he expects you and the men at Custom House Quay next Wednesday morning,
high tide at five o'clock."
Mr. Toley lifted the tankard at his left hand, drained it, smacked his
lips, then said in a hollow voice:
"Bulger, Custom House Quay, Wednesday morning, five o'clock."
A grunt of satisfaction and relief rolled round the company, and in
response to repeated cries for more beer a stout woman in a mob cap and
dirty apron came from the inn with a huge copper can, from which she
proceeded to fill the empty tankards.
"Is the press still hot, sir?" asked Mr. Toley.
"Yes. Four men, I was told, were hauled out of the _Good Intent_
yesterday."
"And four bad bargains for the King," put in the second man, whose cross
glances caused Desmond no little discomfort.
At this moment Joshua Wiggs the innkeeper came up, carrying three
fowling-pieces.
"There be plenty o' ducks to-day, mister," he said.
"Then we'll try our luck," said Mr. Toley, rising. "Thank 'ee, my lad,"
he added to Desmond. "You'll take a sup with the men afore you go?
Bulger, see to the gentleman."
"Ay, ay, sir. Come aboard, matey."
He made a place for Desmond at his side on the bench, and called to
Mother Wiggs to bring a mug for the gentleman. Meanwhile, Mr. Toley and
his companion had each taken a fowling-piece and gone away with the
landlord. Bulger winked at his companions, and when the sportsmen were
out of earshot he broke into a guffaw.
"Rare sport they'll have! I wouldn't be in Mr. Toley's shoes for
something. What's a cock-eyed man want with a gun in his hand, eh,
mateys?"
Desmond felt somewhat out of his element in his present company; but
having reasons of his own for making himself pleasant, he said, by way
of opening a conversation:
"You seem pleased at the idea of going to sea again, Mr. Bulger."
"Well, we are and we en't, eh, mateys? The _Waterman's Rest_ en't
exactly the kind of place to spend shore leave; it en't a patch on
Wapping or Rotherhithe. And to tell 'ee true, we're dead sick of it.
But there's reasons; there mostly is; and the whys and wherefores,
therefores and becauses, I dessay you know, young gen'leman, a-comin'
from Captain Barker."
"The press-gang?"
"Ay, the press is hot in these days. Cap'n sent us here to be out o'
the way, and the orficers to look arter us. Not but what 'tis safer for
them too; for if Mr. Sunman showed his cock-eyes anywhere near the Pool,
he'd be nabbed by the bailiffs, sure as he's second mate o' the _Good
Intent_. Goin' to sea's bad enough, but the _Waterman's Rest_ and
holdin' on the slack here's worse, eh, mateys?"
"Ay, you're right there, Bulger."
"But why don't you like going to sea?" asked Desmond.
"Why? You're a landlubber, sir--meanin' no offence--or you wouldn't ax
sich a foolish question. At sea 'tis all rope's end and salt pork, with
Irish horse for a tit-bit."
"Irish horse?"
"Ay. That's our name for it. 'Cos why? Explain to the gen'leman,
mateys."
With a laugh the men began to chant--
Salt horse, salt horse, what brought you here?
You've carried turf for many a year.
From Dublin quay to Ballyack
You've carried turf upon your back.
"That's the why and wherefore of it," added Bulger. "Cooks call it salt
beef, same as French mounseers don't like the sound of taters an' calls
'em pummy detair; but we calls it Irish horse, which we know the
flavour. Accordingly, notwithstandin' an' for that reason, if you axes
the advice of an old salt, never you go to sea, matey."
"That's unfortunate," said Desmond with a smile, "because I expect to
sail next Wednesday morning, high tide at five o'clock."
"Binks and barnacles! Be you agoin' to sail with us?"
"I hope so."
"Billy come up! You've got business out East then?"
"Not yet, but I hope to have. I'm going out as supercargo."
"Oh! As supercargo!"
Bulger winked at his companions, and a hoarse titter went the round of
the table.
"Well," continued Bulger, "the supercargo do have a better time of it
than us poor chaps. And what do Cap'n Barker say to you as supercargo,
which you are very young, sir?"
"I don't know Captain Barker."
"Oho! But I thought as how you brought a message from the captain?"
"Yes, but it came through Mr. Diggle."
"Ah! Mr. Diggle?"
"A friend of mine--a friend of the captain. He has arranged
everything."
"I believe you, matey. He's arranged everything. Supercargo! Well, to
be sure! Never a supercargo as I ever knowed but wanted a man to look
arter him, fetch and carry for him, so to say. How would I do, if I
might make so bold?"
"Thanks," said Desmond, smiling as he surveyed the man's huge form.
"But I think Captain Barker might object to that. You'd be of more use
on deck, in spite of----"
He paused, but his glance at the iron hook had not escaped Bulger's
observant eye.
"Spite of the curlin' tongs, you'd say. Bless you, spit 't out, I en't
tender in my feelin's."
"Besides," added Desmond, "I shall probably make use of the boy who has
been attending on me at the _Goat and Compasses_--a clever little black
boy of Mr. Diggle's."
"Black boys be hanged! I never knowed a Sambo as was any use on board
ship. They howls when they're sick, and they're allers sick, and never
larns to tell a marlin-spike from a belayin' pin."
"But Scipio isn't one of that sort. He's never sick, Mr. Diggle says;
they've been several voyages together, and Scipio knows a ship from stem
to stern."
"Scipio, which his name is? Oncommon name, that."
There was a new tone in Bulger's voice, and he gave Desmond a keen and,
as it seemed, a troubled look.
"Yes, it is strange," replied the boy, vaguely aware of the change of
manner. "But Mr. Diggle has ways of his own."
"This Mr. Diggle, now; I may be wrong, but I should say--yes, he's
short, with bow legs and a wart on his cheek?"
"No, no; you must be thinking of some one else. He is tall, rather a
well-looking man; he hasn't a wart, but there is a scar on his brow,
something like yours."
"Ah! I know they sort; a fightin' sort o' feller, with a voice
like--which I say, like a nine-pounder?"
"Well, not exactly; he speaks rather quietly; he is well educated, too,
to judge by the Latin he quotes."
"Sure now, a scholard. Myself, I never had no book larnin' to speak of;
never got no further than pothooks an' hangers!"
He laughed as he lifted his hook. But he seemed to be disinclined for
further conversation. He buried his face in his tankard, and when he
had taken a long pull set the vessel on the table and stared at it with
a preoccupied air. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of Desmond.
The other men were talking among themselves, and Desmond, having by this
time finished his mug of beer, rose to go on his way.
"Good-bye, Mr. Bulger," he said; "we shall meet again next Wednesday."
"Ay, ay, sir," returned the man.
He looked long after the boy as he walked away.
"Supercargo!" he muttered. "Diggle! I may be wrong, but----"
Desmond had come through Southwark and across Clapham and Wimbledon
Common, thus approaching the _Waterman's Rest_ from the direction of
Kingston. Accustomed as he was to long tramps, he felt no fatigue, and
with a boy's natural curiosity he decided to return to the city by a
different route, following the river bank. He had not walked far before
he came to the ferry at Twickenham. The view on the other side of the
river attracted him: meadows dotted with cows and sheep, a verdant hill
with pleasant villas here and there; and seeing the ferryman resting on
his oars, he accosted him.
"Can I get to London if I cross here?" he asked.
"Sure you can, sir. Up the hill past Mr. Walpole his house; then you
comes to Isleworth and Brentford, and a straight road through
Hammersmith village--a fine walk, sir, and only a penny for the
ferryman."
Desmond paid his penny and crossed. He sauntered along up Strawberry
Hill, taking a good look at the snug little house upon which Mr. Horace
Walpole was spending much money and pains. Wandering on, and preferring
by-lanes to the high road, he lost his bearings, and at length, fearing
that he was going in the wrong direction, he stopped at a wayside
cottage to inquire the way. He was further out than he knew. The woman
who came to the door in answer to his knock said that, having come so
far, he had better proceed in the same direction until he reached
Hounslow, and then strike into the London road and keep to it. Desmond
was nothing loth. He had heard of Hounslow and those notorious "Diana's
foresters" Plunket and James Maclean--highwaymen who a few years before
had been the terror of night travellers across the lonely Heath. There
was a fascination about the scene of their exploits. So he trudged on,
feeling now a little tired, and hoping to get a lift in some farmer's
cart that might be going towards London.
More than once as he walked his thoughts recurred to the scene at the
_Waterman's Rest_. They were a rough, villainous-looking set, these
members of the crew of the _Good Intent_! Of course, as supercargo he
would not come into close contact with them; and Mr. Diggle had warned
him that he would find seafaring men somewhat different from the country
folk among whom all his life hitherto had been passed. Diggle's
frankness had pleased him. They had left the _Four Alls_ early on the
morning after that strange incident at the Squire's. Desmond had told
his friend what had happened, and Diggle, apparently surprised to learn
of Grinsell's villainy, had declared that the sooner they were out of
his company the better. They had come by easy stages to London, and
were now lodging at a small inn near the Tower: not a very savoury
neighbourhood, Diggle admitted, but convenient. Diggle had soon
obtained for Desmond a berth on board the _Good Intent_ bound for the
East Indies, and from what he let drop the boy understood that he was to
sail as supercargo. He had not yet seen the vessel; she was painting,
and would shortly be coming up to the Pool. Nor had he seen Captain
Barker, who was very much occupied, said Diggle, and had a great deal of
trouble in keeping his crew out of the clutches of the pressgang. Some
of the best of them had been sent to the _Waterman's Rest_ in charge of
the chief and second mates. It was at Diggle's suggestion that he had
been deputed to convey the captain's message to the men.
It was drawing towards evening when Desmond reached Hounslow Heath, a
wide bare expanse of scrubby land intersected by a muddy road. A light
mist lay over the ground, and he was thankful that the road to London
was perfectly direct, so that there was no further risk of his losing
his way. The solitude and the dismal appearance of the country,
together with its ill-repute, made him quicken his pace, though he had
no fear of molestation; having nothing to lose he would be but poor prey
for a highwayman, and he trusted to his cudgel to protect him from the
attentions of any single footpad or tramp.
Striding along, in the gathering dusk he came suddenly upon a curious
scene. A heavy travelling carriage was drawn half across the road, its
forewheels perilously near the ditch. Near by was a lady, standing with
arms stiff and hands clenched, stamping her foot as she addressed, in no
measured terms, two men who were rolling over one another in a desperate
tussle a few yards away on the heath. As Desmond drew nearer he
perceived that a second and a younger lady stood at the horses' heads,
grasping the bridles firmly with both hands.
His footsteps were unheard on the heavy road, and the elder lady's back
being towards him he came up to her unawares. She started with a little
cry when she saw a stranger move towards her out of the gloom. But
perceiving at a second glance that he was only a boy, with nothing
villainous about his appearance, she turned to him impulsively and,
taking him by the sleeve, said:
"There! You see them! The wretches! They are drunk and pay no heed to
me! Can you part them? I do not wish to be benighted on this heath.
The wretch uppermost is the coachman."
"I might part them, perhaps," said Desmond dubiously. "Of course I will
try, ma'am."
"Sure I wouldn't trust 'em, mamma," called the younger lady from the
horses' heads. "The man is too drunk to drive."
"I fear 'tis so. 'Tis not our own man, sir. As we returned to-day from
a visit to Taplow our coachman was trampled by a horse at Slough, and my
husband stayed with him--an old and trusty servant--till he could
consult a surgeon. We found a substitute at the inn to drive us home.
But the wretch brought a bottle; he drank with the footman all along the
road; and now, as you see, they are at each other's throats in their
drunken fury. Sure we shall never get home in time for the rout we are
bid to."
"Shall I drive you to London, ma'am?" said Desmond. "'Twere best to
leave the men to settle their differences."
"But can you drive?"
"Oh yes," replied Desmond with a smile. "I am used to horses."
"Then I beg you to oblige us. Yes, let the wretches fight themselves
sober. Phyllis, this gentleman will drive us; come."
The girl--a fair, rosy-cheeked, merry-eyed damsel of fifteen or
thereabouts--left the horses' heads and entered the carriage with her
mother. Desmond made a rapid examination of the harness to see that all
was right; then he mounted the box and drove off. The noise of the
rumbling wheels penetrated the besotted intelligence of the struggling
men; they scrambled to their feet, looked wildly about them, and set off
in pursuit. But they had no command of their limbs; they staggered
clumsily this way and that, and finally found their level in the slimy
ditch that flanked the road.
Desmond whipped up the horses in the highest spirits. He had hoped for a
hit in a farmer's cart; fortune had favoured him in giving him four
roadsters to drive himself. And no boy, certainly not one of his
romantic impulses, but would feel elated at the idea of helping ladies
in distress, and on a spot known far and wide as the scene of perilous
adventure.
The carriage was heavy; the road, though level, was thick with autumn
mud; and the horses made no great speed. Desmond, indeed, durst not
urge them too much, for the mist was thickening, making the air even
darker than the hour warranted; and as the roadway had neither hedge nor
wall to define it, but was bounded on each side by a ditch, it behoved
him to go warily. He had just come to a particularly heavy part of the
road where the horses were compelled to walk, when he heard the thud of
hoofs some distance behind him. The sound made him vaguely uneasy. It
ceased for a moment or two; then he heard it again, and realized that a
horse was coming at full gallop. Instinctively he whipped up the
horses. The ladies had also heard the sound; and, putting her head out
of the window, the elder implored him to drive faster.
Could the two besotted knaves have put the horseman on his track, he
wondered. They must believe that the carriage had been run away with,
and in their tipsy rage they would seize any means of overtaking him
that offered. The horseman might be an inoffensive traveller; on the
other hand, he might not. It was best to leave nothing to chance. With
a cheery word, to give the ladies confidence, he lashed at the horses
and forced the carriage on at a pace that put its clumsy springs to a
severe test.
Fortunately the road was straight, and the horses instinctively kept to
the middle of the track. But fast as they were now going, Desmond felt
that if the horseman was indeed pursuing he would soon be overtaken. He
must be prepared for the worst. Gripping the reins hard with his left
hand, he dropped the whip for a moment and felt in the box below the
seat in the hope of finding a pistol; but it was empty. He whistled
under his breath at the discovery: if the pursuer was a "gentleman of
the road" his predicament was indeed awkward. The carriage was rumbling
and rattling so noisily that he had long since lost the sound of the
horse's hoofs behind. He could not pause to learn if the pursuit had
ceased; his only course was to drive on. Surely he would soon reach the
edge of the heath; there would be houses; every few yards must bring him
nearer to the possibility of obtaining help. Thus thinking, he clenched
his teeth and lashed the reeking flanks of the horses, which plunged
along now at a mad gallop.
Suddenly, above the noise of their hoofs and the rattling of the coach
he heard an angry shout. A scream came from the ladies. Heeding
neither, Desmond quickly reversed his whip, holding it half-way down the
long handle, with the heavy iron-tipped stock outward. The horseman
came galloping up on the off side, shouted to Desmond to stop, and
without waiting drew level with the box and fired point-blank. But the
rapid movement of his horse and the swaying of the carriage forbade him
to take careful aim. Desmond felt the wind of the bullet as it whizzed
past him. Next moment he leaned slightly sideways, and, never loosening
his hold on the reins with his left hand, he brought the weighty butt of
his whip with a rapid cut, half sideways, half downwards, upon the
horseman's head. The man with a cry swerved in the saddle; almost
before Desmond could recover his balance he was amazed to see the horse
dash suddenly to the right, spring across the ditch, and gallop at full
speed across the heath.
But he had no time at the moment to speculate on this very easy victory.
The horses, alarmed by the pistol shot, were plunging madly, dragging
the vehicle perilously near to the ditch on the left hand. Then
Desmond's familiarity with animals, gained at so much cost to himself on
his brother's farm, bore good fruit. He spoke to the horses soothingly,
managed them with infinite tact, and coaxed them into submission. Then
he let them have their heads, and they galloped on at speed, pausing
only when they reached the turnpike going into Brentford. They were
then in a bath of foam, their flanks heaving like to burst. Learning
from the turnpike-man that he could obtain a change of horses at the
_Bull_ inn, Desmond drove there, and was soon upon his way again.
While the change was being made, he obtained from the lady the address
in Soho Square where she was staying. The new horses were fresh; the
carriage rattled through Gunnersbury, past the turnpike at Hammersmith
and through Kensington, and soon after nine o'clock Desmond had the
satisfaction of pulling up at the door of Sheriff Soames' mansion in
Soho Square.
The door was already open, the rattle of wheels having brought lacqueys
with lighted torches to welcome the belated travellers. Torches flamed
in the cressets on both sides of the entrance. The hall was filled with
servants and members of the household, and in the bustle that ensued
when the ladies in their brocades and hoops had entered the house,
Desmond saw an opportunity of slipping away. He felt that it was
perhaps a little ungracious to go without a word with the ladies; but he
was tired; he was unaccustomed to town society; and the service he had
been able to render seemed to him so slight that he was modestly eager
to efface himself. Leaving the carriage in the hands of one of the
lacqueys, with a few words of explanation, he hastened on towards
Holborn and the city.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH
*In which Colonel Clive suffers a defeat hitherto unrecorded; and our
hero finds food for reflection.*
It was four o'clock, and Tuesday afternoon--the day before the _Good
Intent_ was to sail from the Pool. Desmond was kicking his heels in his
inn, longing for the morrow. Even now he had not seen the vessel on
which he was to set forth in quest of his fortune. She lay in the Pool,
but Diggle had found innumerable reasons why Desmond should not visit
her until he embarked for good and all. She was loading her cargo; he
would be in the way. Captain Barker was in a bad temper; better not see
him in his tantrums. The pressgangs were active; they thought nothing
of boarding a vessel and seizing on any active young fellow who looked a
likely subject for His Majesty's navy. Such were the reasons alleged.
And so Desmond had to swallow his impatience and fill in his time as
best he might; reading the newspapers, going to see Mr. Garrick and
Mistress Kitty Clive at Drury Lane, spending an odd evening at Ranelagh
Gardens.
On this Tuesday afternoon he had nothing to do. Diggle was out; Desmond
had read the newspapers and glanced at the last number of the World; he
had written to his mother--the third letter since his arrival in London;
he could not settle to anything. He resolved to go for a walk, as far
as St. Paul's, perhaps, and take a last look at the busy streets he was
not likely to see again for many a day.
Forth then he issued. The streets were muddy; a mist was creeping up
from the river, promising to thicken into a London fog, and the
link-boys were already preparing their tow and looking for a rich
harvest of coppers ere the night was old. Desmond picked his way
through the quagmires of John Street, crossed Crutched Friars, and went
up Mark Lane into Fenchurch Street, intending to go by Leadenhall Street
and Cornhill into Cheapside.
He had just reached the lower end of Billiter Street, the narrow
thoroughfare leading into Leadenhall, when he saw Diggle's tall figure
running amain towards him, with another man close behind, apparently in
hot pursuit. Diggle caught sight of Desmond at the same moment, and his
eyes gleamed as with relief. He quickened his pace.
"Hold this fellow behind me," he panted as he passed, and before Desmond
could put a question he was gone.
There was no time for deliberation. Desmond had but just perceived that
the pursuer was in the garb of a gentleman and had a broad patch of
plaster stretched across his left temple, when the moment for action
arrived. Stooping low, he suddenly caught at the man's knees. Down he
came heavily, mouthing hearty abuse, and man and boy were on the ground
together.
Desmond was up first. He now saw that a second figure was hurrying on
from the other end of the street. He was not sure what Diggle demanded
of him; whether it was sufficient to have tripped up the pursuer, or
whether he must hold him still in play. But by this time the man was
also upon his feet; his hat was off, his silk breeches and brown coat
with lace ruffles were all bemired. Puffing and blowing, uttering many
a round oath such as came freely to the lips of the Englishman of King
George the Second's time, he shouted to his friend behind to come on,
and, disregarding Desmond, made to continue his pursuit.
Desmond could but grapple with him.
"Let go, villain!" cried the man, striving to free himself. Desmond
clung on; there was a brief struggle, but he was no match in size or
strength for his opponent, who was thick-set and of considerable girth.
He fell backwards, overborne by the man's weight. His head struck on
the road; dazed by the blow he loosened his clutch, and lay for a moment
in semi-unconsciousness while the man sprang away.
But he was not so far gone as not to hear a loud shout behind him and
near at hand, followed by the tramp of feet.
"Avast there!" The voice was familiar: surely it was Bulger's. "Fair
play! Fourteen stone against seven en't odds. Show a leg, mateys."
The big sailor with a dozen of his mates stood full in the path of the
irate gentleman, who, seeing himself beset, drew his rapier and prepared
to fight his way through. A moment later he was joined by his companion,
who had also drawn his rapier. Together the gentlemen stood facing the
sailors.
"This is check, Merriman," said the last comer as the seamen,
flourishing their hangers menacingly, pressed forward past the prostrate
body of Desmond. "The fellow has escaped you; best withdraw at
discretion."
"Come on," shouted Bulger, waving his hook. "Bill Bulger en't the man
to sheer off from a couple of landlubbers."
As with his mates in line he steadily advanced, the two gentlemen, their
lips set, their eyes fixed on the assailants, their rapiers pointed,
backed slowly up the street. The noise had brought clerks and merchants
to the doors; some one sprang a rattle; there were cries for the
watchmen; but no one actively interfered. Meanwhile Desmond had
regained his senses, and, still feeling somewhat dizzy, had sat down
upon a doorstep, wondering not a little at the pursuit and flight of
Diggle and the opportune arrival of the sailors. Everything had
happened very rapidly; scarcely two minutes had elapsed since the first
onset.