THE CHASE.
About the time that Margaret and Betty were being rowed aboard the San
Antonio, Peter Brome and his servants, who had been delayed an hour or
more by the muddy state of the roads, pulled rein at the door of the
house in Holborn. For over a month he had been dreaming of this moment
of return, as a man does who expects such a welcome as he knew awaited
him, and who on the morrow was to be wed to a lovely and beloved bride.
He had thought how Margaret would be watching at the window, how,
spying him advancing down the street, she would speed to the door, how
he would leap from his horse and take her to his arms in front of every
one if need be—for why should they be ashamed who were to be wed upon
the morrow?
But there was no Margaret at the window, or at any rate he could not
see her, for it was dark. There was not even a light; indeed the whole
face of the old house seemed to frown at him through the gloom. Still,
Peter played his part according to the plan; that is, he leapt from his
horse, ran to the door and tried to enter, but could not for it was
locked, so he hammered on it with the handle of his sword, till at
length some one came and unbolted. It was the hired man with whom
Margaret had left the letter, and he held a lantern in his hand.
The sight of him frightened Peter, striking a chill to his heart.
“Who are you?” he asked; then, without waiting for an answer, went on,
“Where are Master Castell and Mistress Margaret?”
The man answered that the master was not yet back from his ship, and
that the Lady Margaret had gone out nearly three hours before with her
cousin Betty and a sailor—all of them on horseback.
“She must have ridden to meet me, and missed us in the dark,” said
Peter aloud, whereon the man asked whether he spoke to Master Brome,
since, if so, he had a letter for him.
“Yes,” answered Peter, and snatched it from his hand, bidding him close
the door and hold up the lantern while he read, for he could see that
the writing was that of Margaret.
“A strange story,” he muttered, as he finished it. “Well, I must away,”
and he turned to the door again.
As he stretched out his hand to the key, it opened, and through it came
Castell, as sound as ever he had been.
“Welcome, Peter!” he cried in a jolly voice. “I knew you were here, for
I saw the horses; but why are you not with Margaret?”
“Because Margaret has gone to be with you, who should be hurt almost to
death, or so says this letter.”
“To be with me—hurt to the death! Give it me—nay, read it, I cannot
see.”
So Peter read.
“I scent a plot,” said Castell in a strained voice as he finished, “and
I think that hound of a Spaniard is at the bottom of it, or Betty, or
both. Here, you fellow, tell us what you know, and be swift if you
would keep a sound skin.”
“That would I, why not?” answered the man, and told all the tale of the
coming of the sailor.
“Go, bid the men bring back the horses, all of them,” said Castell
almost before he had done; “and, Peter, look not so dazed, but come,
drink a cup of wine. We shall need it, both of us, before this night is
over. What! is there never a fellow of all my servants in the house?”
So he shouted till his folk, who had returned with him from the ship,
came running from the kitchen.
He bade them bring food and liquor, and while they gulped down the
wine, for they could not eat, Castell told how their Mistress Margaret
had been tricked away, and must be followed. Then, hearing the horses
being led back from the stables, they ran to the door and mounted, and,
followed by their men, a dozen or more of them, in all, galloped off
into the darkness, taking another road for Tilbury, that by which
Margaret went, not because they were sure of this, but because it was
the shortest.
But the horses were tired, and the night was dark and rainy, so it came
about that the clock of some church struck three of the morning before
ever they drew near to Tilbury. Now they were passing the little quay
where Margaret and Betty had entered the boat, Castell and Peter riding
side by side ahead of the others in stern silence, for they had nothing
to say, when a familiar voice hailed them—that of Thomas the groom.
“I saw your horses’ heads against the sky,” he explained, “and knew
them.”
“Where is your mistress?” they asked both in a breath.
“Gone, gone with Betty Dene in a boat, from this quay, to be rowed to
the Margaret, or so I thought. Having stabled the horses as I was
bidden, I came back here to await them. But that was hours ago, and I
have seen no soul, and heard nothing except the wind and the water,
till I heard the galloping of your horses.”
“On to Tilbury, and get boats,” said Castell. “We must catch the
Margaret ere she sails at dawn. Perhaps the women are aboard of her.”
“If so, I think Spaniards took them there, for I am sure they were not
English in that craft,” said Thomas, as he ran by the side of Castell’s
horse, holding to the stirrup leather.
His master made no answer, only Peter groaned aloud, for he too was
sure that they were Spaniards.
An hour later, just as the dawn broke, they with their men climbed to
the deck of the Margaret while she was hauling up her anchor. A few
words with her captain, Jacob Smith, told them the worst. No boat had
left the ship, no Margaret had come aboard her. But some six hours
before they had watched the Spanish vessel, San Antonio, that had been
berthed above them, pass down the river. Moreover, two watermen in a
skiff, who brought them fresh meat, had told them that while they were
delivering three sheep and some fowls to the San Antonio, just before
she sailed, they had seen two tall women helped up her ladder, and
heard one of them say in English, “Lead me to my father.”
Now they knew all the awful truth, and stared at each other like dumb
men.
It was Peter who found his tongue the first, and said slowly:
“I must away to Spain to find my bride, if she still lives, and to kill
that fox. Get you home, Master Castell.”
“My home is where my daughter is,” answered Castell fiercely. “I go
a-sailing also.”
“There is danger for you in that land of Spaniards, if ever we get
yonder,” said Peter meaningly.
“If it were the mouth of hell, still I would go,” replied Castell. “Why
should I not who seek a devil?”
“That we do both,” said Peter, and stretching out his hand he took that
of Castell. It was the pledge of the father and the lover to follow her
who was all to them, till death stayed their quest.
Castell thought a little while, then gave orders that all the crew
should be called together on deck in the waist of the ship, which was a
carack of about two hundred tons burden, round fashioned, and sitting
deep in the water, but very strongly built of oak, and a swift sailer.
When they were gathered, and with them the officers and their own
servants, accompanied by Peter, he went and addressed them just as the
sun was rising. In few and earnest words he told them of the great
outrage that had been done, and how it was his purpose and that of
Peter Brome who had been wickedly robbed of the maid who this day
should have become his wife, to follow the thieves across the sea to
Spain, in the hope that by the help of God, they might rescue Margaret
and Betty. He added that he knew well this was a service of danger,
since it might chance that there would be fighting, and he was loth to
ask any man to risk life or limb against his will, especially as they
came out to trade and not to fight. Still, to those who chose to
accompany them, should they win through safely, he promised double
wage, and a present charged upon his estate, and would give them
writings to that effect. As for those who did not, they could leave the
ship now before she sailed.
When he had finished, the sailormen, of whom there were about thirty,
with the stout-hearted captain, Jacob Smith, a sturdy-built man of
fifty years of age, at the head of them, conferred together, and at
last, with one exception—that of a young new-married man, whose heart
failed him—they accepted the offer, swearing that they would see the
thing through to the end, were it good or ill, for they were all
Englishmen, and no lovers of the Spaniards. Moreover, so bitter a wrong
stirred their blood. Indeed, although for the most part they were not
sailors, six of the twelve men who had ridden with them from London
prayed that they might come too, for the love they had to Margaret,
their master, and Peter; and they took them. The other six they sent
ashore again, bearing letters to Castell’s friends, agents, and reeves,
as to the transfer of his business and the care of his lands, houses,
and other properties during his absence. Also, they took a short will
duly signed by Castell and witnessed, wherein he left all his goods of
whatever sort that remained unsettled or undevised, to Margaret and
Peter, or the survivor of them, or their heirs, or failing these, for
the purpose of founding a hospital for the poor. Then these men bade
them farewell and departed, very heavy at heart, just as the anchor was
hauled home, and the sails began to draw in the stiff morning breeze.
About ten o’clock they rounded the Nore bank safely, and here spoke a
fishing-boat, who told them that more than six hours before they had
seen the San Antonio sail past them down Channel, and noted two women
standing on her deck, holding each other’s hands and gazing shorewards.
Then, knowing that there was no mistake, there being nothing more that
they could do, worn out with grief and journeying, they ate some food
and went to their cabin to sleep.
As he laid him down Peter remembered that at this very hour he should
have been in church taking Margaret as his bride—Margaret, who was now
in the power of the Spaniard—and swore a great and bitter oath that
d’Aguilar should pay him back for all this shame and agony. Indeed,
could his enemy have seen the look on Peter’s face he might well have
been afraid, for this Peter was an ill man to cross, and had no
forgiving heart; also, his wrong was deep.
For four days the wind held, and they ran down Channel before it,
hoping to catch sight of the Spaniard; but the San Antonio was a swift
caravel of 250 tons with much canvas, for she carried four masts, and
although the Margaret was also a good sailer, she had but two masts,
and could not come up with her. Or, for anything they knew, they might
have missed her on the seas. On the afternoon of the fourth day, when
they were off the Lizard, and creeping along very slowly under a light
breeze, the look-out man reported a ship lying becalmed ahead. Peter,
who had the eyes of a hawk, climbed up the mast to look at her, and
presently called down that he believed from her shape and rig she must
be the caravel, though of this he could not be sure as he had never
seen her. Then the captain, Smith, went up also, and a few minutes
later returned saying that without doubt it was the San Antonio.
Now there was a great and joyful stir on board the Margaret, every man
seeing to his sword and their long or cross bows, of which there were
plenty, although they had no bombards or cannon, that as yet were rare
on merchant ships. Their plan was to run alongside the San Antonio and
board her, for thus they hoped to recover Margaret. As for the anger of
the king, which might well fall on them for this deed, since he would
think little of the stealing of a pair of Englishwomen, of that they
must take their chance.
Within half an hour everything was ready, and Peter, pacing to and fro,
looked happier than he had done since he rode away to Dedham. The light
breeze still held, although, if it reached the San Antonio, it did not
seem to move her, and, with the help of it, by degrees they came to
within half a mile of the caravel. Then the wind dropped altogether,
and there the two ships lay. Still the set of the tide, or some
current, seemed to be drawing them towards each other, so that when the
night closed in they were not more than four hundred paces apart, and
the Englishmen had great hopes that before morning they would close,
and be able to board by the light of the moon.
But this was not to be, since about nine o’clock thick clouds rose up
which covered the heavens, while with the clouds came strong winds
blowing off the land, and, when at length the dawn broke, all they
could see of the San Antonio was her topmasts as she rose upon the
seas, flying southwards swiftly. This, indeed, was the last sight they
had of her for two long weeks.
From Ushant all across the Bay the airs were very light and variable,
but when at length they came off Finisterre a gale sprang up from the
north-east which drove them forward very fast. It was on the second
night of this gale, as the sun set, that, running out of some mist and
rain, suddenly they saw the San Antonio not a mile away, and rejoiced,
for now they knew that she had not made for any port in the north of
Spain, as, although she was bound for Cadiz, they feared she might have
done to trick them. Then the rain came on again, and they saw her no
more.
All down the coast of Portugal the weather grew more heavy day by day,
and when they reached St. Vincent’s Cape and bore round for Cadiz, it
blew a great gale. Now it was that for the third time they viewed the
San Antonio labouring ahead of them, nor, except at night, did they
lose sight of her any more until the end of that voyage. Indeed, on the
next day they nearly came up with her, for she tried to beat in to
Cadiz, but, losing one of her masts in a fierce squall, and seeing that
the Margaret, which sailed better in this tempest, would soon be aboard
of her, abandoned her plan, and ran for the Straits of Gibraltar.
Past Tarifa Point they went, having the coast of Africa on their right;
past the bay of Algeçiras, where the San Antonio did not try to
harbour; past Gibraltar’s grey old rock, where the signal fires were
burning, and so at nightfall, with not a mile between them, out into
the Mediterranean Sea.
Here the gale was furious, so that they could scarcely carry a rag of
canvas, and before morning lost one of their topmasts. It was an
anxious night, for they knew not if they would live through it;
moreover, the hearts of Castell and of Peter were torn with fear lest
the Spaniard should founder and take Margaret with her to the bottom of
the sea. When at length the wild, stormy dawn broke, however, they saw
her, apparently in an evil case, labouring away upon their starboard
bow, and by noon came to within a furlong of her, so that they could
see the sailors crawling about on her high poop and stern. Yes, and
they saw more than this, for presently two women ran from some cabin
waving a white cloth to them; then were hustled back, whereby they
learned that Margaret and Betty still lived and knew that they
followed, and thanked God. Presently, also, there was a flash, and,
before ever they heard the report, a great iron bullet fell upon their
decks and, rebounding, struck a sailor, who stood by Peter, on the
breast, and dashed him away into the sea. The San Antonio had fired the
bombard which she carried, but as no more shots came they judged that
the cannon had broke its lashings or burst.
A while after the San Antonio, two of whose masts were gone, tried to
put about and run for Malaga, which they could see far away beneath the
snow-capped mountains of the Sierra. But this the Spaniard could not
do, for while she hung in the wind the Margaret came right atop of her,
and as her men laboured at the sails, every one of the Englishmen who
could be spared, under the command of Peter, let loose on them with
their long shafts and crossbows, and, though the heaving deck of the
Margaret was no good platform, and the wind bent the arrows from their
line, they killed and wounded eight or ten of them, causing them to
loose the ropes so that the San Antonio swung round into the gale
again. On the high tower of the caravel, his arm round the sternmost
mast, stood d’Aguilar, shouting commands to his crew. Peter fitted an
arrow to his string and, waiting until the Margaret was poised for a
moment on the crest of a great sea, aimed and loosed, making allowance
for the wind.
True to line sped that shaft of his, yet, alas! a span too high, for
when a moment later d’Aguilar leapt from the mast, the arrow quivered
in its wood, and pinned to it was the velvet cap he wore. Peter ground
his teeth in rage and disappointment; almost he could have wept, for
the vessels swung apart again, and his chance was gone.
“Five times out of seven,” he said bitterly, “can I send a shaft
through a bull’s ring at fifty paces to win a village badge, and now I
cannot hit a man to save my love from shame. Surely God has forsaken
me!”
Through all that afternoon they held on, shooting with their bows
whenever a Spaniard showed himself, and being shot at in return, though
little damage was done to either side. But this they noted—that the San
Antonio had sprung a leak in the gale, for she was sinking deeper in
the water. The Spaniards knew it also, and, being aware that they must
either run ashore or founder, for the second time put about, and, under
the rain of English arrows, came right across the bows of the Margaret,
heading for the little bay of Calahonda, that is the port of Motril,
for here the shore was not much more than a league away.
“Now,” said Jacob Smith, the captain of the Margaret, who stood under
the shelter of the bulwarks with Castell and Peter, “up that bay lies a
Spanish town. I know it, for I have anchored there, and if once the San
Antonio reaches it, good-bye to our lady, for they will take her to
Granada, not thirty miles away across the mountains, where this Marquis
of Morella is a mighty man, for there is his palace. Say then, master,
what shall we do? In five more minutes the Spaniard will be across our
bows again. Shall we run her down, which will be easy, and take our
chance of picking up the women, or shall we let them be taken captive
to Granada and give up the chase?”
“Never,” said Peter. “There is another thing that we can do—follow them
into the bay, and attack them there on shore.”
“To find ourselves among hundreds of the Spaniards, and have our
throats cut,” answered Smith, the captain, coolly.
“If we ran them down,” asked Castell, who had been thinking deeply all
this while, “should we not sink also?”
“It might be so,” answered Smith; “but we are built of English oak, and
very stout forward, and I think not. But she would sink at once, being
near to it already, and the odds are that the women are locked in the
cabin or between decks out of reach of the arrows, and must go with
her.”
“There is another plan,” said Peter sternly, “and that is to grapple
with her and board her, and this I will do.”
The captain, a stout man with a flat face that never changed, lifted
his eyebrows, which was his only way of showing surprise.
“What!” he said. “In this sea? I have fought in some wars, but never
have I known such a thing.”
“Then, friend, you shall know it now, if I can but find a dozen men to
follow me,” answered Peter with a savage laugh. “What? Shall I see my
mistress carried off before my eyes and strike no blow to save her?
Rather will I trust in God and do it, and if I die, then die I must, as
a man should. There is no other way.”
Then he turned and called in a loud voice to those who stood around or
loosed arrows at the Spaniard:
“Who will come with me aboard yonder ship? Those who live shall spend
their days in ease thereafter, that I promise, and those who fall will
win great fame and Heaven’s glory.”
The crew looked at the waves running hill high, and the water-logged
Spaniard labouring in the trough of them as she came round slowly in a
wide circle, very doubtfully, as well they might, and made no answer.
Then Peter spoke again.
“There is no choice,” he said. “If we give that ship our stem we can
sink her, but then how will the women be saved? If we leave her alone,
mayhap she will founder, and then how will the women be saved? Or she
may win ashore, and they will be carried away to Granada, and how can
we snatch them out of the hand of the Moors or of the power of Spain?
But if we can take the ship, we may rescue them before they go down or
reach land. Will none back me at this inch?”
“Aye, son,” said old Castell, “I will.”
Peter stared at him in surprise. “You—at your years!” he said.
“Yes, at my years. Why not? I have the fewer to risk.”
Then, as though he were ashamed of his doubts, one brawny sailorman
stepped forward and said that he was ready for a cut at the Spanish
thieves in foul weather as in fair. Next all Castell’s household
servants came out in a body for love of him and Peter and their lady,
and after them more sailors, till nearly half of those aboard,
something over twenty in all, declared that they were ready for the
venture, wherein Peter cried, “Enough.” Smith would have come also; but
Castell said No, he must stop with the ship.
Then, while the carack’s head was laid so as to cut the path of the San
Antonio circling round them slowly like a wounded swan, and the
boarders made ready their swords and knives, for here archery would not
avail them, Castell gave some orders to the captain. He bade him, if
they were cut down or taken, to put about and run for Seville, and
there deliver over the ship and her cargo to his partners and
correspondents, praying them in his name to do their best by means of
gold, for which the sale value of the vessel and her goods should be
chargeable, or otherwise, to procure the release of Margaret and Betty,
if they still lived, and to bring d’Aguilar, the Marquis of Morella, to
account for his crime. This done, he called to one of his servants to
buckle on him a light steel breastplate from the ship’s stores. But
Peter would wear no iron because it was too heavy, only an archer’s
jerkin of bull-hide, stout enough to turn a sword-cut, such as the
other boarders put on also with steel caps, of both of which they had a
plenty in the cabin.
Now the San Antonio, having come round, was steering for the mouth of
the bay in such fashion that she would pass them within fifty yards.
Hoisting a small sail to give his ship way, the captain, Smith, took
the helm of the Margaret and steered straight at her so as to cut her
path, while the boarders, headed by Peter and Castell, gathered near
the bowsprit, lay down there under shelter of the bulwarks, and waited.