Yankee Privateer

by Andre Norton

  There was a single sickening moment of awareness of his folly as together they plunged over and down —down into a gulf which had no end. Then Fitz struck bottom with a blow which flattened the air out of his lungs. He lay still in utter blackness.

  Gravel dug painfully into his face and his head was one blinding pain. He dragged himself up to his elbows and rested before he could pull himself to his knees. Then he was instantly and thoroughly sick, with a retching which left him empty and weak. But his will would not let him rest. He clawed about in the dark until his fingers closed on a spiky bush which gave him some support to gain his unsteady feet.

  He fell again twice before he had moved six feet, and only a semiconscious will kept him going. All the world was a black pocket through which he had to pull himself with his two palm-raw T hands.

  The last time he fell it was onto a patch of waterlogged stuff which gave some ease to his scraped face and hands. He allowed himself some precious rest there before he got doggedly to his feet again.

  His head was throbbing with a regular rhythm—it was almost like the tolling of a bell, sonorous and deep. He held his head in his torn hands for a long moment before he realized dimly that there was a bell sounding somewhere, ringing with steady chime. Instinctively he started on toward the source of that tolling.

  Once he came up against a great block of what was rough stone under his questing fingers. And he clung there for some time, panting and listening to the bell. But at last he forced his tired body on.

  He reached the wall which lay beyond, and tumbled over its low barrier. The bell was very close now—its clamor adding to the pain behind his half-closed eyes. Yet he must get up and find it—that was somehow important.

  There were tall gray stones standing upright in the space behind the wall, stones he stumbled against before he sighted them or could fend himself away from their hardness. But at last he reeled into the place of the bell and fell, for the last time, into a yellow circle of lantern light.

  "Godfrey! Godfrey!" Fitz could barely hear the voice or feel the hands tugging at him. "Godfrey-come here at once, man!"

  Fitz gave up fighting and slipped down into the darkness, leaving even pain behind him.

  He awoke—to be faced with the round furry countenance of a cat watching him with unblinking yellow eyes. The face split in a wide yawn, a pink, pointed tongue curled up. Then came a soft, comfortable rumble of sound which was somewhat soothing to the faint ache behind his eyes. His hands explored the surface on which he lay. He was in a bed true enough, a soft, well-made bed, and there was a hot wrapped brick between his two feet.

  The cat, curled in comfort at the foot of the bed, again opened its sleepy eyes and looked beyond Fitz at someone outside the range of his vision. Fitz was too lazy to turn his head to see the disturber of the peace they shared.

  "Noll!" the whisper was an exasperated one. "So this is where you disappeared to, you son of dark powers!"

  Noll yawned for the second time and paid delicate attention with the tip of a pink tongue to the toes of his right front paw. He did not deign to notice the whisper. A small man in a spruce black coat and freshly laundered lawn bands came to the foot of the bed and was about to pick up the cat when he noticed Fitz's eyes fixed dreamily upon him. He straightway forgot his errand and came to the head of the bed, a smile of real pleasure creasing the tight wrinkles of his gentle face.

  "So, my boy, you are awake ..."

  "Yes, sir . . ." Fitz found it something of an effort to pull those words out to use. It was so much easier to lie there drowsily and let himself slip off again into the warm darkness.

  The little man's dry hand touched his forehead, and then slipped lightly down to rest on the pulse which beat in his throat. He nodded twice as if pleased and was gone, almost before Fitz noticed his going. Fitz blinked at Noll and closed his eyes. Noll had the proper idea—now was the time for sleep.

  But when he aroused for the second time there was no thin shaft of sunlight across his bed. Instead candlelight made bright the pattern of the cover under which he lay. And now he pulled himself up a little and looked around with real curiosity.

  The room was a comfortable one, although small and with old-fashioned furnishings. And from somewhere a delightful odor was seeping in. He recognized the emptiness of hunger and was impatient for food. Then out of nowhere Noll came, a black and white shadow, to leap up on the bed and prowl the length of Fitz's body, seating himself with his tail curled over his paws to watch the American with cold interest.

  But a moment later Noll's master came in with a second candle, followed by a large young man in the leather breeches of a groom who carefully carried before him a tray bearing a covered bowl. Noll so far forgot himself as to greet them with a soft meow.

  "Get down!" the little man made brushing motions. "Away with you, sir. Your supper is on your plate. Just where it always is. Begone and get it!"

  Noll moved down the bed, leaped from the foot and disappeared. The young man put down the tray and stepped to the bed. Without saying a word he deftly raised Fitz against the pillows and so widened the boundaries of the American's world. The host nodded.

  "Well done, Godfrey. I shall ring when you are needed. And now, my boy, I think perhaps a bit of soup?"

  He whisked the cover off the bowl, and with a silver spoon set about feeding Fitz some capital chicken broth with a dexterity which Fitz admired. When the scraping of silver against china announced the end of the course, the little man brought from by the fire a small pan, the contents of which he poured into a cup and held to Fitz's lips.

  "Down this, my boy, you'll be the better for it tomorrow. You have had a most merciful escape from lung fever—a most merciful escape!"

  Fitz obediently swallowed the bitter stuff and then asked a question: "Where am I, sir?"

  "This is the vicarage of Prince's Marvel, a moor village. You were lost "

  "The bell!" Fitz remembered something from those dark hours in the fog.

  His host beamed, "Just so, my boy, the bell. And you are not the first to be saved by the bell of Prince's Marvel. We have a noted bell, a bell which has played its small part in English history. I am Evan Lodge, the Vicar "

  "I'm Fitzhugh Lyon," Fitz returned sleepily.

  "I had guessed part of your name, my boy." Mr. Lodge patted his hand.

  Fitz was too drowsy to untangle that, though he knew that it was a strange answer. But he was asleep before they were through the door and had left him alone.

  Several days of convalescence got him on his feet again. The inhabitants of the vicarage, which crowded close to the tall-towered church of St. Columba-in-the-Moor, were four in number—Mr. Lodge, Noll, the taciturn Godfrey, and a mysterious female who kept to the kitchen quarters and was known to Fitz only as a disembodied voice. Godfrey did most of the work, proving surprisingly adept at such traditionally feminine pursuits as bed making and cleaning, as well as gardening and caretaking in the same churchyard through which Fitz had stumbled on the night St. Columba's bell had drawn him to safety.

  Mr. Lodge was proud of that bell and of its history —a history to which Fitz's exploit had just added new laurels, as he was informed as soon as he showed the least interest in the subject.

  "Some two hundred years ago," the Vicar began his tale, his hands smoothing Noll's thick fur as the lazy beast sprawled across his knees, "there was a certain Sir Bertram Sampson, homeward bound across the moor. He was cautioned not to travel by night or alone, since he was carrying a goodly sum in gold on his person. But, as he had sailed with Drake and was a fighting man, he paid little heed to such council, and set out with only a serving lad as escort. They were attacked by outlaws—the serving lad was killed—but Sir Bertram, though wounded, broke free. However, he was dismounted and totally lost as to direction, left wandering in a land where hidden bogs made every footstep a probable trap. Then it was that he heard the bell of St. Columba's which was rung because of a fire in the village. And its sound gui
ded him to safety. So when he reached this very house he put into the hands of the lord of the manor all the gold he carried upon him, with instructions that every night at that same hour during which he had wandered, lost, the bell should be rung to bring other benighted travelers to safe lodging—as it did you, my boy, as it did you! And as it has others in years past. Thus Godfrey bends to the bellrope each night, fog or clear, and so will others after him."

  "It was lucky for me that Sir Bertram was such a public-spirited man," commented Fitz. "You have heard no word of my lost friend?"

  Mr. Lodge shook his head regretfully. "Yesterday was market day, and Godfrey rode into Hampton Lesser. But he heard nothing of your companion, sir. I do not think that he could have come into the moor so far, now that I have heard all that you can remember of that night. The shadow which drew you from the road must have been one of our wild moor ponies. They run free and in a fog might seem larger than they are. You are well off the Exeter road herewith that Fitz had to be content. The only reason he could give for being on the road with Crofts in the midst of a fog was so weak that he knew the Vicar must have accepted it only out of politeness. And he was afraid of questions. Mr. Lodge's own explanation of the affair came as something of a shock to Fitz when he chanced to overhear it.

  On a warm day, such as he had not before enjoyed in this land of rain and clinging mists, he had been exploring the garden where the tangled flowers drew an inordinate number of bees. And he had walked its full length without effort. Tomorrow or the next day he would have to investigate the chances of getting on to London. If Crofts had won free he could get news of him at the Sign of the Lighted Candle.

  He came back toward the house, his boots making no sound on the grassy lawn which stretched to the study windows. Being in the mood for conversation Fitz decided to peer in and see if his host was not too occupied for a visit. But then the sound of Mr. Lodge's voice came floating out to him.

  "It is my belief, Sir Hew, that the young man was the worse for his potions when the accident occurred. He had been long at sea and perhaps had imbibed too freely during his first night ashore. To ride the moor road at night in such a fog is surely the action "

  "Of a drunken puppy!" boomed a heavier reply. "Yes, Lodge, that is doubtless the truth of the story. Unless he is disordered in his wits."

  "Oh, no," the Vicar's protest was as quick as Fitz could hope for, "not that, not that at all. He is most intelligent, interested in our countryside to a great extent. And while he has been under my roof he has shown himself to be of a temperate inclination. Apparently his sad mishap has so worked upon him that he is now cautious of the bottle."

  Fitz grimaced ruefully at a neighboring rose tree. So they thought him foxed on the night of the fog! To be presented with such an excellent explanation for his actions was more than he deserved. It was as if Crofts' famous luck had sought him out after it had deserted the Captain in the Channel. He had only to play the repentant prodigal and need fear questions no more.

  He went around the house and into the hall which led to the study. The sooner he made his contrite self known to this Sir Hew the better. At his polite knock the Vicar bade him enter, and he found Mr. Lodge sitting almost knee to knee with a thick shouldered, round bodied man in a riding jacket which strained sadly at the seams. Lodge hastened to introduce them.

  "Sir Hew, this is Mr. Fitzhugh Lyon of his Majesty's Service. My boy, Sir Hew Penslow."

  Fitz showed his best manners. The squire cleared his throat with a grunt and held out his hand.

  "So you're the young sprig who has given our bell another honor?" He stared at Fitz from under very bushy and black brows. The Marylander decided that Sir Hew was certainly no fool, no unworldly country dweller to be fobbed off with a badly contrived tale. It was luck he now had one which would now bear scrutiny.

  "Yes, sir,” he returned frankly. "If it hadn't drawn me to Prince's Marvel, I might now lie at the bottom of a moor bog. My horse had thrown me and my wits were addled "

  "They were addled before you came out on the road on such a night!" Sir Hew was brutally honest.

  Fitz strove to produce a passible flush of conscious shame. And he must have been partially successful, for the Vicar came to his aid.

  "Ah, well, you have paid sorely for your folly, my boy. And I think that you have made resolutions that it shall not occur again "

  "Indeed I have, sir!" Fitz's answer was all honest fervor to that.

  "You were on your way to London when you were lost?" Sir Hew continued his inquisition.

  Under that unblinking stare Fitz was becoming more and more uncomfortable. But he was able to avoid shifting his feet or dropping his eyes.

  "Yes, sir. I am on leave, sir, and had thought to spend part of it in London."

  "Lyon—Lyon," Sir Hew repeated the name, and Fitz's ringed hand jerked behind him. He had no wish at all to be identified with the English Lyons.

  But it was the Vicar who gave him away. "Yes, Sir

  Hew, our young friend is of that ilk, he wears the Starr crest on his ring."

  Fitz's useless protest died before he voiced it, for the great Sir Hew was refolding his vast expanse of face into a smile.

  "A Lyon of Starr, eh? Well, that should explain your fiddle mindedness, my boy." He was cordial now, talking to one of his own kind rather than to a fly-by-night stranger who had arrived within the borders of his domain in none too creditable a fashion. "You do not have much of the family look."

  Fitz reddened. "I am not of the main house, sir. And I am said to resemble my mother's people."

  "Well, you do seem more sensible than the rest of that lot. Farstarr's roistering is the talk of the town— or was the last time I was up. I can't see that impudent numskull with a service coat on his back." Sir Hew was fast becoming jovial. "So you have leave to spend in London." He shook his head but still smiled. "Young blood, young blood! Eh, Lodge? He poked a fat finger into the Vicar's ribs, and that gentlemen echoed the squire's laugh somewhat timidly.

  "Since you have come to us for aid, Lyon, the least we can do is give it to you. As it happens I am for London myself in two days' time. You are welcome to a seat in my chaise, boy."

  At Fitz's startled thanks he shook his head again. "No, don't make such a pother about it. I'm a dull old dog, and you can chatter away to keep me amused. D'you play piquet?" Fitz could only nod in answer.

  "Then you'll most certainly come! I've a fancy for the cards and m'friends say that I am a deucedly poor player—so you'll have to suffer with me. Do you good. Does any young puppy good to serve his elders. I leave at six on Thursday morn—pick you up here then."

  Fitz, completely overborne, could only agree helplessly.

  13

  At the Sign of the Lighted Candle

  Crown proud at reviews, great George had no rest,

  Each grandsire, he had heard, a rebellion suppressed.

  He wished a rebellion, looked round and saw none,

  So resolved a rebellion to make—of his own.

  —OLD SOLDIERS OF THE KING

  Sir Hew made an excellent traveling host, as Fitz speedily discovered. Although he traveled with little outward show, his chaise was comfortable, well hung, and he was known at all the better inns along the route, so that their service was both prompt and willing. Also, as Sir Hew's companion, Fitz was, of course, above suspicion. The closer they came to London the less worried Fitz was. His escape was more and more like a holiday, and he allowed his curiosity about his father's homeland some play—having first planted in Sir Hew's mind a somewhat dismal picture of his restricted boyhood in an out-of-the-way manor situated in the bleak north country.

  "You're the better for not being raised at Starr," Sir Hew informed him bluntly again after Fitz had supplied some fictitious details of his former life. "They're a bad lot—the Lyons of Starr—a shocking crew. If it weren't for the name, no one would receive the present Viscount—a gamester and a blackguard, if ever one was born. I've seen Farstarr
so foxed he couldn't keep his feet, and that at one in the afternoon, mind you! He'll likely drink himself into his grave in a few years, the brazen murderer!"

  "Murderer?" Fitz was a little daunted by such a picture of one who was, after all, his cousin.

  "I deem it murder when a man goes about forcing quarrels on others when he is a master of the sword. He's met five men within the past three years. Two are crippled for life and the other three are dead. But not a scratch on him. Oh, twice he's had to skip across the Channel and lay low for a bit. But the Earl can always use his influence and get him back again. Starr's not minded to let his only heir get too far from home. The Earl's stark mad on the subject of family."

  Fitz twisted the ring on his finger. His English kin were certainly not too presentable it appeared. He hoped that he would not cross the path of either Lyon. Though once he reached London there was little chance of that. He would find the Tory coffee house and be on his way to France, maybe before even another day passed. From all Crofts had said, the American agent in the British capital was efficient.

  But it was a little hard to part from Sir Hew, for the the squire of Prince's Marvel was set upon Fitz remaining with him and sharing his apartment. Only by pleading a previous engagement with a brother officer could the American break away. He experienced some feelings of guilt as he went down the street, keeping well within the posts which marked the pedestrian's lane of safety.

  London was a roar of sound, a never-ending tumult of movement and racing speed. A little deafened, Fitz picked his way along almost timidly. Such a parcel of ballad singers, apple women, chimney sweeps and street peddlers assaulted his ears with their clamor that it was like a wild scene out of Bedlam to one used only to the provincial quiet of Baltimore.

  Fitz sidestepped quickly to avoid the rush of a flying barber, his razors, soap and steaming jug of hot water all held before him, and almost found himself inside the door of a shop where the watching apprentice pounced upon him and would have him in to buy, whether or no. Since head laces and such trifles of feminine folly were on sale the American shied off in a hurry and fairly took to his heels to escape.