Cover art

"INCH BY INCH THEY WERE DRIVEN BACK"

A Lad of Grit

A Story of Adventure on Land
and Sea in Restoration Times

by

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

ILLUSTRATED BY EDWARD S. HODGSON

BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW
1909

By Percy F. Westerman

Captain Fosdyke's Gold.
In Defiance of the Ban.
Captain Sang.
The Senior Cadet.
The Amir's Ruby.
The Secret of the Plateau.
Leslie Dexter, Cadet.
All Hands to the Boats.
A Mystery of the Broads.
Rivals of the Reef.
A Shanghai Adventure.
Pat Stobart in the "Golden Dawn".
The Junior Cadet.
Captain Starlight.
The Sea-Girt Fortress.
On the Wings of the Wind.
Captured at Tripoli.
Captain Blundell's Treasure.
The Third Officer.
Unconquered Wings.
The Riddle of the Air.
Chums of the "Golden Vanity".
Clipped Wings.
The Luck of the "Golden Dawn".
The Salving of the "Fusi Yama".
Winning his Wings.
A Lively Bit of the Front.
A Cadet of the Mercantile Marine.
The Good Ship "Golden Effort".
East In the "Golden Gain".
The Quest of the "Golden Hope".
Sea Scouts Abroad.
Sea Scouts Up-Channel.
The Wireless Officer.
A Lad of Grit.
The Submarine Hunters.
Sea Scouts All.
The Thick of the Fray.
A Sub and a Submarine.
Under the White Ensign.
The Fight for Constantinople.
With Beatty off Jutland.
The Dispatch Riders.

Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow

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CONTENTS

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Illustrations

[Inch by inch they were driven back] . . . . . . Frontispiece
[I ran at my father's murderer and rained blow after blow upon his head and body]
[They clambered up our sides with the greatest intrepidity]
[The chest is hoisted to the surface]

[CHAPTER I--How the Tidings of the Restoration Came to Rake]

The sun was slowly sinking behind the tree-clad Hampshire Downs. Already the long shadows of Rake Hill lay athwart the misty coombe, and the glimmer of the innumerable forges in the valley beneath began to hold its own against the rapidly fading daylight. The cold east wind, for it was but the beginning of March, in the year of grace 1660, whistled through the clump of gaunt pine trees that marked the summit of the hill, and, despite the fact that each of us wore a thick doublet, the chilly blast cut us like a knife.

I remember that evening well; its stirring incidents are graven on my memory as if they had happened but yesterday, though nigh on twoscore and ten winters and summers have passed over my head since the eventful year of which I write.

My father and I were returning homewards from the great fair at Petersfield. For an old man, he being well over sixty years of age, my father was the marvel of our village. Tall but sparely built, his frame betokened a strength of body that harmonized with the determination of character that made itself known by the glance of his steel-coloured eyes. Report says that when he came to Rake to settle down, some twelve or thirteen years back--I being but an infant in arms,--he did gain a lasting reputation by outmatching one Caleb James, a notorious bully, at his own game, breaking his pate with his own staff on the roadside hard by Milland Church.

Moreover, as proof of his hardiness, is there not the testimony of the worthy Master Hugh Salesbury, the chirurgeon of Lyss--the same whose son fell in Torrington's action off Beachy Head,--to the effect that though practice was slack around Lyss, yet he perforce would have to give up if none were better patients than honest Owen Wentworth.

Despite the fact that he was on the losing side, my father was not backward in declaring his attachment to His Gracious Majesty King Charles II; and although our neighbours, even the Roundheads, were favourably disposed to him, making allowance for his fiery temper, yet with strangers who passed along the great highway betwixt London Town and Portsmouth, honest Owen's outspoken declarations oft led to wordy strife, and on occasions ended in blows.

In defiance of the Puritan regulations against anything tending towards the lost cause, my father, though ruined by confiscations and sequestration, endeavoured to maintain the appearance of a careless and social demeanour, ever cherishing a hope that each day seemed nearer fulfilment.

He still retained his flowing lovelocks, while the lower part of his weather-worn face was adorned by a greyish beard of Van Dyck cut, which failed to hide a portion of a long, whitish scar that extended from his left eyebrow to his cheek bone--the legacy of a pike-thrust in the sanguinary encounter of Cropredy Bridge. He was dressed in a dark-blue suit, relieved by a deep collar of Mechlin lace, while, on account of the severity of the weather, he was further attired in a long cloak that barely concealed the end of a short hanger--a necessary weapon in these troublous times. I also knew that he carried two long dags, or Scottish pistols, yet of these there was no outward sign.

As we neared the foot of the hill, instead of turning to the right towards our home, my father broke the silence by saying:

"I will call in at the 'Flying Bull'. Possibly the chapman from Godalming is there. If so, I can replenish my stock of gun flints."

As we entered the doorway of the "Flying Bull"--an old hostelry that has sheltered all sorts and conditions of men, from kings and queens even to the arch-traitor Old Noll himself, and the sign of which, painted by a limner who had learned his art in the time of the last crusade, had swung in the breeze for nigh on four hundred years--we were greeted with a chorus of welcome from the score or so of persons assembled in the large stone-flagged common room.

"How goes the price of malt and barley at Petersfield?" questioned one man in a voice that was like to the bellowing of a bull.

"Man," retorted another, "doth thy reasoning not rise above the price of petty huckstering, Obadiah Blow-the-trumpet-in-Zion? Heed him not, good Master Wentworth. Hast news of honest George Monk and his army?"

"None, though rumour hath it that the fleet at Portsmouth hath sided with Monk, and that John Tippets, the mayor, hath called out the train bands and manned the ordnance on the Platform and the Square Tower. Moreover, a trusty messenger hath reached Sir Giles Seaward with orders to raise the countryside and to assemble in Petersfield marketplace to-morrow at noon. God forfend that this land be not again drenched in blood!"

"Ay," rejoined another, "but, as man to man, Master Wentworth, what think ye? How blows the wind in London?" he added darkly.

"My friend, mark ye well, the wind blows straight from the Low Country."

"No," thundered a voice from a seat in the chimney corner; "the blast of the Lord, that destroyed Sennacherib and his host, will utterly consume the malignants, including Charles Stuart, the son of the enemy of the people of England!" My father sprang to his feet, white with fury. All eyes were centred on the speaker. He was a short, thick-set man of about forty years of age, with a bull-neck, huge ears, small ferrety eyes, close-cropped hair, and a clean-shaven face deeply pitted with smallpox. He wore a buff-coloured jerkin, opened at the neck for comfort's sake, and frayed and soiled from the wearing of armour, his breast- and back-plates of dull steel having been removed. These, together with a steel helmet with metal guards, and a heavy broadsword, lay on the settle within arm's length, while a petronel and a well-weighted bandolier hung across the back of a chair on which the man's feet, encased in long Spanish boots, rested.

On my father striding across the room, the stranger leisurely rose from his seat and extended his hand in an attitude of contemptuous reproof.

"Tut, man, 'tis time thy grey hairs taught thee wisdom! Wouldst threaten me, Increase Joyce, trooper of Parliamentary Horse?"

"Draw, knave, draw!" shouted my father, whipping out his hanger. "Either unsay those words or else swallow them!"

Instantly all was confusion. Some of the more timid made towards the door, tables were overturned, tankards clattered on the floor, excited men shouted in unintelligible voices. For my own part, I remained by my father's side, unable to take my eyes off his antagonist, and, at the same time, knowing that my father in his choler would brook no interference from me.

"I fight not with old men," retorted Joyce. "But this I know: 'The axe is laid unto the root of the trees', an' if that arch-profligate, Charles Stuart, were to set foot in England----"

He was interrupted by a violent knocking at the door, which, being thrown wide open, showed a man fully armed and holding the reins of a steaming and apparently exhausted horse.

"Host!" he shouted. "Where or which is the host?"

Old Giles Perrin, the innkeeper, came forward and awaited his commands.

"Now, sirrah, on thy life, hasten! Provender for my beast; a cup of spiced ale for myself. With all dispatch, man, for I am on the service of the State!"

The stranger strode into the room, stooped and replaced one of the overturned stools, seated himself thereon, and, removing a cloth that encircled his neck, wiped his heated brow vigorously. Then he stared haughtily around at the assembled company, seized the cup that old Giles brought, and drained it at one gulp.

I remarked that he spoke with an accent totally different from the Southern dialect of our part of Hampshire and Sussex, but my doubts were soon set at rest.

"How far down yon road is't to Petersfield? And is one like to meet aught of footpads, drawlatches, or vagrants of that condition?"

It was my father who answered him, yet barely had he opened his mouth when the stranger clapped him on the shoulder:

"By all the powers of darkness! You, S----"

"Hold, man!" replied my father in a tone that implied no denial. Then, in an undertone, I heard him say: "I am now but Owen Wentworth, gentleman yeoman, at your service."

"I am still Ralph Slingsby, though, thanks to my General Monk, cornet of horse no longer, but captain in his favourite regiment. Let me think. 'Tis but thrice that I have seen thee since we parted at Holwick, you to join the king at Nottingham, I to enrol under my Lord Essex. First, at Edgehill, when I, a mere stripling, lay under the hoofs of Rupert's horse. Secondly, at Cropredy Bridge, when I did turn aside the pike that would have let your soul out of the keeping of your body. Lastly, when at the trial of----"

"Ssh! I would have you remember that the rising generation hath long ears."

My father spoke truly, for though the stranger had uttered his lengthy speech but in an undertone, yet I, with the curiosity of youth, did not fail to hear, much to my mystification. Knowing also that the remark about "the rising generation" was applied to me, I must needs raise my hands to my ears to feel if they were long, much to Ralph Slingsby's amusement.

"So this is your son, Master Wentworth? A fitting chip of the old block! What wouldst thou be, lad; a fighting man, like thy sire?"

"Ay," I replied. "But I would love to go to sea, and become famous like Admiral Blake, e'en though he were a Roundhead!"

"What knowest thou of Blake?"

"Henry Martin hath told me tales of his gallant deeds, and besides, he hath shown me his medal of bronze, inscribed: 'For eminent service in saving ye Triumph, fired in fight with ye Dutch'. That was the sea fight in which Martin lost his leg."

"Ah, Master Wentworth, that's the spirit I like! The time hath come when Englishmen cease from flying at each other's throats. Host, my score!"

Then, shaking my father by the hand, and patting me kindly on the head, he strode towards the door; then, turning, he addressed the company:

"Gentlemen, I beg you take heed that yesternight a messenger was sent to Holland to invite His Majesty King Charles II to return to his throne. I bear orders to the fleet at Portsmouth that they all, with the exception of the Naseby, the name of which giveth offence to His Majesty, proceed to the Downs, there to welcome our sovereign lord. God save the King!"

While the silence that prevailed in the room, following on this startling announcement, still remained, I could hear the thud of horse's hoofs as Ralph Slingsby resumed his momentous journey towards Petersfield.

When, a quarter of an hour or so later, we left the "Flying Bull", the moon had risen, throwing the long shadows of the dark pines athwart the road. Our humble abode lay about a mile on the by-road from Rake to Midhurst, and homewards we stepped, our thick-soled shoes ringing on the frosty road. When but half the distance was covered, I heard the sound of the crackling of the dry brushwood in a coppice on our left, followed by the cry of a bird and the fluttering of its wings as it flew over our heads.

Instinctively I edged closer to my father and grasped his left hand.

"Lad, art afraid of a fox running through the covert?" he exclaimed. "And wouldst be a sailor, too!"

In spite of my boast in the well-lit room of the "Flying Bull", my heart throbbed painfully, and my reply seemed like to stick in my throat. We continued in silence, and presently came to a spot where a large reed-fringed lake lay on the right-hand side of the road, while on the other a dense clump of gaunt firs threw a dismal gloom over our path.

As we neared the clump a voice, authoritative, harsh, and yet familiar, shouted:

"Stand!"

And into the moonlight stepped a short, thick-set man, whom I recognized as the soldier who caused the turmoil at the inn, Increase Joyce.

For the second time that night my father unsheathed his hanger, and, pushing me behind him, advanced towards the man.

"Stand!" he repeated. "See here; a word in thine ear, Master Wentworth. Less than an hour agone I said: 'I fight not with old men'. I recall those words. With me it is a case of doing in Rome as do the Romans. The Commonwealth is at an end, therefore I am a Parliamentarian no longer. Instead, I journey to the Rhine to join the German freebooters, or else to the Spanish Main to throw in my lot with the buccaneers of the Indies--it matters not which; but ere I go I have an account to settle with the Lord of Holwick. Little did I think to find him hiding in an obscure Sussex village. Dost remember twenty years aback--the trysting place under the Holmwood Oak?--Ah! ... Nay! Stand, at thy peril!"

But my father, white with passion, still advanced, the moonbeams dancing on his glittering blade. Joyce unslung his petronel, and covered his antagonist when within fifteen or twenty paces.

"Murderer!" shouted my father.

"As you will; I take no risks with steel," and immediately the report of the weapon burst upon my ears like a clap of thunder, while the trees were illuminated by the flash of the discharge. I shut my eyes and screamed in terror, and on opening them I saw--oh, merciful Heaven!--a convulsive form lying in the road, while the Roundhead stood watching me intently, the smoke from his petronel hanging round like a pall, and slowly ascending in the chill night air.

In an instant my terror left me and I became a demon. Grasping my oak cudgel in my hand, I ran at my father's murderer and rained blow after blow upon his head and body. It was but a forlorn attempt. His headpiece and armour received the blows as lightly as if they were from a straw, and with an oath he smote me heavily on the chest with the butt of his pistol, so that I reeled, fell backward across the body of my murdered sire, and struck my head on the frosty road. Multitudes of lights flashed before my eyes, followed by a red glare, and I lost all consciousness.

"I RAN AT MY FATHER'S MURDERER AND RAINED BLOW AFTER BLOW UPON HIS HEAD AND BODY"

[CHAPTER II--Of the Arrest and Escape of Increase Joyce]

When I came to, the first vague impressions of consciousness were the excited chatterings of what seemed to me a multitude of people. Then I saw the flashing of the light of a log fire lightening the dark oak beams of a room. I lay still, my temples throbbing like to burst, and my head swimming till I felt ready to vomit. Trying to collect my thoughts, I realized that I was in the kitchen of our own house. Then in an instant the whole scene of the tragedy in the pine-shrouded lane burst upon me in all its horror, and I raised myself on one elbow and feebly articulated: "Father, say it is but a dream!"

Gentle hands firmly put my head back upon a pillow, and a voice, which I recognized as that of Master Salesbury, the chirurgeon, said: "The lad will surely recover. No more letting of blood or cupping is needful. A hot posset will not come amiss, good Mistress Heatherington, ere I take my leave, for 'tis cold abroad."

"Thou art right, Master Salesbury," replied another, Sir George Lee, who, I afterwards found out, had been summoned as a Justice of the Peace to take down such evidence as could be obtained. "And as for you, sir, I must ask you to accompany me as my guest till this unfortunate matter can fully be gone into."

"Right gladly would I, worthy sir, but I ride hot-foot on affairs of State. By ten of the clock I must deliver a sealed packet into the hands of Master Jack Tippets, the Mayor of Portsmouth."

I started, and strove again to rise; the voice seemed but too familiar to my ears; but once more I was soothed into repose.

"To Portsmouth, say you? Then why, may I ask, were you so far from the highway?"

"I had also to summon the Squire of Trotton----"

"Trotton, say you? Then why didst take this road, seeing that the turning at Milland is the right and proper one?" demanded Sir George sternly.

"I must have missed the right road, and, hearing shots, I suspected some foul crime, and rode hither----"

In an instant I connected that voice with that of the murderer, Increase Joyce, and with what strength yet remained I shouted: "Seize him; he is my father's murderer!"

Immediately all was commotion. Women shrieked--men shouted. Sir George Lee sprang to his feet and whipped out his sword. "Arrest him," he ordered. Two men, who were attendants at the Court Leet, placed their hands on Joyce's shoulder.

"Unhand me, men!" he exclaimed; "'tis a mistake--a grave mistake. Would ye pay heed to the ravings of a light-headed child?"

A wave of indecision swept over the people present; but, in spite of extreme physical pain, I had raised myself on my elbow, and in reply I repudiated the Roundhead's taunt. "I am not light-headed nor is it a mistake. That man shot my father with a petronel not a furlong from this house."

But Joyce doggedly followed up his line of argument. "Look, worthy sir," he reiterated, "the lad is still wandering. Why, when I came upon them, the boy was stretched senseless on the roadway. I pray you, order your men to release me. I journey on the business of the Commonwealth."

The two men released their hold, but Sir George turned on them with a rage quite unusual to him. "Were ye told to unhand him, dolts?" he shouted. "A messenger of the Commonwealth or no messenger, I take the responsibility. Bind him, and away to Midhurst with him at once."

With an oath the scoundrel shook off his two captors and threw himself bodily on Sir George. Taken unawares, the knight could ill defend himself, and before the bystanders could interfere, a knife flashed in the firelight and was buried in his body. Then the two henchmen grappled with the Roundhead, and all three rolled in a heap on the floor. It was not until the miscreant was stunned by a blow from a milking stool that he was finally secured, and attention could be given to Sir George Lee.

The knight was leaning against the wall, his head slightly bent, while a deadly pallor overspread his face, on which, however, lurked a peculiarly grim smile.

"Art hurt, Sir George?" asked Master Salesbury.

"Nay, Doctor, 'tis not a case for your hands this time, thanks to Lawyer Whitehead; I am but winded."

"To Lawyer Whitehead! How?"

"Ay, to Lawyer Whitehead! 'Tis the first time in twenty-nine years that I have been well served by a lawyer, and even this once it was not as a deliberate act of kindness." And, drawing from his pocket a thick bundle of parchment, partly cut through by the villain's knife, he held it up for inspection.

At that moment the door opened and a sturdy countryman entered, pulling his forelock as a mark of respect to Sir George, and handed him a petronel which I recognized only too well.

"Zure, sir, I did find 'e but d'ree paces from t' road where they killed Maister Wentworth."

Under guard, the villain, now in a half-dazed condition, was removed in a cart to the jail at Midhurst. Most of those present dispersed, and, faint and tired, I fell into a troubled sleep.

A week passed ere I had sufficient strength to be able to sit up. Under the careful nursing of Mistress Heatherington my bodily hurts were healed, though the mental anguish of that terrible night still gripped me in a relentless grasp.

It was on a Tuesday morning when Sir George came to the cottage to enquire how I progressed, and to tell me that he was taking me to the courthouse at Midhurst on the following Monday morning, should I be well enough to bear the journey.

"Lad," he exclaimed, "I would I could fathom this mystery! Thy father's slayer is no mean reaver or cutpurse; yet, though we have him safe by the heels, manacled and leg-ironed, and threaten him with the thumbscrews, never a word can be wrung from him. Was there ever a feud 'twixt thy sire and him?"

I told the knight of the event that took place at the sign of the "Flying Bull", and of the meeting with the villain in the moonlit lane. Sir George listened attentively, and, proud of being privileged to talk to so exalted a personage as the wealthiest man for miles around Rake, I let my tongue run wild for the space of nigh on an hour.

When I had finished, Sir George, who had never ceased to stroke his beard and play a tattoo with his fingers on the table, remained silent for a few minutes; then suddenly he exclaimed:

"Holwick! Captain Slingsby of Monk's Regiment of Horse! 'Tis passing strange, yet----"

His remarks were cut short by the thunder of a horse's hoofs, and a man suddenly burst in through the door and exclaimed breathlessly: "Oh, Sir George! Sir George!"

"Well, sirrah?"

But the man could only stammer out: "Oh, Sir George!"

This was more than the choleric old knight could stand. "Don't stand there babbling like a drunken mummer at Martinmas fair!" he shouted, with a round oath. "Deliver thy message, dolt!"

"Oh, Sir George! The murderer Joyce hath escaped!"

With another furious outburst the knight rushed out of the room, mounted his horse, and, followed by his two servants and the messenger of ill-tidings, rode furiously down the road to Midhurst, the noise of the horses' hoofs clattering on the frosty road testifying to the speed at which they were urged.

News travels apace, and in less than an hour it was all over our village that Joyce had by some means obtained a file, cut through his fetters, and, after a murderous attack on his jailer, had broken out of Midhurst Jail, and was last seen making his way towards the bleak Sussex Downs.

My father had already been laid to rest in the quiet little churchyard of Trotton, and on making an examination of the little house where we dwelt, his will was discovered. The reading of this will, though of little interest to me (on account, I now suppose, of my youth), was the occasion of an assembly of many of the friends of my father, the number surprising me; for, though highly respected, he was not one who was fond of associating with our neighbours.

There were present, besides Sir George Lee, who appeared to take a great interest in me, Lawyer Whitehead, Howard Hobbs and Jack Alexander of Iping, both of whom had seen service under Prince Rupert; Arthur Conolly, an Irish veteran who had served in the Low Countries, and who had come over from Chichester for the occasion; Arthur Lewis, a gentleman of Bramshott; Percy Young, an officer of the navy, who in his earlier days had lost a leg in the action of La Rochelle; Herbert Collings, a master mariner of Gosport, who used to be a frequent visitor at our house, and who greatly interested me with the account of his adventures off the coast of Barbary; and Giles Perrin, the landlord of the "Flying Bull", who modestly seated himself on a stool in a remote corner of the room. There were also several others whose names I forget.

Lawyer Whitehead, whose name did not belie his appearance, adjusted his horn spectacles, and, unfolding a parchment, read the will, which is as follows:--

"In the Name of God, Amen, I, Owen Wentworth, late of Holwick in the countie of Yorks" [here followed some word that had been erased and "yeoman" written above] "being whole of bodie and perfect of mynde, do ordaine and make this my last will and testament in manner and forme followinge: First, I commend my soule into the handes of Almightie God my Creator, and my bodie to be buried in the churchyarde at Trotton. Item, I give to the poor of the parish of Rake ten pounds to be divided amongst them by the discretion of my Executors. Item, I give to Sir George Lee, knight, in token of friendship, my horse, alsoe a box and contents now deposited with Master Whitehead, Lawyer of Midhurst. Item, to my sister Margaret, now wedded to George Anderson, Clerk of Ye Survey at the Dockyarde neare Portesmouth, One hundred Pounds. Item, to the said George Anderson the sum of Twenty and five Pounds yearly, provided that the said George Anderson doth fulfil to the letter the instructions set forth by me and intrusted to the keeping of the aforesaid Master Whitehead, Lawyer of Midhurst.

"Item, to all persons hereinafter named" [here followed a long list of names, embracing all present and many besides], "provided that they pay me the last respects due to me, I give XX*s*. Item, to John Alexander and Arthur Lewis, my welbeloved friends and Executors, I give Five Pounds apiece.

"Item, to my deerly beloved sonne Aubrey I give the residue of my estate, to be held in trust by the aforesaid George Anderson till my sonne attain the age of XXI yeares, if he doe so long live.

"It is my will alsoe that my sonne Aubrey shall take charge and have and hold the metal box that I do always carry attached to my belt, suffering not the same to go out of hys possession, so that it will help in a small matter whereof he knoweth not yet.

"Item, it is my will if the above named Aubrey my sonne doth dye without heires or before he come to the age of XXI years, the residue shall remain to my sister Margaret Anderson and her heires forever."

There was a buzz of suppressed excitement when Master Whitehead had ended the reading of this lengthy will. Clearly my father was a far richer man than most people had wot of; moreover, there was a cloud of mystery hanging over the will--that was evident by the darkly worded passage about keeping the instructions.

But before there was time for discussion the lawyer brought out another bulky packet, fastened with a large red seal. This he broke and withdrew the contents, revealing yet another sealed missive and a sheet of vellum written in my father's hand. The missive was addressed: "In trust for my sonne Aubrey Wentworth. To Master George Anderson, dwelling in St. Thomas Street in Ye Burrough of Portesmouth. Not to be opened under paine of my displeasure till my sonne attaine the age of XXI years."

The letter gave instructions for me to be sent to my uncle's at Portsmouth, to be provided for until I could choose for myself what I should be, at the same time exhorting me to serve faithfully His Majesty King Charles II or his lawful successor, and to abstain from vain or idle longings to break the seals of the enclosed package till the stipulated time limit had expired.

This the lawyer gravely handed to me, expressing his satisfaction at the prospect before me--a statement that left me more bewildered than before.

Then Sir George Lee spoke, enquiring where was the small metal box that my father had mentioned.

Here was another mystery. No one knew or had seen the box. Mistress Heatherington and both the servants, Giles and William, who had brought home the body of my murdered sire, had been ignorant of its existence, and, at the request of Lawyer Whitehead, the clothes my father wore at the time of his death were produced. There was the belt--a highly ornamented broad band of Spanish leather. The lawyer took and examined it, then passed it on to Sir George, who also looked at it closely, even bending and shaking it in the hope that the missing box might be hidden between the layers of leather.

"Ah, what has been here?" exclaimed the knight, pointing to a series of minute holes round a patch of leather that was not quite so discoloured as the rest.

Clearly the mysterious box was missing, and it was evident that it had been forced away from the leathern belt. Then arose the question, how could it have been detached, and who was the miscreant who had taken it?

The debate lasted for a long while, but all present were agreed that the villain Joyce must have annexed it for some particular motive, though 'twas evident that robbery was not intended, the box being of some worthless metal.

Master Whitehead then gave to Sir George an oaken box which my father had mentioned in his will. The knight opened it, disclosing a lace handkerchief marked with a deep brown stain, to which was fastened a piece of parchment inscribed: "Stained with y^e blood of y^e Martyr His M^tie King Charles", the jewelled hilt of a sword, a ring, and several papers.

The knight reverently pressed his lips to the royal relic, then proceeded to peruse the various papers. The first he looked at intently for some moments, then read aloud the following words:--

"To Beverley Gate on fir trees that wall keeping from y^e 11J feete come to of mine directions in desires I sonne having."

Again he read these unmeaning words, his brows knitting in undisguised perplexity; then he handed the paper to the lawyer, who, after several vain attempts to produce a proper sentence, turned it over in his hand. Something was written on the back; but without saying a word he returned the paper to Sir George, first tapping the writing with his forefinger and clearly indicating that the knight should likewise keep silence.

My sharp wits clearly told me that Sir George by his manner was angry with himself for having read the paper aloud. Hastily thrusting it back into the box, he slammed to the lid and prepared to take his departure.

The rest of the assembled company followed his example, and, with an arm aching with the result of vigorous handshakes, I was left alone with Mistress Heatherington.

It was the last I saw of kind Sir George Lee for many a long year.

[CHAPTER III--Concerning my Journey to Portsmouth]

Grief does not for long hold its sway over the buoyant spirit of youth, and, in spite of the heavy blow that I had sustained, my boyish disposition speedily reasserted itself, and I looked forward with undisguised eagerness to my journey to my new home in Portsmouth town.

Already I had heard many wondrous tales of the happenings in that town from the lips of old Master Herbert Collings and of Henry Martin. In my mind I pictured my worthy uncle taking me round the dockyard, showing me this and that vessel, and pointing out this captain who fought against the Dutch, and that master mariner who repulsed the Barbary corsair.

With bright visions of the future I gave little heed to the troubles of the past, and eagerly wished for the end of the nine long days that must pass ere I left the quiet of our little village of Rake for the busy life of a naval town.

A day spent in Midhurst, where I was well fitted out with clothes, helped to make the time pass, and on the evening previous to the eventful day of my departure, I climbed the steep ascent of Rake Hill to bid farewell to some of my friends who dwelt on the by-road towards Lyss.

It was dark ere I set out homewards, and on the summit of the hill I stopped to look across the coombe, where flickered the innumerable wood fires of the iron smelters' forges. It reminded me strangely of that eventful day, but a few weeks past, when I journeyed over the selfsame road with my father, and instinctively I breathed a prayer for vengeance against his foul murderer.

Suddenly the distant thud of horses' hoofs smote upon my ear, and before I reached the foot of the hill, where stands the "Flying Bull", I perceived a cavalcade rapidly approaching.

As I drew to the side of the highway to watch them pass, I could see in the starlight that there was a body of horse, some dozen at least, surrounding a carriage. The horsemen were accoutred in breast- and back-plates and steel helmets, and from their sour visages I knew them to be Roundheads. Inside the carriage a candlelamp burned, throwing a dim light on the occupants; and, brief as was my glimpse, I saw that they were lavishly attired, and wore lovelocks under their plumed beaver hats.

Whether they journeyed as prisoners I could not tell, though from the careless jovial expression of their faces it seemed otherwise; but before I could remark much else the party had galloped past, and were well on their way along this southern highway towards Portsmouth. When I reached my home I at once retired for the night, and was soon dreaming of horsemen and chariots till the rays of the morning sun, thrown athwart my bed, awoke me.

In my eagerness to start I could scarcely be persuaded to eat anything. In vain did Mistress Heatherington coax me--my excitement was too great. At length the two-horsed wain belonging to Farmer Hill drew up outside our house. By this conveyance I was to be taken to Petersfield, there to proceed by a chapman's cart that journeyed thrice weekly betwixt that town and Portsmouth.

My packages and boxes were lifted into the wagon. I climbed up beside the driver, and with many a handwave my old home was left behind me, and a new world lay before me.

I was now fourteen years of age, and for a country-bred lad I flattered myself that I was no fool. Tall for my age, broad-shouldered and supple-limbed, I possessed an unusual amount of strength, and could bear fatigue in a manner that could only be accounted for by the fact that I had led an active outdoor life.

Slowly the wagon ascended the steep incline of Rake Hill. The summit gained, there was time for a parting glance across the coombe ere the four-mile stretch of downhill road commenced. At first I talked excitedly with the driver, a sour-faced, wizened man, whose short jerky answers, spoken in broadest Sussex, did not encourage conversation; so presently I dropped all attempt at talking, and took note of the various places and persons we met on the road.

At Sheet Bridge we were stopped by a toll-gate, the driver exchanging a few angry words with the villainous-looking man who held the gate.

Beyond was a short, steep hill, up which we both walked, the driver having thrown the reins across his horse's back. At the summit was a gallows, from which hung something black. As we drew nearer I could see that the dark object was all that remained of what was once a man. The corpse, daubed with pitch, was encircled with iron hoops like a cage, and as the wind howled over the hilltop the chain that suspended the cage creaked horribly.

The corpse could not have been there for long; it certainly was not there on the occasion of my last journey with my father to Petersfield. I noticed that the little finger of each hand was missing!

The driver looked at me over his shoulder, as if to note the effect that this horrible sight might have on a youth.

"See you?" he queried, knowing full well that I could not well miss seeing it unless I were blind.

I nodded. "Let yon be a waarning to 'e, young maaster. Do 'e never taake to killin'. 'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.'" And with this remarkable discourse he slowly climbed back to his seat on the wagon, I following him.

But I was not satisfied. Those missing fingers puzzled me, and I ventured to ask why the hands had been mutilated. For answer he plunged his hand into one of his many pockets and produced a small object that looked like a leather purse. This he opened and pulled out a human finger, the stump being mounted with silver! For a moment he held it before my eyes; then, as if too precious to be exposed to the light of day, he carefully replaced it in its wrappings.

"Young maaster," he replied, "for certain prevention of agues, fever, smallpox, plague, and all divers illnesses, for certain proof against the evil eye, there is nowt that can compare with the little finger of a murderer."

By this time the square tower of Petersfield Church was in sight, and soon after we drew up in the courtyard of the "Red Lion", where, since it was market day, there were numbers of carts and wagons from the countryside for miles around.

In the midst of the bustle and noise I saw that mingled with the countryfolk were several soldiers, while in a corner of the courtyard was a ponderous coach, which, if I mistook not, was the very one that passed me yesternight at Rake Hill.

It was but ten in the morning, and the two occupants of the coach had not yet appeared. Apparently an accident had befallen the conveyance, for a smith was busily engaged with hammer and cold chisel in repairing one of the wheels.

Notwithstanding their Puritanical garb, most of the troopers had, even at this early hour, partaken of spirituous drinks, and, judging by their gestures and talk, were evidently anticipating the restoration of His Majesty King Charles.

Perceiving a serving maid at one of the windows, one of the soldiers began to make love to her in dumb show, kissing his hand and waving his iron headpiece to the damsel, who seemed nothing loath to accept his advances.

Presently she opened the casement, and, leaning out, threw him a flower. Few women can throw straight, and this one was no exception. Her missile flew far above the man's head, and, running backwards in a vain endeavour to catch it, he fell heavily into a large trough of pigs' mash, where, half-stunned by the force of his fall, he lay wallowing in the sticky mess, till he was helped out by his comrades, to the accompaniment of their jeers and laughter.

Having carried all my belongings into the inn, the old carter bade me farewell; and as the sound of his footsteps was lost in the outside din, I felt as if the last link that bound me to the home of my childhood was severed.

The host of the "Red Lion", an old soldier by appearance, came in and asked me what I lacked. I told him I was waiting for the chapman who travelled between Winton, Petersfield, and Portsmouth, and at the same time ordered a meal, for the morning ride had made me hungry.

The landlord hurried off, for callers were many that morning, and whilst I was waiting I took stock of the room. It was panelled, and had thick oak rafters and low ceiling. Though the weather was warm, a large fire blazed on the hearth, while the wall above the chimney corner was hung with an assortment of old weapons.

There were three other occupants of the room, two of whom sat in the chimney corner, leaning over the fire as if it were a winter's day, while the third was spread out on the settle, gazing stolidly at his companions. They had evidently been engaged in deep conversation, but on my arrival they stopped talking and eyed me with no goodwill.

All three were villainous-looking men, dark-skinned and heavy-browed. One had a livid weal across his cheek, while another was deeply pitted with smallpox. The third had his face nearly concealed in a dark beard that grew so high on his cheek as almost to meet his eyebrows. Their clothes were old and ragged; their belongings were limited to a small bundle that was placed by each man's side. Three large tankards, lying upset on the floor, showed that their refreshment had been copious, while the reek of strong spirits hung around them like an invisible cloud.

They made no secret of the fact that my inquisitive glances were unwelcome, and so much did they scowl that I turned hastily away and looked out of the window, where the brilliant sunshine, beating down on the crowded courtyard, made a pleasing contrast to the dismal trio within.

The arrival of another wayfarer next diverted my thoughts. The newcomer was a burly, good-natured farmer, who, after giving the three men a cheery salutation, which they returned surlily enough, sat down opposite to me.

Just then the landlord reappeared, and offered excuses for not having a better room at his disposal. "Two officers and a troop of horse," said he, "have stayed here overnight. What their business is I know not. The men are free with everything but their own affairs. Not even spiced ale makes their tongues wag in that direction. Their masters say less. Still, 'tis not my business; they pay well. But even this young gentleman has to stay here for want of better room. Ah, bethink me! Didst pass Carver, the chapman, on your way hither?"

"Are your wits wool-gathering, Master Host?" replied the other. "Seeing that Carver gave notice that on Tuesday he would go direct from Winton, instead of through this town, and that to-day happens to be Tuesday----"

"Of course!" ejaculated the landlord; "I had forgotten."

For a moment I felt staggered, then I asked if there were other means of continuing my way.

"None, young sir; but there is ample accommodation here for man and beast till Thursday, when a wagon from Alton to Portsmouth passes this hostel."

I shook my head. The idea of spending two days and nights in this place was out of the question. "I must go on," I replied, "even if I walk."

"You've pluck!" exclaimed the farmer. "'Tis a good eighteen miles. Were it any day but this I'd take you part of the way."

I thanked him, and asked the landlord to take care of my trunks till the Thursday; and, having finished my repast, I prepared to go.

Having paid my account in gold, and received a quantity of silver change, which the landlord counted slowly into my hand, I bade the kindly farmer good-bye, and set off southward along a dusty, chalky road.

After crossing a small stream, and proceeding over a long causeway, the road began slowly, yet gradually, to rise, evidently making for a gap between two lofty hills. Two miles brought me to the foot of the downs, where all signs of cultivation terminated abruptly, and only a treeless expanse of turf-covered hills met my eye.

It was warm work that last part of the ascent, and on gaining the summit of the road I found that the hillside still towered on both sides, the highway running through a steep chalk cutting.

Out of breath, I sat down on a grassy bank and looked back upon the country I had just left. Miles and miles of well-wooded land lay beneath me, extending far away to the North Downs. I could see the town of Petersfield nestling around the square tower of the old church. I could trace the dusty road along which I had journeyed, save the last half-mile, which was hidden by a chalk cliff that rose some two hundred yards away on the right.

For over a quarter of an hour I sat enjoying this magnificent view, when suddenly round the bend of the road by the base of the cliff appeared three men whom I had no difficulty in recognizing as the ill-favoured visitors at the "Red Lion".

Then like a lightning flash the thought swept across my mind that, having seen the landlord give me a sum of silver, they had followed me to this lonesome spot.

I immediately sprang to my feet, and walked sharply onwards through the cutting. Ever and anon I looked back, and found that they were increasing their pace into almost a trot; so, directly I had put the brow of the hill betwixt them and me, I ran steadily but not too swiftly down the road. Even as I ran I took in my surroundings. In front was the long, white road, still descending till it turned to the left beyond a grassy spur of the hill that hid it from view, though at a considerable distance from it. Here and there were a few stunted bushes, too scanty to afford shelter, while not a habitation nor a human being was to be seen.

Again I looked back. Notwithstanding the climb, the men had gained on me, and were even now running at full speed down the incline--not two hundred yards away. One had out-distanced the others, yet all three were keeping up a rapid pace.

Instinctively I increased my speed to the utmost, and, with my elbows pressed closely against my sides, swung down the road in a vain endeavour to meet a friendly being, or at least to outdistance my pursuers.

Once round that bend, surely there would be a house or some succour; but no, only another stretch of chalky road. Then I thought to leave the road and climb the steep, grassy slope on my left, and before my pursuers had turned the corner I was staggering madly up the bank, where, under the frail shelter of a stunted bush, I lay down and panted like a hunted hare.

In a very short time the first of my pursuers appeared round the bend. It was the one with the scarred face, and, being in addition grimed with sweat and dust, and panting heavily, he presented a truly ferocious aspect.

When he saw the open road with no sign of his quarry he stopped, swearing and blaspheming horribly, till his fellow rogues came up. From my hiding place I could distinctly hear and see all, they being but forty yards away, and some fifty feet below me. In spite of my terror I kept them in view, and, being weaponless, I looked around for some means of defence. Close to my feet was a large rabbit hole, and knowing from past experience that these animals frequently throw up flints and other stones from their burrows, I plunged my hand into the newly excavated earth, and to my delight found a large jagged flint, and soon after my armoury consisted of five good-sized stones. Then a piece of wood, lying within two yards of the bush, and evidently a part of a hurdle, met my eye. This I seized, but the act led to my undoing, for one of the men, happening to look my way, saw me as I cautiously backed towards my shelter.

A volley of hideous oaths greeted my discovery, and immediately the black-bearded fellow and the man who had proved the fastest of the three began to climb the hill.

I retreated slowly, so as to save my breath. Again the wealed-faced man outdistanced his companion, and soon I could hear his deep panting behind me.

Then suddenly I turned, and, throwing one of the largest stones, hit him fairly in the midriff. With a loud howl he dropped on his knees and pressed his hands to his injured part, his cudgel rolling down the slope till stopped by the other man.

The third rogue, seeing how matters stood, also began to climb the slope. For my part, flushed with my success, I slowly edged away, intending to make a detour, regain the road, and then retrace my steps towards Petersfield; for I knew what sort of road I had already passed, but was in ignorance of the distance to which this wild valley extended.

Still climbing, I reached the sloping ridge round the base of which the road bent. Once again I could follow the highway leading to the chalk cutting, and to my unbounded delight I saw for the third time that ponderous coach with its attendant troopers descending the hill at a sharp pace.

The strong wind that was blowing towards the approaching cavalcade, and the dusty road, both tended to deaden the sound of the horses' hoofs and the dull rumble of the carriage, and as yet the villains were unaware of their danger.

On the summit of the ridge I turned towards them. Instinctively they separated, yet came on apace--the man whom I had hit with the stone limping onward with an effort, the others, each with a knife in his hand, working away on either side with the intention of preventing my escape. As the bearded ruffian came within throwing distance I flung a stone with all my might, and had he not quickly bounded aside, there would have been another point in my favour.

As soon as he gained the top of the ridge, though some feet below me, I made a sudden rush towards him, intending to make a feint and then run towards the troopers. The man stood on his guard, his knife glittering in the sunlight, though evidently astonished at my apparent rashness.

When close upon him I darted to one side and ran quickly down the hill. Suddenly my foot caught in a rabbit hole, and I fell headlong, rolling over and over in my descent.

With a savage curse my assailant rushed towards my prostrate body, and even as he did so he caught sight of the troopers.

His cursing changed into a howl of terror as he vainly tried to check his descent; but ere he could recover himself three of the horsemen had spurred their steeds betwixt him and the rest of the troop. He lay on the ground whining dismally, while the soldiers hastily trussed him up with a length of stout cord.

Meanwhile the coach had stopped, and as I approached, limping from the effects of my fall, its two occupants looked out of the window to enquire the cause of the disturbance.

Hastily I told my story, and hardly had I finished, when the elder of the two officers called to the sergeant: "Quickly, Sedgewyke! Secure those other rascals!"

Half a dozen troopers were quickly out of their saddles, and, leaving their horses in the care of two others, made their way up the slope towards the spot where the remaining rogues were last seen. He of the scarred face was quickly captured, being well-nigh winded with the effects of the stone I had thrown; but the third was a more determined quarry, though, in his stupidity, instead of climbing upwards (being far lighter than the soldiers, encumbered as they were with breast-pieces and riding-boots), he must needs make for the road, where he raced off at breakneck speed.

"A crown for the man who brings him down, dead or alive!" shouted the officer, who looked upon the pursuit with the eagerness of a sportsman.

Already the soldiers had regained their horses, and, leaving four as a guard over the prisoners, dashed in pursuit of the fugitive. Too late the wretch saw his mistake, and again ran from the road towards a steep bank of chalk that towered up for nearly fifty feet above the stretch of level grassland at its base.

Lifting me into the coach, the elder man gave orders to follow the chase, and soon we pulled up close to where the terror-stricken fugitive was making a desperate effort to scale the slippery bank.

"Middleton, we have some sport! I'll wager my largest snuffbox against thine that the rogue will outwit your eleven men."

"Taken," replied the other. "Now, men," he shouted, "remember, a crown, dead or alive!"

The troopers were drawn up in an irregular line along the edge of the road, and had drawn their pistols from their holsters.

Bang! A man on the extreme left had fired. The ball struck the cliff just above the fugitive's head, bringing down a small avalanche of chalk and dust. Digging his hands into the yielding soil, the wretched man raised himself another two feet. Being but thirty yards from us, his desperate efforts were plainly visible.

Bang! Bang! Two reports in quick succession echoed down the valley. This time, whether hit or not, the man slid some six feet downwards, till his foot caught in a projection and stopped his descent.

"Not so fast there," grumbled the sergeant. "If you fire like that, who can claim the reward? Now, then, Wagstaff!"

Calmly, as if at the butts, the row of men began to fire in turn. At the sixth shot the miserable villain made a feeble attempt to regain his former position, but ere he had ascended another two feet a shot struck him in the back of the head, and he tumbled to the bottom of the bank a hideously disfigured corpse.

Striding over to the body the sergeant turned it over on its back, made sure that life was extinct, then returned to the door of the coach, and, saluting, said: "Trooper Jenkins's shot, sir, brought the rogue down."

The elder man gave the sergeant the promised reward, then, turning to his companion, with a low bow, presented him with the snuffbox.

With this ceremonious display the tragedy was brought to a close, and the two officers, learning that I was on my way to Portsmouth, consented to let me ride with them.

The troopers formed up again, the prisoners firmly bound to two of their number, and the cavalcade passed onwards, leaving by the roadside a motionless object that had once been a man.

As we journeyed along, the officers plied me with questions, taking a great interest in my account of my meeting with the three footpads. The older of the two officers was about forty years of age, bronzed with the sun and wrinkled with exposure to the weather. His blue eyes twinkled in a kindly manner, while his lips, partly concealed by his closely trimmed moustache and beard, denoted both firmness and discretion.

His companion, apparently ten years younger, also wore a beard of Van Dyck cut. His appearance, however, denoted a man who was given to perform actions on the spur of the moment rather than to be ruled by deliberate counsel. He was addressed as Middleton by his companion, but I could not then gather what was the name of the elder man. Both men wore flowing lovelocks, and affected the rich apparel of the Cavaliers, which contrasted vividly with the sombre garb of their escort.

When I mentioned that I was on my way to my uncle, Master Anderson, the younger of the twain gave his companion a wink that did not escape me, and remarked: "Then, Master Aubrey, we'll see more of thee anon, if I mistake not."

The coach now descended a long declivity, at the bottom of which lay a straggling village, which, I was told, boasted of the name of Horndean. Here we rested the horses, my two benefactors going into the inn, from which presently a man came out bringing me a cup of milk and a plate of coarse brown bread and rich yellow cheese.

In half an hour the journey was resumed, the road leading up a short, steep incline and then plunging into a dense wood, which once formed a royal hunting-ground--the Forest of Bere.

At length we entered a deep, dark hollow, where the shade made a blinding contrast to the glare of the sun.

Suddenly there was a shrill whistle, followed by a sound of scuffling, a score of round oaths, and the sharp report of firearms.

The coach came to a sudden standstill, throwing me from my seat, while the others jumped out, unsheathing their swords as they did so.

I too made for the door, and could see the troopers preparing to fire into a thicket on the left-hand side of the road, while one of their number lay on the ground, his head bleeding from a severe wound.

After the next volley some of the men plunged into the underwood, encouraged by the voice of the sergeant shouting: "After him, men, at all costs; he cannot be far off."

A moment later there was a sound of harsh voices, the noise of stones striking against steel, more pistol-shots, and then quietness, broken at length by the return of the troopers bearing between them a man who moaned and cursed lustily as he was carried by none too tender hands.

"How now, Sedgewyke!" thundered his officer. "Who is this? 'Tis not the man we lost. Where is he?"

The sergeant saluted, and told his story: The troop was riding in a straggling manner, one of the men, who had a prisoner bound behind him (he with the scarred face), being in the rear. Without warning a stout rope that had been stretched between two trees on opposite sides of the road was dropped, and, catching the unfortunate soldier under the chin, hurled him and his prisoner to the ground. In a moment a party of men had run from the cover of the brushwood, freed the captive, and, after hamstringing the trooper's horse, had made their escape to the depths of the forest before the rest of the escort could realize what had occurred.

Pursued by the soldiers, they let fly a shower of stones, and in the confusion that followed had made good their retreat, with one exception-- a man who had received a ball in the right ankle.

Though chagrined by the loss of their prisoner, the capture of one of his rescuers was a redeeming feature of the fray, and the latest captive was brought before the officers for the purpose of being interrogated.

He was a young man, scarce more than twenty years of age, with a heavy poll of red hair. His sinewy arms were tattooed with various devices, while on his chest, exposed during the scuffle, a death's-head and cross-bones were crudely drawn. When questioned he maintained a surly silence, only asking for water in a dialect that, country-bred though I am, I could not readily understand.

"Methinks I have met others of this kind before," remarked the elder officer. "A Dorset man, I'll wager, and, that being so, he's either smuggler or pirate. Whether he be of Poole or Weymouth 'tis all the same. Far rather would I meet Dutchman or Frenchman in fair fight than be cast ashore on the devil-haunted coast of Purbeck. Now, Sedgewyke, I pray you dispatch that horse and let us hasten on, unless we wish to be benighted on the highway."

The sergeant saluted again and retired, while Middleton and his friend returned to the carriage. A shot announced that the maimed animal's sufferings were ended, and the troopers, with their two prisoners now safely in the centre, broke into a trot, the coach swaying to and fro as it rumbled over the rough road.

The sun was sinking low when we reached the summit of Portsdown, a long stretch of chalky down, whence I saw Portsmouth for the first time.

To one living in the hilliest and most picturesque part of Hampshire and Sussex this first glimpse came as a disappointment. I saw below me an island so flat as to make it appear difficult to tell where the land ended and where the water began. Save for a few trees and some scattered houses there was little to break the dreariness of it, while, the tide being out (as I afterwards learnt), long expanses of mud on either side increased this aspect of monotonous desolation. At the far end of the island I could distinguish the cluster of houses that formed the town. At the near end was a narrow creek, which we must needs cross to gain our destination, while away on the right was a square tower, which, they told me, was the castle of Portchester.

This was my first view of Portsmouth, and also of the sea, and I must confess I felt heartily disappointed with both.

We soon descended the hill, passed through the little hamlet of Cosham, and crossed the creek by a narrow bridge. A short three miles now separated us from the town, and on approaching it I saw a large mound of earth, called the Town Mount, crowned by fortifications and fronted by a line of bastions and earthworks, which in turn were encircled with a moat that communicated with the mill dam on the right.

Beyond rose the red-tiled roofs of the houses, the whole being dominated by the massive square tower of St. Thomas's Church.

At the Landport Gate we were received by a guard of soldiers, and as we entered the town my first impressions were removed by the sight of so much life and bustle.

Inside the line of fortification the guard had turned out for the purpose of doing honour to my travelling companions. The sight of the rows of pikemen with their eighteen-feet weapons riveted my attention till I was recalled to my senses by being dismissed by my benefactors, who gave me in charge of a sour-visaged soldier, with instructions to take me to the house of Master Anderson in St. Thomas's Street.

Soon I found myself at the door of a tall, gabled house, where, without waiting, my guide left me.

With a feeling of timidity I knocked, and the door was opened. I saw before me a rotund little man with a puffy face that a well-trimmed beard partially concealed. His face was pitted with smallpox, but his eyes, though swollen with the result of high living, twinkled in a kindly manner, yet showed promise of quickly firing up in anger.

I was unable to utter a word, and stood still, feeling considerably uneasy under his enquiring gaze. Neither did he speak; so, driven to desperation, I at length gathered up courage and stammered: "Sir, I am your nephew, Aubrey Wentworth."

[CHAPTER IV--How Judgment was Passed on the Dorset Smugglers]

I soon accustomed myself to my new home. My Uncle George treated me with every consideration--a fact that ill-disposed persons would have attributed to the legacy left him under my father's will. Though far from being in needy circumstances--receiving as Clerk of the Survey at the dockyard a salary of £50, paid with more or less irregularity--it was evident that his brother-in-law's bounty did not come amiss.

I have already given a description of my uncle. His wife, my father's sister, was tall, sparely built, and somewhat inclined to verbosity. It did not take me long to ascertain that the pair were ill-assorted, and when on certain occasions their dispute waxed hot, my uncle was invariably driven from the house by the unrestrained reproaches of his spouse.

They had but two children, Maurice, a lad a year older than myself, and Mercy, a child of nine years. I was soon on capital terms with both, though, boylike, I treated Mercy with that sort of contempt that most boys of my age show their female relations.

I lost little time in telling my uncle the story of my adventures on the road, and, happening to mention the name of Middleton, he exclaimed:

"Why, lad, you've made a good friend. 'Tis none other than Colonel Thomas Middleton, lately appointed commissioner of this dockyard, and he who rode with him is Admiral Montague, who comes to take the fleet to Holland."

This, then, was the gallant Montague, a man who, under the Commonwealth, had earned renown when fighting with Blake the fleets of Holland and of Spain, and whose prompt action in co-operating with Monk and taking command of the fleet sent to fetch the king from Holland did much to earn the royal gratitude and favour.

On the morrow following my arrival I, in company with my cousin Maurice, was taken by my uncle to the dockyard.

Here all was activity and noise. Most of the fleet--amongst which were pointed out to me the Yarmouth, Swiftsure, London, and Ruby--lay at anchor at some distance from the wharves, while close alongside were the Naseby, her name being changed to the Royal Charles, and the Montague.

There was but one dry dock, and in it lay the Providence; and on a slip, being nearly fit for launching, stood a large ship of seventy-six guns, her name having but recently been changed to the Royal Oak.

While we were looking on with astonishment at this busy scene, a short, thick-set man, whose portly body was ill supported by a pair of bandy legs, came towards the place where we stood. He wore a blue uniform, with three-cornered hat, and carried at his side a sword that trailed behind him as he walked, and even threatened to become entangled between his legs.

"Ha! Captain Duce of the Lizard! Stand aside, boys, while I have speech with him."

The captain was in a rage.

"A pretty pass! Here lie I ready to weigh and make sail, but ne'er a loaf of bread aboard!"

"I cannot help you, Captain," replied my uncle. "I can only refer you to the Commissioner."

"Hang the Commissioner!" roared the irate officer. "First I am directed to apply to him; he sends me to you; you thereupon give me cold comfort by sending me again to the Commissioner. How can I take my ship to sea lacking bread and flour? Ah! Here, sirrah!" he broke off, noticing a man passing by. "Here, sirrah! You're the person I want."

The man addressed came across to where the captain and my uncle were debating. His calling was apparent, he being covered from head to foot with flour.

"Well, Hunt, how is it Captain Duce can get no supplies from you?"

The baker shook his head. "Over a thousand pounds are due to my partner and me," said he. "We were to be paid monthly, but have received nothing since September last. Verily, I am afraid to go abroad lest I am arrested by my creditors, whom I cannot pay, as the Navy Commissioners will not pay me!"

Without waiting to hear further, for complaints of arrears of payment were a common occurrence, Maurice and I stole away and wandered towards the slip where the Royal Oak was nearing completion.

A noble sight she made, this immense yellow-painted hull, with her double tier of gunports and her towering stern, richly ornamented with gilded quarter badges and richly carved galleries. Little did we know that a short seven years hence would see the ship, the pride of the king's navy, a battered and fire-swept wreck--but I anticipate.

In the midst of strange surroundings the time passed rapidly. Already the Restoration was an accomplished fact. Charles II was again at Whitehall "in the twelfth year of his reign", as the crown document has it. The gilded effigy of his sainted father was restored to its niche in the Square Tower at Portsmouth, where all persons passing were ordered to uncover. With few exceptions the townspeople welcomed the change, the whole place being given up to unrestrained merrymaking.

One morning in June I was called into our living-room, and found myself confronted by a gold-laced individual, who, drawing a paper from his pocket, read in a sonorous voice a summons for me to attend at the courthouse as a witness against Dick Swyre and Caleb Keeping, presented for committing a murderous attack upon divers of the king's subjects on the highway.

On the appointed day I attended the court, accompanied by my uncle. There were several cases dealt with before the one in which I had to give evidence, and, though it was in keeping with the times, the severity of most of the sentences struck me as being most barbarous.

One poor woman, privileged to take chips from the dockyard, had been apprehended in the act of stealing two iron bolts. Her punishment was that she "should return to the Gaol from whence she came, and there remain until Saturday next between the hours of Eleven and Twelve of the Clock in the forenoon, at which time she was to be brought to the public Whipping-post, and there receive Twenty Lashes with a Cat-of-Nine-Tails from the hands of the Common Beadle on her naked back till the same shall be bloody, and then return to the said Gaol and remain until her fees be paid!"

If this were fitting punishment for a petty theft, what, thought I, will be the corresponding penalty for these two highwaymen?

Presently Dick Swyre and Caleb Keeping were placed in the dock. The first-named was the bearded ruffian who had so nearly settled my account in the valley near Petersfield, and now, knowing full well that his neck was already in the hangman's noose, his demeanour was one of sullen ferocity, and, though he was heavily manacled, his appearance was like that of a savage beast awaiting its opportunity to spring.

The other, Keeping, did not appear to be of the same debased kind as his companion, though his matted red hair and sunburnt face and arms betokened a villain whose existence had been of an out-door kind. There was a look of haunting terror in his face that turned the bronze of his complexion into a pale-yellowish hue, while it could be seen that he had great difficulty in keeping his limbs under control.

I was the first witness called, and on concluding my evidence, which dealt solely with the first prisoner, Swyre leant across the front of the dock, raised his fettered hands, and with a terrible oath poured out the most frightful imprecations against me, vowing that sooner or later his mates would doubly avenge themselves on my miserable carcass, till at length, by dint of blows liberally bestowed by his custodians, he was restrained, though his low cursing and threats were distinctly audible during the rest of the trial.

Several of the soldiers of Colonel Middleton's party, including Sergeant Sedgewyke, having given evidence, it was thought that the case for the prosecution was concluded, but a shiver of excitement ran through the court when an order was given: "Call Joseph Hawkes".

The cry was taken up by the usher and repeated thrice ere there hobbled into the well of the court an object that could scarce lay claim to being called a man. Yet there was no mistaking the fact that Hawkes was or had been a sailor, for a strong odour of tar, which was a pleasant relief to the fetid atmosphere of the crowded court, hovered around him like a cloud. He was about fifty years of age, wizened and bent. His face, burnt by exposure to all weathers, was of a deep mahogany hue. One eye was covered with a patch, the other appeared to be fixed in its socket, inasmuch as whenever he looked he had to turn his head straight in that direction. A mass of lank hair, terminating in a greasy pigtail, covered his head.

His left arm was missing, the empty sleeve being fastened to his coat; and, as if these deficiencies were not enough, his left leg had been cut off at the knee joint, and was replaced by a wooden stump. The fingers of his right hand were dried like a mummy's, the nails being blackened with hard work at sea and the continual use of tobacco, and I noticed that one of his fingers was also missing.

Having been administered the oath, his examination commenced.

"You are Joseph Hawkes?"

"Yes, your Honour."

"Do you know either of the prisoners?"

"Yes, saving your presence, that red-haired villain yonder!"

"Now, sirrah," exclaimed the prosecuting lawyer, addressing Caleb Keeping, "methinks you know this witness!"

But the prisoner replied not, except to shake his head sheepishly.

"Proceed with your evidence, Master Hawkes."

The man hitched at his nether garments, pulled his forelock, and without further delay plunged into his story, which, stripped of its peculiarities of dialect, was as follows:--

"Two years ago last May I shipped as mate of the bark Speedie, of Poole, outward bound for the Tagus. The same night as we cleared Poole harbour we were overtaken by a gale from the south'ard, and soon got into difficulties close to the Purbeck coast. Seven times did we 'bout ship to try and claw off the shore, but at daybreak we struck close to Anvil Point."

Here the younger prisoner began to show signs of terrified interest--a fact that most of those present were not slow to note.

"The masts went by the board, our boats were carried away, and the old Speedie began to break up. One by one the crew were swept overboard, and at last a heavy sea took me, and I remember fighting for life in the waves till I lost consciousness.

"When I came to I was lying on a flat ledge or platform of rock with the hot sun streaming down on me. The gale had now abated, but there were plenty of signs of its results. Numbers of bales and barrels, that had formed our cargo, were being collected on the platform by a number of villainous-looking, half-naked men. A slight tingling pain in my hand made me look down, and I saw that one of my fingers had been cut off, so that one of the wretches could steal a paltry silver ring I was wearing.

"Just then I heard a shout, and, keeping perfectly still, I looked under my half-closed eyelids and saw two of the wreckers dragging a body up the rocks. It was the master of the Speedie, poor old John Cartridge of Hamworthy. The wretches began to hack his fingers off, as they had done mine, and even tore a pair of ear-rings forcibly from his ears. Old John wasn't dead, for this treatment revived him. Seeing this, one of the men, who is none other than that red-haired devil yonder, plunged a knife into his back and toppled his body into the sea."

At this the younger prisoner yelled in a terror-stricken voice: "No, no! You are mistaken. 'Twill be my brother as done it. 'Twas not I."

"Liar!" retorted the old seaman. "I'll prove it. Let your men bare his back, good sir, and if he hath not the sign of the Jolly Roger tattooed there, I'll take back my word."

The justice nodded his assent, and the tip-staves proceeded to remove the clothing from the prisoner's back. Sure enough, there was a death's-head and cross-bones indelibly impressed there.

"Continue your evidence, Master Hawkes."

"Well, your Honour, as I was a-saying, after they had rid themselves of the master's body, the wretches began to carry their plunder into a cave that opened from the back of the flat rock. Presently one of them stops by me. 'What shall us do with 'e?' he shouts. I kept very still, feigning death, yet expecting every moment to have a knife betwixt my ribs. 'Is 'e done with?' asked another. 'Then overboard with 'im.' Next minute I felt myself being dragged across the platform and pushed off the edge. I fell about a score of feet, striking the water with a heavy splash. When I came to the top I struck out, and found myself close to a shelf of rock which the overhanging ledge hid from the villains above. Here I remained till the coast was clear, then I scrambled up, in spite of my wounds, and made my way across some downs till I met with a kindly farmer, who took me to Wareham.

"When I reported the matter to the authorities a body of men were sent from Wareham and Poole; but though they discovered the caves, not a trace of the wreckers, their spoils, or the remains of the Speedie was to be found."