Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: "INCH BY INCH THEY WERE DRIVEN BACK"]
A Lad of Grit
A Story of Adventure on Land
and Sea in Restoration Times
by
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
_ILLUSTRATED BY EDWARD S. HODGSON_
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW
1909
By Percy F. Westerman
Captain Fosdyke's Gold.
In Defiance of the Ban.
Captain Sang.
The Senior Cadet.
The Amir's Ruby.
The Secret of the Plateau.
Leslie Dexter, Cadet.
All Hands to the Boats.
A Mystery of the Broads.
Rivals of the Reef.
A Shanghai Adventure.
Pat Stobart in the "Golden Dawn".
The Junior Cadet.
Captain Starlight.
The Sea-Girt Fortress.
On the Wings of the Wind.
Captured at Tripoli.
Captain Blundell's Treasure.
The Third Officer.
Unconquered Wings.
The Riddle of the Air.
Chums of the "Golden Vanity".
Clipped Wings.
The Luck of the "Golden Dawn".
The Salving of the "Fusi Yama".
Winning his Wings.
A Lively Bit of the Front.
A Cadet of the Mercantile Marine.
The Good Ship "Golden Effort".
East In the "Golden Gain".
The Quest of the "Golden Hope".
Sea Scouts Abroad.
Sea Scouts Up-Channel.
The Wireless Officer.
A Lad of Grit.
The Submarine Hunters.
Sea Scouts All.
The Thick of the Fray.
A Sub and a Submarine.
Under the White Ensign.
The Fight for Constantinople.
With Beatty off Jutland.
The Dispatch Riders.
_Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow_
----
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--How the Tidings of the Restoration Came to Rake
CHAPTER II--Of the Arrest and Escape of Increase Joyce
CHAPTER III--Concerning my Journey to Portsmouth
CHAPTER IV--How Judgment was Passed on the Dorset Smugglers
CHAPTER V--Of my First Ship, the _Gannet_
CHAPTER VI--Of the Finding of Pedro Alvarez, and of the Strange Tale
that he Told
CHAPTER VII--Concerning the Treasure Island
CHAPTER VIII--Of an Encounter with an Algerine Corsair
CHAPTER IX--I lose the _Little Gannet_
CHAPTER X--How I Defended the Foretop
CHAPTER XI--Of the Manner of my Homecoming
CHAPTER XII--The Smugglers' Cave
CHAPTER XIII--The Escape
CHAPTER XIV--I Set Out to Fight the Dutch
CHAPTER XV--Of the Famous Sea Fight of Four Days
CHAPTER XVI--I Meet an Old Enemy
CHAPTER XVII--Showing that there are Two Means of Leaving a Prison
CHAPTER XVIII--The Veil is Partly Drawn
CHAPTER XIX--How Three Horsemen set out for the North
CHAPTER XX--What we Heard and Saw at Holwick.
CHAPTER XXI--Our Search for the Treasure
----
Illustrations
Inch by inch they were driven back . . . . . . Frontispiece
I ran at my father's murderer and rained blow after blow upon his head
and body
They clambered up our sides with the greatest intrepidity
The chest is hoisted to the surface
CHAPTER I--How the Tidings of the Restoration Came to Rake
The sun was slowly sinking behind the tree-clad Hampshire Downs.
Already the long shadows of Rake Hill lay athwart the misty coombe, and
the glimmer of the innumerable forges in the valley beneath began to
hold its own against the rapidly fading daylight. The cold east wind,
for it was but the beginning of March, in the year of grace 1660,
whistled through the clump of gaunt pine trees that marked the summit of
the hill, and, despite the fact that each of us wore a thick doublet,
the chilly blast cut us like a knife.
I remember that evening well; its stirring incidents are graven on my
memory as if they had happened but yesterday, though nigh on twoscore
and ten winters and summers have passed over my head since the eventful
year of which I write.
My father and I were returning homewards from the great fair at
Petersfield. For an old man, he being well over sixty years of age, my
father was the marvel of our village. Tall but sparely built, his frame
betokened a strength of body that harmonized with the determination of
character that made itself known by the glance of his steel-coloured
eyes. Report says that when he came to Rake to settle down, some twelve
or thirteen years back--I being but an infant in arms,--he did gain a
lasting reputation by outmatching one Caleb James, a notorious bully, at
his own game, breaking his pate with his own staff on the roadside hard
by Milland Church.
Moreover, as proof of his hardiness, is there not the testimony of the
worthy Master Hugh Salesbury, the chirurgeon of Lyss--the same whose son
fell in Torrington's action off Beachy Head,--to the effect that though
practice was slack around Lyss, yet he perforce would have to give up if
none were better patients than honest Owen Wentworth.
Despite the fact that he was on the losing side, my father was not
backward in declaring his attachment to His Gracious Majesty King
Charles II; and although our neighbours, even the Roundheads, were
favourably disposed to him, making allowance for his fiery temper, yet
with strangers who passed along the great highway betwixt London Town
and Portsmouth, honest Owen's outspoken declarations oft led to wordy
strife, and on occasions ended in blows.
In defiance of the Puritan regulations against anything tending towards
the lost cause, my father, though ruined by confiscations and
sequestration, endeavoured to maintain the appearance of a careless and
social demeanour, ever cherishing a hope that each day seemed nearer
fulfilment.
He still retained his flowing lovelocks, while the lower part of his
weather-worn face was adorned by a greyish beard of Van Dyck cut, which
failed to hide a portion of a long, whitish scar that extended from his
left eyebrow to his cheek bone--the legacy of a pike-thrust in the
sanguinary encounter of Cropredy Bridge. He was dressed in a dark-blue
suit, relieved by a deep collar of Mechlin lace, while, on account of
the severity of the weather, he was further attired in a long cloak that
barely concealed the end of a short hanger--a necessary weapon in these
troublous times. I also knew that he carried two long dags, or Scottish
pistols, yet of these there was no outward sign.
As we neared the foot of the hill, instead of turning to the right
towards our home, my father broke the silence by saying:
"I will call in at the 'Flying Bull'. Possibly the chapman from
Godalming is there. If so, I can replenish my stock of gun flints."
As we entered the doorway of the "Flying Bull"--an old hostelry that has
sheltered all sorts and conditions of men, from kings and queens even to
the arch-traitor Old Noll himself, and the sign of which, painted by a
limner who had learned his art in the time of the last crusade, had
swung in the breeze for nigh on four hundred years--we were greeted with
a chorus of welcome from the score or so of persons assembled in the
large stone-flagged common room.
"How goes the price of malt and barley at Petersfield?" questioned one
man in a voice that was like to the bellowing of a bull.
"Man," retorted another, "doth thy reasoning not rise above the price of
petty huckstering, Obadiah Blow-the-trumpet-in-Zion? Heed him not, good
Master Wentworth. Hast news of honest George Monk and his army?"
"None, though rumour hath it that the fleet at Portsmouth hath sided
with Monk, and that John Tippets, the mayor, hath called out the train
bands and manned the ordnance on the Platform and the Square Tower.
Moreover, a trusty messenger hath reached Sir Giles Seaward with orders
to raise the countryside and to assemble in Petersfield marketplace
to-morrow at noon. God forfend that this land be not again drenched in
blood!"
"Ay," rejoined another, "but, as man to man, Master Wentworth, what
think ye? How blows the wind in London?" he added darkly.
"My friend, mark ye well, the wind blows straight from the Low Country."
"No," thundered a voice from a seat in the chimney corner; "the blast of
the Lord, that destroyed Sennacherib and his host, will utterly consume
the malignants, including Charles Stuart, the son of the enemy of the
people of England!" My father sprang to his feet, white with fury. All
eyes were centred on the speaker. He was a short, thick-set man of about
forty years of age, with a bull-neck, huge ears, small ferrety eyes,
close-cropped hair, and a clean-shaven face deeply pitted with smallpox.
He wore a buff-coloured jerkin, opened at the neck for comfort's sake,
and frayed and soiled from the wearing of armour, his breast- and
back-plates of dull steel having been removed. These, together with a
steel helmet with metal guards, and a heavy broadsword, lay on the
settle within arm's length, while a petronel and a well-weighted
bandolier hung across the back of a chair on which the man's feet,
encased in long Spanish boots, rested.
On my father striding across the room, the stranger leisurely rose from
his seat and extended his hand in an attitude of contemptuous reproof.
"Tut, man, 'tis time thy grey hairs taught thee wisdom! Wouldst
threaten me, Increase Joyce, trooper of Parliamentary Horse?"
"Draw, knave, draw!" shouted my father, whipping out his hanger.
"Either unsay those words or else swallow them!"
Instantly all was confusion. Some of the more timid made towards the
door, tables were overturned, tankards clattered on the floor, excited
men shouted in unintelligible voices. For my own part, I remained by my
father's side, unable to take my eyes off his antagonist, and, at the
same time, knowing that my father in his choler would brook no
interference from me.
"I fight not with old men," retorted Joyce. "But this I know: 'The axe
is laid unto the root of the trees', an' if that arch-profligate,
Charles Stuart, were to set foot in England----"
He was interrupted by a violent knocking at the door, which, being
thrown wide open, showed a man fully armed and holding the reins of a
steaming and apparently exhausted horse.
"Host!" he shouted. "Where or which is the host?"
Old Giles Perrin, the innkeeper, came forward and awaited his commands.
"Now, sirrah, on thy life, hasten! Provender for my beast; a cup of
spiced ale for myself. With all dispatch, man, for I am on the service
of the State!"
The stranger strode into the room, stooped and replaced one of the
overturned stools, seated himself thereon, and, removing a cloth that
encircled his neck, wiped his heated brow vigorously. Then he stared
haughtily around at the assembled company, seized the cup that old Giles
brought, and drained it at one gulp.
I remarked that he spoke with an accent totally different from the
Southern dialect of our part of Hampshire and Sussex, but my doubts were
soon set at rest.
"How far down yon road is't to Petersfield? And is one like to meet
aught of footpads, drawlatches, or vagrants of that condition?"
It was my father who answered him, yet barely had he opened his mouth
when the stranger clapped him on the shoulder:
"By all the powers of darkness! You, S----"
"Hold, man!" replied my father in a tone that implied no denial. Then,
in an undertone, I heard him say: "I am now but Owen Wentworth,
gentleman yeoman, at your service."
"I am still Ralph Slingsby, though, thanks to my General Monk, cornet of
horse no longer, but captain in his favourite regiment. Let me think.
'Tis but thrice that I have seen thee since we parted at Holwick, you to
join the king at Nottingham, I to enrol under my Lord Essex. First, at
Edgehill, when I, a mere stripling, lay under the hoofs of Rupert's
horse. Secondly, at Cropredy Bridge, when I did turn aside the pike
that would have let your soul out of the keeping of your body. Lastly,
when at the trial of----"
"Ssh! I would have you remember that the rising generation hath long
ears."
My father spoke truly, for though the stranger had uttered his lengthy
speech but in an undertone, yet I, with the curiosity of youth, did not
fail to hear, much to my mystification. Knowing also that the remark
about "the rising generation" was applied to me, I must needs raise my
hands to my ears to feel if they were long, much to Ralph Slingsby's
amusement.
"So this is your son, Master Wentworth? A fitting chip of the old block!
What wouldst thou be, lad; a fighting man, like thy sire?"
"Ay," I replied. "But I would love to go to sea, and become famous like
Admiral Blake, e'en though he were a Roundhead!"
"What knowest thou of Blake?"
"Henry Martin hath told me tales of his gallant deeds, and besides, he
hath shown me his medal of bronze, inscribed: 'For eminent service in
saving ye _Triumph_, fired in fight with ye Dutch'. That was the sea
fight in which Martin lost his leg."
"Ah, Master Wentworth, that's the spirit I like! The time hath come
when Englishmen cease from flying at each other's throats. Host, my
score!"
Then, shaking my father by the hand, and patting me kindly on the head,
he strode towards the door; then, turning, he addressed the company:
"Gentlemen, I beg you take heed that yesternight a messenger was sent to
Holland to invite His Majesty King Charles II to return to his throne.
I bear orders to the fleet at Portsmouth that they all, with the
exception of the _Naseby_, the name of which giveth offence to His
Majesty, proceed to the Downs, there to welcome our sovereign lord. God
save the King!"
While the silence that prevailed in the room, following on this
startling announcement, still remained, I could hear the thud of horse's
hoofs as Ralph Slingsby resumed his momentous journey towards
Petersfield.
When, a quarter of an hour or so later, we left the "Flying Bull", the
moon had risen, throwing the long shadows of the dark pines athwart the
road. Our humble abode lay about a mile on the by-road from Rake to
Midhurst, and homewards we stepped, our thick-soled shoes ringing on the
frosty road. When but half the distance was covered, I heard the sound
of the crackling of the dry brushwood in a coppice on our left, followed
by the cry of a bird and the fluttering of its wings as it flew over our
heads.
Instinctively I edged closer to my father and grasped his left hand.
"Lad, art afraid of a fox running through the covert?" he exclaimed.
"And wouldst be a sailor, too!"
In spite of my boast in the well-lit room of the "Flying Bull", my heart
throbbed painfully, and my reply seemed like to stick in my throat. We
continued in silence, and presently came to a spot where a large
reed-fringed lake lay on the right-hand side of the road, while on the
other a dense clump of gaunt firs threw a dismal gloom over our path.
As we neared the clump a voice, authoritative, harsh, and yet familiar,
shouted:
"Stand!"
And into the moonlight stepped a short, thick-set man, whom I recognized
as the soldier who caused the turmoil at the inn, Increase Joyce.
For the second time that night my father unsheathed his hanger, and,
pushing me behind him, advanced towards the man.
"Stand!" he repeated. "See here; a word in thine ear, Master Wentworth.
Less than an hour agone I said: 'I fight not with old men'. I recall
those words. With me it is a case of doing in Rome as do the Romans.
The Commonwealth is at an end, therefore I am a Parliamentarian no
longer. Instead, I journey to the Rhine to join the German freebooters,
or else to the Spanish Main to throw in my lot with the buccaneers of
the Indies--it matters not which; but ere I go I have an account to
settle with the Lord of Holwick. Little did I think to find him hiding
in an obscure Sussex village. Dost remember twenty years aback--the
trysting place under the Holmwood Oak?--Ah! ... Nay! Stand, at thy
peril!"
But my father, white with passion, still advanced, the moonbeams dancing
on his glittering blade. Joyce unslung his petronel, and covered his
antagonist when within fifteen or twenty paces.
"Murderer!" shouted my father.
"As you will; I take no risks with steel," and immediately the report of
the weapon burst upon my ears like a clap of thunder, while the trees
were illuminated by the flash of the discharge. I shut my eyes and
screamed in terror, and on opening them I saw--oh, merciful Heaven!--a
convulsive form lying in the road, while the Roundhead stood watching me
intently, the smoke from his petronel hanging round like a pall, and
slowly ascending in the chill night air.
In an instant my terror left me and I became a demon. Grasping my oak
cudgel in my hand, I ran at my father's murderer and rained blow after
blow upon his head and body. It was but a forlorn attempt. His
headpiece and armour received the blows as lightly as if they were from
a straw, and with an oath he smote me heavily on the chest with the butt
of his pistol, so that I reeled, fell backward across the body of my
murdered sire, and struck my head on the frosty road. Multitudes of
lights flashed before my eyes, followed by a red glare, and I lost all
consciousness.
[Illustration: "I RAN AT MY FATHER'S MURDERER AND RAINED BLOW AFTER BLOW
UPON HIS HEAD AND BODY"]