ON BOARD THE "EMMA FARLEIGH"
I AWOKE to consciousness with the sensation of being tossed upon the
waves, though, fortunately, not in them.
I was lying upon the wet deck of a small fishing craft; my head was
supported by a coil of rope, while my coat and doublet had been
removed and a bandage placed around my shoulder. My left arm was in a
sling.
A man was kneeling by my side to prevent my being slung bodily to
lee'ard with the heel of the craft, for a steady breeze hummed
through the rigging, making the vessel lie over to it as she tore on
her course, while ever and again a sting of salt spray came dashing
over the low bulwark.
It was just growing light, a grey misty morning, while in the east a
rosy red betokened the dawning of a stormy day.
"Better?" asked the man with a peculiar grunt, as I opened my eyes.
"Where am I?" I asked drowsily.
"Safe aboard th' _Emma Farleigh_," he remarked, "an' well-nigh
half-way over."
"Over where?" I exclaimed wonderingly.
The man regarded me for a few moments with mouth agape.
"You'd best bide quiet a bit," said he. "Maybe you'll still be
wandering in t' head."
"No, I am not," I maintained. "I was shot at, and my horse carried me
over the cliff. But where is this craft bound for?"
The man did not answer me, but whistled down a small hatchway.
"Here, Dick, on deck wi' ye."
A man appeared, his burly head surmounted by a shock of matted red
hair, and his ruddy face hidden by a long beard of similar hue.
"I be afeard Maäster Jarge be queer in 'is 'ead," whispered the first
seaman in a loud aside. "He axed where we was bound for."
"France, Maäster Jarge, France," said the ruddy one in a tone that
was meant to be soothing. "Us'll drop ye safe in Cherbourg afore
night if this breeze 'olds."
"I am not Master George, whoever he may be," I exclaimed with
considerable heat. "And I don't want to go to France, so why am I
being taken there?"
Both men looked at me in astonishment.
"Lie down an' bide quiet a bit, maäster," repeated the first.
"What? Will you not take my word for it?" I shouted, raising myself
on my elbow. "I am Humphrey Markham, of Hopton's Regiment, now in
camp at Lostwithiel." And as I proceeded briefly with my tale, I saw
the look of incredulity on the men's faces give place to expressions
of astonishment.
"Put your hellum hard up," shouted Dick to the steersman. "And let we
get back as fast as us can. 'Twould ha' been a sorry pass if we hadna
taken the broad pieces from they afore us started."
"You'll not be from Carnwall, young maäster?" asked one of the
fishermen.
"No, from Hamptonshire," I replied. "But I know several people in
Cornwall, and my greatest friend is Master Ralph, or, rather, Sir
Ralph Granville, of Tregetty."
"I knows Tregetty well," said Dick. "Two brothers o' we were on th'
estate. But why Sir Ralph? I thought as 'twas Sir Bevil."
"Sir Bevil has fallen in the fight with twenty of his followers," I
replied.
"Fifty curses o' St. Winnow on the rebels," exclaimed the Cornishman,
shaking his fist in the direction of the invisible English coast.
"But, ne'er mind, young maäster, a frien' o' Sir Ralph be a friend o'
we; us'll put ye ashore safe an' sound."
"Breeze be freshenin', Dick," shouted the man at the tiller. "'Twill
be as much as us can do to make Plymouth."
"Keep her at it as close as she'll lie," replied Dick, giving a swift
glance to windward. "One port's as good as another to we, for a bit."
I felt hungry and thirsty, and one of the men brought me a kind of
pasty and a cup of cider, and as I ate they told me, in a rich
Cornish burr, of the circumstances that led to my being rescued from
the sea.
The _Emma Farleigh_, of the port of Looe, had been engaged to cruise
off Lantivet Bay, in order to embark the young Squire of Trevarthake,
who, having slain in a duel a relative of an influential gentleman of
Bodmin, sought to flee the country.
News of his intended flight had been noised abroad, and a party of
horsemen had tried to intercept him. These were the men whom I had
seen, and who tried to get between me and the sea just before my
horse took a flying leap. In mutual ignorance, I took them to be
friends, and they imagined me to be the man they were to arrest.
The crew of the _Emma Farleigh_ saw me take the leap from the cliffs
full forty feet above the sea, and never doubting that I was the
young Squire of Trevarthake, they lowered a small boat and picked me
up in an unconscious condition, and, strange to say, my sword was
still gripped tightly in my right hand. They had, they told me, to
force my fingers from the hilt.
When they had me safe on board the _Emma Farleigh_ they found that I
had a pistol bullet embedded in my left shoulder, but, being ignorant
of surgery and unable to extract the ball, they washed and bandaged
the wound the best they were capable of doing, and now, finding that
I was not the Squire of Trevarthake, they had put their vessel about
and were making for land.
About midday the wind veered and increased to a regular gale from the
sou'-west, and with the least possible show of canvas the staunch
little craft flew before the howling tempest.
I begged to be allowed to remain on deck, but Dick and his crew were
obdurate, and insisted on carrying me below, where in a small and
stuffy cabin I was tossed hither and thither, racked with pain, and
showing symptoms of fever, while at every pitch of the vessel I
thought she was plunging to the bottom. How long I remained below I
know not, but suddenly the hatch was lifted off, and a flood of
bright light filled the little compartment. The next instant Dick and
one of his crew crawled down the steep ladder, and, lifting me in
their arms, began to make their way back on deck.
Directly I was taken on deck they closed down the hatch, and, laying
me on the heaving, slippery planks, passed a rope round my body to
prevent my being thrown against the lee bulwarks. All three men were
on deck, looking anxiously ahead. As the vessel heeled I could see a
range of lofty rugged cliffs, its foot being beaten by a long line of
boiling white water, which at intervals leaped high against the dark,
frowning face of the rock.
"Can ye do't?" asked one of the men in a stentorian voice that was
barely audible above the howling of the wind.
"Must, or sink," shouted Dick grimly as he relieved the man at the
long tiller.
We had reached the end of the line of cliffs that terminated in a
towering peak, dropping sheer into the sea, and, having cleared this
iron-bound shore, Dick thrust his huge bulk against the tiller.
Slowly the _Emma Farleigh's_ head swung round, and now right ahead I
could see a bay of storm-tossed water, with a rocky, though lower,
line of cliffs in the background, and a long line of milk-white foam
stretching from shore to shore.
With a roll that threatened to shake the masts out of her, the _Emma
Farleigh_ was soon in the thick of it; broken water poured over the
bows and both quarters at the same time, while Dick was heaving at
the tiller to try and keep the boat on her course.
Crash into the line of white foam she bore; there was a shock that
made the vessel quiver from keel to truck; another heave, followed by
a slighter yet sickening thud; then, as if sliding down a steep hill,
the _Emma Farleigh_ glided into deep water.
We had crossed the bar.
Now the high land sheltered us, and, gliding over a nearly calm sea,
the craft ascended a narrow creek, on the left side of which I could
distinguish a castle bristling with guns, while the light played upon
the steel caps and morions of the soldiers, who were intently
watching our progress.
Then a little straggling village came in sight, and at an order the
sails fell on deck in a confused heap, the anchor was dropped, and
the staunch little craft lay riding to her hempen cable against the
swift-running tide.
"Where are we?" I asked faintly.
"Salcombe," he replied. "An' yon's Fort Charles that still holds out
for the King."
And even as I looked everything seemed to fade from my view, and I
sank senseless on the deck.
* * * * *
When I opened my eyes I found myself in a wainscoted room, with large
beams running across the ceiling.
I particularly noticed these beams, possibly because they were the
first objects that met my eyes, for I was lying in bed. Spotlessly
white were the bedclothes, sweet-smelling flowers were placed about
the room, while through the open casement window I could see a
stretch of placid water with boats passing up and down, while the
hillside in the distance was covered with yellow fields of ripening
grain.
"Where am I?" I asked myself, and "Why am I here?" And gradually I
remembered the incidents that had taken place during the eventful
period since I left the camp at Lostwithiel.
I tried to raise myself, but a dull pain in my shoulder and an utter
feeling of weakness prevented me, and I had perforce to lie still and
think.
Presently the door was quietly opened and a woman came softly into
the room.
She was middle-aged, with calm, sweet-natured features, and her linen
frills and ruffs were as white as snow. She noticed that I was awake,
and coming over to my bedside, she asked me how I felt.
I replied that I hardly knew what to say, and then asked where I was,
and what was I doing here?
"The _Emma Farleigh_ has left," she told me.
"Left," I repeated blankly. "When?"
"Three weeks agone," she answered.
"Have I been here three weeks?" I asked, amazed.
"More than that; 'twill be four come next Thursday. Now, drink this,
and try to sleep once more, for you've been very ill."
Obediently I did as I was told, and after a long sleep I awoke
feeling considerably refreshed.
"Art better, Master Markham?" asked my most attentive nurse.
"Ay, mistress; but what is your name, and how came you to know mine?"
"They of the Cornish fishing boat that brought you here told me about
you," she replied, smiling. "And my name, an it please you, is
Widdicombe."
"How can I thank you for your kindness, Mistress Widdicombe? But tell
me, how came I here?"
Briefly she told me that the men of the _Emma Farleigh_ had brought
me ashore, and, filled with compassion--for, she said, I bore a
strong resemblance to her only son, who had been slain at Stratton
fighting bravely for His Majesty--she had brought me to her house.
Here a surgeon from Fort Charles, skilled in the treatment of
gun-shot wounds, had probed and extracted Chaloner's bullet, and for
nearly four weeks I lay unconscious.
During that time either Mistress Widdicombe or her husband, who was a
sergeant of foot under Sir Edmund Fortescue, had watched day and
night at my bedside, and I undoubtedly owed my life to the generous
devotion of this worthy Devonshire couple.
Thanks to a healthy constitution, together with the fact that I had
led a rigorous outdoor life, my wound healed rapidly, and before the
autumn leaves had begun to fall I was able to get about.
My intentions for the future were torn by various influences. My duty
towards my home urged me to return to Ashley Castle, for even now the
Roundheads might be hammering at its gates, though, thanks to my
pistol-shot, I had little to fear from the renegade, Captain
Chaloner, while my sense of duty towards my sovereign called me to
rejoin the army in Cornwall.
Then came the news of the second affair at Newbury, and that the King
had retired into winter quarters at Oxford.
"'Tis no use thinking to rejoin your comrades in Cornwall, Master
Markham," remarked Sergeant Widdicombe one morning as he came from
Fort Charles, where the work of strengthening that fortress was
progressing rapidly.
"And why not?" I asked anxiously, fearing that some disaster had
overtaken the King's forces in the west.
"Because the army is disbanded," he replied. "News has just arrived
that the rebellion has been stamped out beyond the Tamar. Only a few
fortresses are to be garrisoned, and the rest of the troops have been
dismissed."
I could not help feeling glad at this intelligence, as my mind could
now be made up as to what course I ought to pursue, and I resolved to
bid adieu to my kindly benefactors directly I was strong enough to
undertake the journey home.
At length Sergeant Widdicombe was ordered to ride over to Dartmouth
Castle with a party of men to bring back some barrels of powder, and,
as it was a chance for me to begin my homeward journey, it was
arranged that I should accompany him, for there were greater
possibilities of getting a passage on a vessel from Dartmouth than
there were from a little fishing village like Salcombe.
Mistress Widdicombe, I could see, was sad at the thought of my
leaving, and, for the matter of that, so was I, for I had taken a
great liking for the kind, motherly Devonshire woman.
However, the time for parting arrived, and I braced myself up to say
good-bye. Mistress Widdicombe was sitting in the large tiled
living-room, and as I entered I saw to my delight something I had
never hoped to see again, for on the oaken table lay my sword.
Stained with sea water was the Spanish leather scabbard, yet the
metal hilt looked as fresh as of yore. Almost reverently I drew the
blade, and, marvellous to behold, the steel glittered like a ray of
light.
"I thought 'twould be a surprise for you, Master Markham," exclaimed
the good dame, as I lovingly handled the trusty blade. "Dick brought
it home the day before he sailed. Sure, 'twas dull and tarnished with
sea water, but a little polishing soon set that right. But now,
Master Humphrey, you must needs be off. May God be with ye and take
care of ye." And with a hearty sounding kiss that completely took me
aback, the motherly Mistress Widdicombe pushed me out of the room, as
if unable to control her feelings. Such was indeed the case, for as I
passed by the window I saw her sitting by the table with her head
buried in her arms.
The sergeant, her husband, saw her too.
"Poor old Mary," he exclaimed. "'Tis like losing a second son. Faith!
I never saw her so much downcast since the news o' Peter's death at
Stratton."
The soldiers were already waiting in the boat we took our places, and
were soon shooting across Salcombe Harbour, and as we reached the
little quay at Portlemouth I saw a white kerchief fluttering from the
window of the house I had just left.
I waved my hand in return; then, with a gulping sensation in my
throat, I turned away. A huge lumbering waggon, drawn by six powerful
horses, was awaiting us. Telling me to take my place within, Sergeant
Widdicombe gave the order, and the convoy set out on the road to
Dartmouth.
After we had gained the summit of a long steep hill, the sergeant
gave his horse to a trooper to lead, and joined us in the waggon. It
was slow work, continually up and down, and I asked my companion why
they had gone by road instead of by an easier passage by sea.
"You'll see anon," he replied gravely, and immediately changed the
subject.
It was early morn when we started, and about noon we reached the
brink of a steep declivity. Below us was a stretch of level road,
quite two miles in length, which separated the sea from a lagoon-like
expanse of water.
At the end of the road, as far as I could see, the land rose to a
great height, terminating in frowning cliffs, while away in the
distance several rocky islands broke the sky-line.
But what attracted my attention most was the presence of a number of
men-of-war, their lofty yellow and black sides shining in the
brilliant sunshine as they rode at anchor about a mile from the
shore.
"There," exclaimed Sergeant Widdicombe, indicating the ships--"there
is the reason why we could not sail round. The rebel fleet keeps a
strict blockade upon Dartmouth."
"Then I cannot take ship from Dartmouth?" I asked.
"A small vessel might slip out and stand in between the rocks you see
yonder," he replied. "But that is no affair of mine, though you'll
find out soon enough."
"Think we can manage it, Fox?" he continued, addressing a trooper,
"or shall we take the inland road, though 'tis far more hilly?"
"'Twill be safe enow if half the troop ride inside the waggon and the
rest follow us later with the led horses," replied the man addressed.
"Very well, then," said Widdlcombe, "we can but try."
So half the soldiers dismounted and took their seats under the
covered waggon; two more, putting waggoners' smocks over their buff
coats and stowing their iron caps under the seat, accompanied the
cart, one driving, the other sheltering close to the side of the
hood.
The rest of the troopers, with their comrades' horses, remained
behind under cover of a clump of trees, and at the word of command
the waggon began to descend the hill.
Directly it gained the level road, the driver whipped up the horses,
and the cumbersome wain jolted along at a quick pace but barely had
it gone a hundred yards than we saw boats being lowered from the
rebel ships.
"Don't spare the whip," exclaimed Sergeant Widdicombe. "Heaven
forfend they do not open fire."
"'Tis useless for the men to tarry behind," urged Fox, the corporal.
"Make them ride on ahead and hold the road."
In obedience to a signal the rest of the troopers galloped up, and,
soon overtaking us, gained the rising ground in front. The horses
strained at their traces, the waggon swayed, groaned, and rattled,
and all the while Widdicombe kept a sharp eye on the advancing boats.
As the keel of the first touched the sand, we tore past the place
where the rebels had intended to cut us off, greatly to their rage
and mortification; and at the rate at which we were going pursuit
seemed hopeless, and the soldiers gave vent to a hearty cheer.
But their exultation was short-lived, for at that moment a cloud of
smoke burst from the side of the nearest ship, and the next instant
our two leading horses were stricken down by a round shot.
It was the work of a few seconds to cut the traces and drag the
mangled carcases from the road, but with the reduced number of our
team the progress of the waggon was proportionately slower, and it
was evident that our pursuers would overtake us.
When we reached the foot of the steep road that wound its way up the
hillside in a gigantic curve, the jaded beasts were exhausted.
Jumping from the waggon, the soldiers strove their utmost to push it
up the incline, but after less than twenty yards the hopelessness of
the task became apparent. The rebels, breathless with running, were
less than a hundred yards behind.
"Swing the waggon round!" shouted Widdicombe. "And cut the traces."
The next instant the heavy waggon was drawn across the road, while
the horses were led further up the hill to the shelter of a dense
wood.
Unslinging their petronels and ordering their muskets, the troopers
lay behind the waggon or under the cover afforded by the rocks by the
roadside, whilst I, unable by reason of my arm being still in a sling
to load a pistol, could only wait, sword in hand, for the possibility
of the rebels coming within sword's reach.
There were at least eighty of the enemy against our twenty-two men,
though the nature of our position counted for much. Had Widdicombe so
wished, he could, by abandoning the waggon, easily have made a
retreat, all his party being mounted, but flight was far from his
thoughts.
"Lie down!" he exclaimed sternly to me, and barely had I taken
shelter behind a fern-clad bank than both sides opened fire.
Splinters flew from the woodwork of the waggon, bullets knocked up
little clouds of white dust as they struck the road behind us, yet
with the greatest coolness the sergeant continued to give the words
of the firing manual to his trained men, as, blowing, priming,
casting about, and discharging their pieces, the soldiers of the
convoy kept up a steady fire upon the enemy.
Thick smoke enveloped us, but through the drifting vapour I could get
an occasional glimpse of the Roundheads, who, in an ever-increasing
semicircle, strove to take us in front and on our right flank. Our
left, fortunately, consisted of an almost sheer face of rock.
"Two men are down, sergeant," exclaimed a white-faced soldier on my
left. He was a mere boy compared to me in size, though no doubt
older, and it was his first time under fire.
"What odds if twenty are down?" retorted Widdicombe grimly. "Go on
firing," and plucking up courage by the sergeant's example, the
recruit bore himself right manfully.
For half an hour the firing continued, without the rebels gaining any
material advantage, but Widdicombe began to look grave, for I knew
his thoughts were on the limited supply of ammunition.
Another man was down, writhing with a ball through his shoulder, and
in addition five men had expended their charges. These latter he sent
to remount their horses in readiness to cover their retreat.
"We must needs abandon the wain, Master Markham," he said. "Though I
call you to witness I did my best to save it."
"'Tis but a waggon," I replied, wondering at the stubbornness with
which he defended it.
"Ay," he replied. "But most of Sir Edmund Fortescue's gold plate is
hidden between the double bottom!"
Just then two of the men who were lining the roadside knelt up and
discharged their pieces at some of the rebels who daringly attempted
to scale the rocks on our right, and on looking to see the nature of
the attack, Widdicombe gave a shout of encouragement.
"A rescue! A rescue!"
Splashing through the shallows of the lake past which we had come was
a whole regiment of horse.
Re-forming on the level road, they drew swords, and with loose rein
dashed to take our foes in the rear. A few remained behind, and,
unslinging their musketoons, opened fire on the boats, causing the
boat-keepers to push off in terror.
Caught in a trap, the rebel fire slackened, and although a few shots
fired from the ships whistled over our heads or rolled harmlessly
along the soft ground, nothing could stop the headlong charge of the
Royalist horse.
Like a whirlwind the cavalry were upon their demoralised foes, and
after a few sweeps of glittering blades as the remainder of the
rebels, who still showed fight, fell before the resistless onslaught,
the combat was over.
The timely yet unexpected arrival of Forde's regiment of horse from
Dartmouth saved the convoy, and the rebel fleet, under Admiral
Batten, had the mortification of seeing thirty-two soldiers and
seamen marched off as prisoners of war, while twenty-eight more were
killed, either during their attack upon us or in the charge of the
horse.
"Ay, 'tis the last of Sir Edmund's gold plate," remarked Sergeant
Widdicombe as he rejoined me, "though none of the regiment save I
knew of it. The first part was sent to His Majesty at the
commencement of the war, and all that Sir Edmund has left is the
silver, though, methinks, that must also go for the upkeep of Fort
Charles."
Without further incident the convoy reached Dartmouth Castle. The
sergeant handed in his precious charge and received the required
barrels of powder; then, having brought me to the notice of a captain
who was responsible for the transport service, he bade me farewell.
Generous at heart, courageous in body, Sergeant Widdicombe had gained
my greatest admiration and esteem, and as he went I felt that another
link of friendship--the second that day--had been ruthlessly severed.