The Golden Grasshopper: A story of the days of Sir Thomas Gresham

by William Henry Giles Kingston

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Captured by Spaniards.

We expected the next instant to be sent to the bottom of the Scheld, when a sudden blast filled our sails, almost tearing them from the bolt-ropes, and sending us gliding rapidly through the water. The guns aimed at our vessel sent their shot astern of us, two or three only passing through our mizzen, but doing no further damage. The next vessel could not have escaped so well, but we saw her still standing close to us through the gloom. The other was following, and we feared she must have received greater harm than either of us. But by the flashes of the guns, we saw her sails close astern of her consort. We flew on over the tide, but it required all Captain Radford’s skill to steer his vessel through the intricate navigation of the river. The shores were so low that they could with difficulty be discerned, and there were numerous banks on either side of us. To run against one of them, at the rate we were going, might have proved the destruction of the ship. Still there was no help for it. The Spaniards had vessels, we knew, up the river, which would be soon sent in pursuit, and, should they find us aground, we could not hope by any possibility to escape. They were, however, not likely to venture down in the dark; and therein lay our chief prospect of safety. The wind, which had so favoured us when passing the fort, again fell, and, with loosened sails, we proceeded slowly and more securely down the stream. Daylight found us a considerable distance on our way; but just as we were about to get clear of the mouth of the river, the tide setting in, the wind fell, so that we were compelled to anchor.

A’Dale and I took the opportunity of visiting the other vessels, to ascertain the fate of the relatives of some of the unfortunate people who had escaped on board our ship. Sad indeed were the scenes we witnessed. Several of the poor people were severely wounded, and many more were mourning for relatives whom they had lost. We had, however, the happiness to restore a wife to her husband, and, in another case, a daughter to her mother, though the men of the family had lost their lives. I was glad to find that our sturdy friend the blacksmith—I forget his name—had escaped. As our vessel was somewhat overcrowded, and the others had prepared for many more refugees than had escaped, we conveyed some of our passengers to them, while they bestowed some provisions on us, of which we were in great need.

All arrangements being made, and the wind coming fair again, we continued our course towards the Thames, thankful that we had escaped thus far. But we knew very well that we were not yet safe. Several of the Duke of Alva’s ships or other Spanish craft were sailing about in all directions in search of prey, and, we heard, were not at all particular what vessels they captured; certainly they would not scruple to capture us. In spite of this we kept up our spirits, thankful for having already escaped so many dangers.

I should have been blind indeed had I not seen by this time what Aveline’s feelings were towards me. I was sitting by her side on deck, our eyes wandering over the blue ocean, which now sparkled in the bright sunlight. The air was soft and balmy, and the sky undimmed by a cloud.

“Aveline,” I said, “you have now a father whose permission I should wish to ask, and if he grants it, will you consent to be my wife?”

“Yes, I will,” she answered. “I am sure I could never consent to be the wife of anybody else.”

I pressed her hand. I had felt almost sure that she had understood my feelings, and yet, without pointedly asking her, I had no right to be quite sure.

“I have no fears,” she said, “about my father giving me leave to marry you. I am sure he regards you already as a son. I only wish that I had a dower to bring you.”