CHAPTER I.
TIMOTHY TROLLOPE.
"Tim," said Peter Trollope, looking up from the oily whetstone that layon the edge of the table in front of him, and slowly wiping the blade ofthe razor on the broad palm of his hand, "I want thee to go fetch mesome more herbs."
"Herbs?" repeated Tim from the far corner of the shop, where he wassprawling upon the floor side by side with a very ugly-looking bull-dog.
"Ay," returned his father, running the edge of the razor along histhumb-nail to test its keenness. "My stock is at an end, and I have noneleft to make up the physic for Cap'n Cruse's sick wife. 'Tis somehellebore roots that I need most, and a little meadow-saffron andjasmine, and, if thou canst come upon them, a handful of yew-berries.You will find them all in Modbury Park if I make no mistake--overagainst the plantation of fir-trees where we saw the dead hind. I'd havethee go there this morning; and see that thou tarry not over long by theway, for I shall need thy help in distilling them."
Timothy rose slowly to his feet. There was a look of glum discontent onhis face. It was evident that he was in nowise willing to obey hisfather's behest.
"What!" cried Peter, glancing at the lad with sharp reproof. "Dostobject to the journey? Now, prithee, what wild boy's adventure hast thouon hand that is more to thy humour?"
Timothy looked dreamily out through the little latticed window towardsthe quay, and his eyes wandered for a time among the masts and riggingsof the ships.
"I was but thinking to go out for a sail in Ambrose Pennington'sfishing-boat," he said in a sulky undertone.
"A plague on your fishing-boats!" exclaimed Peter somewhat angrily."Y'are for ever thinking of the sea and ships and all such mischievousinventions! I'll not have it, look you. And to-day, so please you,you'll do my bidding and go fetch me these herbs, and there's an endon't."
Timothy made no answer, for at this moment a hairy-faced mariner enteredthe shop, making a great noise upon the sanded floor with his heavysea-boots.
"Give you good-morning, Master Whiddon," said Peter Trollope with a bowand a smile, as he offered the man a chair in the middle of the room."What may be your honour's will?"
"Trim me my beard, Master Trollope," returned the seaman, seatinghimself in the chair and stretching out his legs in front of him; "andtell me your news; for 'tis a good two years since I was last ashore inPlymouth, and I am full eager, as you may be sure, to learn all thathath happened in my absence."
Timothy opened a little locker under the window and drew forth a largecanvas wallet, which he strapped over his shoulder. Then he crossed overto a door and disappeared into an inner room behind the shop, leavinghis father to attend to his customer and retail news that to the boy, atall events, was as stale as a last year's chestnut.
Peter Trollope was a barber-surgeon. He carried on his useful art (forin his deft hands it was in truth an art) at the sign of the Pestle andMortar, down against Sutton Pool. He was a great man in Plymouth town,by reason of his entertaining talk and his skill alike in surgery and inhairdressing; and his little shop was the lounging-place of all the idleyoung gallants of the port, who came in to discuss the latest news fromLondon, to gossip about their neighbours' affairs and about the ships,or to learn the tricks and fashions in the new art of taking tobacco.Men who had received sword-wounds in street frays or damaged skulls intavern brawls came to him to have their hurts dressed and plastered; hehad a famous tincture for the toothache, a certain remedy formelancholy, and at curing the common ailments of children and old womenno doctor in the town could beat him. Mariners just home after a longvoyage came to him to have their overgrown locks shorn and their beardssinged. Poor workmen and apprentices came to him to be polled fortwopence, were soon trimmed round as a cheese, and dismissed with ahearty "God speed you, my master!" There were many high and mightygentlemen among his customers too, I do assure you; for he had starchedthe beard of the great Sir Walter Raleigh, curled the moustachios ofbrave Sir Francis Drake, and tied up the lovelocks of courtly SirAnthony Killigrew.
The Pestle and Mortar stood facing the busy wharf at the corner of oneof the narrow alleys that led up into the town. The upper windows of thehouse looked out across the Pool, where all the ships and fishing-boatswere harboured. From these upper windows you could, if you had only beenthere, see down upon the ships' decks and watch the brown-faced seamenat their work of discharging the merchandise that they had brought fromdistant climes; and in the street below there was the channel where, onwet days, the rain-water rushed by in a deep stream; and where, when therain had ceased, young Timothy Trollope and his playmates used to go outin their bare feet and sail their tiny boats, and imagine these bits ofrough-hewn stick to be Spanish galleons, laden with gold, or corsairgalleys with cargoes of Christian captives for the slave-markets ofAlgiers.
Timothy's games had always some connection with ships (which, I suppose,was natural enough, seeing that he had been born and brought up in sightof the sea, and with the smell of tar rope and bilge-water for ever inhis nostrils), and all his boyish ambitions were of travel andadventure, fostered, it may be, by the travellers' talk he had heardfrom the mariners who gossiped with his father in the barber's shop.
Many of these adventurous mariners, remembering past benefits that theyhad received at the hands of the kindly barber-surgeon, or perhaps beingshort of money (as they ofttimes were, in spite of the vast treasuresthat they had voyaged and fought for in far-off regions), had given orsold to him many relics of their travels in foreign lands, and the shopwas a veritable museum of curiosities from all parts of the known world.Here was a live poll-parrot brought home by one of Sir RichardGrenville's seamen from Virginia; the jaws of a giant shark that hadbeen killed by John Hawkins' boatswain off the west coast of Africa; aTurk's scimitar, a Patagonian's war-club, a red Indian's tobacco-pipe,an Icelander's harpoon, and even some of the so-called gold brought backby Sir Martin Frobisher from distant Greenland. People who had nevercrossed the seas regarded these things with wonder and reverence, butseamen were wont to scoff at them, and to declare that they were butthe sweepings and refuse of ships' cabins. Peter Trollope, however, wasproud of his curious collection; and often, when business was slack, hewould sit in his chair by the fire and look at the things each in turn,and grumble that Providence had not made him an adventurer instead of aquiet, stay-at-home barber-surgeon.
Master Thomas Cavendish, the great explorer, when he was fitting out hisship, the _Hugh Gallant_, for his voyage round the world, had once saidto him:
"Peter, thou art too good a man to be wasting thy palmiest days at theclipping of hair. Those strong big limbs of thine should rather beemployed in the hauling of ropes, the shifting of heavy guns, orfighting against the Spaniards. Now, my ship will be a-sailing out ofPlymouth Sound in a few days' time, wilt shut up shop and join us? I dofaithfully promise that thou shalt come back home again at the end oftwo brief years a wealthier man than ever the use of such triflinginstruments as scissors and curling-irons can make thee."
But Peter was already a married man, with a growing family of boys tokeep and to clothe and to send out upon the world, and he chose thecertainty of an easy livelihood rather than the promise of riches whichwere to be gained, if at all, by deserting his home and leaving his wifeand children to shift for themselves. He had reflected, too, that ifthere were Spaniards to be fought abroad, there was also a threateneddanger from the same dread enemy at home in England, and that QueenElizabeth had as great need for landsmen to defend her coasts as formariners to extend her power beyond the seas. And, indeed, when thatdanger arrived (as it did in the year 1588, when Timothy was a boy oftwelve years old) Peter proved himself ready and willing to fight forhis country, albeit the sum of his work on that glorious occasion was nomore than to help to light the bonfire on Plymouth Hoe--the first ofthose beacon-fires which flashed along the coast to warn all England ofthe coming of King Philip's great armada.
The memorable rout of the Spanish ships
had taken place just two yearsbefore the opening of my story, and Timothy Trollope was now awell-grown lad of fourteen. He could remember all the events of thechase up the Channel, for he had heard the story repeated many times bymen who had fought upon the Queen's ships. He was reminded of them everyday; and even this morning as he strode through the town with his bagover his shoulders on his way to Modbury, he saw a group of the Spanishprisoners of war standing in the market-place--dark-visaged,evil-looking men, who seemed to be for ever plotting and scheming howthey might escape from England and get back to their own orange grovesin sunny Seville.
Tim hated the Spaniards (as I suppose all English boys hated them atthat time), and he was careful to pass the senors at a very safedistance, believing that there was danger in being close to them, andthat under their long black cloaks each of them carried a rapier or astiletto ready to his hand, to draw upon any unwary person who shouldhappen to betray by look or sign the enmity that was in the hearts ofall the townsfolk, young and old. For although the prisoners were out ontheir parole and were strictly forbidden to carry arms, yet Timothyalways secretly mistrusted them, and suspected them, not without reason,of carrying weapons which they were only too ready to use.
It was a long walk from Plymouth to Modbury Park; but the morning wasfine, and Timothy, having left the town behind, tramped merrily alongthe shady country lanes, slashing with his stick at the rank weeds thatgrew at the wayside, and fancying that each nettle and foxglove that helaid low was a proud Spaniard whom he had slain.
As he crossed the fields by a footpath leading towards BeddingtonDingle, a covey of partridges, alarmed at his approach, rose with anoisy whirr of wings from the stubble. In the woods of the dingle hewatched a squirrel running along the high branch of an oak-tree, and ina ditch at the farther border of the wood he startled a rat, andloitered there for a long, long time trying to discover the hole intowhich the animal had escaped.
While he was searching he heard voices from behind him, mingled with thescreaming of hawks, the yelping of dogs, and the tinkling of bells.
"Well cast off aloft, ah!--well flown!" cried one voice.
"Now she hath seized the fowl," cried another, "and 'gins to plumeher--rebeck her not!--stand still and check her!"
Timothy turned quickly round. High in the air he saw a heron flying,pursued by a couple of falcons, that whirled about their quarry,shunning its spear-like beak. At a moment of advantage one of the hawksmounted yet higher, and then, swooping down, struck like a thunderboltupon her prey and seized the fowl within her talons. A shower offeathers floated down into the midst of the joyous crowd of men andwomen who were watching the sport from their horses' backs in thestubble-field.
It was a very gay and courtly company. Here on their prancing horseswere many elegant gentlemen wearing plumed hats and bright-colouredcapes; ladies with their snow-white ruffs and their long velvet gownsthat almost swept the daisies and dandelions at their horses' feet; andall were laughing and calling aloud in their excitement as they comparedthe merits of their birds, or made wagers on the success of theirflights.
Near to where Timothy stood, an old gentleman with a pointed white beardand a russet-coloured doublet rode on a very large chestnut horse. Hecarried a merlin hawk perched on his fist, but he seemed to take lessinterest in the sport than did his younger companions. Timothy had seenhim many times before, both in Plymouth and at Modbury Park, and knewhim to be the great Baron Champernoun, the lord of the manor of Modbury,a noted soldier and courtier. A very beautiful lady rode by his side,wearing a sombre black gown and a wide black hat with black feathers.She looked strangely out of place among her gaily-dressed friends, andTimothy wondered why she should wear this habit of gloom, until he sawher face, when he at once recognized her as the Lady Elisabeth Oglander,and knew that her reason for shunning bright colours in her apparel wasthe death of her most noble husband, the honourable Edmund Oglander, whohad fallen in battle in the Netherlands while fighting against theSpaniards.
She drew rein, and the master falconer approached her with his squareframe round his waist, on which were perched some half-dozen hawks withtheir hoods and bells and their scarlet tufts. The lady leaned over onher saddle and took a hawk from the falconer's hand. The bird flappedits wings in great commotion until it was fairly perched on the fingersthat held it. Then the Lady Elizabeth, holding her hand aloft, rode offacross the field, followed presently by the rest of the hawking party,while Tim Trollope watched them disappear round a corner of the wood.
As he turned to continue his way he came face to face with a boy ofabout his own age, who was carrying some dead partridges--spoils of thechase.
"Helloh, Will!" cried Timothy, recognizing the lad. "I had thought youwere at work on Modbury farm. Hast had a rise in the world that you areout here at the heels of the gentlefolks?"
"A rise, do you call it?" returned Will. "That is as it may be. For myown part I do call it but a change of labour. I get no more pay for't, Ipromise you; and 'tis a vast deal harder work than the herding of cattleor the tending of sheep. I like it not, Tim; and 'tis certain I shallnot stand it much longer." He dropped his burden on the grass at hisfeet and gazed idly about him with a dreamy look in his eyes. Presentlyhe added, "I am for the sea, if peradventure I can get a ship to takeme. I'd leave to-morrow an I could get someone to take my place."
Timothy glanced quickly at his young friend.
"I'll take it!" he cried eagerly. "I'll take your place, and gladly. ForI have been wanting these many months past to go to work, and, since myfather will not suffer me to go to sea, why, there is nothing I'd likebetter than to be in the service of my Lord Champernoun."
And with this new idea in his head he went on his way, inwardlyresolving that on the very next day he would go up to Modbury Manor andapply to his lordship's bailiff, entreating him to give him work, eitheron the farm or else in the mews where the hawks were kept. And he hadlittle doubt that when once he had got promise of employment there wouldbe no possible opposition from his father.
This thought of his father reminded him that he had not yet begun togather the herbs for which he had been sent out, so he went on over thefields until he came to the fir plantation in Modbury Park, and there ina quiet hollow he began to fill his wallet with such roots and berriesas the barber-surgeon had bidden him bring home.
He had walked round by the lake, and was unearthing the root of a rareherb which he knew that his father would set great store by, when,without the warning of any previous sound or movement he felt himselfsuddenly seized from behind and held firmly by his leather belt.
Now, although the hand which held him was a very tiny one, yet itgripped him with surprising tenacity, and the suddenness of the assaultwas such that the lad, knowing that he was a trespasser on privateground, was greatly alarmed. He thought at once of my lord's gamekeeper,and he dreaded the consequences. He struggled to wrench himself away,and turned to confront his assailant. Instead of the man that he hadexpected, he beheld a little maid whose large blue eyes regarded himwith an expression of ferocity that would have been terrible if it hadnot been merely assumed. She wore a lace-trimmed frock of golden-brownvelvet that came down nearly to her toes. There was a crimson silk sashabout her waist and a milk-white ruffle round her neck, and her cheekswere rosy with glowing health. She was beautiful to behold. But Timthought nothing of her beauty; he was only astonished that so dainty alittle gentlewoman, the granddaughter of a noble baron as he knew her tobe, should display such boldness as to lay hands upon him, the son of apoor barber. He looked at her in amazement.
"Certes, Mistress Oglander," said he in his confusion, "how you didstartle me! I heard not your approach."
"That is scarcely to be believed," quoth she, still gripping his belt,"for we have been firing our guns into your quarter this half-hourpast!" Then tugging at him with renewed energy, she added, "You are nowfairly conquered and our lawful prize of war."
"Nay, Mistress Oglander," stammered Timothy, "I know not what you mean!I a
m but gathering a few poor herbs for my father, Master Trollope, thebarber-surgeon of Plymouth, and I beg you to release me."
Mistress Oglander looked strangely incredulous, and for a moment sherelaxed her hold of him. She glanced round as though in search ofsomeone whom she expected to see among the trees at the edge of thelake.
"I care not whose son you may be," said she. "In real truth you are noman's son; nor, so please you, am I Drusilla Oglander; for you are aSpanish treasure-ship that I have captured on the high seas, while I amthe good ship _Prudence_ of Falmouth, who now intendeth to take you asmy prize to England."
Timothy seemed to apprehend her purpose, for he calmly yielded himselfto her humour.
"An that be the way of it all," quoth he, "then am I well content. But Ido pray that England doth lie at no great distance from this spot, for Imust get home with my bag of herbs for the which my father isimpatiently waiting."
"'Tis but a little way beyond the beeches yonder," explained Drusilla,indicating three tall trees that grew in the midst of a shrubbery at thefar end of the little lake. "'Twill take but a few moments to cross theAtlantic Ocean, and then we are there."
She drew him onward for some yards, when suddenly he stopped. Sheglanced at him in quick alarm.
"Nay," she cried, "you must not sink! You are to be refitted when wereach port, and then, you know, you will be made into an English ship."
But Timothy still hesitated, and even made a movement as if to freehimself and run away.
"Why are you sinking?" questioned little Drusilla, to whom his movementsseemed to imply that he had been seriously damaged in the late battle."It cannot be that the shots I fired struck you below the water!"
"'Tis my heart that sinketh," returned Tim. "Prithee, who and what arethe men I see lurking under yonder trees?"
Drusilla smiled.
"The one sitting down with his back to the railings," said she, "is the_Santa Barbara_ galleon--a poor hopeless wreck. The other--well, Iscarce know what he is at this moment, for he hath been so many thingsthis morning that 'tis hard to remember. But I think he was themule-train the last time--the mule-train that Drake captured near toNombre de Dios. Gilbert was Captain Drake. Gilbert doth always like tobe Captain Drake whenever 'tis possible, and will never consent to be aSpaniard, unless it be King Philip himself or else the great Marquis ofSanta Cruz."
"Master Gilbert can scarce be blamed for his choice," remarked Tim. And,understanding from what the girl had said that there was no reason forthe fear that had come over him, he meekly suffered himself to be takeninto port in the character of a captive treasure-ship.
The Golden Galleon Page 4
