Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  She was all tearful thankfulness, and would have stood there in that blessed spot, tasting and savouring the news for an hour if Charlotte had not intervened. “You must come in now, Peggy,” she said. “You really must, my dear.”

  “Yes,” Wyke said, “and I see there are some people coming down the path. They have heard the news, I expect, and we had better go in for a moment, and then leave Mrs. Bligh to herself.”

  “It is not joy that hurts me,” she said, smiling happily. “Oh, I do thank, I do thank heaven!”

  But she complied. Wyke and Captain Bligh went in with them. They all crowded into the cottage, filling the little room.

  Wyke had been right in his conjecture, as the next minute proved. Less thoughtful than Copestake, or believing with Peggy that joy does not harm even “delikit” women, a score of enthusiasts from the water-side had started out to honour the hero, and wish his partner joy. They had gathered strength as they marched through the town, spreading the news and singing “Hearts of Oak”; so that by the time they halted before the cottage and lined up along the path they were a hundred strong — watermen, old salts, quay loafers, a rough crew, singing, laughing, cheering, but to a man moved by honest pride in the thing that had been done, the thing that had glorified Beremouth. Someone stepped to the front, as they ranged themselves with their faces to the cottage, and lifting his hand, set them once more thundering in unison “Hearts of oak are our ships! Hearts of oak are our men,” the stern and moving air that in the Service of that day summoned men to quarters and to battle.

  There was more than one heart within the cottage that rose high on the strain, more than one of those present whose eyes brightened. But when, the song ended, the leader of the band called for three cheers for Captain Bligh, and three cheers for the Lively Peggy, and the cheers were given with a will that shook the very walls of the cottage, Peggy surprised them all. Charlotte would have held her back, fearing the effect upon her; and Augusta would fain have done the same, deeming it beneath her sister to take notice of the men. But Peggy would not be restrained. She opened the door and went out; and when the rough fellows looked on the young wife’s face, aglow with pride and wet with tears, every head was bared and every tongue was silent.

  “Dear friends and neighbours,” she said, and her clear, sweet voice, tremulous with feeling, touched a chord in the rudest breast. “I thank you from my heart. God bless you, and may He bring all safe home to us!”

  That was all; but how they cheered her, as Charlotte, laughing and nodding, drew her in again! In their enthusiasm they would have stayed and cheered interminably, but Sir Albery went out, gave the leader a guinea to drink Mrs. Bligh’s health, and with the guinea a hint; and they trooped tumultuously away to the Privateersman and the Keppel, there to celebrate the occasion in a fitting manner. It was felt, indeed, in the little port that to go sober to bed that night was a tempting of Providence, a thankless act, or, in Captain Copestake’s phrase, “a cheapening of vouchsafed mercies!”

  But if there was triumph down by the water, and in the little room on the cliff-face where the old man and the girl-wife sat hand-in-hand a thankfulness as deep, here and there in lane and court there were quaking hearts and anxious faces. Distracted women to whom the news had come in fragments ran from door to door, asking questions that none could answer. They invaded Copestake in his cups, plucked at his sleeve with fluttering hands, insisted on knowing “Was my Bill hurt?” or “D’ye know aught o’ my Jack?” — questions that caused that mariner sad discomfort. For the story of the six wounded had gone abroad, and where there were wounded there were like to be dead. Ozias swore to each that her man was safe; but the comfort was cold, there was no telling, and one woman, ignorant of the distance, started at daybreak to tramp to Portsmouth, carrying her babe with her. She was sent back four days later by the Exeter wagon, at the cost of a charitable Justice who had heard her story.

  Strange to say, though within half an hour of Copestake’s arrival the town was humming with the news, no one conveyed it to the Rector, deeply as he was concerned in it. It was his sermon-day, an occasion that came but once in three weeks, and his order that he was not to be disturbed on that day was imperative. Even so, Wignall hesitated. He felt the tidings excused much, and he ventured as far as the door. But the Rector’s temper had been odd of late, and with his hand on the latch the butler’s heart misgave him, and ho retreated. So the Rector wrote on in peace until late in the afternoon. Then having completed his task he felt the need of a breath of fresh air, and issuing forth he took his hat and gold-headed cane and left the house. The first persons whom he met as he entered the churchyard were Augusta and Sir Albery Wyke, returning from the Cottage.

  There had been a little awkwardness when Wyke, after the departure of the crowd, had risen to take leave. The two girls had risen also; their way and his way were the same, and for a moment they had looked at one another — women will understand how. Then Charlotte, impelled by a feeling of which she was afterwards ashamed, suggested that Augusta might like to have a few minutes with her sister.

  But Augusta had put the offer by with a smile. “Not to-day,” she said, her hands in her muff. “Peggy will like to be alone to think it over.”

  Peggy didn’t say her nay, and Charlotte, despising herself, hastened to announce that she was going home by the road, and before the others could move had taken herself off. Finesse was not in her nature, she could not imagine what in the world had possessed her, and she scolded herself roundly. “I’ll write ‘plain Charlotte’ on a piece of paper,” she determined, “and perhaps that will remind me not to make a fool of myself!” And then “I am as mean as she is,” she thought with shame, “and without her excuse.”

  Wyke and Augusta, therefore, had left the Cottage together, Augusta, as they walked, dilating with sisterly affection on this happy turn in Peggy’s fortunes. “I am so glad,” she added, “so glad that my father suffered me to go to her — before this was known!”

  “It was very well,” Wyke replied. He could not banish a certain dryness from his tone.

  “It is such splendid news!” Augusta continued with rapture. “Such a surprising thing, too!”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “it is — if the story be true, Miss Portnal.”

  It had not occurred to Augusta to doubt it. She did not know enough of the things of the sea to appreciate its uncommon nature, though it had crossed her mind to question its propriety. A dispensation that allowed misconduct to be condoned and disobedience rewarded seemed to her improper. She would have died before she would have owned to the feeling, but it recurred, and it underlay her tone as she answered with a certain uplift in her voice. “You feel some doubt, then, Sir Albery? You don’t feel sure that the news is true?”

  “Well,” he admitted soberly, “it is such a very unusual thing for a private vessel to have the better of a warship that — that I am afraid I do doubt. As a rule such a ship surrenders when overtaken by a force so superior — the odds are too great. If she should resist the cost of victory must be heavy, yet we hear of no loss of life — only of six wounded — a light bill. Still, I don’t see how Copestake could be mistaken, and Captain Bligh no doubt told us the tale as it was told to him. We can only trust that there is no mistake, for the blow to your sister whose hopes have been raised would be cruel! Cruel!” he repeated with feeling.

  “It would indeed,” Augusta agreed. “Poor, poor Peggy! It is so much more than she can have expected!”

  “Than anyone can have expected! Let us hope that the story is true.”

  It was at this point that they saw the Rector’s portly figure coming towards them. “Oh, father!” Augusta cried, as they met, “isn’t it wonderful?”

  “What, my dear?” he said. “What is wonderful?”

  “You have not heard the news — of the brig?”

  The Rector’s heart lost a beat. But he saw that, whatever the news was, it could not be bad. “What is the news?” he asked. “And who brough
t it?”

  “Copestake,” Wyke answered. “He heard it at Portsmouth and came over with it. According to him the Lively Peggy fell in with a French corvette off Ushant — a little to the south I understand, and engaged her and has taken her!”

  “Taken her!” the Rector exclaimed in astonishment. The others could see that he was moved — and shaken. But they attributed his agitation to the surprise that was natural.

  “Fought her and taken her!” Sir Albery repeated. “So the story goes. It’s amazing if it be true.”

  “And — and Bligh?” The Rector’s eyes as he spoke avoided theirs.

  “He is said to be safe,” Wyke replied. “That is certain, I understand. We’ve just come from Mrs. Bligh’s. What is it, Rector?”

  For Portnal had drawn in his breath in an odd way. “Only a little spasm,” he explained. He took out his handkerchief and passed it across his brow. “Nothing! Nothing! He’s safe, then — Bligh?” he added. “You are sure of that, Wyke?”

  “Certainly — if Copestake is right.”

  The Rector surprised them both, his daughter more than Sir Albery. “Thank God!” he said in a tone so earnest, and so different from the pitch of his voice in church that Wyke got a new view of him. “Thank God!” he repeated reverently. “I — I was afraid for my daughter!” And again, as if he could not contain himself, “Thank God!” he repeated. “He is very merciful!” Then, recovering himself and in a voice more like his own, “A shock to her would be — would be very serious just now,” he said.

  Wyke had never liked the man so well. He had never known him as he was, it seemed. “Just so,” he agreed heartily. “But I’d better tell you the story.” And he repeated Ozias’s tale as he had had it from the old Captain, to whom, as we know, Copestake had not communicated all that he knew. “It’s an amazing feat,” he said in conclusion, “look at it how you will.”

  “If it be true,” Augusta suggested, recalling the misgivings that he had expressed.

  The Rector frowned. “Is there any doubt about it?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Wyke said. But he spoke as if he did doubt. “I-don’t see how there can be, Rector. If a landsman had reported it, I should feel, I confess, great doubt. A good deal of doubt. But Copestake—’’

  “Copestake should know,” the Rector agreed, welcoming that view of it. “Anyway the news should be in the journals in a day or two. You did not hear who the wounded were?”

  “No; Copestake came away without waiting to learn particulars. It would have been better if he had waited, I think.”

  “It would,” the Rector decided. “Certainly it would. I think I will send a messenger to Portsmouth to see the men in hospital and to learn particulars — and what can be done for them. But I suppose the brig may be in at any time now?”

  “I’m afraid not yet,” Wyke said. “The brigantine that brought the news appears to have entered the Channel before the wind shifted from west to north. Copestake thinks that the brig and her prize would meet a head wind while still in the Bay, and may not be in for some days. They were still refitting when the brigantine left them, and the sea was getting up.”

  “They’d beat to westwards?”

  “No doubt they’d get off the French coast as soon as possible. Copestake put them about a degree west of the Penmarch, and thought that if the sea was not too high they might land in the boats such of the prisoners as they did not need for working.”

  “May be. He should know. Well,” with a sigh that betrayed a lingering anxiety, “I will go on.” And nodding to Wyke in a way that showed that his thoughts were elsewhere, he pursued his walk.

  He was thankful, profoundly thankful. More than once he bared his head and his lips moved. But mingled with his thankfulness, underlying it like a tiny but deadly snake hidden beneath a basket of luscious fruit, were misgivings that he strove to ignore. He had some knowledge of sea matters and he had a vision of the brig and her prize heaving, a cable’s length apart, in broken water, with the brig’s guns shotted and bearing on the Frenchman. He could hear the wind screaming through the raffle of torn cordage, and the shattered mast beating against the hull that trembled with every shock. He saw the French crew driven under hatches, and men naked to the waist labouring in a frenzy of haste to cut away the crippled spars — men with bandages about their heads, working in fear of their lives to set up jury masts. He saw the look-out sweeping the offing in mingled fear and hope, heard the hoarse orders, and read the alarm in men’s faces, heard their curses, as the wind shifted to north and forced them to beat into the Atlantic!

  He tried to put misgivings from him. All had gone so well, so much had been done and won, if this marvellous story was true, that surely the skill and courage that had wrought wonders might be trusted to surmount the difficulties that remained. But he strove with less success than he could have wished. At moments the spectre of a Nemesis would lift its head, would shadow his thoughts, would haunt him; and fond of money as he was, he would willingly have lost all that he stood to gain for the certain news that the Lively Peggy lay safe in port.

  Yet it was hard to suppose that there was a mistake. Copestake — Copestake should know, if anyone did! So, little by little, he reassured himself. He walked more briskly. He swung his cane and put his years behind him, cheered by the pleasant air, the peaceful scene, the evening stillness.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  AS long as there were new listeners to gather about him Ozias sang his song of triumph, and bathed himself in the pleasure that rewards the bearer of strange news. But the Beremouth folk were few, and when he had exhausted his audience, he bethought him of an outstanding claim and of one to whom it was his duty in a special degree to impart his tidings. He called for a boat, chose the best of a dozen that were eagerly offered, and two minutes later he was on his way to the Cove. One treat, and a high treat, still remained — to tell the story to the owner of the Lively Peggy; and with enthusiasm, simple soul as he was, Copestake pictured the joyful amazement with which it would be welcomed.

  The man who rowed the boat and was aware of his purpose took another view of the matter. For as they rounded the Point, “The old man,” he said, “do keep himself to himself, Cap’en, these days. You’d ought to know that, for sure. ‘Twere a terrible blow to him, his nevy going.”

  “Ay, ay,” Ozias conceded, “’twould be.” And then, remembering that for the last twenty-four hours he had wallowed in worldly things and that a word was never out of season, “Poor things we be, Jack,” he said. “A prudent man foreseeth the evil and hideth himself.”

  Jack applied the saying literally. “Well,” he replied, “that’s what he do do, Cap’en. Hides, he does, and very ugly he’s been, late days. ’Tis much if there’s a soul in Beremouth has set eyes on him.

  They do say,” he continued, shaking his head, “that he be drinking, and drinking alone!”

  Ozias came sharply to the surface again. “Lord’s sake, that’s bad!” he said. “Drinking alone! Oh dear, dear, that’s bad! But we’ll soon change that,” he continued, recovering his spirits as he thought of the news he bore. “We’ll have him at the Keppel Head ‘fore he’s a day older, see if we don’t! You wait here, my lad,” he added, as the boat grounded, “and I’ll have him down here in two shakes.”

  The man shook his head. “I’d rather you than me, Cap’en. He’s the black dog on his back that bad, ‘twill take a lot, I’m thinking, to move him!”

  “What? Wi’ this news?”

  “But ‘taint news of Joe,” the other said shrewdly. “Happen he mayn’t be as pleased as you think, master.”

  “You’re a fool, Jack!” Ozias retorted. He left the boat and strode across the shingle with the foot of a conqueror.

  He felt a little less sanguine when he had put his head into the shed and found it silent and deserted. Tools lay here and there, in no order. A boat lay keel uppermost, the gap where a strake had been removed still yawning. Sand had blown in and lay thick on bench and d
esk. The place had the forlorn look of a workshop long abandoned. “By gum!” Ozias muttered, as his eyes travelled over its state and took it in. “The old man’s hard hit, there’s no denying!”

  He turned from the shed with a sobered face and went up to the house — the white-washed, creeper-clad house that, snugly sheltered on three sides, looked out on the sea; the house that Budgen loved and many a one in Beremouth coveted. As he approached the door, the stillness of the scene impressed him unpleasantly. The garden looked behind-hand and neglected, the potato-hog yawned open and empty, and upon the doorstep stood a bucket that apparently had halted there on its way to the stream. He raised his hand to knock, but in the act he saw through the window the figure of Budgen crouching over the hearth before a handful of fire. Ozias did not need to see the man’s face, the attitude was enough. “By gum!” he repeated. “He’s took it hard! He’s took it hard surely! But we’ll soon change that or I’m a Dutchman!”

  He knocked and without more opened the door and turned into the living-room. His seaman’s eye took in a bottle and glass standing on the table at Budgen’s elbow; and had there been a second glass, he would have filled it off-hand and drunk to the prize and so broken the news in the fashion he considered most fitting. But there was no second glass, and he did the next best thing. Three strides took him to the man’s side. He smacked him on the back. “Heart up!” he cried jovially. “There’s news! Good news, man! No more need to mope!”

  The blow brought Budgen to his feet, but the face that he turned on his assailant struck the laugh from Ozias’s lips. “To hell with you!” he snarled.

  “What do you—” And then with the word on his lips, and his eyes glaring at his visitor, some sobering thought crossed his mind, or the fumes of liquor passed from his brain. The rage died out of his eyes, he raised his hand as if to ward off a blow. “What — what news?” he stammered, and if Copestake had never before seen terror in a man’s face he saw it then. “What is it?”