I am a sailor, bound to a merchant vessel, which in half-an-hour is to sail on the tide for sea—”
“A sailor!” quoth he, “nay, by my body, thou’rt a soldier now, my lad, and a brave one to boot. We want lads of thy build for the wars; so rest thee content to travel by land instead of by sea. Here’s money on it,” thrusting silver into my hand, “let’s see how neatly thou can’st turn up a tankard to the Queen’s health!”
“No,” cried I, letting the money drop, “I am no soldier. And as for money,” said I, pulling out my lady’s purse, “here is an angel for you, good man, if you but let me go.”
“Oh, ho,” cried he, “’tis a lad with a purse, is it? So much the better for us. Here, comrades,” cried he.
But I waited for no more. The bells of Cheap were already chiming the hour. With a blow of my fist I felled him, and breaking through the rest of them before they comprehended what I was about, I took to my heels.
Then ensued a hue and cry the like of which Thames Street had not often witnessed. The soldiers, encumbered as they were with their harness, could only shout and raise the town. Others, more fleet, pressed me hard; others, coming to meet the uproar, hustled me, and struck me at, and tripped me as I went by. But I had not wrestled and played football in Finsbury Fields for naught. At length the crowd became so great, all running one way, that not a man knew why he ran, or what it was all about. As for me, when I saw that, I mingled with the crowd, and shouted, “Stop thief!” with the loudest of them. Then, when no one thought of me, I slipped quickly down to the water’s edge, and flung myself into the first wherry I found.
But by this time the hour was long gone by. For we had been chasing half-an-hour up and down; up Watling Street, across Cheap, behind the New Exchange, up Cornhill, down Gracious Street, and along the new Fish Street towards the Bridge; so that when, more dead than alive, I struck out into the stream and shot the Bridge, not a sign was there of the Miséricorde.
I was tempted to give it up then, and let who would take me. And, indeed, there seemed a good chance of that. For the owner of my wherry, supposing me to be the thief I seemed, was already out after me, and in another few minutes the hue and cry by water would be as loud as that by land. So on I went on the rapid ebb for dear life. And casting my eyes upward, I noticed that the air was still and windless; so that wherever she was, the Miséricorde could be getting little help from her canvas. And if she were only drifting on the tide, why should not I with my oars make as good or better pace than she?
Yet I confess I was sorely vexed to think that they had gone without me; and when I remembered further that I had the lady’s purse with me, I could have thrown myself, in despair, over my boat’s side. What would they think and say of me!
I could see the waterman’s boat behind me come through the Bridge, and guessed well enough that some other craft near it were joining in the pursuit. So I pulled desperately, and made my boat fly down the stream. Yet ever as I turned and looked ahead there was no sign of the Miséricorde. Worse still, a flutter of breeze on my brow showed that the wind was already coming, and then, I knew I might row my arms off, and never catch her. The dogged waterman behind me still held on and seemed to be gaining. Little wonder if he did, for I had been rowing all night, and now my arms began to flag. Yet what was his stake on this race compared with mine? So away down the stream I pulled past Deptford, and the Queen’s Palace at Greenwich (Heaven save her!) turning my looks now forward, now backward, and praying each minute for a sight of the Miséricorde. A little past Greenwich I was near meeting my end; for, looking eagerly for a sight of my pursuers behind, I failed to perceive a boat crossing the river ahead of me; nor was it till my boat’s nose struck her full in the side that I was aware of the obstacle. The man and woman in the boat (which seemed to be a floating pedlar’s shop plying among the ships), swore at me roundly, and I had much ado to persuade them that no harm was done, and that if any one had a right to complain, I had. I was rowing on, to put an end to the parley, when my eye caught sight of a bundle of garments on the boat’s poop.
“Stay,” cried I, “to show I bear you no malice, I will even make a purchase of you, if you have what I require.”
“Name it,” said they, doubtfully.
“Have you a cloak, warm enough and smart enough, to wrap my poor old mother in, when I take her on the water?” said I.
“That have we,” cried the woman, fumbling in the heap, “but ’tis more than you will pay.”
“How much?” I remanded.
She said a half-angel; but when I too eagerly pulled out my mistress’s purse to pay her, her eyes gleamed and she said she was mistaken, she had no cloak there for less than a gold angel.
“Show it me,” said I, coming alongside.
It was what I wanted, yet I durst not say so. So I snatched it by force, and tossing the woman an angel, made off with my prize, leaving them amazed and swearing by all the heathen gods they had been robbed and left beggars.
While I delayed thus my pursuers had gained rapidly upon me, and I saw I must pull away in earnest if I was to avoid them. So, comforted to have the cloak, and resolved, if I rowed all the way from here to the sea, I would overtake the Miséricorde, I cast aside all languor and made my craft once more leap through the water. The wind was freshening fast and helped me on. Alas! I well knew it would soon do the same both for the Frenchman’s sails ahead, and for my pursuers behind. I own these latter were stronger rowers than I, for still they seemed to be creeping up upon me at every stroke, and by nothing I could do was I able to put more distance between us. Should they overtake me, there would be more delay, and that, whatever came of it, meant that the ship would be gone beyond all reach. However, when at length I swung round the point and looked up the broad reach that leads to Woolwich, there to my joy, half a mile ahead was the Miséricorde, setting her sails and waiting on the coming breeze.
I paused not to shout, but gathered together all my powers, and let out with my oars until I thought they would crack. For half-an-hour I could not say whether I was gaining on her, or my waterman on me. At length I resolved to risk the short delay of a signal. So I stood in my boat waving the cloak over my head and shouting “Halloo!” with all the breath in my body. I durst not wait more than a moment to watch for a reply. None came, but instead, the yards bellied with the wind. I flung myself with a groan on my seat, and took back my oars. Already the waterman was within shouting distance, and his comrades not far behind. But I heeded not their cries, and plunged my oars once again in bitter chase. It was long before I durst look round. Then, to my surprise, I saw her standing away in to the Essex shore with all her sails full of wind.
Then all seemed lost, till I reflected that she must come back for another tack before she could clear the bend. If so, I was safe. So I kept steadily on, scarcely holding my own with my pursuers, until at length, to my joy, I saw her put about and bear down full upon me. It was an anxious time as she came up. No one on board, it was clear, guessed who I might be; nor, I think, did any one perceive me as I lay there, except the man at the prow, who, seeing me resolved to be run down, left me to take my will. By this time my pursuer was a hundred yards away, thinking himself sure of me at last, and saving his breath. It was a race whether he or the Miséricorde would be upon me the sooner, but I settled that. For, as the ship came up, slowing towards the end of her tack, I took a few strokes out to meet her, and then turning my boats’ head quickly slipped close under. I had already marked a rope that hung from the poop within reach, and on this, when the moment came, I ventured my all. Taking the cloak over my shoulder, and casting away my oars, I sprang to my feet, and gave one leap which sent my empty boat staggering back into her owner’s hands, while it left me hanging ’twixt heaven and earth.
To haul myself aboard was the work of a minute; even as I did so, I could see out of the corner of my eye my pursuer staring round at me, amazed, while he reached out to secure his truant craft. But that was all I saw of him, for next moment I stood on deck half-fainting, face to face with Ludar and the maiden and a stranger.