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
better not to speak to me, unless he is in love with gaol and gallows.”
“Well, your worship,” said the steward, “I expect that is what he does want, for he swears he will not leave the gate till he has seen you.”
“Seen me? Halidame! he shall see me, here and at Launceston too, if he likes. Bring him in.”
“Fegs, Sir Richard, we are half afeard. With your good leave—”
“Hillo, Tony,” cried Amyas, “who was ever afeard yet with Sir Richard’s good leave?”
“What, has the fellow a tail or horns?”
“Massy no: but I be afeard of treason for your honor; for the fellow is pinked all over in heathen patterns, and as brown as a filbert; and a tall roog, a very strong roog, sir, and a foreigner too, and a mighty staff with him. I expect him to be a manner of Jesuit, or wild Irish, sir; and indeed the grooms have no stomach to handle him, nor the dogs neither, or he had been under the pump before now, for they that saw him coming up the hill swear that he had fire coming out of his mouth.”
“Fire out of his mouth?” said Sir Richard. “The men are drunk.”
“Pinked all over? He must be a sailor,” said Amyas; “let me out and see the fellow, and if he needs putting forth—”
“Why, I dare say he is not so big but what he will go into thy pocket. So go, lad, while I finish my writing.”
Amyas went out, and at the back door, leaning on his staff, stood a tall, raw-boned, ragged man, “pinked all over,” as the steward had said.
“Hillo, lad!” quoth Amyas. “Before we come to talk, thou wilt please to lay down that Plymouth cloak of thine.” And he pointed to the cudgel, which among West-country mariners usually bore that name.
“I’ll warrant,” said the old steward, “that where he found his cloak he found purse not far off.”
“But not hose or doublet; so the magical virtue of his staff has not helped him much. But put down thy staff, man, and speak like a Christian, if thou be one.”
“I am a Christian, though I look like a heathen; and no rogue, though a masterless man, alas! But I want nothing, deserving nothing, and only ask to speak with Sir Richard, before I go on my way.”
There was something stately and yet humble about the man’s tone and manner which attracted Amyas, and he asked more gently where he was going and whence he came.
“From Padstow Port, sir, to Clovelly town, to see my old mother, if indeed she be yet alive, which God knoweth.”
“Clovally man! why didn’t thee say thee was Clovally man?” asked all the grooms at once, to whom a West-countryman was of course a brother. The old steward asked—
“What’s thy mother’s name, then?”
“Susan Yeo.”
“What, that lived under the archway?” asked a groom.
“Lived?” said the man.
“Iss, sure; her died three days since, so we heard, poor soul.”
The man stood quite silent and unmoved for a minute or two; and then said quietly to himself, in Spanish, “That which is, is best.”
“You speak Spanish?” asked Amyas, more and more interested.
“I had need to do so, young sir; I have been five years in the Spanish Main, and only set foot on shore two days ago; and if you will let me have speech of Sir Richard, I will tell him that at which both the ears of him that heareth it shall tingle; and if not, I can but go on to Mr. Cary of Clovelly, if he be yet alive, and there disburden my soul; but I would sooner have spoken with one that is a mariner like to myself.”
“And you shall,” said Amyas. “Steward, we will have this man in; for all his rags, he is a man of wit.” And he led him in.
“I only hope he ben’t one of those Popish murderers,” said the old steward, keeping at a safe distance from him as they entered the hall.
“Popish, old master? There’s little fear of my being that. Look here!” And drawing back his rags, he showed a ghastly scar, which encircled his wrist and wound round and up his fore-arm.
“I got that on the rack,” said he, quietly, “in the Inquisition at Lima.”
“O Father! Father! why didn’t you tell us that you were a poor Christian?” asked the penitent steward.
“Because I have had naught but my deserts; and but a taste of them either, as the Lord knoweth who delivered me; and I wasn’t going to make myself a beggar and a show on their account.”
“By heaven, you are a brave fellow!” said Amyas. “Come along straight to Sir Richard’s room.”
So in they went, where Sir Richard sat in his library among books, despatches, state-papers, and warrants; for though he was not yet, as in after times (after the fashion of those days) admiral, general, member of parliament, privy councillor, justice of the peace, and so forth, all at once, yet there were few great men with whom he did not correspond, or great matters with which he was not cognizant.
“Hillo, Amyas, have you bound the wild man already, and brought him in to swear allegiance?”
But before Amyas could answer, the man looked earnestly on him—“Amyas?” said he; “is that your name, sir?”
“Amyas Leigh is my name, at your service, good fellow.”
“Of Burrough by Bideford?”
“Why then? What do you know of me?”
“Oh sir, sir! young brains and happy ones have short memories; but old and sad brains too long ones often! Do you mind one that was with Mr. Oxenham, sir? A swearing reprobate he was, God forgive him, and hath forgiven him too, for His dear Son’s sake—one, sir, that gave you a horn, a toy with a chart on it?”
“Soul alive!” cried Amyas, catching him by the hand; “and are you he? The horn? why, I have it still, and will keep it to my dying day, too. But where is Mr. Oxenham?”
“Yes, my good fellow, where is Mr. Oxenham?” asked Sir Richard, rising. “You are somewhat over-hasty in welcoming your old acquaintance, Amyas, before we have heard from him whether he can give honest account of himself and of his captain. For there is more than one way by which sailors may come home without their captains, as poor Mr. Barker of Bristol found to his cost. God grant that there may have been no such traitorous dealing here.”
“Sir Richard Grenville, if I had been a guilty man to my noble captain, as I have to God, I had not come here this day to you, from whom villainy has never found favor, nor ever will; for I know your conditions well, sir; and trust in the Lord, that if you will be pleased to hear me, you shall know mine.”
“Thou art a well-spoken knave. We shall see.”
“My dear sir,” said Amyas, in a whisper, “I will warrant this man guiltless.”
“I verily believe him to be; but this is too serious a matter to be left on guess. If he will be sworn—”
Whereon the man, humbly enough, said, that if it would please Sir Richard, he would rather not be sworn.
“But it does not please me, rascal! Did I not warn thee, Amyas?”
“Sir,” said the man, proudly, “God forbid that my word should not be as good as my oath: but it is against my conscience to be sworn.”
“What have we here? some fantastical Anabaptist, who is wiser than his teachers.”
“My conscience, sir—”
“The devil take it and thee! I never heard a man yet begin to prate of his conscience, but I knew that he was about to do something more than ordinarily cruel or false.”
“Sir,” said the man, coolly enough, “do you sit here to judge me according to law, and yet contrary to the law swear profane oaths, for which a fine is provided?”
Amyas