by Tom Bevan
Chapter XIV.
WHAT HAPPENED IN WESTBURY STEEPLE.
The battle was over, and there remained but the counting of the cost.The admiral had lost a third of his force, who lay dead on the deck, oron the shifting sands beneath the yellow tide. There was hardly a manthat had not received a wound. Johnnie Morgan had gone down under thelast wild-cat spring of the Irish captain.
"We must have a light," cried Drake; "this vessel is a firebrand. Someof you fetch up combustibles from below."
The ship was stuck fast into the bank, the tide pounding her viciouslyas she lay. In a short while a fire was roaring on the Arlingham bank,and by its glare the deck was cleared of its ghastly burden, and thewounded attended to. Hallooing across the river, Drake ordered thoseon the other side to secure boats from somewhere, and come acrossstream to render him assistance. Messengers went off to theneighbouring farms to bring carts and mattresses and stuff forbandaging; for the tale of wounded, friend and foe, was a long one.Willing hands and legs went to work, but it was bright morning ere muchassistance arrived. Johnnie Morgan was not seriously wounded. Asword-cut on the head had stunned him for a while, and now laid him,sick, dizzy, and bleeding, on the bank; but he was able to tell theadmiral that he felt nothing but a "plaguy bad headache."
We will leave him cooling in the dewy morning, and see what has becomeof Master Windybank and some of those associated with him. The masterof Dean Tower, deeming his treachery well known, and not reckoning uponany chance of life if he fell into the admiral's hands, rose to theheight of a desperate occasion, and fought in so resolute a fashionthat he was not outdone by the tigerish Basil or the cold-bloodedJerome. The arch-plotter, who kept by the side of his untrustworthyrecruit, was astonished at the reckless valour he displayed. Truth totell, Jerome was half inclined to believe that Windybank had played adouble part, and was responsible for the admiral's knowledge of theplot for unlading the _Luath_.
Entertaining such a notion, he was watching Master Andrew closely; andhad he detected any signs of half-heartedness, or any movement towardsescape, he would have run the young man through the body withouthesitation. But the suspected one proved, for the nonce, a leader thatwould have led stouter-hearted fellows to victory; and Father Jerome,seeing the fight was hopeless, determined to give Windybank a chance offurther life and usefulness in the Spanish cause. He slowly gave wayin the direction of the river, and whispered his companion to dolikewise.
"Skin whole?" he asked.
"Ay," panted Andrew.
"Fall into the river as though badly wounded, and try to save thyself.I shall do the same. Leave Basil and John to fight this out."
A moment later Windybank toppled backwards into the stream. He was agood swimmer, else had the Jesuit's advice availed him nothing, and herose to the surface and turned over on to his breast like a porpoise.He fixed his sword between his teeth, and left himself to the rush ofthe tide, putting in a few strokes now and then in order to keep aproper course. A short time sufficed to put him out of the area ofactual conflict, and he rested himself for a moment to consider whatwas best for him to do. He did not suppose that his foes would put anescape to his credit, for his voice had been heard loudly enough in thefight until the waters had closed above him. He determined to essaythe crossing of the river, as giving him the better chance of a run forliberty, but he found the task beyond him; the fighting had fatiguedhim, and the current ran like a mill-race. For the present, at anyrate, he must remain on his own side of the Severn. He swam a littlefarther up-stream, then made for a place where the bank was low, andscrambled out. For a while he waited to see whether Father Jerome hadfollowed him. Getting no signs of his leader, he turned to thepressing question of his own immediate safety. He quickly decided notto seek any hiding-place in the forest; the river offered a betterchannel for escape. If he could secrete himself for a while, a chancewould offer itself of running down on the tide after nightfall. Itwould not be difficult to find a boat, and the Welsh coast of theestuary should afford him a safe asylum until he could make fullerplans concerning his future. The voyage would be a perilous one, buthe saw no other chance of escaping capture and death.
The gray cottages of Westbury were before him, backed by the church andits tall spire. A thought flashed across his mind like an inspiration:his riverside hiding-place was found! The spire was isolated from thechurch, and was entirely of wood, save for a stone stump. Great beamscrossed and recrossed one another, in an ever-narrowing pyramid, forabout two hundred feet. Up in the dimness and final darkness near theapex was security for any man.
Windybank stole across the river meadow to the nearest house. The doorstood open and the place was empty. The neighbouring house was in likecondition, and a quick survey told him that the fisher-folk, hearingsounds of the fight, had gone down to learn what strange business wasadoing at midnight. Master Andrew was deficient neither in caution norin cunning. He acted promptly. A pantry was visited, and a loaf ofbread abstracted. He slipped from the house and passed through theorchard. He stuffed his pockets with half-ripe apples; they would helpto quench his thirst, and he could hope for no water in his lofty placeof concealment.
He got to the churchyard wicket, passed through, floundered over themelancholy mounds that strewed God's acre, and reached the square,stone stump upon which the wooden spire was reared, and in which hungthe bells. The door was on the latch, the lower part of the belfrybeing used as a storehouse for odds and ends of stone, wood, and ropebelonging to the church itself. Windybank knew his bearings fairlywell. He found the staircase, and began to wend upwards to thebell-chamber. About twenty feet up he felt a rush of cool, river air,and he knew that he had passed the first lattice. A little later, andhe was on the belfry floor, his hands feeling the chill, smooth surfaceof the largest bell. Aching with fatigue and excitement, he sat down.He did not propose to attempt the perilous climb upwards in thedarkness, and daylight could not be far off. Hunger sent in itsclaims; he broke the loaf, and munched a couple of sour apples. Thefood refreshed him, and he felt he could wait patiently for the dawn.
Day came, and with it a buzz of excitement in the village. Windybankventured to peep through the topmost lattice and scan the groups ofexcited gossips. Then he looked aloft through the great network ofbeams and rafters. He was tired, and his brain swam inside his head.The apex of the spire looked fearfully high and dark, and the brown,cobwebbed maze of woodwork bewildered him. The latch below clicked;some one was in the lower tower. The great bell began to swing; thesexton was ringing an alarm. Seized by a sudden fright, Windybankclambered by a bell-wheel to the first huge beam. He got his fingerson it and swung his body across. He gained the next, and the next; hewas twenty feet above the floor of the bell-chamber. The boom of thebell was deafening. He paused for breath, and then hurried on hisupward way, slipping sometimes, but never falling.
Suddenly the bell stopped; a deep hum of sound spun and echoed in thenarrowing cone where Windybank was giddily clinging. He had pausedagain to recover breath and stability. Looking down, he saw a headrising from the tower steps into the bell-chamber; the sexton had comeup to readjust the rope. The fugitive's guilty conscience put anothermeaning upon his act; he felt sure that signs of his presence had beennoted, and that the fellow had come up to search for him. A little wayabove him was darkness and security. He turned quickly to make a lastnoiseless dash, but he missed his grip and his footing. For a momenthe hung, while his heart stood still. Then he fell with sickening thudand crash from beam to beam. The startled sexton looked up and criedout; and the traitor's body toppled in its last wild spin, and fell athis feet. He lifted it up. The face was beaten almost out ofrecognition, and the neck was broken.
The receding tide left Father Jerome's body on the sands. He delayedhis plunge into the river a moment too long, and a thrust fromRaleigh's sword speeded him into the yellow waters. John was found onthe bank, dead likewise. Basil's body was searched for in vain. Hewas accounte
d as dead, for men protested stoutly that they had woundedhim more than once. But a scotched viper does not always die.Gatcombe men were destined to prove the truth of that.