THE _DAMSEL OF LYME_.
ONE afternoon I was sitting on the beach close to the iron chain that
crosses the mouth of the Portsmouth Harbour--the same chain that had
been wrought at great expense by the order of King Henry, the father
of our gracious sovereign Lady Queen Elizabeth, for the purpose of
keeping out hostile ships, though many would have it that 'twould not
avail 'gainst a man-of-war standing in with wind and tide.
With me was my boon companion, Jack Staynton, a lad two years my
senior, and son of the selfsame Roger Staynton who had been
disfranchised under strange circumstances during the late reign.
The elder Staynton was a man of uncommon ideas, who firmly believed
in taking stern measures to redress his grievances when milder
actions failed.
Nearly thirty years before he was master-gunner of the town of
Portsmouth, and received an offer to be made a burgess. But being
accused of having unlawfully taken possession of an iron gun
belonging, 'tis said, to the town and not to Her Majesty, he took
umbrage, and promptly told the Mayor that the burgess-ship was not
worth a clout to wipe his dirty shoes, and that he would not accept
the so-called honour.
Smarting under the insult, the Mayor "presented" Roger Staynton for
not giving up the gun, and the master-gunner was ordered to surrender
the piece of ordnance by a certain date. Staynton appealed to Her
Majesty in vain. Thereupon, with a score of boon comrades he hauled
the cannon to the Mayor's house, and calling his worship forth, had
him placed astraddle of the piece, chaining his ankles together so
that the unfortunate chief magistrate could not release himself. All
that night the Mayor remained in possession of the town's gun, and in
a far different manner than he bargained for; but ere morning Roger
Staynton was on the high seas, bound for the coast of Flanders, where
he served bravely with the Dutch 'gainst their Spanish oppressors.
These doings occurred in the reign of Bloody Mary, but on Her Most
Gracious Lady Queen Elizabeth's accession Roger hastened to return
home, and was reinstated in his office of master-gunner.
Jack Staynton showed fair promise of inheriting his sire's impetuous
bravery and hot-headed disposition. Withal he was good-hearted and of
a pleasant manner, save when thwarted in what he considered to be his
rights. Though two years older than I, he was full three inches
shorter in stature, his body being over broad in proportion to his
height.
From his cradle his father had taught him to hate the Spaniards, and
that doctrine, being akin to mine own, strengthened our mutual
friendship.
"By Kit! yore's a strange rig," exclaimed Jack, pointing to a long,
rakish-looking pinnace that was standing in towards the
harbour. She was about fifty feet in length, with a deep sheer
amidships, her poop being well raised, though not so lofty in
proportion to many of the Queen's ships. She had both fore and aft
masts, raking well aft. Her mainyard had been lowered, for her crew
were shortening sail, but from her foreyard a huge square sail was
drawing to the following breeze.
"Ay, 'tis not a craft of these parts," I replied. "Yonder sail was
not cut in the ports of Hampshire or Sussex. Mark well the tumble
home of her sides, and her long, lean bows. She must be a wholesome
vessel for hard weather, and swift withal."
"Well spoken, young master!" exclaimed a fisherman who was standing
close by. "'Tis the _Damsel of Lyme_, and hath been arrested by the
Vice-Admiral Horsey on a charge of piracy on the high seas."
"Is that so?" asked Jack eagerly. "And what will come o' it?"
"They will take her into the Camber Quay. If so be the charge is
proved, 'tis the halter for her crew," replied the man. "Perchance
you would like to see the pinnace moored; that being so, I'll put you
across in my boat."
We eagerly assented, and accompanying the fisherman along a narrow
tongue of shingle that separated the harbour from the vast extent of
mud that at high tide served as the Camber, we crossed to the quay.
Here many of the townsfolk had already assembled. There was Master
John Highfield, the Mayor, with Master Owen Tottye, who had held the
office two years before. They were holding close converse with a
short, rotund man whose white hair and grey pointed beard contrasted
strangely with his deep red complexion.
"'Tis Sir Henry Radclyffe, the Governor of the town," whispered Jack,
as we clambered up the worn stone steps of the quay. "A right worthy
gentleman, and a brave soldier. My father has served under him in
times past, and has nothing but praise for him."
"Yet he seems to have continual differences with the Mayor," I
replied.
"'Tis but natural, when a town has two masters," remarked Jack
sagely. "Dost not remember last Monday before Michaelmas, when the
same Mayor was elected, how that my father had orders from Sir Henry
concerning the discharge of ordnance from the platform for the
Mayor's salute, and that this Master Highfield had words with the
Governor regarding the number of guns that were to be fired? 'Tis
even the same, and perchance 'twill always be."
Jack was right, for at that moment a dispute was in progress as to
who should have charge of the prisoners--five evil-looking cut-purses
who had been caught in the very act of robbing a Shoreham trader off
the Isle of Wight. The Mayor claimed the culprits under the
jurisdiction of the town, while Sir Henry Radclyffe insisted that
they should be the prisoners of the State.
"Well met, Master Staynton!" exclaimed the Governor, as Jack's
father, the master-gunner, came up and saluted his superior. "I would
have your advice on this matter."
Thereupon Sir Henry proceeded to give his version of the affair,
while the Mayor and his councillors, knowing the master-gunner of
old, drew long faces at the obvious decision of the old war-dog.
"Of a truth, Sir Henry, you could not do better than follow the
example of your predecessor, the worthy Sir Adrian Poynings," replied
the master-gunner. "With him right was might and might was right; so,
saving your presence, I will send for the guard."
"Excellent!" exclaimed the Governor. "You hear, Master Mayor? I will
have and hold these caitiffs. You can hold the pinnace and dispose of
her as you think fit. 'Tis but dividing the spoil."
Under the circumstances the Mayor could but submit. The prisoners
were removed to the guardroom, while the Town Clerk and his
assistants proceeded to take an inventory of the confiscated pinnace.
No one saying us nay, we mingled with the burgesses and townsfolk who
were wandering all over the little craft, inspecting with evident
curiosity the vessel that had earned such an infamous notoriety in
the Channel.
On board I was surprised at her roomy appearance. Save for the break
of the poop, I found she was flush fore and aft, a low bulwark
for'ard giving slight protection to a couple of small iron sakers,
while on her poop an iron culverin was mounted on a swivel, so as to
command a wide range on both sides of the ship.
Abaft the foremast was a large hatchway giving access to the hold,
while betwixt the mainmast and the poop a smaller opening led to the
main cabin, the space under the poop-deck being entirely open save
for a low bulkhead rising to a height barely two feet from the deck.
This, then, was the _Damsel of Lyme_, a vessel that had kept the sea
in all weathers for more than two years, during which period it was
known that she had taken much booty both from the Spaniards and our
own countrymen, disposing of it at a handsome profit in the ports of
Brittany.
All at once my attention was directed towards a tall, bearded man
clad in a jerkin and trunks of blue serge, while around his neck hung
a silver whistle on a chain of the same metal. Round his waist was a
broad belt of undressed leather, in which was thrust a short
sheath-knife, counterbalanced by a bulky wallet.
His head was closely cropped, revealing a high forehead. His
eyebrows, instead of being arched, seemed to form one continuous
straight line, while his deep-set eyes had a grave expression. His
nose was straight and inclined to broadness. Beyond that the rest of
his face was hidden by his reddish-hued beard.
That he was a stranger to the town I had no doubt, for I knew nearly
every one by sight. None of the other persons on board spoke to him,
though many were the inquisitive glances that were thrown towards the
tall seaman--since seaman he must surely be.
Presently he straightened himself--for being 'tween decks he had been
unable to stand upright--till his head and shoulders appeared above
the coamings of the hatch.
"Sink me," I heard him mutter, "this craft ought to suit me right
well." Then, seeing us, he said:
"Tell me, shipmates, is there a decent, well-conducted inn where I
may obtain good accommodation?"
"There is the Star hard by the Town House, in the High Street," I
replied, flattered to think that the stranger should condescend to
address us as shipmates.
"A fig for the Star," he bellowed, heedless or ignorant of the fact
that Giles Bickley, the host, was within earshot. "The sack was sour
and the mulled ale as flat as a duck pond. I tarried there overnight,
and this morning my head was as thick as this carline."
"Then there are the Dragon, the Lyon, the White Hart, and the Rose,
all standing close together just off St. Nicholas Street," quoth
Jack. "'Twould be hard if a veteran salt like you, good sir, did not
find one of these to his liking."
"Cleverly said, my young haul-the-bowline; but, tell me, is the law
long-winded in this town? When is the matter concerning the disposal
of the _Damsel of the Lyme_ likely to be settled?"
I shook my head. Such things were beyond me.
"'Twould not be amiss to ask my friend's father," I remarked. "Yonder
he stands. He is called Roger Staynton, and he is master-gunner of
this town."
"What! Do I hear aright? Old Roger Staynton? Grammercy!"
And springing upon the deck without deigning to make use of the
ladder, the stranger leapt upon the quay and made his way towards
Jack's father.
Curious to know more of this remarkable personage, we followed, and
were surprised to see the master-gunner wring the stranger's hand
with unwonted vehemence.
"Holá, comrade!" he exclaimed. "Only to think that I should see
Hannibal Cleat again! Man, methought you had gone down in the
Venture, when I saw her with mine own eyes founder off the Texel."
"'Tis a long story, Roger, and 'twill keep. But----"
"Nay, stand not talking here. Do me the honour of staying at my
abode, Captain. What I have is at your service. Jack," he added,
"hasten and inform your mother that I am bringing an old friend,
Captain Hannibal Cleat (of whom she has ofttimes heard me speak), to
see her. Ralph, you can go with him, and await our coming. No doubt
the Captain will make you yearn for a life on the salt seas."