Westward Ho! Or, The Voyages and Adventures of Sir Amyas Leigh, Knight, of Burrough, in the County of Devon, in the Reign of Her Most Glorious Majesty Queen Elizabeth. Charles Kingsley
in the first battle at Alcasar; and Stukely, surrounded and overpowered, fought till he could fight no more, and then died like a hero with all his wounds in front; and may God have mercy on his soul!”
“Ah!” said Amyas, “we heard of that battle off Lima, but nothing about poor Stukely.”
“That last was a Popish prayer, Master Frank,” said old Mr. Cary.
“Most worshipful sir, you surely would not wish God not to have mercy on his soul?”
“No—eh? Of course not: but that’s all settled by now, for he is dead, poor fellow.”
“Certainly, my dear sir. And you cannot help being a little fond of him still.”
“Eh? why, I should be a brute if I were not. He and I were schoolfellows, though he was somewhat the younger; and many a good thrashing have I given him, and one cannot help having a tenderness for a man after that. Beside, we used to hunt together in Exmoor, and have royal nights afterward into Ilfracombe, when we were a couple of mad young blades. Fond of him? Why, I would have sooner given my forefinger than that he should have gone to the dogs thus.”
“Then, my dear sir, if you feel for him still, in spite of all his faults, how do you know that God may not feel for him still, in spite of all his faults? For my part,” quoth Frank, in his fanciful way, “without believing in that Popish Purgatory, I cannot help holding with Plato, that such heroical souls, who have wanted but little of true greatness, are hereafter by some strait discipline brought to a better mind; perhaps, as many ancients have held with the Indian Gymnosophists, by transmigration into the bodies of those animals whom they have resembled in their passions; and indeed, if Sir Thomas Stukely’s soul should now animate the body of a lion, all I can say is that he would be a very valiant and royal lion; and also doubtless become in due time heartily ashamed and penitent for having been nothing better than a lion.”
“What now, Master Frank? I don’t trouble my head with such matters—I say Stukely was a right good-hearted fellow at bottom; and if you plague my head with any of your dialectics, and propositions, and college quips and quiddities, you sha’n’t have any more sack, sir. But here come the knaves, and I hear the cook knock to dinner.”
After a madrigal or two, and an Italian song of Master Frank’s, all which went sweetly enough, the ladies rose, and went. Whereon Will Cary, drawing his chair close to Frank’s, put quietly into his hand a dirty letter.
“This was the letter left for me,” whispered he, “by a country fellow this morning. Look at it and tell me what I am to do.”
Whereon Frank opened, and read—
“Mister Cary, be you wary
By deer park end to-night.
Yf Irish ffoxe com out of rocks
Grip and hold hym tight.”
“I would have showed it my father,” said Will, “but—”
“I verily believe it to be a blind. See now, this is the handwriting of a man who has been trying to write vilely, and yet cannot. Look at that B, and that G; their formae formativae never were begotten in a hedge-school. And what is more, this is no Devon man’s handiwork. We say ‘to’ and not ‘by,’ Will, eh? in the West country?”
“Of course.”
“And ‘man,’ instead of ‘him’?”
“True, O Daniel! But am I to do nothing therefore?”
“On that matter I am no judge. Let us ask much-enduring Ulysses here; perhaps he has not sailed round the world without bringing home a device or two.”
Whereon Amyas was called to counsel, as soon as Mr. Cary could be stopped in a long cross-examination of him as to Mr. Doughty’s famous trial and execution.
Amyas pondered awhile, thrusting his hands into his long curls; and then—
“Will, my lad, have you been watching at the Deer Park End of late?”
“Never.”
“Where, then?”
“At the town-beach.”
“Where else?
“At the town-head.”
“Where else?”
“Why, the fellow is turned lawyer! Above Freshwater.”
“Where is Freshwater?”
“Why, where the water-fall comes over the cliff, half-a-mile from the town. There is a path there up into the forest.”
“I know. I’ll watch there to-night. Do you keep all your old haunts safe, of course, and send a couple of stout knaves to the mill, to watch the beach at the Deer Park End, on the chance; for your poet may be a true man, after all. But my heart’s faith is, that this comes just to draw you off from some old beat of yours, upon a wild-goose chase. If they shoot the miller by mistake, I suppose it don’t much matter?”
“Marry, no.”
“‘When a miller’s knock’d on the head,
The less of flour makes the more of bread.’”
“Or, again,” chimed in old Mr. Cary, “as they say in the North—
“‘Find a miller that will not steal,
Or a webster that is leal,
Or a priest that is not greedy,
And lay them three a dead corpse by;
And by the virtue of them three,
The said dead corpse shall quicken’d be.’”
“But why are you so ready to watch Freshwater to-night, Master Amyas?”
“Because, sir, those who come, if they come, will never land at Mouthmill; if they are strangers, they dare not; and if they are bay’s-men, they are too wise, as long as the westerly swell sets in. As for landing at the town, that would be too great a risk; but Freshwater is as lonely as the Bermudas; and they can beach a boat up under the cliff at all tides, and in all weathers, except north and nor’west. I have done it many a time, when I was a boy.”
“And give us the fruit of your experience now in your old age, eh? Well, you have a gray head on green shoulders, my lad; and I verily believe you are right. Who will you take with you to watch?”
“Sir,” said Frank, “I will go with my brother; and that will be enough.”
“Enough? He is big enough, and you brave enough, for ten; but still, the more the merrier.”
“But the fewer, the better fare. If I might ask a first and last favor, worshipful sir,” said Frank, very earnestly, “you would grant me two things: that you would let none go to Freshwater but me and my brother; and that whatsoever we shall bring you back shall be kept as secret as the commonweal and your loyalty shall permit. I trust that we are not so unknown to you, or to others, that you can doubt for a moment but that whatsoever we may do will satisfy at once your honor and our own.”
“My dear young gentleman, there is no need of so many courtier’s words. I am your father’s friend, and yours. And God forbid that a Cary—for I guess your drift—should ever wish to make a head or a heart ache; that is, more than—”
“Those of whom it is written, ‘Though thou bray a fool in a mortar, yet will not his folly depart from him,’” interposed Frank, in so sad a tone that no one at the table replied; and few more words were exchanged, till the two brothers were safe outside the house; and then—
“Amyas,” said Frank, “that was a Devon man’s handiwork, nevertheless; it was Eustace’s handwriting.”
“Impossible!”
“No, lad. I have been secretary to a prince, and learnt to interpret cipher,