FLIGHT.
The sails drew as we got the anchor on board; and by the time O.P.
and I had done sluicing the hawser clean of the mud it brought up, we
were working down the Hamoaze with a light and baffling wind, but
carrying a strong tide under us. Evening fell with a warm yellow
haze: the banks slipping past us grew dim and dimmer: here and there
a light shone among the long-shore houses. I felt more confident,
and no longer concealed myself as we tacked under the sterns of the
great ships at anchor or put about when close alongside.
As we cleared Devil's Point and had our first glimpse of the grey
line where night was fast closing down on open sea, I noted a certain
relaxation in Mr. Pengelly, as if he too had been feeling the strain.
He began to chat with me. The wind, he said, was backing and we
might look for this spell of weather to break up before long.
Once past the Rame we should be right as ninepence and might run down
the coast on a soldier's wind: it would stiffen a bit out yonder
unless he was mistaken. He pulled out his pipe and lit it.
Aft loomed the bulk of Mrs. Pengelly at the wheel. Save for a call
now and again to warn us that the helm was down, to put about, she
steered in silence. And she steered admirably.
We had opened the lights of Cawsand and were heading in towards it on
the port tack when, as O.P. smoked and chatted and I watched the
spark of the Eddystone growing and dying, her voice reached us, low
but distinct.
"There's a boat coming. Get below, boy!"
Sure enough as I scrambled for the hatchway in a flutter, someone
hailed us out of the darkness.
"Ahoy, there!"
"Ahoy!" O.P. called back, after a moment, into the darkness.
"What's your name?"
"The _Glad Tidings_, of Looe, and thither bound. Who be you?"
"Water-guard. Is that you speaking, Mr. Pengelly?"
"Ay, sure. Anything the matter?"
"Seen such a thing as the body of a young chimney-sweep on your way
down? Age, ten or thereabouts. There's one missing."
"You don't say so! Drowned?"
His wife having put about, Mr. Pengelly obligingly hauled a sheet or
two to windward, and brought the _Glad Tidings_ almost to a
standstill, allowing the boat to come close alongside.
"Drowned?" he asked again.
"Worse than that," said the officer's voice (and it sounded
dreadfully close); "there's been murder committed, and the child was
in the house at the time. The belief is, he's been made away with."
"Save us all! Murder? Whereto?"
"On the Barbican--an old Jew there, called Rodriguez. Who's that
you've got at the helm?"
"Missus."
"Never knew ye was married."
"Nor did I, till this mornin'."
"Eh? Wish ye luck, I'm sure; and you, ma'am, likewise!"
"Thank ye, Mr. Tucker," answered the lady. "The same to you and many
of 'em--which by that I don't mean wives."
"Good Lord, is that _you_, Sally? Well, I'm jiggered! And I owe you
ninepence for that last pair of flatfish you sold me!"
"Tenpence," said Mrs. Pengelly. "But I can trust a gentleman.
Where d'ye say this here murder was committed?"
"Barbican."
"I don't wonder at anything happening there. They're a stinking lot.
Why don't ye s'arch the shipping there and in Cattewater?"
"We've been s'arching all day. And now the constables are off
towards Stoke--it seems a child answering all particulars was seen in
that direction this morning."
"That don't look like being made away with."
"In a case like this," answered Mr. Tucker sagely, "as often as not
there's wheels within wheels. Well, I won't detain ye. Good-night,
friends!"
"Good-night!"
I heard the creak of thole-pins as the rowers gave way, and the wash
of oars as the boat shot off into the dark. Mr. Pengelly sent me a
low whistle and I crept forth.
"Hear what they said?" he asked.
"They--they didn't give much trouble."
"Depends what you call trouble." He seemed slightly hurt in his
feelings, and added, with asperity and obvious truth, "Carry it off
how you will, a honeymoon's a honeymoon, and a man doesn't expect to
be interrupted with questions about a sweep's apprentice."
"Stand by!" cautioned the voice aft, low and firm as before.
"By the sound of it they've stopped rowing."
"If they come on us again, we're done for. That Tucker's a fool, but
I noticed one or two of the men muttering together."
"Sounds as if they were putting about. Can the boy swim?" asked Mrs.
Pengelly anxiously.
"I'll bet he can't."
"But I can," said I. "If you'll put the helm down, ma'am, and hold
in, I think she'll almost fetch Penlee Point. I don't want to get
you into trouble."
We all listened. And sure enough the sound of oars was approaching
again out of the darkness.
"Mr. Pengelly can lower me overside," I urged, "as soon as we're near
shore. It's safest in every way."
"So best," she answered shortly, and again put the _Glad Tidings_
about. I began to pluck off my clothes.
The boat was evidently watching us: for, dark as the evening had
grown, almost as soon as our helm went down the sound of oars ceased
astern--to begin again a few seconds later, but more gently, as if
someone had given the order for silence. O.P. peered under the slack
of the mainsail.
"There she is!" he muttered. "Tucker will be trying to force her
alongside under our lee." He picked up and uncoiled a spare rope.
"You'd best take hold o' this and let me slip ye over the starboard
side, forra'd there, as she goes about. Bain't afeard, hey?"
"I'm not afraid of anything but being caught, sir."
"Sarah will take her in close: there's plenty water."
"O.P.," said the voice aft.
"My angel."
"Tell 'en he's a good boy, and I wouldn' mind having one like him."
"You're a good boy," said O.P., and covered the remainder of the
message with a discreet cough. "Seems to me Tucker's holdin' off a
bit," he added, peering again under the sail. "Wonder what his game
is?"
But I was already stripped, and already the high land loomed over us.
Down went the helm again, and "Now's your time," muttered O.P. as we
scrambled forward to cast off sheets. Amid the flapping of her head
sails as she hung for a moment or two in stays, I slipped overside
and took the water easily while the black mass of her stern swung
slowly round and covered me from view of the boat. Then, as the tall
side began to gather way and slip by me, I cast a glance towards land
and dived.
I came to the surface warily and trod water whilst I spied for the
boat, which--as I reckoned--must be more than a gunshot distant.
The sound of oars guided me, and I dived again in a terror. For she
had not turned about to follow the ketch, but was heading almost
directly towards me, as if to cut me off from the shore.
My small body was almost bursting when I rose for air and another
look. The boat had not altered her course, and I gasped with a new
hope. What if, after all, she were not pursuing me? I let my legs
sink and trod water. No: I had not been spied. She was pointing
straight for the shore. But what should take a long-boat, manned (as
I made out) by a dark crowd of rowers and passengers, at this hour to
this deserted spot? Why was she not putting-in for Cawsand, around
the point? And did she carry the water-guard? Was this Tucker's
boat after all, or another?
Still treading water, I heard her nose take the ground, and presently
the feet of men shuffling, as they disembarked, over loose stones:
then a low curse following on a slip and a splash. "Who's that
talking?" a voice inquired, quick and angry. "Sergeant! Take that
man's name." But apparently the sergeant could not discover him.
The footfalls grew more regular and seemed to be mounting the cliff,
along the base of which, perhaps a hundred yards from shore, the tide
was now sweeping me. I gave myself to it and noiselessly, little by
little working towards land, was borne out of hearing.
Another ten minutes and my feet touched bottom. I pulled myself out
upon a weed-covered rock, and along it to a slate-strewn foreshore
overhung by a low cliff of shale, grey and glimmering in the
darkness. But even in the darkness a ridge of harder rock showed me
a likely way. I remembered that the cliff hereabouts was of no great
height and scalable in a score of places. Very cautiously, and
sometimes sitting and straddling the ridge while my fingers sought a
new grip, I mounted to the edge of a heathery down; and there, after
pricking myself sorely among the furze-bushes that guarded it, found
a passage through and cast myself at full length on the short turf.
For a while I lay and panted, flat on my back, staring up at the
stars: for the wind had chopped about and was now drawing gently off
shore, clearing the sky. But, though gentle, it had an edge of chill
which by and by brought me to my feet again. Far out on the dark
waters of the Sound glimmered the starboard light of the _Glad
Tidings_, and it seemed to me that she was heading in for shore.
Had the Pengellys too discovered that the boat was not the
water-guard's? And was O.P. working the ketch back to give me a
chance of rejoining her? Else why was she not slackening sheets and
running? Vain hope! I suppose that the new slant of wind took some
time in reaching her; for, just as I was preparing to creep back
between the furze-whins and scramble down to the foreshore again, the
green light was quenched. She had altered her helm and was clearing
the Sound.
I dared not hail her. Indeed, had I risked it, the odds were against
my voice carrying so far, to be recognised. And while I stood and
searched the darkness into which she had disappeared, my ear caught
again the muffled tramp of the soldiers, this time advancing towards
me. I waited no longer, but started running for dear life up the
shoulder of the down.
The swim and the chill breeze had numbed my legs and arms. After a
few hundred yards, however, I felt life coming back to them, and I
ran like a hare. I was stark naked, and here and there my feet
struck a heather root pushed above the turf, or wounded themselves on
low-lying sprouts of furze; but as my eyes grew used to the dark
sward I learned to avoid these. So close the night hung around me
that even on the sky-line I had no fear of being spied. I crossed
the ridge and tore down the farther slope; stumbled through a muddy
brook and mounted another hillside. My heart was drumming now, but
terror held me to it--over this second ridge and downhill again.
I supposed myself but half-way down this slope, or only a little
more, when in springing aside to avoid a low bush I missed footing
altogether; went hurling down into night, dropped plumb upon another
furze-bush--a withered one--and heard and felt it snap under me;
struck the cliff-side, bruising my hip, and slid down on loose stones
for another few yards. As I checked myself, sprawling, and came to a
standstill, some of these stones rolled on and splashed into water
far below.
For a minute or so, at full length on this treacherous bed, I could
pluck up no heart to move. Then, inch by inch at first, I drew
myself up to the broken bush and found beside it a flat ledge, smooth
and grassy, which led inland and downwards. I think it must have
been a sheep-track. I kept to it on hands and knees, and it brought
me down to the head of a small cove where a faint line of briming
showed the sea's edge rippling on a beach of flat grey stones.
My hip was hurting me, and I could run no farther. I groped along
the base of the eastern cliff and crawled into a shallow cave close
by a pile of seaweed which showed the high mark of the tide now
receding. With daylight I might discover a better hiding-place.
Meanwhile I snuggled down and drew a coverlet of seaweed over me for
warmth.