Go Saddle the Sea

by Joan Aiken

  In the midst of all this cheerful commotion, a little black-clad fellow sidled into the parlour where we sat. His appearance reminded me, all in a moment, of the mercado at Oviedo, and my heart jumped up into my mouth.

  Next moment he was tapping Sammy on the shoulder.

  ‘Is your name Sam Pollard?’ says he.

  ‘Yes, it is!’

  ‘Then I would have you know,’ says the little fellow, ‘that you are under arrest for debt!’

  10

  Having lost Sam, I make my way to Bath; The Rose and Ring-Dove; what Mr Burden told me

  Sam’s arrest was a piece of the most arrant ill-luck. Had the weather been different – had our ship not been wrecked – had we not been washed ashore near Falmouth, where he was well-known – or had we landed a day later, after the storm had abated, when Sam could have put off again directly on one of several packets that were in port, waiting to leave – matters would have fallen out otherwise.

  But it so happened that his uncle’s bailiff, or agent, a man of a mean contriving nature named Jonas Brewer, had been in Falmouth for three days, impatiently awaiting the arrival of a load of silk expected from the port of Le Havre, which was overdue because of the storm. It seemed that Sam’s uncle Ebenezer had sold his farms, gone into the cloth business, and prospered amazingly; he was now Mayor of Truro. But his spite against the nephew who had married his daughter was still bitter, and the bailiff, knowing this and chancing to hear the tale of our lucky rescue noised about the town of Falmouth, made haste to earn his master’s favour by informing the constables and instructing them to arrest Sam.

  I asked the bailiff how much the debt was, for which Sam had been apprehended, since I still had thirty-five Spanish dollars tucked in my belt, which amounted, I learned to about a hundred and sixty shillings or eight pounds in English money*. I offered this sum, but the man smiled scornfully and said that Sam owed his uncle more than eighty pounds.

  ‘Eighty?’ said Sam. ‘Why, it was but fifty!’

  ‘Arr, but you be reckoning without the interest, my young jack-dandy,’ said the bailiff – who was a most evil weaselly-looking little fellow – ‘interest have been a-mounting, while ‘ee’ve been gallivanting in furrin parts.’

  And he smiled in a satisfied way, no doubt at the thought of his master’s delight in having caught his enemy at last.

  Despite all my protestations and prayers, two constables and this horrible man took Sam off in a coach to Truro. I was not even allowed to accompany them! I begged and beseeched, but was pushed rudely out of the way. All I could do was press my money into Sam’s hand to pay for necessaries in jail, keeping only a couple of coins. Oh, so long as I live, I hope never to suffer another parting like that one! Sam, it is true, bore his arrest stoically enough; ‘Mayhap ‘twas fated to fall out like this,’ he said calmly. ‘Don’t grieve, lad!’ But I was nearly mad with rage and sorrow and self-blame.

  ‘What can I do that’s best for you?’ I asked, in the brief moments before the coach came to the door and he was taken away.

  His face broke into its usual grin.

  ‘Why, lad, the very best is that you should find your great kinsfolk, and have them recognise you and take you in! Naught would ease my heart so much as to know that you were in safety and comfort; it frets me sore to be obliged to leave you thus, wi’out a single friend in a land that’s strange to you.’

  ‘Oh, that is no matter,’ said I. ‘I shall do well enough. And I will find my great kin, Sammy, and I shall ask them to pay off your debt.’

  ‘Nay, lad,’ he said laughing. ‘Eighty pound English is more than you reckon! A man could hardly earn such a sum in three years. Never fret about me – I mun abide my fortune as best I may.’

  And then they led him off to the coach.

  I stood there in the snowy street, watching the horses pull the coach away up the hill, and my heart felt like a stone inside my chest. I thought of poor Juana in Llanes, waiting for Sam to return. I wished the earth would open up and swallow me. I wished that I had been drowned when the Guipuzcoa went down. I wished that Sam had never had the ill-luck to meet me: I cannot say what else I wished. And I felt more miserably alone than ever before in my travels, and looked about this English town with hatred. The little stone whitewashed houses appeared utterly dingy and poverty-stricken, the sky was grey and gloomy, the street was foul with snow and beasts’ droppings, and the people’s voices sounded harsh and strident.

  However, as I stood shivering in the roadway, without a notion in my head what to do next, a kindly voice broke into my sad thoughts.

  ‘Hey-day, my lad! Do ’ee wish to travel to Bath? Eli Button, up to Customs House, did say as ’ee had folks a-living there? My son-in-law Ned, ‘e be a carter, an’ ‘e be setting off for Bath town, directly, wi’ a load of salt pilchards; Ned’ll take ’ee along and welcome! A waggon bain’t so fast as a stagecoach, mind; ‘twill take ’ee the best part o’ three days, but ‘ee’ll get there in the end, sartin sure.’

  It was the landlord of the inn who addressed me, and suddenly, looking round, I realised that, instead of being friendless as I had thought, I had many people on my side; there was general sympathy for poor Sam and indignation at the heartless way in which he had been snatched off while his clothes were hardly dried yet after the shipwreck.

  ‘’Tis a proper shame,’ the landlord’s wife said. ‘But everyone do say that Ebenezer Pinchplum be the meanest curmudgeonly old maw-worm this side o’ Tamar. Arr! someone’ll inform on him one o’ these days and then he’ll laugh on t’other side o’ his face!’

  A whole group of people commiserated with me on my friend’s misfortune and said that one of these days old Pinchplum would choke on his own meanness, and I began to feel more kindly disposed towards the English.

  Then Ned, the landlord’s son-in-law appeared – a big, smiling simple fellow, dressed in a coarse linen tunic; he pulled his forelock shyly and said he’d be main glad of my company on the road to Bath, for he had to travel it once a week and had driven it back and forth so many times that he was fair wearied by it, and had much ado to keep awake along the way.

  So, as I had no reason to linger in Falmouth, and no wish to, I paid our reckoning at the inn, said goodbye to the friendly innkeeper, and climbed on to the waggon, which was drawn by four massive grey horses – I had never before seen such beasts, they seemed more like elephants than our slender horses and mules in Spain. I soon discovered that they were necessary, however, for the hills in Cornwall are steep – not high, but very sharp – and the roads very bad, muddy and slippery with snow.

  It seemed late in the day to set out, but Ned explained that we would spend a night with his aunt, who lived in a village the other side of Truro; that would give us a good start on the morrow, and then, by the night of that day we would be able to reach Exeter, where he had a cousin who would give us a bed. Then, if all went well, we should arrive in Bath by the evening of the second day. I asked how far it was to Bath and he said about a hundred and forty miles; the English reckon in miles rather than leagues.

  Dusk soon fell as we rumbled along, and I, being weary and heartsick from all our adventures, and the loss of Sam, fell into a kind of doze, curled up in the waggon among the barrels of fish, under a piece of sack which Ned kindly provided. Indeed, so tired was I that I was sleeping when we passed through Truro, and so missed seeing the town where Sam lay confined. This filled me with shame when I discovered what I had done.

  I remember little of that night. We halted at a small place, called, I think, St Morion, only two or three houses, which seemed to be situated in a wilderness. I helped Ned feed and stable his horses in a stone barn; then we went into his aunt’s house, which was very tiny, with stone walls and stone floors, and a fire of earth-coal burning in an iron grate; we were given some broth of mutton and turnips by the aunt, an old, white-haired woman who was bent double by rheumatism; and then I asked if I might lie down to sleep since I could hardly keep my eyes from cl
osing, and was led up a little narrow flight of wooden stairs to a room no bigger than a dog kennel, where I flung myself down on a mattress so damp that it reminded me of my bed in Villaverde.

  I had meant to expostulate with God on Sam’s fate and beg for His help, but sleep carried me instantly into forgetfulness, and I knew nothing more until next morning when I found Ned snoring beside me as I woke to a hollow feeling of loneliness, sorrow and guilt.

  The aunt gave us breakfast long before dawn, of eggs and hot yellow bread spiced with saffron; I offered to pay from the three small coins I had remaining, but both the old lady and Ned said no to that; and he added that he brought her so many goods free of cartage on his journeys back and forth that she was glad to give a free room and board to him and his companions.

  That day the weather was better, the snow beginning to melt away, and, by noon, a pale sun shone forth. Oh, the land across which we travelled was most strange – in all my journey across Spain I had seen nothing like it! A pale brown moorland stretched on all sides of us, with hardly a house to be seen, but only small sharp hillocks, each rising to a point of rock, and many fords, where little brown brawling streams ran across the road. There were no men or beasts abroad, and Ned told me that the people of these parts make their living by working underground, in the tin-mines.

  I did my best to divert Ned with songs and tales of Spain as payment for my ride, but, though kindly, he was a slow-witted fellow, and required to have everything repeated to him two or three times over before he could understand it, so that I found the day long, and most tiring and tedious; many and many a time my heart was pierced with longing for poor Sam, laid by the leg in Truro jail, and I wondered what was happening to him.

  We travelled on until long after dark, and came to Exeter around midnight, so I saw little of the town, which seemed to be large, but very dirty and evil-smelling, with numerous narrow lanes and much mud. Ned told me though, that Exeter’s chief trade is with Spain and there are many Spaniards living there, which gave me kindlier feelings towards the place.

  As before, we spent the night in a small house, which, since Ned’s cousin was a tanner, smelt most vilely of tanning leather. However he received us kindly, and, like the aunt at St Morion, fed us free of charge. Again we were away long before dawn, riding through a bitter storm of rain and sleet, wrapped in sacks to keep ourselves warm.

  By midday we had reached the town of Taunton, a very pretty city with thatched houses and many little gardens, now brown and wintry. Then, after passing through some well-cultivated farm-land, we came to a long dreary region of marshes covered for miles by grazing sheep, whose cries reminded me sadly of the plain round Villa verde.

  Another long day went slowly by as the horses toiled along muddy roads at a pace just faster than a man could walk. At last Ned was obliged to acknowledge that we should not reach Bath that night; accordingly we stayed at a small and dirty inn which stood in a village called Chew. As we arrived in the dark and left in the dark I have no recollection of the place beyond the civility of the landlord who – since I had no money left, having spent it on food during the day – agreed to take my Spanish knife in exchange for a night on a straw mattress and a plate of porridge – a strange dish of crushed oats and water, such as would be given to animals in Spain!

  Next morning, as daylight came, we reached a hilltop from which we had a prospect of Bath. I thought it a most noble-looking town. It is built in a valley, around a hot spring, and is not yet a hundred years old, having been built by a man called John Wood, so that people might live there and receive benefit from the mineral waters. Ned told me this, though what was in the waters he could not say.

  When I saw those handsome houses, some of them snow-white, some already blackened by smoke, all arranged with such orderliness in rows and squares and curved crescents my heart beat fast indeed, and I said to myself,

  ‘My father walked those same streets. Perhaps he often stood where I am now and saw this sight!’

  Ned asked me where I would wish to be set down, as he was bound for the main market, which lies in the centre of the city. I told him The Rose and Ring-Dove Inn, and it was well that he had asked me beforehand, for this inn, he told me, lay outside the city, on the Bristol road, by a bridge that crosses the Avon river. He presently set me down there, having kindly gone somewhat out of his way to do so. In reply to my heartfelt thanks for all his kindness he said,

  ‘Arr, lad, ‘twas a pleasure to carry ‘ee, ‘twere like an eddication! I never laffed so much as at they songs o’ yourn (once you had telled me the meanings), an’ I’ll carry ’ee again, an’ gladly, any time as ‘ee’ve a fancy to fare back to Falmouth! I come by every week – ask for me at Oliver’s stall i’ the market of a Friday marning!’

  And so he cracked his long whip and rumbled on his way, while I walked with a fast-beating heart into The Rose and Ring-Dove Inn.

  This was a handsome building, large as a convent. It was timbered somewhat after the style of the houses in Llanes, and a beautiful sign, hanging in front, showed a red rose and a white dove, set against a green background. Behind the inn, pleasure-gardens ran down to the swift-flowing river, but there was little pleasure in them now: they looked most dismal with sodden grass and pinched brown roses hanging from the trellises.

  In front, a gravelled yard was full of coaches, large and small.

  I ventured into the main entrance-hall, and hesitated there, feeling foolish and scared enough; here I stood, in my damp, salt-stained clothes, without a penny in my pocket, my only belongings a bundle of papers, a piece of black plume, and a few brass buttons – why should I expect anybody to welcome me? And how should I set about making inquiries?

  It took me a long time to pluck up my courage; for, thought I miserably, once I have made inquiry here, if no one is able to give me any information, then I am at a stand indeed! I have come all the way from Villaverde to this spot – at what a cost – supposing I find here no clue, no means of going on, then I am undone. And so is Sam.

  So, trembling inwardly, I loitered in the main hall of the inn and looked about me. The point where I stood was like a busy cross-roads – doors were all the time opening and shutting, bells were ringing, waiters were scurrying back and forth, carrying trays with coffee and rolls (for it was yet early); boot-boys darted by with clean pairs of boots, barbers’ boys with hot water and razors, and the barbers themselves with bags of powder; washerwomen stumped past with bundles of clean linen, horns blew outside the door, and messengers pushed through with bags of letters.

  In all this busy commotion no one seemed to regard me, and yet, somehow, I felt myself an object of scrutiny. Turning my head, I noticed an oldish man, dressed in black, sitting on a bench, who seemed to observe me very fixedly and attentively. This disturbed me, for his black dress reminded me of the alguacil in Oviedo, so, all of a rush, I accosted a pretty chambermaid as she skipped by, and asked her if she knew any person by the name of Brooke, who lived in this inn, or somewhere not far away?

  Giving me one brief disdainful glance she snapped out,

  ‘Never heard of ‘em in me life – nobody o’ that name here!’ and ran on her way.

  Now I was utterly discouraged, not daring to make inquiry of anybody else, lest the haughty chambermaid should pass by again and overhear me; I was about to wander back into the rain-washed inn yard, had not the elderly man at that moment risen from his seat and walked over to me. I saw him come with apprehension; yet his aspect did not seem threatening. Indeed as he approached me, his face seemed to hold a look of cautious hope.

  He said to me – his voice was most gentle and polite:

  ‘I beg your pardon, my young sir – I am a little hard of hearing; I believe you were inquiring for Brooke?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  Now my heart bounded up. Seeing him close to, I felt sure that he was not an alguacil. Perhaps he was related to me! His face was lined and thoughtful, with a look of kindness and intelligence; he carried a f
lat black hat in his hand, and wore a clean white band round his neck.

  ‘Might I inquire your name?’ the gentleman next asked me courteously.

  ‘Yes, sir, it is Brooke, Felix Brooke. I am come from Villaverde, in Spain, to inquire for the family of my father, Captain Felix Brooke. Can you perhaps – ?’

  But before I could finish, the gentleman had both my hands in his, and, exclaiming, ‘Oh, my dear, dear boy!’ he was shaking them up and down as if he could never leave go of me.

  ‘The moment I set eyes on you,’ he was saying, ‘the moment I saw you I felt sure you must be your father’s son! You have such a look of him! Oh, I am so rejoiced that you came here! I was so afraid that you would not!’

  ‘But, sir – were you then expecting me?’ I asked, very much surprised. Wherever I went, it seemed, people knew beforehand that I was coming!

  ‘Yes, yes!’ he said. ‘We have – I have been hoping to see you these three weeks past – oh, but filled with such apprehensions as to what perils you might be encountering – offering up so many prayers for your safety – thanks be to God who has brought you safely here!’

  He let go one of my hands and wiped a tear from his eye, saying, ‘Forgive me! You look so like your father – it brings him back, so, to see you!’

  Quite bewildered by this speedy and unexpected change in my fortunes, I hardly knew what to say, but giving me no time, he exclaimed,

  ‘You are cold and hungry I daresay – you are very likely half-starved! Come – come quickly, my dear boy, come with me – ‘ and he half-dragged me from the hallway down a passage to a stable-yard at the back of the inn, where he called loudly,

  ‘James, James, I have him, I have him! James, where are you? James! Set to the horses at once!’

  A little brown man shot out of the stables, did a kind of caper of delight, then disappeared, to return leading two chestnut horses harnessed to a glossy four-wheeled wooden carriage with glass windows in front and at the sides.