CHAPTER XI.
FLIGHT.
The sails drew as we got the anchor on board; and by the time O.P.and I had done sluicing the hawser clean of the mud it brought up, wewere working down the Hamoaze with a light and baffling wind, butcarrying a strong tide under us. Evening fell with a warm yellowhaze: the banks slipping past us grew dim and dimmer: here and therea light shone among the long-shore houses. I felt more confident,and no longer concealed myself as we tacked under the sterns of thegreat ships at anchor or put about when close alongside.
As we cleared Devil's Point and had our first glimpse of the greyline where night was fast closing down on open sea, I noted a certainrelaxation in Mr. Pengelly, as if he too had been feeling the strain.He began to chat with me. The wind, he said, was backing and wemight look for this spell of weather to break up before long.Once past the Rame we should be right as ninepence and might run downthe coast on a soldier's wind: it would stiffen a bit out yonderunless he was mistaken. He pulled out his pipe and lit it.Aft loomed the bulk of Mrs. Pengelly at the wheel. Save for a callnow and again to warn us that the helm was down, to put about, shesteered in silence. And she steered admirably.
We had opened the lights of Cawsand and were heading in towards it onthe port tack when, as O.P. smoked and chatted and I watched thespark of the Eddystone growing and dying, her voice reached us, lowbut distinct.
"There's a boat coming. Get below, boy!"
Sure enough as I scrambled for the hatchway in a flutter, someonehailed us out of the darkness.
"Ahoy, there!"
"Ahoy!" O.P. called back, after a moment, into the darkness.
"What's your name?"
"The _Glad Tidings_, of Looe, and thither bound. Who be you?"
"Water-guard. Is that you speaking, Mr. Pengelly?"
"Ay, sure. Anything the matter?"
"Seen such a thing as the body of a young chimney-sweep on your waydown? Age, ten or thereabouts. There's one missing."
"You don't say so! Drowned?"
His wife having put about, Mr. Pengelly obligingly hauled a sheet ortwo to windward, and brought the _Glad Tidings_ almost to astandstill, allowing the boat to come close alongside.
"Drowned?" he asked again.
"Worse than that," said the officer's voice (and it soundeddreadfully close); "there's been murder committed, and the child wasin the house at the time. The belief is, he's been made away with."
"Save us all! Murder? Whereto?"
"On the Barbican--an old Jew there, called Rodriguez. Who's thatyou've got at the helm?"
"Missus."
"Never knew ye was married."
"Nor did I, till this mornin'."
"Eh? Wish ye luck, I'm sure; and you, ma'am, likewise!"
"Thank ye, Mr. Tucker," answered the lady. "The same to you and manyof 'em--which by that I don't mean wives."
"Good Lord, is that _you_, Sally? Well, I'm jiggered! And I owe youninepence for that last pair of flatfish you sold me!"
"Tenpence," said Mrs. Pengelly. "But I can trust a gentleman.Where d'ye say this here murder was committed?"
"Barbican."
"I don't wonder at anything happening there. They're a stinking lot.Why don't ye s'arch the shipping there and in Cattewater?"
"We've been s'arching all day. And now the constables are offtowards Stoke--it seems a child answering all particulars was seen inthat direction this morning."
"That don't look like being made away with."
"In a case like this," answered Mr. Tucker sagely, "as often as notthere's wheels within wheels. Well, I won't detain ye. Good-night,friends!"
"Good-night!"
I heard the creak of thole-pins as the rowers gave way, and the washof oars as the boat shot off into the dark. Mr. Pengelly sent me alow whistle and I crept forth.
"Hear what they said?" he asked.
"They--they didn't give much trouble."
"Depends what you call trouble." He seemed slightly hurt in hisfeelings, and added, with asperity and obvious truth, "Carry it offhow you will, a honeymoon's a honeymoon, and a man doesn't expect tobe interrupted with questions about a sweep's apprentice."
"Stand by!" cautioned the voice aft, low and firm as before."By the sound of it they've stopped rowing."
"If they come on us again, we're done for. That Tucker's a fool, butI noticed one or two of the men muttering together."
"Sounds as if they were putting about. Can the boy swim?" asked Mrs.Pengelly anxiously.
"I'll bet he can't."
"But I can," said I. "If you'll put the helm down, ma'am, and holdin, I think she'll almost fetch Penlee Point. I don't want to getyou into trouble."
We all listened. And sure enough the sound of oars was approachingagain out of the darkness.
"Mr. Pengelly can lower me overside," I urged, "as soon as we're nearshore. It's safest in every way."
"So best," she answered shortly, and again put the _Glad Tidings_about. I began to pluck off my clothes.
The boat was evidently watching us: for, dark as the evening hadgrown, almost as soon as our helm went down the sound of oars ceasedastern--to begin again a few seconds later, but more gently, as ifsomeone had given the order for silence. O.P. peered under the slackof the mainsail.
"There she is!" he muttered. "Tucker will be trying to force heralongside under our lee." He picked up and uncoiled a spare rope."You'd best take hold o' this and let me slip ye over the starboardside, forra'd there, as she goes about. Bain't afeard, hey?"
"I'm not afraid of anything but being caught, sir."
"Sarah will take her in close: there's plenty water."
"O.P.," said the voice aft.
"My angel."
"Tell 'en he's a good boy, and I wouldn' mind having one like him."
"You're a good boy," said O.P., and covered the remainder of themessage with a discreet cough. "Seems to me Tucker's holdin' off abit," he added, peering again under the sail. "Wonder what his gameis?"
But I was already stripped, and already the high land loomed over us.Down went the helm again, and "Now's your time," muttered O.P. as wescrambled forward to cast off sheets. Amid the flapping of her headsails as she hung for a moment or two in stays, I slipped oversideand took the water easily while the black mass of her stern swungslowly round and covered me from view of the boat. Then, as the tallside began to gather way and slip by me, I cast a glance towards landand dived.
I came to the surface warily and trod water whilst I spied for theboat, which--as I reckoned--must be more than a gunshot distant.The sound of oars guided me, and I dived again in a terror. For shehad not turned about to follow the ketch, but was heading almostdirectly towards me, as if to cut me off from the shore.
My small body was almost bursting when I rose for air and anotherlook. The boat had not altered her course, and I gasped with a newhope. What if, after all, she were not pursuing me? I let my legssink and trod water. No: I had not been spied. She was pointingstraight for the shore. But what should take a long-boat, manned (asI made out) by a dark crowd of rowers and passengers, at this hour tothis deserted spot? Why was she not putting-in for Cawsand, aroundthe point? And did she carry the water-guard? Was this Tucker'sboat after all, or another?
Still treading water, I heard her nose take the ground, and presentlythe feet of men shuffling, as they disembarked, over loose stones:then a low curse following on a slip and a splash. "Who's thattalking?" a voice inquired, quick and angry. "Sergeant! Take thatman's name." But apparently the sergeant could not discover him.The footfalls grew more regular and seemed to be mounting the cliff,along the base of which, perhaps a hundred yards from shore, the tidewas now sweeping me. I gave myself to it and noiselessly, little bylittle working towards land, was borne out of hearing.
Another ten minutes and my feet touched bottom. I pulled myself outupon a weed-covered rock, and along it to a slate-strewn foreshoreoverhung by a low cliff of shale, grey and glimmerin
g in thedarkness. But even in the darkness a ridge of harder rock showed mea likely way. I remembered that the cliff hereabouts was of no greatheight and scalable in a score of places. Very cautiously, andsometimes sitting and straddling the ridge while my fingers sought anew grip, I mounted to the edge of a heathery down; and there, afterpricking myself sorely among the furze-bushes that guarded it, founda passage through and cast myself at full length on the short turf.
For a while I lay and panted, flat on my back, staring up at thestars: for the wind had chopped about and was now drawing gently offshore, clearing the sky. But, though gentle, it had an edge of chillwhich by and by brought me to my feet again. Far out on the darkwaters of the Sound glimmered the starboard light of the _GladTidings_, and it seemed to me that she was heading in for shore.Had the Pengellys too discovered that the boat was not thewater-guard's? And was O.P. working the ketch back to give me achance of rejoining her? Else why was she not slackening sheets andrunning? Vain hope! I suppose that the new slant of wind took sometime in reaching her; for, just as I was preparing to creep backbetween the furze-whins and scramble down to the foreshore again, thegreen light was quenched. She had altered her helm and was clearingthe Sound.
I dared not hail her. Indeed, had I risked it, the odds were againstmy voice carrying so far, to be recognised. And while I stood andsearched the darkness into which she had disappeared, my ear caughtagain the muffled tramp of the soldiers, this time advancing towardsme. I waited no longer, but started running for dear life up theshoulder of the down.
The swim and the chill breeze had numbed my legs and arms. After afew hundred yards, however, I felt life coming back to them, and Iran like a hare. I was stark naked, and here and there my feetstruck a heather root pushed above the turf, or wounded themselves onlow-lying sprouts of furze; but as my eyes grew used to the darksward I learned to avoid these. So close the night hung around methat even on the sky-line I had no fear of being spied. I crossedthe ridge and tore down the farther slope; stumbled through a muddybrook and mounted another hillside. My heart was drumming now, butterror held me to it--over this second ridge and downhill again.
I supposed myself but half-way down this slope, or only a littlemore, when in springing aside to avoid a low bush I missed footingaltogether; went hurling down into night, dropped plumb upon anotherfurze-bush--a withered one--and heard and felt it snap under me;struck the cliff-side, bruising my hip, and slid down on loose stonesfor another few yards. As I checked myself, sprawling, and came to astandstill, some of these stones rolled on and splashed into waterfar below.
For a minute or so, at full length on this treacherous bed, I couldpluck up no heart to move. Then, inch by inch at first, I drewmyself up to the broken bush and found beside it a flat ledge, smoothand grassy, which led inland and downwards. I think it must havebeen a sheep-track. I kept to it on hands and knees, and it broughtme down to the head of a small cove where a faint line of brimingshowed the sea's edge rippling on a beach of flat grey stones.
My hip was hurting me, and I could run no farther. I groped alongthe base of the eastern cliff and crawled into a shallow cave closeby a pile of seaweed which showed the high mark of the tide nowreceding. With daylight I might discover a better hiding-place.Meanwhile I snuggled down and drew a coverlet of seaweed over me forwarmth.