The Golden Galleon Part 18

Timothy waited for him some few moments, and as he stood still he became conscious of some moving figures pa.s.sing into the shadow behind a wooden hut, in which the fishermen of the neighbouring village kept their old nets and torn sails. A gleam of moonlight glinting upon a drawn sword proved to him that the figures were not those of innocent fishermen. He crept stealthily towards them.

A man presently appeared round the farther corner of the hut. He wore a long cloak and a wide sombrero hat. Timothy guessed that he was one of the escaping Spaniards, and he was about to hail the man when he was startled by once more hearing the long loud whistle, this time close behind him. In an instant as it seemed, he was surrounded by many men.

One of them seized him, gripping him by the throat.

"Back there, you Spanish dog!" the fellow cried, at the same moment taking hold of Timothy's drawn sword and dropping it on the s.h.i.+ngle behind him.

Timothy knew his voice. It was that of young Roland Grenville.

"Nay, unhand me, Master Grenville," the lad cried, as well as the tightening fingers upon his throat would permit him. "I am Timothy Trollope, that went up to summon Jacob Whiddon. I--I--"

"S'death, lad, I had nearly throttled thee!" cried Grenville, releasing him, and then stooping and taking up Timothy's rapier, he added: "Here, take thy blade and hie thee down to the boats yonder at the water's edge. And, hark ye, if any Spaniard attempt to get aboard, run him through. Dost hear me? Run him through."

Scarcely had he spoken when the report of a pistol-shot from behind him rang through the air. It was Ambrose Pennington who had fired it at the retreating forms of the Spaniards, who, having crept along under the deep shadow of the cliff, had eluded their pursuers and were now hastening across the open beach down towards the water's edge.

"To the boats! to the boats, my lads!" cried Pennington, and he set off at a run, followed by Roland Grenville, Timothy, Richard Drake, and several of the men who had come out from Plymouth. At their heels ran Jacob Hartop, pistol in hand, and as game for a fight as any of them.

When the old man got down to the foresh.o.r.e, where the outgoing tide was plas.h.i.+ng upon the loose stones, he found himself in the midst of some thirty men, who were belabouring each other with their sticks and swords. It was difficult for him in the darkness to discover which were Spaniards and which men of Plymouth. But presently the crowd divided, one half remaining fighting, the others rus.h.i.+ng knee-deep into the water and scrambling into one of the two boats that lay afloat within easy reach. Jacob Hartop levelled his pistol at one of the foremost of the fugitives and fired. Without waiting to see the effect of his shot, he turned to discover Captain Whiddon, Roland Grenville, and Timothy Trollope engaged all three in combat with seven of the Spaniards.

Hartop saw that Timothy Trollope was being hard pressed by three of the enemy, who were a.s.sailing him with their heavy sticks. Only one of them was armed with a sword, and this one stood in front of Timothy, while his two companions were attacking the lad from the rear.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "TIMOTHY DISARMED THE FELLOW, AND WITH A FORWARD THRUST PIERCED HIM IN THE CHEST"]

Jacob rushed headlong into the fray and speedily relieved Timothy of two of his a.s.sailants, who, seeing the old man's glittering rapier, and being themselves armed only with cudgels, turned upon their heels and fled towards the boats.

Left alone with his one adversary, whose back was to the light, Timothy crossed swords with him. The Spaniard had wrapped the tail of his coat round his left arm. Something in his manner of fence reminded Timothy of the encounter in Beddington Dingle. For a moment he thought of young Philip Oglander. He tried to get a glimpse of the man's face, but a quick thrust aimed at his sword-arm brought him to a sense of his danger, and he did not pause to think which one of the Spaniards whom he had so often seen in Plymouth his antagonist might be. Whosoever he was, he certainly was no dunce in the use of his weapon, and with all Timothy's skill he had much ado to hold his own. The duel continued for several moments, but at last with a dexterous wrist movement Timothy disarmed the fellow, and with a heavy forward thrust pierced him in the chest.

He staggered for a moment, clapped his two hands against his breast, and, leaving his weapon lying upon the beach, ran off towards his companions. Timothy watched him as he fled, and saw him wade into the water and scramble over the gunwale of the boat upon which Jacob Hartop had fired. There were already some ten of the Spaniards on board of her.

They were pus.h.i.+ng off; their oars were in the row-locks, and so fully were Richard Drake and his men engaged in making prisoners of those that remained that they were unaware of what had happened until Timothy raised the alarm and drew their attention to the fugitives. Captain Whiddon reloaded his pistol and fired at them, but with no apparent effect. The boat sped out into the deeper water and was soon beyond range of such few firearms as were available. As for the Spaniards who had been left behind, they were speedily captured and bound with ropes, ready to be marched beck to Plymouth.

The whole affray had occupied but a few minutes. Two of the Spaniards had been killed, and one of Drake's men--a young vintner of Plymouth--had been badly wounded, while there were few of the others who had not received scars and bruises.

When at last the prisoners were secured, Roland Grenville, Jacob Hartop, and Timothy Trollope were told off to conduct them to some place of safety in Polperro, while Drake, Whiddon, Pennington, and some three others jumped into the remaining boat and pulled off in pursuit of the men who had escaped. How they fared Timothy did not learn until the next morning, when he was told that after an exciting chase the Spaniards had succeeded in gaining the deck of their s.h.i.+p, which had sailed off westward along the coast, not to be overtaken by a small boat whose occupants had only two pairs of oars and no sail. There was only one thing which Drake gained by his pursuit, and that was the knowledge that the s.h.i.+p was indeed the _Pearl_ of Plymouth.

When they had securely housed their prisoners in a vacant stable in Polperro, and left Hartop in guard at the door, Roland Grenville and Timothy Trollope returned to the beach, taking with them a lighted lantern. They were accompanied by a fisherman, who helped them to carry the two dead Spaniards up to a shed adjoining Jacob Whiddon's house.

Timothy recognised the dead men as Don Miguel de Fernandes and Andrea de Ortega. He had known Don Miguel by sight for many months past, but searching in his memory he could only remember Andrea from the time when Jasper Oglander had come home to England.

As he was turning away from having bolted the door of the shed, Roland Granville said, touching Timothy on the arm:

"Here is a weapon for thee, Master Trollope. I will engage that 'tis a well-tempered one. These Dons do ever contrive to get hold of a goodly piece of steel; and in spite of Master Drake's watchfulness, more than one of them was armed with his Toledo blade to-night. 'Tis a marvel to me where they found them, for, as you know, they were forbidden to go armed."

"I'll be sworn they had friends outside of their prison," returned Timothy, "else would they never have escaped." He took the rapier from Grenville's hand. "Thank you," said he. "I will keep it, sir, and gladly, for it can scarce be a worse weapon than my own."

"I picked it up on the beach," said Grenville, "at the spot where I saw you engaged with one of the rascals. 'Twas his sword, I doubt not. But, prithee, since you disarmed him, why did you not run him through?"

"Indeed, Master Grenville," quoth Tim, "methought I had e'en done so. I gave him a good span of my weapon in his chest ere he ran off to the boat, and I warrant he'll not soon recover. Rather, I should say, I will warrant that he cannot recover."

Timothy carried the rapier back with him to Plymouth that night, and when he reached home he examined it. He saw that its point had been roughly ground down, obviously with the purpose of shortening the weapon to the limited length required by the law. Timothy immediately remembered that this had been done to Philip Oglander's rapier. He looked at the hilt and at once recognized it. Yes, there was no doubt that this was Master Philip's weapon. There was no doubt either that the young man with whom Tim had just had the duel on the beach and whom he had wounded was Philip Oglander himself.

Arguing upon this fact, Timothy was not long in coming to the conclusion that the escape of the Spanish prisoners of war had been achieved by the help of Philip, if not also of Jasper. There was truth, then--absolute truth--in the accusation which Timothy had made, that Jasper Oglander and his son were in league with the King of Spain, and that they had all along been plotting in the interests of England's enemies.

CHAPTER XII.

BARON CHAMPERNOUN.

It was on a certain sunny afternoon in early March, the year 1591. The quays and wharfs around Sutton Pool were thronged with people--women in bright-coloured gowns and snowy ruffs, gentlemen with plumed hats and gaudy, flowing capes, yeomen and tradesmen in their more sober garments, and noisy, boisterous apprentices. From the little cas.e.m.e.nt windows of the quaint gabled houses near by, many faces looked out upon the busy scene below, and here and there a white kerchief was waved in farewell to some soldier or seaman watching it from the heavily-laden boats that were putting out into the harbour. For it was the day of the departure of Lord Thomas Howard's squadron of war-s.h.i.+ps on its treasure-hunting expedition to the islands of the Azores. The s.h.i.+ps' masts could be seen with their white sails half-unfurled, and their pennants, ancients, and banners fluttering gaily in the breeze that blew from off the land.

The crowd was thickest near to the landing-stairs, where a stream of men--some wearing glittering morions and corselets, others wide seamen's hats and long sea-cloaks, and each with a clanking sword by his side--moved slowly towards the stone steps, where the boats were waiting to convey them out to their respective s.h.i.+ps.

Among them was old Jaoob Hartop. He carried his bundle of spare clothing and a pair of heavy boots under his arm. His face looked fresher and younger, his eyes were brighter, and his step was lighter than three months before, when he had landed at this same place from on board the _Pearl_. No one seemed to know him as he pa.s.sed through the throng, saving only a curly-headed boy, who pulled at his coat and cried:

"What, Master Hartop! Art going with the fleet then? Didst not tell us that you had done with sea-faring for the rest of thy days?"

Jacob glanced at the urchin, and recognised him as one of the group of children who had stood around him at the well in Modbury village the morning after the robbery, to listen to his story of how Sir Francis Drake had been wounded at Nombre de Dios.

"Ay, faith, I am going out with the fleet, friend Robin," he answered cheerily, as he stopped at the boy's side. "A life on land hath but few joys, I find, for a lonely old man, and I am minded to go out and see a bit more of the world, and mayhap recover some of the great wealth that you wot of--the wealth that went down in my golden galleon out yonder to the west of Flores."

"Ah!" said the lad. "An I were old enough, 'tis not a little that would keep me at home when such fine adventures are in store. I'd run away and join one of the s.h.i.+ps, even as Master Trollope hath done. His father forbade him to have ought to do with the sea, and yesternight they had a quarrel; but this morning Timothy hath packed up his bag and gone off."

"And, prithee, what s.h.i.+p hath the lad joined?" asked Jacob. "Hath he gone on board the _Revenge_, think you?"

"Nay, that is just what his father would know," answered Robin Redfern.

"He hath been questioning everyone, but none can tell him. But 'tis not likely he hath gone on board the _Revenge_, for on that s.h.i.+p Master Oglander is sailing, and you may be sure that Timothy Trollope would avoid such companions.h.i.+p after what hath happened."

Jacob Hartop's jaw dropped. A look of dismay came into his eyes.

"Heaven forfend!" quoth he gloomily. Then taking a corner of the boy's collar in his fingers, and looking into his face, he added: "Say you that Jasper Oglander hath gone aboard the _Revenge_?"

The boy looked puzzled, but presently, understanding the old man's drift, he answered:

"Nay. I meant young Master Gilbert, and not his uncle."

"Then wherefore should Timothy Trollope avoid the same s.h.i.+p that his young master is sailing upon?" questioned Hartop.

"For the reason that Master Gilbert is no longer his master; no, nor even his friend," said Robin. "Some dispute--I know not what it may have been--ended in Master Trollope being dismissed from Modbury Manor."

"That may well be," returned Jacob, "but it seemeth to me that Master Timothy is surely of a quarrelsome disposition. Howbeit, he will be speedily knocked into submission and obedience on board s.h.i.+p. As to young Gilbert Oglander, I'll engage he's like all the rest of his family--"

"See!" interrupted the lad admiringly, as he pointed towards the steps; "see! yonder stands Master Gilbert even now. Certes! how brave he doth look with his new morion and breast-piece!"

Hartop was forced onward by the moving throng, and presently he arrived at the top of the steps. What kissing and handshaking and fond partings were going on here! There were tears, too, in the women's eyes, for all knew that there was fighting to be done, and that of the gallant adventurers who were taking their leave, not all would come safely home again. Jacob came shoulder to shoulder with Ambrose Pennington, whom he had met once before at this same place. Ambrose was to be Sir Richard Grenville's sailing-master on board of the _Revenge_, and he was now bidding farewell to his aged mother.

"G.o.d speed thee, then!" sobbed the old woman as she clung to his hand.

"And mayst thou ever bear it in mind that 'tis our Queen and our country that thou servest, and that 'tis thy duty to fight hard and bravely whensoever there be Spaniards to be vanquished!"

"Ay, faith, I'll mind on it truly," answered Ambrose, kissing his mother's wrinkled forehead. Then, catching a glimpse of Jacob Hartop, he cried: "Ha, Master Hartop! How fare you, old friend? I have not seen thee since our encounter with the Dons three nights ago. Didst get any hurt, man?"