HOW NIGEL CHASED THE RED FERRET

They passed a ferry, wound upward by a curving path, and then, having satisfied a guard of men-at-arms, were admitted through the frowning arch of the Pipewell Gate.  There waiting for them, in the middle of the east street, the sun gleaming upon his lemon-colored beard, and puckering his single eye, stood Chandos himself, his legs apart, his hands behind his back, and a welcoming smile upon his quaint high-nosed face.  Behind him a crowd of little boys were gazing with reverent eyes at the famous soldier.

“Welcome, Nigel!” said he, “and you also, good archer!  I chanced to be walking on the city wall, and I thought from the color of your horse that it was indeed you upon the Udimore Road.  How have you fared, young squire errant?  Have you held bridges or rescued damsels or slain oppressors on your way from Tilford?”

“Nay, my fair lord, I have accomplished nothing; but I once had hopes ­” Nigel flushed at the remembrance.

“I will give you more than hopes, Nigel.  I will put you where you can dip both arms to the elbow into danger and honor, where peril will sleep with you at night and rise with you in the morning and the very air you breathe be laden with it.  Are you ready for that, young sir?”

“I can but pray, fair lord, that my spirit will rise to it.”

Chandos smiled his approval and laid his thin brown hand on the youth’s shoulder.  “Good!” said he.  “It is the mute hound which bites the hardest.  The babbler is ever the hang-back.  Bide with me here, Nigel, and walk upon the ramparts.  Archer, do you lead the horses to the ’Sign of the Broom Pod’ in the high street, and tell my varlets to see them aboard the cog Thomas before nightfall.  We sail at the second hour after curfew.  Come hither, Nigel, to the crest of the corner turret, for from it I will show you what you have never seen.”

It was but a dim and distant white cloud upon the blue water seen far off over the Dungeness Point, and yet the sight of it flushed the young Squire’s cheeks and sent the blood hot through his veins.  It was the fringe of France, that land of chivalry and glory, the stage where name and fame were to be won.  With burning eyes he gazed across at it, his heart rejoicing to think that the hour was at hand when he might tread that sacred soil.  Then his gaze crossed the immense stretch of the blue sea, dotted over with the sails of fishing-boats, until it rested upon the double harbor beneath packed with vessels of every size and shape, from the pessoners and creyers which plied up and down the coast to the great cogs and galleys which were used either as war-ships or merchantmen as the occasion served.  One of them was at that instant passing out to sea, a huge galleass, with trumpets blowing and nakers banging, the flag of Saint George flaunting over the broad purple sail, and the decks sparkling from end to end with steel.  Nigel gave a cry of pleasure at the splendor of the sight.

“Aye, lad,” said Chandos, “it is the Trinity of Rye, the very ship on which I fought at Sluys.  Her deck ran blood from stem to stern that day.  But turn your eyes this way, I beg you, and tell me if you see aught strange about this town.”

Nigel looked down at the noble straight street, at the Roundel Tower, at the fine church of Saint Thomas, and the other fair buildings of Winchelsea.  “It is all new,” said he ­“church, castle, houses, all are new.”

“You are right, fair son.  My grandfather can call to mind the time when only the conies lived upon this rock.  The town was down yonder by the sea, until one night the waves rose upon it and not a house was left.  See, yonder is Rye, huddling also on a hill, the two towns like poor sheep when the waters are out.  But down there under the blue water and below the Camber Sand lies the true Winchelsea ­tower, cathedral, walls and all, even as my grandfather knew it, when the first Edward was young upon the throne.”

For an hour or more Chandos paced upon the ramparts with his young Squire at his elbow and talked to him of his duties and of the secrets and craft of warfare, Nigel drinking in and storing in his memory every word from so revered a teacher.  Many a time in after life, in stress and in danger, he strengthened himself by the memory of that slow walk with the blue sea on one side and the fair town on the other, when the wise soldier and noble-hearted knight poured forth his precept and advice as the master workman to the apprentice.

“Perhaps, fair son,” said he, “you are like so many other lads who ride to the wars, and know so much already that it is waste of breath to advise them?”

“Nay, my fair lord, I know nothing save that I would fain do my duty and either win honorable advancement or die worshipful on the field.”

“You are wise to be humble,” said Chandos; “for indeed he who knows most of war knows best that there is much to learn.  As there is a mystery of the rivers and a mystery of woodcraft, even so there is a mystery of warfare by which battles may be lost and gained; for all nations are brave, and where the brave meets the brave it is he who is crafty and war-wise who will win the day.  The best hound will run at fault if he be ill laid on, and the best hawk will fly at check if he be badly loosed, and even so the bravest army may go awry if it be ill handled.  There are not in Christendom better knights and squires than those of the French, and yet we have had the better of them, for in our Scottish Wars and elsewhere we have learned more of this same mystery of which I speak.”

“And wherein lies our wisdom, honored sir?” asked Nigel.  “I also would fain be war-wise and learn to fight with my wits as well as with my sword.”

Chandos shook his head and smiled.  “It is in the forest and on the down that you learn to fly the hawk and loose the hound,” said he.  “So also it is in camp and on the field that the mystery of war can be learned.  There only has every great captain come to be its master.  To start he must have a cool head, quick to think, soft as wax before his purpose is formed, hard as steel when once he sees it before him.  Ever alert he must be, and cautious also, but with judgment to turn his caution into rashness where a large gain may be put against a small stake.  An eye for country also, for the trend of the rivers, the slope of the hills, the cover of the woods, and the light green of the bog-land.”

Poor Nigel, who had trusted to his lance and to Pommers to break his path to glory, stood aghast at this list of needs.  “Alas!” he cried.  “How am I to gain all this? ­I, who could scarce learn to read or write though the good Father Matthew broke a hazel stick a day across my shoulders?”

“You will gain it, fair son, where others have gained it before you.  You have that which is the first thing of all, a heart of fire from which other colder hearts may catch a spark.  But you must have knowledge also of that which warfare has taught us in olden times.  We know, par exemple, that horsemen alone cannot hope to win against good foot-soldiers.  Has it not been tried at Courtrai, at Stirling, and again under my own eyes at Crecy, where the chivalry of France went down before our bowmen?”

Nigel stared at him, with a perplexed brow.  “Fair sir, my heart grows heavy as I hear you.  Do you then say that our chivalry can make no head against archers, billmen and the like?”

“Nay, Nigel, for it has also been very clearly shown that the best foot-soldiers unsupported cannot hold their own against the mailed horsemen.”

“To whom then is the victory?” asked Nigel.

“To him who can mix his horse and foot, using each to strengthen the other.  Apart they are weak.  Together they are strong.  The archer who can weaken the enemy’s line, the horseman who can break it when it is weakened, as was done at Falkirk and Duplin, there is the secret of our strength.  Now touching this same battle of Falkirk, I pray you for one instant to give it your attention.”

With his whip he began to trace a plan of the Scottish battle upon the dust, and Nigel with knitted brows was trying hard to muster his small stock of brains and to profit by the lecture, when their conversation was interrupted by a strange new arrival.

It was a very stout little man, wheezy and purple with haste, who scudded down the rampart as if he were blown by the wind, his grizzled hair flying and his long black gown floating behind him.  He was clad in the dress of a respectable citizen, a black jerkin trimmed with sable, a black-velvet beaver hat and a white feather.  At the sight of Chandos he gave a cry of joy and quickened his pace so that when he did at last reach him he could only stand gasping and waving his hands.

“Give yourself time, good Master Wintersole, give yourself time!” said Chandos in a soothing voice.

“The papers!” gasped the little man.  “Oh, my Lord Chandos, the papers ­”

“What of the papers, my worthy sir?”

“I swear by our good patron Saint Leonard, it is no fault of mine!  I had locked them in my coffer.  But the lock was forced and the coffer rifled.”

A shadow of anger passed over the soldier’s keen face.

“How now, Master Mayor?  Pull your wits together and do not stand there babbling like a three-year child.  Do you say that some one hath taken the papers?”

“It is sooth, fair sir!  Thrice I have been Mayor of the town, and fifteen years burgess and jurat, but never once has any public matter gone awry through me.  Only last month there came an order from Windsor on a Tuesday for a Friday banquet, a thousand soles, four thousand plaice, two thousand mackerel, five hundred crabs, a thousand lobsters, five thousand whiting ­”

“I doubt not, Master Mayor, that you are an excellent fishmonger; but the matter concerns the papers I gave into your keeping.  Where are they?”

“Taken, fair sir ­gone!”

“And who hath dared to take them?”

“Alas!  I know not.  It was but for as long as you would say an angélus that I left the chamber, and when I came back there was the coffer, broken and empty, upon my table.”

“Do you suspect no one?”

“There was a varlet who hath come with the last few days into my employ.  He is not to be found, and I have sent horsemen along both the Udimore road and that to Rye, that they may seize him.  By the help of Saint Leonard they can scarce miss him, for one can tell him a bow-shot off by his hair.”

“Is it red?” asked Chandos eagerly.  “Is it fox-red, and the man a small man pocked with sun-spots, and very quick in his movements?”

“It is the man himself.”

Chandos shook his clenched hand with annoyance, and then set off swiftly down the street.

“It is Peter the Red Ferret once more!” said he.  “I knew him of old in France, where he has done us more harm than a company of men-at-arms.  He speaks English as he speaks French, and he is of such daring and cunning that nothing is secret from him.  In all France there is no more dangerous man, for though he is a gentleman of blood and coat-armor he takes the part of a spy, because it hath the more danger and therefore the more honor.”

“But, my fair lord,” cried the Mayor, as he hurried along, keeping pace with the long strides of the soldier, “I knew that you warned me to take all care of the papers; but surely there was no matter of great import in it?  It was but to say what stores were to be sent after you to Calais?”

“Is that not everything?” cried Chandos impatiently.  “Can you not see, oh foolish Master Wintersole, that the French suspect we are about to make some attempt and that they have sent Peter the Red Ferret, as they have sent him many times before, to get tidings of whither we are bound?  Now that he knows that the stores are for Calais, then the French near Calais will take his warning, and so the King’s whole plan come to nothing.”

“Then he will fly by water.  We can stop him yet.  He has not an hour’s start.”

“It may be that a boat awaits him at Rye or Hythe; but it is more like that he has all ready to depart from here.  Ah, see yonder!  I’ll warrant that the Red Ferret is on board!”

Chandos had halted in front of his inn, and now he pointed down to the outer harbor, which lay two miles off across the green plain.  It was connected by a long winding canal with the inner dock at the base of the hill, upon which the town was built.  Between the two horns formed by the short curving piers a small schooner was running out to sea, dipping and rising before a sharp southerly breeze.

“It is no Winchelsea boat,” said the Mayor.  “She is longer and broader in the beam than ours.”

“Horses! bring horses!” cried Chandos.  “Come, Nigel, let us go further into the matter.”

A busy crowd of varlets, archers, and men-at-arms swarmed round the gateway of the “Sign of the Broom Pod,” singing, shouting, and jostling in rough good-fellowship.  The sight of the tall thin figure of Chandos brought order amongst them, and a few minutes later the horses were ready and saddled.  A breakneck ride down a steep declivity, and then a gallop of two miles over the sedgy plain carried them to the outer harbor.  A dozen vessels were lying there, ready to start for Bordeaux or Rochelle, and the quay was thick with sailors, laborers and townsmen and heaped with wine-barrels and wool-packs.

“Who is warden here?” asked Chandos, springing from his horse.

“Badding!  Where is Cock Badding?  Badding is warden!” shouted the crowd.

A moment later a short swarthy man, bull-necked and deep-chested, pushed through the people.  He was clad in rough russet wool with a scarlet cloth tied round his black curly head.  His sleeves were rolled up to his shoulders, and his brown arms, all stained with grease and tar, were like two thick gnarled branches from an oaken stump.  His savage brown face was fierce and frowning, and was split from chin to temple with the long white wale of an ill-healed wound.

“How now, gentles, will you never wait your turn?” he rumbled in a deep angry voice.  “Can you not see that we are warping the Rose of Guienne into midstream for the ebb-tide?  Is this a time to break in upon us?  Your goods will go aboard in due season, I promise you; so ride back into the town and find such pleasure as you may, while I and my mates do our work without let or hindrance.”

“It is the gentle Chandos!” cried some one in the crowd.  “It is the good Sir John.”

The rough harbor-master changed his gruffness to smiles in an instant.  “Nay, Sir John, what would you?  I pray you to hold me excused if I was short of speech, but we port-wardens are sore plagued with foolish young lordlings, who get betwixt us and our work and blame us because we do not turn an ebb-tide into a flood, or a south wind into a north.  I pray you to tell me how I can serve you.”

“That boat!” said Chandos, pointing to the already distant sail rising and falling on the waves.  “What is it?”

Cock Badding shaded his keen eyes with his strong brows hand.  “She has but just gone out,” said he.  “She is La Pucelle, a small wine-sloop from Gascony, home-bound and laden with barrel-staves.”

“I pray you did any man join her at the very last?”

“Nay, I know not.  I saw no one.”

“But I know,” cried a seaman in the crowd.  “I was standing at the wharf-side and was nigh knocked into the water by a little red-headed fellow, who breathed as though he had run from the town.  Ere I had time to give him a cuff he had jumped aboard, the ropes were cast off, and her nose was seaward.”

In a few words Chandos made all clear to Badding, the crowd pressing eagerly round.

“Aye, aye!” cried a seaman, “the good Sir John is right.  See how she points.  It is Picardy and not Gascony that she will fetch this journey in spite of her wine-staves.”

“Then we must lay her aboard!” cried Cock Badding.  “Come, lads, here is my own Marie Rose ready to cast off.  Who’s for a trip with a fight at the end of it?”

There was a rush for the boat; but the stout little seaman picked his men.  “Go back, Jerry!  Your heart is good, but you are overfat for the work.  You, Luke, and you, Thomas, and the two Deedes, and William of Sandgate.  You will work the boat.  And now we need a few men of their hands.  Do you come, little sir?”

“I pray you, my dear lord, to let me go!” cried Nigel.

“Yes, Nigel, you can go, and I will bring your gear over to Calais this night.”

“I will join you there, fair sir, and with the help of Saint Paul I will bring this Red Ferret with me.”

“Aboard, aboard!  Time passes!” cried Badding impatiently, while already his seamen were hauling on the line and raising the mainsail.  “Now then, sirrah! who are you?” It was Aylward, who had followed Nigel and was pushing his way aboard.

“Where my master goes I go also,” cried Aylward, “so stand clear, master-shipman, or you may come by a hurt.”

“By Saint Leonard! archer,” said Cock Badding, “had I more time I would give you a lesson ere I leave land.  Stand back and give place to others!”

“Nay, stand back and give place to me!” cried Aylward, and seizing Badding round the waist he slung him into the dock.

There was a cry of anger from the crowd, for Badding was the hero of all the Cinque Ports and had never yet met his match in manhood.  The epitaph still lingers in which it was said that he “could never rest until he had foughten his fill.”  When, therefore, swimming like a duck, he reached a rope and pulled himself hand over hand up to the quay, all stood aghast to see what fell fate would befall this bold stranger.  But Badding laughed loudly, dashing the saltwater from his eyes and hair.

“You have fairly won your place, archer,” said he.  “You are the very man for our work.  Where is Black Simon of Norwich?”

A tall dark young man with a long, stern, lean face came forward.  “I am with you, Cock,” said he, “and I thank you for my place.”

“You can come, Hugh Baddlesmere, and you, Hal Masters, and you, Dicon of Rye.  That is enough.  Now off, in God’s name, or it will be night ere we can come up with them!”

Already the head-sails and the main-sail had been raised, while a hundred willing hands poled her off from the wharf.  Now the wind caught her; heeling over, and quivering with eagerness like an unleashed hound she flew through the opening and out into the Channel.  She was a famous little schooner, the Marie Rose of Winchelsea, and under her daring owner Cock Badding, half trader and half pirate, had brought back into port many a rich cargo taken in mid-Channel, and paid for in blood rather than money.  Small as she was, her great speed and the fierce character of her master had made her a name of terror along the French coast, and many a bulky Eastlander or Fleming as he passed the narrow seas had scanned the distant Kentish shore, fearing lest that ill-omened purple sail with a gold Christopher upon it should shoot out suddenly from the dim gray cliffs.  Now she was clear of the land, with the wind on her larboard quarter, every inch of canvas set, and her high sharp bows smothered in foam, as she dug through the waves.

Cock Badding trod the deck with head erect and jaunty bearing, glancing up at the swelling sails and then ahead at the little tilted white triangle, which stood out clear and hard against the bright blue sky.  Behind was the lowland of the Camber marshes, with the bluffs of Rye and Winchelsea, and the line of cliffs behind them.  On the larboard bow rose the great white walls of Folkestone and of Dover, and far on the distant sky-line the gray shimmer of those French cliffs for which the fugitives were making.

“By Saint Paul!” cried Nigel, looking with eager eyes over the tossing waters, “it seems to me, Master Badding, that already we draw in upon them.”

The master measured the distance with his keen steady gaze, and then looked up at the sinking sun.  “We have still four hours of daylight,” said he; “but if we do not lay her aboard ere darkness falls she will save herself, for the nights are as black as a wolf’s mouth, and if she alter her course I know not how we may follow her.”

“Unless, indeed, you might guess to which port she was bound and reach it before her.”

“Well thought of, little master!” cried Badding.  “If the news be for the French outside Calais, then Ambleteuse would be nearest to Saint Omer.  But my sweeting sails three paces to that lubber’s two, and if the wind holds we shall have time and to spare.  How now, archer?  You do not seem so eager as when you made your way aboard this boat by slinging me into the sea.”

Aylward sat on the upturned keel of a skiff which lay upon the deck.  He groaned sadly and held his green face between his two hands.  “I would gladly sling you into the sea once more, master-shipman,” said he, “if by so doing I could get off this most accursed vessel of thine.  Or if you would wish to have your turn, then I would thank you if you would lend me a hand over the side, for indeed I am but a useless weight upon your deck.  Little did I think that Samkin Aylward could be turned into a weakling by an hour of salt water.  Alas the day that ever my foot wandered from the good red heather of Crooksbury!”

Cock Badding laughed loud and long.  “Nay, take it not to heart, archer,” he cried; “for better men than you or I have groaned upon this deck.  The Prince himself with ten of his chosen knights crossed with me once, and eleven sadder faces I never saw.  Yet within a month they had shown at Crecy that they were no weaklings, as you will do also, I dare swear, when the time comes.  Keep that thick head of thine down upon the planks, and all will be well anon.  But we raise her, we raise her with every blast of the wind!”

It was indeed evident, even to the inexperienced eyes of Nigel, that the Marie Rose was closing in swiftly upon the stranger.  She was a heavy, bluff-bowed, broad-sterned vessel which labored clumsily through the seas.  The swift, fierce little Winchelsea boat swooping and hissing through the waters behind her was like some keen hawk whizzing down wind at the back of a flapping heavy-bodied duck.  Half an hour before La Pucelle had been a distant patch of canvas.  Now they could see the black hull, and soon the cut of her sails and the lines of her bulwarks.  There were at least a dozen men upon her deck, and the twinkle of weapons from amongst them showed that they were preparing to resist.  Cock Badding began to muster his own forces.

He had a crew of seven rough, hardy mariners, who had been at his back in many a skirmish.  They were armed with short swords, but Cock Badding carried a weapon peculiar to himself, a twenty-pound blacksmith’s hammer, the memory of which, as “Badding’s cracker,” still lingers in the Cinque Ports.  Then there were the eager Nigel, the melancholy Aylward, Black Simon who was a tried swordsman, and three archers, Baddlesmere, Masters and Dicon of Rye, all veterans of the French War.  The numbers in the two vessels might be about equal; but Badding as he glanced at the bold harsh faces which looked to him for orders had little fear for the result.

Glancing round, however, he saw something which was more dangerous to his plans than the resistance of the enemy.  The wind, which had become more fitful and feebler, now fell suddenly away, until the sails hung limp and straight above them.  A belt of calm lay along the horizon, and the waves around had smoothed down into a long oily swell on which the two little vessels rose and fell.  The great boom of the Marie Rose rattled and jarred with every lurch, and the high thin prow pointed skyward one instant and seaward the next in a way that drew fresh groans from the unhappy Aylward.  In vain Cock Badding pulled on his sheets and tried hard to husband every little wandering gust which ruffled for an instant the sleek rollers.  The French master was as adroit a sailor, and his boom swung round also as each breath of wind came up from astern.

At last even these fitful puffs died finally away, and a cloudless sky overhung a glassy sea.  The sun was almost upon the horizon behind Dungeness Point, and the whole western heaven was bright with the glory of the sunset, which blended sea and sky in one blaze of ruddy light.  Like rollers of molten gold, the long swell heaved up Channel from the great ocean beyond.  In the midst of the immense beauty and peace of nature the two little dark specks with the white sail and the purple rose and fell, so small upon the vast shining bosom of the waters, and yet so charged with all the unrest and the passion of life.

The experienced eye of the seaman told him that it was hopeless to expect a breeze before nightfall.  He looked across at the Frenchman, which lay less than a quarter of a mile ahead, and shook his gnarled fist at the line of heads which could be seen looking back over her stern.  One of them waved a white kerchief in derision, and Cock Badding swore a bitter oath at the sight.

“By Saint Leonard of Winchelsea,” he cried, “I will rub my side up against her yet!  Out with the skiff, lads, and two of you to the oars.  Make fast the line to the mast, Will.  Do you go in the boat, Hugh, and I’ll make the second.  Now if we bend our backs to it we may have them yet ere night cover them.”

The little skiff was swiftly lowered over the side and the slack end of the cable fastened to the after thwart.  Cock Badding and his comrades pulled as if they would snap their oars, and the little vessel began slowly to lurch forward over the rollers.  But the next moment a larger skiff had splashed over the side of the Frenchman, and no less than four seamen were hard at work under her bows.  If the Marie Rose advanced a yard the Frenchman was going two.  Again Cock Badding raved and shook his fist.  He clambered aboard, his face wet with sweat and dark with anger.

“Curse them! they have had the best of us!” he cried.  “I can do no more.  Sir John has lost his papers, for indeed now that night is at hand I can see no way in which we can gain them.”

Nigel had leaned against the bulwark during these events, watching with keen attention the doings of the sailors, and praying alternately to Saint Paul, Saint George, and Saint Thomas for a slant of wind which would put them along side their enemy.  He was silent; but his hot heart was simmering within him.  His spirit had risen even above the discomfort of the sea, and his mind was too absorbed in his mission to have a thought for that which had laid Aylward flat upon the deck.  He had never doubted that Cock Badding in one way or another would accomplish his end, but when he heard his speech of despair he bounded off the bulwark and stood before the seaman with his face flushed and all his soul afire.

“By Saint Paul! master-shipman,” he cried, “we should never hold up our heads in honor if we did not go further into the matter!  Let us do some small deed this night upon the water, or let us never see land again, for indeed we could not wish fairer prospect of winning honorable advancement.”

“With your leave, little master, you speak like a fool,” said the gruff seaman.  “You and all your kind are as children when once the blue water is beneath you.  Can you not see that there is no wind, and that the Frenchman can warp her as swiftly as we?  What then would you do?”

Nigel pointed to the boat which towed astern.  “Let us venture forth in her,” said he, “and let us take this ship or die worshipful in the attempt.”

His bold and fiery words found their echo in the brave rough hearts around him.  There was a deep-chested shout from both archers and seamen.  Even Aylward sat up, with a wan smile upon his green face.

But Cock Badding shook his head.  “I have never met the man who could lead where I would not follow,” said he; “but by Saint Leonard! this is a mad business, and I should be a fool if I were to risk my men and my ship.  Bethink you, little master, that the skiff can hold only five, though you load her to the water’s edge.  If there is a man yonder, there are fourteen, and you have to climb their side from the boat.  What chance would you have?  Your boat stove and you in the water ­there is the end of it.  No man of mine goes on such a fool’s errand, and so I swear!”

“Then, Master Badding, I must crave the loan of your skiff, for by Saint Paul! the good Lord Chandos’ papers are not to be so lightly lost.  If no one else will come, then I will go alone.”

The shipman smiled at the words; but the smile died away from his lips when Nigel, with features set like ivory and eyes as hard as steel, pulled on the rope so as to bring the skiff under the counter.  It was very clear that he would do even as he said.  At the same time Aylward raised his bulky form from the deck, leaned for a moment against the bulwarks, and then tottered aft to his master’s side.

“Here is one that will go with you,” said he, “or he would never dare show his face to the girls of Tilford again.  Come, archers, let us leave these salt herrings in their pickle tub and try our luck out on the water.”

The three archers at once ranged themselves on the same side as their comrade.  They were bronzed, bearded men, short in stature, as were most Englishmen of that day, but hardy, strong and skilled with their weapons.  Each drew his string from its waterproof case and bent the huge arc of his war-bow as he fitted it into the nocks.

“Now, master, we are at your back,” said they as they pulled and tightened their sword-belts.

But already Cock Badding had been carried away by the hot lust of battle and had thrown aside every fear and doubt which had clouded him.  To see a fight and not to be in it was more than he could bear.

“Nay, have it your own way!” he cried, “and may Saint Leonard help us, for a madder venture I have never seen!  And yet it may be worth the trial.  But if it be done let me have the handling of it, little master, for you know no more of a boat than I do of a war-horse.  The skiff can bear five and not a man more.  Now, who will come?”

They had all caught fire, and there was not one who would be left out.

Badding picked up his hammer.  “I will come myself,” said he, “and you also, little master, since it is your hot head that has planned it.  Then there is Black Simon, the best sword of the Cinque Ports.  Two archers can pull on the oars, and it may be that they can pick off two or three of these Frenchmen before we close with them.  Hugh Baddlesmere, and you, Dicon of Rye ­into the boat with you!”

“What?” cried Aylward.  “Am I to be left behind?  I, who am the Squire’s own man?  Ill fare the bowman who comes betwixt me and yonder boat!”

“Nay, Aylward,” said his master, “I order that you stay, for indeed you are a sick man.”

“But now that the waves have sunk I am myself again.  Nay, fair sir, I pray that you will not leave me behind.”

“You must needs take the space of a better man; for what do you know of the handling of a boat?” said Badding shortly.  “No more fool’s talk, I pray you, for the night will soon fall.  Stand aside!”

Aylward looked hard at the French boat.  “I could swim ten times up and down Frensham pond,” said he, “and it will be strange if I cannot go as far as that.  By these finger-bones, Samkin Aylward may be there as soon as you!”

The little boat with its five occupants pushed off from the side of the schooner, and dipping and rising, made its slow way toward the Frenchman.  Badding and one archer had single oars, the second archer was in the prow, while Black Simon and Nigel huddled into the stern with the water lapping and hissing at their very elbows.  A shout of defiance rose from the Frenchmen, and they stood in a line along the side of their vessel shaking their fists and waving their weapons.  Already the sun was level with Dungeness, and the gray of evening was blurring sky and water into one dim haze.  A great silence hung over the broad expanse of nature, and no sound broke it save the dip and splash of the oars and the slow deep surge of the boat upon the swell.  Behind them their comrades of the Marie Rose stood motionless and silent, watching their progress with eager eyes.

They were near enough now to have a good look at the Frenchmen.  One was a big swarthy man with a long black beard.  He had a red cap and an ax over his shoulder.  There were ten other hardy-looking fellows, all of them well armed, and there were three who seemed to be boys.

“Shall we try a shaft upon them?” asked Hugh Baddlesmere.  “They are well within our bowshot.”

“Only one of you can shoot at a time, for you have no footing,” said Badding.  “With one foot in the prow and one over the thwart you will get your stance.  Do what you may, and then we will close in upon them.”

The archer balanced himself in the rolling boat with the deftness of a man who has been trained upon the sea, for he was born and bred in the Cinque Ports.  Carefully he nocked his arrow, strongly he drew it, steadily he loosed it, but the boat swooped at the instant, and it buried itself in the waves.  The second passed over the little ship, and the third struck in her black side.  Then in quick succession so quick that two shafts were often in the air at the same instant ­he discharged a dozen arrows, most of which just cleared the bulwarks and dropped upon the deck.  There was a cry on the Frenchman, and the heads vanished from the side.

“Enough!” cried Badding.  “One is down, and it may be two.  Close in, close in, in God’s name, before they rally!”

He and the other bent to their oars; but at the same instant there was a sharp zip in the air and a hard clear sound like a stone striking a wall.  Baddlesmere clapped his hand to his head, groaned and fell forward out of the boat, leaving a swirl of blood upon the surface.  A moment later the same fierce hiss ended in a loud wooden crash, and a short, thick crossbow-bolt was buried deep in the side of their boat.

“Close in, close in!” roared Badding, tugging at his oar.  “Saint George for England!  Saint Leonard for Winchelsea!  Close in!”

But again that fatal crossbow twanged.  Dicon of Rye fell back with a shaft through his shoulder.  “God help me, I can no more!” said he.

Badding seized the oar from his hand; but it was only to sweep the boat’s head round and pull her back to the Marie Rose.  The attack had failed.

“What now, master-shipman?” cried Nigel.  “What has befallen to stop us?  Surely the matter does not end here?”

“Two down out of five,” said Badding, “and twelve at the least against us.  The odds are too long, little master.  Let us at least go back, fill up once more, and raise a mantelet against the bolts, for they have an arbalist which shoots both straight and hard.  But what we do we must do quickly, for the darkness falls apace.”

Their repulse had been hailed by wild yells of delight from the Frenchmen, who danced with joy and waved their weapons madly over their heads.  But before their rejoicings had finished they saw the little boat creeping out once more from the shadow of the Marie Rose, a great wooden screen in her bows to protect her from the arrows.  Without a pause she came straight and fast for her enemy.  The wounded archer had been put on board, and Aylward would have had his place had Nigel been able to see him upon the deck.  The third archer, Hal Masters, had sprung in, and one of the seamen, Wat Finnis of Hythe.  With their hearts hardened to conquer or to die, the five ran alongside the Frenchman and sprang upon her deck.  At the same instant a great iron weight crashed through the bottom of their skiff, and their feet had hardly left her before she was gone.  There was no hope and no escape save victory.

The crossbowman stood under the mast, his terrible weapon at his shoulder, the steel string stretched taut, the heavy bolt shining upon the nut.  One life at least he would claim out of this little band.  Just for one instant too long did he dwell upon his aim, shifting from the seaman to Cock Badding, whose formidable appearance showed him to be the better prize.  In that second of time Hal Masters’ string twanged and his long arrow sped through the arbalister’s throat.  He dropped on the deck, with blood and curses pouring from his mouth.

A moment later Nigel’s sword and Badding’s hammer had each claimed a victim and driven back the rush of assailants.  The five were safe upon the deck, but it was hard for them to keep a footing there.  The French seamen, Bretons and Normans, were stout, powerful fellows, armed with axes and swords, fierce fighters and brave men.  They swarmed round the little band, attacking them from all sides.  Black Simon felled the black-bearded French Captain, and at the same instant was cut over the head and lay with his scalp open upon the deck.  The seaman Wat of Hythe was killed by a crashing blow from an ax.  Nigel was struck down, but was up again like a flash, and drove his sword through the man who had felled him.

But Badding, Masters the archer and he had been hustled back to the bulwark and were barely holding their own from minute to minute against the fierce crowd who assailed them, when an arrow coming apparently from the sea struck the foremost Frenchman to the heart.  A moment later a boat dashed up alongside and four more men from the Marie Rose scrambled on to the blood-stained deck.  With one fierce rush the remaining Frenchmen were struck down or were seized by their assailants.  Nine prostrate men upon the deck showed how fierce had been the attack, how desperate the resistance.

Badding leaned panting upon his blood-clotted hammer.  “By Saint Leonard!” he cried, “I thought that this little master had been the death of us all.  God wot you were but just in time, and how you came I know not.  This archer has had a hand in it, by the look of him.”

Aylward, still pale from his seasickness and dripping from head to foot with water, had been the first man in the rescue party.

Nigel looked at him in amazement.  “I sought you aboard the ship, Aylward, but I could not lay eyes on you,” said he.

“It was because I was in the water, fair sir, and by my hilt! it suits my stomach better than being on it,” he answered.  “When you first set forth I swam behind you, for I saw that the Frenchman’s boat hung by a rope, and I thought that while you kept him in play I might gain it.  I had reached it when you were driven back, so I hid behind it in the water and said my prayers as I have not said them for many a day.  Then you came again, and no one had an eye for me, so I clambered into it, cut the rope, took the oars which I found there and brought her back for more men.”

“By Saint Paul! you have acted very wisely and well,” said Nigel, “and I think that of all of us it is you who have won most honor this day.  But of all these men dead and alive I see none who resembles that Red Ferret whom my Lord Chandos has described and who has worked such despite upon us in the past:  It would indeed be an evil chance if he has in spite of all our pains made his way to France in some other boat.”

“That we shall soon find out,” said Badding.  “Come with me and we will search the ship from truck to keel ere he escapes us.”

There was a scuttle at the base of the mast which led down into the body of the vessel, and the Englishmen were approaching this when a strange sight brought them to a stand.  A round brazen head had appeared in the square dark opening.  An instant afterward a pair of shining shoulders followed.  Then slowly the whole figure of a man in complete plate-armor emerged on the deck.  In his gauntleted hand he carried a heavy steel mace.  With this uplifted he moved toward his enemies, silent save for the ponderous clank of his footfall.  It was an inhuman, machine-like figure, menacing and terrible, devoid of all expression, slow-moving, inexorable and awesome.

A sudden wave of terror passed over the English seamen.  One of them tried to pass and get behind the brazen man, but he was pinned against the side by a quick movement and his brains dashed out by a smashing blow from the heavy mace.  Wild panic seized the others, and they rushed back to the boat.  Aylward strung an arrow, but his bowstring was damp and the shaft rang loudly upon the shining breast-plate and glanced off into the sea.  Masters struck the brazen head with a sword, but the blade snapped without injuring the helmet, and an instant later the bowman was stretched senseless on the deck.  The seamen shrank from this terrible silent creature and huddled in the stern, all the fight gone out of them.

Again he raised his mace and was advancing on the helpless crowd where the brave were encumbered and hampered by the weaklings, when Nigel shook himself clear and bounded forward into the open, his sword in his hand and a smile of welcome upon his lips.

The sun had set, and one long mauve gash across the western Channel was closing swiftly into the dull grays of early night.  Above, a few stars began to faintly twinkle; yet the twilight was still bright enough for an observer to see every detail of the scene:  the Marie Rose, dipping and rising on the long rollers astern; the broad French boat with its white deck blotched with blood and littered with bodies; the group of men in the stern, some trying to advance and some seeking to escape ­all a confused, disorderly, struggling rabble.

Then betwixt them and the mast the two figures:  the armed shining man of metal, with hand upraised, watchful, silent, motionless, and Nigel, bareheaded and crouching, with quick foot, eager eyes and fearless happy face, moving this way and that, in and out, his sword flashing like a gleam of light as he sought at all points for some opening in the brazen shell before him.

It was clear to the man in armor that if he could but pen his antagonist in a corner he would beat him down without fail.  But it was not to be done.  The unhampered man had the advantage of speed.  With a few quick steps he could always glide to either side and escape the clumsy rush.  Aylward and Badding had sprung out to Nigel’s assistance; but he shouted to them to stand back, with such authority and anger in his voice that their weapons dropped to their sides.  With staring eyes and set features they stood watching that unequal fight.

Once it seemed that all was over with the Squire, for in springing back from his enemy he tripped over one of the bodies which strewed the deck and fell flat upon his back, but with a swift wriggle he escaped the heavy blow which thundered down upon him, and springing to his feet he bit deeply into the Frenchman’s helmet with a sweeping cut in return.  Again the mace fell, and this time Nigel had not quite cleared himself.  His sword was beaten down and the blow fell partly upon his left shoulder.  He staggered, and once more the iron club whirled upward to dash him to the ground.

Quick as a flash it passed through his mind that he could not leap beyond its reach.  But he might get within it.  In an instant he had dropped his sword, and springing in he had seized the brazen man round the waist.  The mace was shortened and the handle jobbed down once upon the bare flaxen head.  Then, with a sonorous clang, and a yell of delight from the spectators, Nigel with one mighty wrench tore his enemy from the deck and hurled him down upon his back.  His own head was whirling and he felt that his senses were slipping away, but already his hunting-knife was out and pointing through the slit in the brazen helmet.

“Give yourself up, fair sir!” said he.

“Never to fishermen and to archers!  I am a gentleman of coat-armor.  Kill me!”

“I also am a gentleman of coat-armor.  I promise you quarter.”

“Then, sir, I surrender myself to you.”

The dagger tinkled down upon the deck.  Seamen and archers ran forward, to find Nigel half senseless upon his face.  They drew him off, and a few deft blows struck off the helmet of his enemy.  A head, sharp-featured, freckled and foxy-red, disclosed itself beneath it.  Nigel raised himself on his elbow for an instant.

“You are the Red Ferret?” said he.

“So my enemies call me,” said the Frenchman, with a smile.  “I rejoice, sir, that I have fallen to so valiant and honorable a gentleman.”

“I thank you, fair sir,” said Nigel feebly.  “I also rejoice that I have encountered so debonair a person, and I shall ever bear in mind the pleasure which I have had from our meeting.”

So saying, he laid his bleeding head upon his enemy’s brazen front and sank into a dead faint.