Captain Ryecroft has been but a few minutes at his favourite fishing
place--just long enough to see his tackle in working condition, and cast
his line across the water; as he does the last, saying--
"I shouldn't wonder, Wingate, if we don't see a salmon to-day. I fear
that sky's too bright for his dainty kingship to mistake feathers for
flies."
"Ne'er a doubt the fish'll be a bit shy," returns the boatman; "but," he
adds, assigning their shyness to a different cause, "'tain't so much the
colour o' the sky; more like it's that lot of Foresters has frightened
them, with their hulk o' a boat makin' as much noise as a Bristol
steamer. Wonder what brings such rubbish on the river anyhow. They
han't no business on't; an' in my opinion theer ought to be a law
'gainst it--same's for trespassin' after game."
"That would be rather hard lines, Jack. These mining gentry need
out-door recreation as much as any other sort of people. Rather more I
should say, considering that they're compelled to pass the greater part
of their time underground. When they emerge from the bowels of the
earth to disport themselves on its surface, it's but natural they should
like a little aquatics; which you, by choice, an amphibious creature,
cannot consistently blame them for. Those we've just met are doubtless
out for a holiday, which accounts for their having taken too much
drink--in some sense an excuse for their conduct. I don't think it at
all strange seeing them on the water."
"Their faces han't seed much o' it anyhow," observes the waterman,
seeming little satisfied with the Captain's reasoning. "And as for
their being out on holiday, if I an't mistook, it be holiday as lasts
all the year round. Two o' 'em may be miners--them as got the grimiest
faces. As for t'other two, I don't think eyther ever touch't pick or
shovel in their lives. I've seed both hangin' about Lydbrook, which be
a queery place. Besides, one I've seed 'long wi' a man whose company is
enough to gi'e a saint a bad character--that's Coracle Dick. Take my
word for't, Captain, there ain't a honest miner 'mong that lot--eyther
in the way of iron or coal. If there wor I'd be the last man to go
again them havin' their holiday; 'cepting I don't think they ought to
take it on the river. Ye see what comes o' sich as they humbuggin'
about in a boat?"
At the last clause of this speech--its Conservatism due to a certain
professional jealousy--the Hussar officer cannot resist smiling. He had
half forgiven the rudeness of the revellers--attributing it to
intoxication--and more than half repented of his threat to bring them to
a reckoning, which might not be called for, but might, and in all
likelihood would be inconvenient. Now, reflecting on Wingate's words,
the frown which had passed from off his face again returns to it. He
says nothing, however, but sits rod in hand, less thinking of the salmon
than how he can chastise the "damned scoun'rels," as his companion has
pronounced them, should he, as he anticipates, again come in collision
with them.
"Lissen!" exclaims the waterman; "that's them shoutin'! Comin' this
way, I take it. What should we do to 'em, Captain?"
The salmon fisher is half determined to reel in his line, lay aside the
rod, and take out a revolving pistol he chances to have in his pocket--
not with any intention to fire it at the fellows, but only frighten
them.
"Yes," goes on Wingate, "they be droppin' down again--sure; I dar' say,
they've found the tide a bit too strong for 'em up above. An' I don't
wonder; sich louty chaps as they thinkin' they cud guide a boat 'bout
the Wye! Jist like mountin' hogs a-horseback!"
At this fresh sally of professional spleen the soldier again smiles, but
says nothing, uncertain what action he should take, or how soon he may
be called on to commence it. Almost instantly after he is called on to
take action, though not against the four riotous Foresters, but a silly
salmon, which has conceived a fancy for his fly. A purl on the water,
with a pluck quick succeeding, tells of one on the hook, while the whizz
of the wheel and rapid rolling out of catgut proclaims it a fine one.
For some minutes neither he nor his oarsman has eye or ear for aught
save securing the fish, and both bend all their energies to "fighting"
it. The line runs out, to be spun up and run off again; his river
majesty, maddened at feeling himself so oddly and painfully restrained
in his desperate efforts to escape, now rushing in one direction, now
another, all the while the angler skilfully playing him, the equally
skilled oarsman keeping the boat in concerted accordance.
Absorbed by their distinct lines of endeavour they do not hear high
words, mingled with exclamations, coming from above; or hearing, do not
heed, supposing them to proceed from the four men they had met, in all
likelihood now more inebriated than ever. Not till they have well-nigh
finished their "fight," and the salmon, all but subdued, is being drawn
towards the boat--Wingate, gaff in hand, bending over ready to strike
it. Not till then do they note other sounds, which even at that
critical moment make them careless about the fish, in its last feeble
throes, when its capture is good as sure, causing Ryecroft to stop
winding his wheel, and stand listening.
Only for an instant. Again the voices of men, but now also heard the
cry of a woman, as if she sending it forth were in danger or distress!
They have no need for conjecture, nor are they long left to it. Almost
simultaneously they see a boat sweeping round the bend, with another
close in its wake, evidently in chase, as told by the attitudes and
gestures of those occupying both--in the one pursued two young ladies,
in that pursuing four rough men readily recognisable. At a glance the
Hussar officer takes in the situation--the waterman as well. The sight
saves a salmon's life, and possibly two innocent women from outrage.
Down goes Ryecroft's rod, the boatman simultaneously dropping his gaff;
as he does so hearing thundered in his ears--
"To yours oars, Jack! Make straight for them! Row with all your
might!"
Jack Wingate needs neither command to act nor word to stimulate him. As
a man he remembers the late indignity to himself; as a gallant fellow he
now sees others submitted to the like. No matter about their being
ladies; enough that they are women suffering insult; and more than
enough at seeing who are the insulters.
In ten seconds' time he is on his thwart, oars in hand, the officer at
the tiller; and in five more, the _Mary_, brought stem up stream, is
surging against the current, going swiftly as if with it. She is set
for the big boat pursuing--not now to shun a collision, but seek it.
As yet some two hundred yards are between the chased craft and that
hastening to its rescue. Ryecroft, measuring the distance with his
eyes, is in thought tracing out a course of action. His first instinct
was to draw a pistol, and stop the pursuit with a shot. But no. It
would not be English. Nor does he need resort to such deadly weapon.
True there will be four against two; but what of it?
"I think we can manage them, Jack," he mutters through his teeth, "I'm
good for two of them--the biggest and best."
"An' I t'other two--sich clumsy chaps as them! Ye can trust me takin'
care o' 'em, Captin."
"I know it. Keep to your oars, till I give the word to drop them."
"They don't 'pear to a sighted us yet. Too drunk I take it. Like as
not when they see what's comin' they'll sheer off."
"They shan't have the chance. I intend steering bow dead on to them.
Don't fear the result. If the _Mary_ get damaged I'll stand the expense
of repairs."
"Ne'er a mind 'bout that, Captain. I'd gi'e the price o' a new boat to
see the lot chastised--specially that big black fellow as did most o'
the talkin'."
"You shall see it, and soon!"
He lets go the ropes, to disembarrass himself of his angling
accoutrements; which he hurriedly does, flinging them at his feet. When
he again takes hold of the steering tackle the _Mary_ is within six
lengths of the advancing boats, both now nearly together, the bow of the
pursuer overlapping the stern of the pursued. Only two of the men are
at the oars; two standing up, one amidships, the other at the head.
Both are endeavouring to lay hold of the pleasure-boat, and bring it
alongside. So occupied they see not the fishing skiff, while the two
rowing, with backs turned, are equally unconscious of its approach.
They only wonder at the "wenches," as they continue to call them, taking
it so coolly, for these do not seem so much frightened as before.
"Coom, sweet lass!" cries he in the bow--the black fellow it is--
addressing Miss Wynn. "'Tain't no use you tryin' to get away. I must
ha' my kiss. So drop yer oars, and ge'et to me!"
"Insolent fellow!" she exclaims, her eyes ablaze with anger. "Keep your
hands off my boat. I command you!"
"But I ain't to be c'mmanded, ye minx. Not till I've had a smack o'
them lips; an' by Gad I s'll have it."
Saying which he reaches out to the full stretch of his long, ape-like
arms, and with one hand succeeds in grasping the boat's gunwale, while
with the other he gets hold of the lady's dress, and commences dragging
her towards him.
Gwen Wynn neither screams, nor calls "Help!" She knows it is near.
"Hands off!" cries a voice in a volume of thunder, simultaneous with a
dull thud against the side of the larger boat, followed by a continued
crashing as her gunwale goes in. The roughs, facing round, for the
first time see the fishing skiff, and know why it is there. But they
are too far gone in drink to heed or submit--at least their leader seems
determined to resist. Turning savagely on Ryecroft, he stammers out--
"Hic--ic--who the blazes be you, Mr White Cap! An' what d'ye want wi'
me?"
"You'll see."
At the words he bounds from his own boat into the other; and, before the
fellow can raise an arm, those of Ryecroft are around him in tight hug.
In another minute the hulking scoundrel is hoisted from his feet, as
though but a feather's weight, and flung overboard.
Wingate has meanwhile also boarded, grappled on to the other on foot,
and is threatening to serve him the same.
A plunge, with a wild cry--the man going down like a stone; another, as
he comes up among his own bubbles; and a third, yet wilder, as he feels
himself sinking for the second time!
The two at the oars, scared into a sort of sobriety, one of them cries
out--
"Lor' o' mercy! Rob'll be drownded! He can't sweem a stroke."
"He's a-drownin' now!" adds the other.
It is true. For Rob has again come to the surface, and shouts with
feebler voice, while his arms tossed frantically about tell of his being
in the last throes of suffocation!
Ryecroft looks regretful--rather alarmed. In chastising the fellow he
had gone too far. He must save him!
Quick as the thought off goes his coat, with his boots kicked into the
bottom of the boat; then himself over its side!
A splendid swimmer, with a few bold sweeps he is by the side of the
drowning man. Not a moment too soon--just as the latter is going down
for the third--likely the last time. With the hand of the officer
grasping his collar, he is kept above water. But not yet saved. Both
are now imperilled--the rescuer and he he would rescue. For, far from
the boats, they have drifted into a dangerous eddy, and are being
whirled rapidly round!
A cry from Gwen Wynn--a cry of real alarm, now--the first she has
uttered! But before she can repeat it, her fears are allayed--set to
rest again--at sight of still another rescuer. The young waterman has
leaped back to his own boat, and is pulling straight for the strugglers.
A few strokes, and he is beside them; then, dropping his oars, he soon
has both safe in the skiff.
The half-drowned, but wholly frightened, Bob is carried back to his
comrades' boat, and dumped in among them; Wingate handling him as though
he were but a wet coal sack or piece of old tarpaulin. Then giving the
"Forest chaps" a bit of his mind he bids them "be off!"
And off go they, without saying word; as they drop down stream their
downcast looks showing them subdued, if not quite sobered, and rather
feeling grateful than aggrieved.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The other two boats soon proceed upward, the pleasure craft leading.
But not now rowed by its owner; for Captain Ryecroft has hold of the
oars. In the haste, or the pleasurable moments succeeding, he has
forgotten all about the salmon left struggling on his line, or caring
not to return for it, most likely will lose rod, line, and all. What
matter? If he has lost a fine fish, he may have won the finest woman on
the Wye!
And she has lost nothing--risks nothing now--not even the chiding of her
aunt! For now the pleasure-boat will be back in its dock in time to
keep undisturbed the understanding with Joseph.
Volume One, Chapter VII.