RAPIERS TO THE RESCUE.
It was already dark as night when Gilbert Oglander and Timothy Trollope,
having kept their tryst in the old market-place, made their way together
out of the dimly-lighted town. The wind had changed to the north-east,
and snow had come with it. The white flakes swept along with a mad
horizontal rush, alighting only, as by accident, when some tree or
cottage or human figure barred their onward career. The two lads pulled
down their caps about their tingling ears, bent their whitened bodies
forward against the blast, and strode along regardless of the slush and
mud upon the road.
Neither spoke much until they had walked almost a mile's distance away
from the town and were out in the open country. Here the snow seemed to
be falling thicker and the wind to be blowing almost a gale.
"Methinks thou hadst best have kept thy cloak to thyself, Master
Gilbert," remarked Timothy at length, as he passed under the friendly
shelter of a thick hedge, "for it had been of far greater use to thee
than to the old man you so generously gave it to. Here are we exposed to
the bitterness of this storm, while he, I will warrant me, is already at
home before a goodly fire, or else carousing with his boon companions in
some comfortable tavern parlour."
Gilbert walked on a few paces in silence.
"It matters little to me whether the cloak hath been of use to the poor
fellow or not," he presently said. "I saw him tremble with the cold, and
could not think of him going half-clothed while I had a garment to
spare. And when one thinks on't, Tim, 'tis surely a hard matter for a
seaman who hath spent half a lifetime in tropic countries to come home
here to England in the very depth of winter."
"Pooh!" objected Timothy. "But 'tis said that an Englishman can endure
any climate in the world and suffer no ill from it. What of Sir Martin
Frobisher and his crews, who voyaged far up into the frozen regions of
the Arctic, where, 'tis said, there be whole mountains of ice, and where
even the salt seas be frozen over for a full half of the year? I will
engage that Sir Martin and his men met not such kindly gentlemen up in
those parts to give them warm cloaks withal. And as for this old man
Hartop, I'd be in nowise astonished to-morrow if I heard that he had
sold your cloak to a pawnbroker and spent the money in strong liquors,
or else thrown it away in the dice-box. You cannot persuade me, Master
Gilbert, that a man who hath been for a score of years in foreign lands
could come home so poor as this man, if he had not squandered all his
gains in wanton idleness."
"Misfortune doth ofttimes come even to those who are righteous,"
remarked Gilbert Oglander in a sober voice as he shook the wet snow from
the front of his doublet and hitched his sword anew under his arm, "and
I will not believe that the man who could devoutly thank God, as Hartop
did, for having brought him safely home, could be aught but an honest
man at heart."
"Nevertheless," pursued Timothy, "I do greatly fear that your charity in
this present case was misplaced; for as I was passing nigh to the sign
of the Three Flagons on my way to the market-place just now, I
encountered once again the dark-eyed youth whom we saw coming from off
the ship. He besought me to tell him, if I could, whither the old man
Hartop had gone, and did even offer to reward me if I could aid him in
arresting the old rascal, as he called him. He spoke in such wise that I
could only believe that the old mariner had committed some cruel offence
against him. And, indeed, Master Gilbert, if you remember, this Hartop
was truly in a mighty desperate hurry to separate himself from his
shipmates."
"Well, well, 'tis no affair of ours, Tim, howsoever it be," returned
Gilbert. And he bent down his head and marched on in silence.
Tim Trollope walked in advance of his young master to shield him from
the snow; and thus they plodded on their way, until they came to a
narrow lane bordered by high overhanging trees that increased the
darkness, and amid whose leafless, dripping branches the wind whistled
and moaned. As the two turned into the lane Timothy dropped back to his
companion's side.
"There is a matter upon which I listed to speak with you," he abruptly
said, and then was silent for a dozen strides. "'Tis about the man we
saw to-day--" he added, "the man with the scarred cheek."
"And what of him?" questioned Gilbert. "Hast learned peradventure that
he hath discovered a new Eldorado? or that his ship is laden with a
cargo of talking poll-parrots and gambolling monkeys? What of him,
quotha?"
"Nay, I have learned but little concerning either him or his ship,"
answered Timothy. "But when I was in at the Pestle and Mortar this
afternoon, he also was there, getting his hair and beard trimmed, and it
chanced that he did question my father most curiously touching my lord
your grandfather and your late uncle Jasper. It seemeth that he knew
both your father and your uncle. And more especially was he interested
as to yourself, Master Gilbert."
"How so?" exclaimed Gilbert, growing attentive now. "But if I heard him
aright as he spoke to the woman who was with him, 'twas surely in the
Portuguese that he spoke, and I marvel how any Portugal man could have
known my father."
"'Tis true that he did speak in a foreign tongue," responded Timothy,
"but, for all that, I take him to be an Englishman born, if indeed he be
not even a man of Devon. My reason for speaking of him, however, is that
he showed a very strange and surprising concern in the matter of my Lord
Champernoun's title and estates. When he was told that your uncle
Jasper had died of a malaria out on the Spanish Main, a smile came upon
his face. It was as if he knew a vast deal more about Jasper Oglander
than we could tell him. 'Twas not my business to question one of my
father's customers; but had I been bold enough I should certainly have
asked him if 'twas not true, as I do suspect, that he had some part in
the death of your uncle; for you must not forget, Master Gilbert, that
the matter was never very clearly explained to us. Even Sir Richard
Grenville threw some doubt upon the report that he died of a fever, and
suggested that 'twas by the hand of man that he was taken off. And,
indeed, if all we have heard of Jasper Oglander be true, he was a man
(saving your presence) of such evil ways, that 'twould be no great
wonder to me if he had been murdered by some one whom he had injured out
there in wild Virginia."
"Thou'rt too prone to listen to idle gossip, Tim," rejoined Gilbert in a
tone of reproof; "ay, and too ready to draw your own conclusions. For my
own part I am willing to believe that Uncle Jasper was a far better man
than report hath made him out to be. 'Tis true that I never knew him,
and that I never even set eyes upon him save when I was a little child,
and too young to judge of his character. But my grandfather hath never
spoken an ill word of him in my hearing, and, prithee, what should that
bode but that Jasper was a very worthy and proper gentleman?"
"Not in your hearing, it may well be," interposed Timothy, "but I do
assure you that my lord hath no great cause to love his younger son's
memory. As for your father (God rest him!), he and his brother Jasper
were ever at enmity."
Gilbert walked on for many moments without speaking, but at last he
said:
"I have heard more than once of that enmity, Tim, but never yet have I
discovered its cause. Canst tell me why it was that they quarrelled,
lad?"
"There were divers causes, Master Gilbert," returned Tim. "But for the
most part the enmity arose (or so at least I have been told) out of
Jasper Oglander's envy and jealousy. He was jealous of your father's
greater wit and learning; of his greater skill in all games and manly
sports; jealous in that his brother Edmund was chosen by the Queen to be
one of Her Majesty's pages at the court and afterwards one of her
favoured courtiers. But more than all else, 'tis said that he was
jealous in that your father was the elder son, and by consequence the
heir to the Champernoun title and lands. Also, you must understand--"
Gilbert suddenly gripped his companion's arm.
"Hark!" he cried. "Prithee, what is that strange wailing sound that I
hear?"
Timothy came to a stand-still and held his breath, listening for a few
moments.
"I hear naught whatsoever," said he, "naught but the wailing of the wind
among the trees. Yet wait! there was in truth another sound. Was't not
the screech of some wild bird of the night? No; 'tis there again. 'Tis
someone singing--some wayfarer chanting a ditty to scare away the
ghosts."
"Even so it is," agreed Gilbert. "Ay, and a likely place for a ghost
too, down yonder in Beddington Dingle. I had rather travel a good five
miles round than pass through that dark and desolate wood after
midnight."
"And I also," returned Timothy, resuming his steady strides; "but less
from the fear of ghosts and goblins than from dread of footpads and
thievish vagabonds; for the place hath been overrun with them these many
weeks past. 'Twas in that self-same hollow that Farmer Uscombe was
robbed of his purse, and ten angels in it, only a seven nights since.
Faith, my master, but the man in front of us hath truly a lusty and
tuneful voice! Ay, and a clear. You can e'en hear his very words. 'Tis
some mariner's song he singeth, touching the taming of the blustering
winds or some such theme. Hark at him!"
The two lads gave no thought to the continuance of their broken
conversation, but walked silently onward through the dark lane, guiding
their way by the level patches of snowy ground that lay between the high
and shadowy banks at the roadside. The wayfarer in advance of them was
either walking very slowly or else coming towards them from the opposite
direction, for his merry ditty became more and more distinct with every
step they took.
"Who thinks to strive against the stream,
And for to sail without a mast,
Or without compass cross the main,
His travel is forlorn and waste;
And so in cure of all his pain
His travel is his chiefest gain.
"So he likewise, that goes about
To please each eye and every ear,
He needs to have, withouten doubt,
A golden gift with him to bear;
For ill report shall be his gain
Though he bestow both toil and pain.
"God grant each man once to amend;
God send us all a happy place;
And let us pray unto the end
That we may have our prince's grace:
Amen, amen! so shall we gain
A due reward for all our pain."
Thus he sang. And at the close of each verse he broke out into a lively
chorus that echoed through the woods. Towards the last, however, he
stopped very suddenly, and his melody presently gave place to a loud
alarming cry for help.
"Thieves! Cut-purses!" he cried "Ah, had I but a sword!"
The two lads set off at once at a quick run in the direction whence the
cry had come.
They had gone but fifty yards or so, when at a sharp turn in the lane
they came upon some four men whose figures loomed darkly through the
mist of falling snow. One of the men lay struggling on the ground
trying to disentangle his head and arms from his cloak, while two of
his assailants knelt over him, the one evidently robbing him of such
valuables as he might have about him, the other with a dagger
threateningly drawn. The fourth man stood apart, encouraging them in
their evil work.
[Illustration: "TIMOTHY CAUGHT HIM BY THE NECK AND HURLED HIM BACK."]
Gilbert and Timothy understood in a moment what was going on. The victim
of this night attack was doubtless the wayfarer whom they had heard but
a few minutes before carolling his moral ditty; and these three
vagabonds had fallen upon him from their ambush in the dingle, where
they had probably waited with intent to waylay the first passer-by and
rob him.
"Out with your rapier, Master Gilbert!" cried Timothy as he drew his own
weapon. "We must e'en rescue the man. Yet use your blade discreetly, for
'twill go ill with us if we do slay one of the rascals."
He flung himself upon the man nearest to him--the one with the drawn
dagger,--caught him by the neck and hurled him back into the ditch.
Gilbert Oglander was about to deal in like manner with the other robber,
when the third man, who had hitherto stood apart,--a very tall man,
wearing a wide slouched hat and a long cloak,--sprang upon him and
forced him back.
Timothy now stood over their fallen victim, guarding him while he
struggled to his knees. In the meantime the one whom Tim had flung into
the ditch had regained his feet and drawn his rapier. Wrapping the skirt
of his cloak about his left arm, he leapt upon Gilbert Oglander. In the
darkness Gilbert scarcely saw his intention, and might have been taken
wholly unaware had not Timothy warned him at the right moment. Gilbert
caught his adversary's rapier on his own blade and returned the attack.
The man facing him was small, lithe, and evidently well skilled in the
use of his weapon. Bending his body forward, he stretched forth his
cloaked left arm, thus shielding himself. Gilbert made a thrust at the
man's right side, but with no greater result than to strike a spark of
fire from the other's blade. In recovering his balance he felt his left
foot slip upon a clod of snow; he fell forward, and at the same moment
there was a sharp twinge of pain in the upper part of his right arm. His
sword dropped from his grasp and he rolled over.
When he rose to his feet again he saw that the three robbers had
escaped. Timothy, and the wayfarer who had been the cause of this
encounter, were down in the ditch, peering through a dark gap in the
bank by which the three vagabonds had made their way into the wood.
"The rascals! They have escaped us!" Timothy was saying. "Well, there is
small harm done, and no one is hurt!"
"Small harm, say you?" cried the wayfarer, speaking now for the first
time. "But they have robbed me--robbed me of all that I had in the
world!"
"Your all cannot surely have been much, my friend, since you carried it
with you so lightly," said Timothy. "There is little use in making such
dole over a trifle."
"Ah, you do not know, you do not know!" said the other, pacing to and
fro in his dire distress. "As well might they have taken my life as what
they have gone off with."
Timothy searched into the man's face, yet saw nothing to enlighten him
in the black darkness.
"Art thou of Plymouth?" he presently asked.
"That I am, my master," came the reply. "My name, sirs, is Jacob
Hartop--Jacob Hartop that went out with John Hawkins in the year
sixty-seven, and that hath now come home only to be waylaid and robbed
by a parcel of villainous cut-purses that sprang upon me from among the
trees yonder. I had not heard them behind me, for it chanced that, being
somewhat lonesome on dry land, I fell to chanting a little song, as it
were for company's sake. I warrant me the ruffians would not so have
overpowered me had they not thrown my cloak over my eyes and mouth, and
thus disabled me from defending myself."
He drew the garment about his shoulders, turning up its high collar
round his neck. "'Tis a cloak that a kindly young gentleman gave unto me
as I stepped ashore," he went on. "Had I been without it I might have
worsted my assailants; and yet had I not had it I must surely have been
slain, for one of the villains stabbed at me with his dagger with intent
to take my life, and by God's providence the blade, instead of entering
my heart, struck upon one of these gay silver buttons."
He paused and looked at Gilbert as the lad limped towards him. Even in
the darkness he seemed to recognize him.
"Now, beshrew me if thou art not the self-same young gentleman who gave
me the cloak," he cried in grateful surprise. Then, noticing that
Gilbert walked lame, he added, "But thou art limping! Hast hurt thy leg
in the scrimmage?"
Timothy glanced in alarm at his young master, and besought him to tell
what injury he had received.
"I slipped on the snow," explained Gilbert, "and gave my foot a twist.
'Tis naught to speak of. Come, let us hasten home. Sir Francis Drake
hath gone to spend the night with my grandfather and certain of his
friends from London, and we may yet be in time to hear him relate some
of his adventures ere he returns to Plymouth. I will take thy arm,
Timothy, for my foot is paining me, and--".
He was about to tell that he had been wounded, but not wishing to alarm
his companions, or perhaps a little ashamed of being defeated by a mere
footpad, he kept the matter to himself.
"What do I hear?" exclaimed Jacob Hartop. "Didst thou not speak the name
of Francis Drake--Sir Francis Drake? God be thanked! Then he is still
alive, eh? And hath risen in the world since the days when he and I were
shipmates? Sir Francis, forsooth! Well, he deserveth all the honours
that a prince can bestow upon him. Right well do I mind the time when we
were at Nombre de Dios. Ah! that was a time, my masters. But 'tis a long
story. Whither are ye bound for?"
"We go to the manor-house of Modbury," answered Timothy.
"Ah! I know it well," returned Hartop as he trudged along the lane at
Gilbert's right side. "'Tis my Lord Champernoun's place, and I doubt not
you will both be in his lordship's service--pages in his household
belike?" He did not wait for an answer to his last remark, but went on
with a cheerfulness that was surprising in an old man; a man, moreover,
who had just been robbed of all his worldly wealth: "Prithee, have they
mended the old bell that hung in the little turret above the stables?
Ha, ha! 'Twas I that broke it, flinging a stone at a blue jay that was
perched upon the weather-vane. Many are the apples and pears I stole
from out the orchard there; ay, and the rabbits and pheasants I trapped
i' the woods! His lordship had a Flanders mare by name Nancy, that he
was wont to ride upon to London. She had a white star betwixt her eyes,
and a most shrewish temper withal. None could ride her but his lordship
and William Stevens; though 'tis true she would willingly eat an apple
o' mornings from out my lady's hand. Is the animal still as full of her
tricks as she used to be?"
"'Tis like enough that the animal is in her grave these twenty years,
Master Hartop," said Timothy, smiling to himself at the old man's memory
of a time long past.
"Ay, like enough, like enough," mused the old man. "Time doth slip by
with astonishing speed--though, indeed, 'twas laggard enough in the
galleys and in the prison of Cadiz."
"I pray you tarry a moment," interposed Gilbert, suppressing a groan of
pain. "I cannot walk so fast. My ankle hurts me at every step. I beg you
haul off my boot, Tim, to give me a few moments' ease. Come closer,
Master Hartop, and let me lean on your shoulder."
The old man obeyed, while Timothy went down on his knees in the mud and
tried, but with little success, to remove the offending boot. He was
interrupted by a sudden cry from Hartop.
"God bless us all, what is this?" the mariner cried, running his hand
over Gilbert's right arm. "There be surely more wet here than hath come
from a few flakes of snow. Why, 'tis blood, my master, 'tis blood! Thou
art wounded!"
"Wounded?" echoed Timothy rising excitedly to his feet. "Oh, my master!
Wherefore didst thou not tell us of this before? Where is the wound?"
"The fellow's rapier pierced me in the arm," explained Gilbert in a
faint voice, as he leaned yet more helplessly on Hartop's shoulder. "But
'tis not much, I do assure you."
Timothy Trollops pressed his open palm upon the lad's sleeve, and,
finding it wet from shoulder to wrist, "Not much?" he cried. "Why,
thou'rt scarce able to stand, so much blood hath streamed from thee!
Thou'rt well-nigh fainting! Had I but known of this at the time, I
warrant me the scoundrel should not have escaped so easily. Wouldst know
the man again, my master?"
"Not I," murmured Gilbert in a yet fainter voice. "I saw not his face."
"Nor I neither," added Jacob Hartop. "'Twas too dark to see aught but
their shadowy forms, even if mine own face had not been half-smothered
under my cloak. But they are clean gone now you'll be saying, and 'twill
avail us little to go in search of them or to tarry here any longer
while one of us is sore wounded." He put his arms about Gilbert and
added: "Heave thyself on to my back, young friend, and I will carry
thee. 'Tis but a small distance if I mind aright from here to Thomas
Southam's mill, where peradventure we shall get help, and a horse to
carry thee further."
Timothy gently pushed the old man aside.
"Thy memory is like to an old almanack, Master Hartop," he said, "and of
as little value for present use. Southam's mill was burnt to the ground
a good ten years ago, and hath never yet been rebuilt."
"What?" cried Hartop, and, as if the information concerning the mill had
staggered him, he stepped backward, allowing Gilbert Oglander to slip
from his grasp. "Burnt to the ground!" he repeated. "Then prithee, young
sir, what hath become of the miller's fair young daughter Betty--Betty
Southam that promised to wait for me when I sailed away to foreign
lands, ay, and to marry me when I should come back with the fortune that
I meant to gain for her? What hath become of her, I say?"
Timothy lifted Gilbert upon his knee and held him there while he
answered:
"Betty Southam? Ah! I knew her when I was a little child. But I do
protest she was then neither young nor fair. As to what hath become of
her, 'tis soon told, Master Hartop. She was found lying dead one
winter's morning in Beddington Woods."
"Alas!" cried Hartop. "Then was my song indeed prophetic, for all my
travel hath in very truth been 'forlorn and waste'."
"Listen!" interrupted Timothy. "Hear you not the sound of horses' feet
upon the road? 'Tis surely our robbers, riding away."
"I hear them plainly," returned Hartop. "There be two horses, as I judge
by the sound. And, far from retreating, they are coming nearer and
nearer. I pray Heaven that they be friends who will help us!"
Gilbert Oglander had now somewhat recovered from his faintness, and with
the help of his two companions he limped to the side of the road, where,
sitting on the edge of the ditch, he at length succeeded in pulling off
his boot, for his ankle had been badly sprained and was already somewhat
swollen.
The three waited there in silence at the roadside until the horsemen
whom they had heard approaching came within a few yards of them, when
Timothy Trollope stepped out in front of them, and waving his hands
aloft called aloud to them to halt. His call was not needed, however,
for the horsemen had already drawn rein.
"So-ho!" cried one of them as he unsheathed his sword, and spurring his
horse again he drove the animal on as if to run Timothy down. "We have
caught you, you rascals, have we?" he cried with an oath. "We shall
teach you better than to go about a-pillaging of honest folks' farmyards
and carrying off their ducks and hens! 'Tis Plymouth gaol that shall be
your lodging to-night if I be not vastly in error." He turned to his
companion, "Now, Jake," he ordered, "look you to those two in the ditch
there! See that they escape not into the wood."
Timothy sprang forward and seized the horse's bridle.
"Hold hard, Bob Harvey," he cried, addressing the rider. "Have a care
where y'are driving your horse. Can you not see who we are, man? Here be
Master Oglander, bleeding and well-nigh dead of a great sword-cut given
him by a thief of a footpad but a few minutes since."
"Od's life, Master Tim, is't yourself then?" cried the horseman drawing
back. "Faith, lad, I had nearly run you through. What bringeth you here
at such an hour? And Master Gilbert wounded, say you?--and by footpads?
Prithee, how many were there? I'll be sworn 'twas the self-same gang
that we are now seeking."
"There were three of them," answered Timothy. "And after robbing this
poor old man here and wounding Master Gilbert they made off through
Beddington Woods."
"Ay, three there were at the Manor Farm. I warrant me, they are the same
lot," declared Bob Harvey. Then he added, turning to his follower,
"Come, Jake, we may catch them yet if so be we gallop round to the other
road." And he dug his spurs into his horse's side.
"Stay!" cried Timothy, gripping the reins. "Thou'dst best dismount, Bob,
and give up thy horse to the young master; or else take him up beside
thee and ride home with him. As for the thieves, or poachers, or
whatever they be, Jake Thew may continue the chase alone."
"As you will, Master Timothy," returned Harvey; "but methinks Master
Gilbert had better get up in front of me. 'Tis an ill-mannered animal
this, and hard to manage."
So Gilbert Oglander mounted on the horse's back and rode slowly
homeward, while the second horseman galloped off alone along the lane in
the direction of the town. Timothy intended to go home afoot, running
all the way by his master's side, but ere he started off he turned to
Jacob Hartop.
"And now, Master Hartop," said he, "prithee, where go you to-night? Hast
got a home in these parts?"
Jacob was silent for some moments. At last he said:
"I had meant to rest myself at Southam's Mill, where they have daily
expected me these twenty years and more. But if, as you say, the mill
hath been burnt down, why, then, there is not a house in the land that I
can call my home. Howbeit, I doubt not I shall find goodly shelter under
the lee of some friendly haystack. 'Twill not be the first, no, nor the
hundredth time that I have slept in the open air. And believe me, my
master, he is a happy man who hath none to thank for his food and
shelter saving only his God."
"I do perceive that thou art an easily contented mortal," remarked
Timothy with a ring of sympathy in his voice.
"Privation hath made me so," returned Hartop.
"Nevertheless," pursued Tim, "you will, so please you, think no more of
the haystack, but come on to the manor of Modbury; for sure I am that
Master Oglander would blame me most severely were I to suffer you to go
adrift like a lost creature."
Hartop answered very seriously and firmly: "Were there no other house in
all England, my master, I should still refuse to take shelter in the
manor of Modbury."
"And wherefore?" asked Timothy in surprise.
"Because," returned the old mariner, "it is in that same house that my
bitterest enemy doth live--Jasper Oglander to wit."
"Pooh!" rejoined Timothy. "Jasper Oglander is dead these many years."
"Not so," declared Hartop. "You, indeed, and many others may believe him
dead. But in this matter, at the least, I make no mistake; for hark ye,
my friend, Jasper Oglander is as much alive at this moment as you or I.
You and your young friend may not have known him--how should you?--but
'twas he whom you saw this very day coming ashore from the ship _Pearl_;
he and his wife and his son. If you should see him again,--as I doubt
not you will ere many hours be past,--you shall know him by the token
that he hath an old knife-cut across his cheek: a cut that was dealt to
him by one whom he sought to treacherously murder."