Sea-Dogs All!

by Tom Bevan

  Chapter XXIX.

  THE WIDOW'S HOUSE.

  The springtide sun set ruddily and frostily across the Sound; and asthe fiery ball hung for a moment on the western shore, a broad pathwaylike a pathway of rippling blood, or deep-tinged, running gold, went ina line from Ian Davey's boatyard to the Cornish coast.

  "An omen!" cried Dan, seeing with the eye of the superstitious sailor."We sail to wealth over a golden sea."

  Nick shook his head. "The colour is not yellow enough for my liking.Is the boat ready?"

  "Ay."

  "Then let us be going whilst the breeze holds easterly."

  Ian Davey's lad came out of the boathouse with a pair of oars on hisshoulders. He went down to a little fisher boat that rocked gentlyagainst the end of the wooden jetty. The two sailor-men followed him.The mast was stepped, and they pushed out from the shore, the two menrowing and the lad steering. As soon as they were far enough out tocatch the breeze the sail was set, and the little craft went bowlingalong over the fast-darkening sea. The oars were shipped, and Dan fellto musing. He tried to recollect the occasion of his last visit to theCornish village from which his family had sprung, and was astonished tofind that, in the sum of ten thousand leagues of travel since manhood,the little journey he was now taking did not once enter. He strokedhis red beard, perplexed at the oddity of the whole thing. He picturedthe steep, cobbled street leading up from the shore, and peeped intoevery remembered window in the row of rude thatched cottages. Slowlyhe recalled the names of old boy and girl companions who had playedwith him around the doorstep of his grandfather's house. For half thevoyage the object which had prompted it was forgotten. The journey wasas silent as a secret journey should be. It began in twilight andended in darkness. The keel of the boat grated on the soft sand. Danand Nick Johnson stepped out.

  "How long will ye be?" asked Davey's lad.

  Dan pondered. "Ye cannot get back without us; 'twill be a matter ofhard rowing against the wind. I have been thinking. This place ishallowed soil to me, and my feet have not trodden it for thirty years.Bide thou here to-night; I will find thee supper and a pallet. Thereare many folk with whom I would fain speak now that I am here. Keep astill tongue concerning us: we will speak for ourselves. Tie up thyboat, and ask for John Pengelly. If he be dead, ask for any of hischildren; they will entertain thee for my sake."

  Dan took his companion's arm, and climbed the tide-washed bank. Hestood for a moment listening and peering into the darkness, then hemade for the nearest cottage. The shutter was not closed, and thefaint glow of leaping firelight shone through the oiled paper stretchedacross the bars of the lattice. The sailor turned to the door, andpulled the latch string.

  "Peace be to you all, friends," he said. "'Tis the voice of a Pengellythat speaks."

  "Come into the light, Pengelly. Your tongue doth not ring familiarly,"came the answer.

  Dan stepped forward, leaving Nick on the threshold.

  A young fisherman and his wife sat in the narrow arc of the firelight,and beside them, on a deerskin, their little son basked in the genialwarmth. The breeze through the open door fanned the glowing wood intoflame.

  "Close the door, friend," said the fisherman.

  "I have a comrade on the threshold."

  "Then bring him in."

  Nick entered, apologizing for his intrusion, and giving his name, town,and profession as a guarantee of his honesty of purpose.

  "Ye are welcome both," replied the fisherman. "We have supped, but thewife shall set meat and drink before you."

  "We are fresh from eating and drinking," said Dan, "and have but lookedin for a little chat, seeing that ye were not abed."

  "Say your say, friends."

  Dan did so, in his own roundabout fashion. He casually mentioned hisvoyages to the West, a theme of unfailing interest to any man dwellingon the shores of Plymouth Sound. Then he came to the real reason forhis visit. He described the two sailors he had met in Plymouth. Thefisherman had never seen them. Dan had guessed as much, but he wantedto be sure. Then he sketched Basil. The fisherman sat upright in amoment.

  "I know him," he cried. "He has been amongst us, off and on, for morethan a month. I'll take you to him."

  But Dan would not trouble any one to do that.

  "He knows me well enough," he replied, "and I would rather take him bysurprise. We had a jolly time together last Christmas."

  So the fisherman pointed out where Basil was staying, and his twocallers took their leave, promising to look in upon him again in themorning.

  Apart from the row of cottages stood the house in which Brother Basilwas staying. At one time the place had made some pretensions tosmartness. It was stone-built throughout and tiled. In the rear wasan orchard of apple-trees; and a herb garden, now choked with weeds,separated the front of the house from the roadway. The place was inthe occupation of a widow woman, whose late husband had once been a manof some means.

  The night was sufficiently starlit for a sailor to pick his way withcertainty, and the two men went rapidly forward. The gate in the fencestood ajar, and Dan went first to spy out the land. The front windowwas heavily shuttered, an unusual precaution to take on a fine night.Putting his eye to a chink, the sailor could just discern the shadowyoutline of a man seated at a table. A rushlight stood beside him, andapparently he was reading. Passing on to the door, he found that thelatch-string was pulled in through the latch-hole; the door was secure.Steadily, Dan pressed against it; it was firm as the wall, no play toand fro on latch and hinge. "Bolted," he muttered, and stole back tothe fence, in whose shadow Nick was still standing. He whispered hisreport, and the two consulted together for a moment. Then both wentround to the orchard, stole through a gap in the straggling hedge, andcame over the grass to the rear of the house. A light shone throughthe unshuttered window.

  "Ah!" exclaimed Dan, "this looks more like the home of honest people.Yon thief in front is bolted and barred. I warrant me the widow hathnot pulled in her latch-string. We must open and enter. To knockwould be to give warning to our man, who hath ears that gather soundquicker than doth a rabbit's."

  "How will the widow take our incoming?" asked Nick. "We be twostrangers, and night hath fallen. Should she cry out, we are undone;for the fishers would come upon us, and maybe lay us low without achance to explain our errand. Thy monk-man, too, is a guest of thevillage. Should he sound an alarm, 'twould go hard with us if theneighbours took us for thieves and him for an honest man."

  Dan paused. "Shrewdly spoken, comrade. But there is no time to goround the place and prove that we be honest Protestants and goodsailors, whilst the little man is a thieving Papist and murderoustraitor. We should cause clamour enough to give him warning and timefor escape. We will get within. Thou wilt stay with the widow, andkeep her from doing us a mischief. I will see to my man alone."

  "If thou shouldst want help?"

  "I will cry out for it quickly enough."

  As Dan predicted, the latch-string still hung out. A gentle pull, andthe well-used door swung open. The widow was in her kitchen, rakingtogether the red embers on the hearth preparatory to going to bed. Thenoise of her scraping was sufficient to cover up the sounds at thedoor, and Dan was at her side, his fingers on her lips, ere she wasaware of his presence.

  "Sh!" he whispered in warning; "not a sound, good mother. We arefriends, but thou art in danger; thy life depends on thy silence."

  The poor woman paled, and shook in every limb. Dan whisperedreassuringly, and removed his hand from her mouth.

  "God 'a mercy!" she gasped.

  Nick brought forward a stool and gently placed her upon it.

  "Have no fear," he said; "I will stay with thee."

  "Who are ye?"

  "Friends and protectors, mother; honest sons of Devon, who havediscovered a deadly plot. Lean thou on my shoulder."

  Nick's whispers were soothing, his face was honest; the widow's brainwas bewildered. She believed him, and cl
ung to him in white terror.Dan saw that she was safe from any hysterical screaming, enjoinedsilence on both, and passed on towards the parlour where Basil wassitting. He paused for a moment to draw his sword, then tip-toed tothe door. Leaning against the oaken post, he heard the rustling ofpaper. He set his teeth; there was a flash of light; the door had beenopened and shut again, and the sailor and the Spanish agent stood faceto face.

  Basil's first emotion was one of the most absolute and completeastonishment. So surprised was he that he actually sat and rubbed hiseyes as though to clear them from deluding visions. And in just thatmoment of stupefaction Dan acted. The papers were on the table:doubtless they were his papers. He lunged forward, spitted them on thepoint of his sword, and crammed them into his doublet by the time Basilwas on his feet, and a dagger in his hand. The sailor expected avicious spring from his adversary, but Basil made no move forward. Hisquondam roadside companion had the advantage of him in height, reach,and length of weapon, and he had related sufficient of his exploitsduring their Yuletide tramp to prove himself an apt swordsman. Theex-monk had been trained in a school that set guile above force. Hesaw at once that his tongue would be his better weapon, so put hisdagger back into his belt, sat down and snuffed his candle.

  "Thou art not going to fight?"

  "Why should we do so? Sit down, Dan Pengelly, and explain thyself."

  It was the sailor's turn to be astonished. He got a stool and seatedhimself, his back to the door, and his weapon across his knee. Basillaughed with assumed good-humour.

  "Thou art careful, comrade."

  "Thou hast tricked me once."

  "And thou hast neatly tricked me. We cry 'quits.'"

  "Not so."

  "Why not? I have thy papers--I make no secret of that--and thou hastmine."

  "Are not these the same?"

  "No. But let us exchange, and give over all talk of robbery." Basilgot up and went to a little press in the wall. Before opening the doorhe turned again to Dan. "Thou wilt observe that I am not afraid ofturning my back to thee. I have more faith in thine honour than thouhast in mine."

  The sailor flushed and fidgeted. "Thou didst deceive me under theguise of friendship," he muttered.

  "Pshaw, man! thou wert undone by thine own foolishness. Why didstchatter to a stranger about thy papers? Is not all England agog tofind the land of 'El Dorado'? Dost think that any man breathing couldresist the temptation to gain a knowledge of the way thither? I sufferfrom no gold hunger, but I would like the honour of discovering thatnotable country. So wouldst thou; so would Admiral Drake. I shallhave done thee no harm, but rather given thee a lesson in caution if Irestore thy papers."

  "Wilt do so?"

  Basil opened the press, and tossed a packet on the table. "There theyare."

  Dan snatched it up, and turned it round and round in his fingers. "Whydost thou give them back?"

  "They are thine, and thou hast come for them."

  "Hast read them?"

  "Of course."

  "What is in them?"

  "Maybe truth, maybe idle tales; their value remains to be proven.Come, thou hast thy packet; give me mine."

  A cunning gleam came into the sailor's eyes. "I have not read thine.Can we fairly cry quits until I have done so?"

  Basil bit his lip. "Canst read?"

  "No."

  "Then let me read them to thee. They are part of a treatise onphilosophy which I am writing. The opinion of a plain man upon itwould be valuable. I should like to have thine."

  But Dan was no philosopher, and his present adversary had given him anexcellent lesson in caution. He thrust his own packet into hisdoublet, to lie side by side with the other papers.

  "Master Priest, Papist, and spy of Spain--for so I learn thou art--thywork is more likely to be the hatching of plots than the writing oflearned books. Thou didst keep my papers for a time quite against mywill, and without my consent; therefore shall I hold thine until Ilearn their contents. Tit for tat is reasonable justice 'twixt man andman."

  Basil laughed. "Read me thy riddle," he said. "The world is narrow;thou art surely confounding me with some other man."

  "That is possible. A few hours will decide the point. A certainMaster Morgan of Gloucestershire and a well-known knight, Sir WalterRaleigh of Sherborne, are yonder in Plymouth town, and will be able totestify for or against thee. Thou shalt be haled before themto-morrow."

  "That's work for a strong man, Dan Pengelly."

  "There are many of my family in this village, and I did not come alonefrom Plymouth. The widow hath bonny company in the kitchen."

  Basil's face blazed. "'Tis she hath betrayed me."

  "Not so. We scared her worse than we scared thee."

  Basil sat silent for a while, and Dan drummed on his sword-hilt withhis fingers. At length the spy spoke again.

  "I suppose it is useless to argue with thee?"

  "I never had any head for disputations."

  "Very well then, ye must be my guests for the night. Call thy friendsfrom the kitchen, ask the widow for some ale, and let her be getting tobed. Thou and I may get to blows if we sit alone."

  Dan stared. His prisoner was actually asking for an increased guard,and would be glad of more company. Not suspecting any trick, butdetermined not to be caught napping, he got up, opened the door, andstood with his hand on the latch calling for Nick. He bellowed twicebefore he got an answer. With Nick's answering shout he caught soundof a sudden crash in the room behind. He bounded back. Basil wasgone; the window was opened. He dashed to the opening, and the trickwas disclosed. The prisoner had silently unfastened the shutters,smashed the lattice, and escaped. Nick came running along. The alarmwas given, and the whole village awakened to chase the Papist spy.They did not catch him.

  Dan returned to Plymouth next morning and handed his papers to SirWalter. The first packet proved to be a description of "El Dorado's"land, and a guide to the fabled region. It was the work of a Spanishmissionary, and was written to King Philip himself. Basil's treatiseon philosophy was none other than a letter from a Spanish agent inLondon, giving particulars of a plot against Elizabeth and in favour ofthe Queen of Scots. Raleigh declared the latter paper to be ofimmeasurably greater value than the Orinoco packet. The knight had hadexperience of such papers before, and knew, only too well, that theycontained more fable than fact. He handed them to Captain John Drake,and left it to him and the gentlemen adventurers who were to sail withhim to decide what faith they should put in the missionary'sdisclosures.