WHAT HAPPENED IN WESTBURY STEEPLE.
The battle was over, and there remained but the counting of the cost.
The admiral had lost a third of his force, who lay dead on the deck, or
on the shifting sands beneath the yellow tide. There was hardly a man
that had not received a wound. Johnnie Morgan had gone down under the
last wild-cat spring of the Irish captain.
"We must have a light," cried Drake; "this vessel is a firebrand. Some
of you fetch up combustibles from below."
The ship was stuck fast into the bank, the tide pounding her viciously
as she lay. In a short while a fire was roaring on the Arlingham bank,
and by its glare the deck was cleared of its ghastly burden, and the
wounded attended to. Hallooing across the river, Drake ordered those
on the other side to secure boats from somewhere, and come across
stream to render him assistance. Messengers went off to the
neighbouring farms to bring carts and mattresses and stuff for
bandaging; for the tale of wounded, friend and foe, was a long one.
Willing hands and legs went to work, but it was bright morning ere much
assistance arrived. Johnnie Morgan was not seriously wounded. A
sword-cut on the head had stunned him for a while, and now laid him,
sick, dizzy, and bleeding, on the bank; but he was able to tell the
admiral that he felt nothing but a "plaguy bad headache."
We will leave him cooling in the dewy morning, and see what has become
of Master Windybank and some of those associated with him. The master
of Dean Tower, deeming his treachery well known, and not reckoning upon
any chance of life if he fell into the admiral's hands, rose to the
height of a desperate occasion, and fought in so resolute a fashion
that he was not outdone by the tigerish Basil or the cold-blooded
Jerome. The arch-plotter, who kept by the side of his untrustworthy
recruit, was astonished at the reckless valour he displayed. Truth to
tell, Jerome was half inclined to believe that Windybank had played a
double part, and was responsible for the admiral's knowledge of the
plot for unlading the _Luath_.
Entertaining such a notion, he was watching Master Andrew closely; and
had he detected any signs of half-heartedness, or any movement towards
escape, he would have run the young man through the body without
hesitation. But the suspected one proved, for the nonce, a leader that
would have led stouter-hearted fellows to victory; and Father Jerome,
seeing the fight was hopeless, determined to give Windybank a chance of
further life and usefulness in the Spanish cause. He slowly gave way
in the direction of the river, and whispered his companion to do
likewise.
"Skin whole?" he asked.
"Ay," panted Andrew.
"Fall into the river as though badly wounded, and try to save thyself.
I shall do the same. Leave Basil and John to fight this out."
A moment later Windybank toppled backwards into the stream. He was a
good swimmer, else had the Jesuit's advice availed him nothing, and he
rose to the surface and turned over on to his breast like a porpoise.
He fixed his sword between his teeth, and left himself to the rush of
the tide, putting in a few strokes now and then in order to keep a
proper course. A short time sufficed to put him out of the area of
actual conflict, and he rested himself for a moment to consider what
was best for him to do. He did not suppose that his foes would put an
escape to his credit, for his voice had been heard loudly enough in the
fight until the waters had closed above him. He determined to essay
the crossing of the river, as giving him the better chance of a run for
liberty, but he found the task beyond him; the fighting had fatigued
him, and the current ran like a mill-race. For the present, at any
rate, he must remain on his own side of the Severn. He swam a little
farther up-stream, then made for a place where the bank was low, and
scrambled out. For a while he waited to see whether Father Jerome had
followed him. Getting no signs of his leader, he turned to the
pressing question of his own immediate safety. He quickly decided not
to seek any hiding-place in the forest; the river offered a better
channel for escape. If he could secrete himself for a while, a chance
would offer itself of running down on the tide after nightfall. It
would not be difficult to find a boat, and the Welsh coast of the
estuary should afford him a safe asylum until he could make fuller
plans concerning his future. The voyage would be a perilous one, but
he saw no other chance of escaping capture and death.
The gray cottages of Westbury were before him, backed by the church and
its tall spire. A thought flashed across his mind like an inspiration:
his riverside hiding-place was found! The spire was isolated from the
church, and was entirely of wood, save for a stone stump. Great beams
crossed and recrossed one another, in an ever-narrowing pyramid, for
about two hundred feet. Up in the dimness and final darkness near the
apex was security for any man.
Windybank stole across the river meadow to the nearest house. The door
stood open and the place was empty. The neighbouring house was in like
condition, and a quick survey told him that the fisher-folk, hearing
sounds of the fight, had gone down to learn what strange business was
adoing at midnight. Master Andrew was deficient neither in caution nor
in cunning. He acted promptly. A pantry was visited, and a loaf of
bread abstracted. He slipped from the house and passed through the
orchard. He stuffed his pockets with half-ripe apples; they would help
to quench his thirst, and he could hope for no water in his lofty place
of concealment.
He got to the churchyard wicket, passed through, floundered over the
melancholy mounds that strewed God's acre, and reached the square,
stone stump upon which the wooden spire was reared, and in which hung
the bells. The door was on the latch, the lower part of the belfry
being used as a storehouse for odds and ends of stone, wood, and rope
belonging to the church itself. Windybank knew his bearings fairly
well. He found the staircase, and began to wend upwards to the
bell-chamber. About twenty feet up he felt a rush of cool, river air,
and he knew that he had passed the first lattice. A little later, and
he was on the belfry floor, his hands feeling the chill, smooth surface
of the largest bell. Aching with fatigue and excitement, he sat down.
He did not propose to attempt the perilous climb upwards in the
darkness, and daylight could not be far off. Hunger sent in its
claims; he broke the loaf, and munched a couple of sour apples. The
food refreshed him, and he felt he could wait patiently for the dawn.
Day came, and with it a buzz of excitement in the village. Windybank
ventured to peep through the topmost lattice and scan the groups of
excited gossips. Then he looked aloft through the great network of
beams and rafters. He was tired, and his brain swam inside his head.
The apex of the spire looked fearfully high and dark, and the brown,
cobwebbed maze of woodwork bewildered him. The latch below clicked;
some one was in the lower tower. The great bell began to swing; the
sexton was ringing an alarm. Seized by a sudden fright, Windybank
clambered by a bell-wheel to the first huge beam. He got his fingers
on it and swung his body across. He gained the next, and the next; he
was twenty feet above the floor of the bell-chamber. The boom of the
bell was deafening. He paused for breath, and then hurried on his
upward way, slipping sometimes, but never falling.
Suddenly the bell stopped; a deep hum of sound spun and echoed in the
narrowing cone where Windybank was giddily clinging. He had paused
again to recover breath and stability. Looking down, he saw a head
rising from the tower steps into the bell-chamber; the sexton had come
up to readjust the rope. The fugitive's guilty conscience put another
meaning upon his act; he felt sure that signs of his presence had been
noted, and that the fellow had come up to search for him. A little way
above him was darkness and security. He turned quickly to make a last
noiseless dash, but he missed his grip and his footing. For a moment
he hung, while his heart stood still. Then he fell with sickening thud
and crash from beam to beam. The startled sexton looked up and cried
out; and the traitor's body toppled in its last wild spin, and fell at
his feet. He lifted it up. The face was beaten almost out of
recognition, and the neck was broken.
The receding tide left Father Jerome's body on the sands. He delayed
his plunge into the river a moment too long, and a thrust from
Raleigh's sword speeded him into the yellow waters. John was found on
the bank, dead likewise. Basil's body was searched for in vain. He
was accounted as dead, for men protested stoutly that they had wounded
him more than once. But a scotched viper does not always die.
Gatcombe men were destined to prove the truth of that.