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SIR NIGEL
In a few words Chandos made all clear to Badding, the
crowd pressing eagerly round.
“Aye, aye!” cried a seaman, “the good Sir John is right. See
how she points. It is Picardy and not Gascony that she will
fetch this journey in spite of her wine-staves.”
“Then we must lay her aboard!” cried Cock Badding. “Come,
lads, here is my own Marie Rose ready to cast off. Who’s for
a trip with a fight at the end of it?”
There was a rush for the boat; but the stout little seaman
picked his men. “Go back, Jerry! Your heart is good, but you
are overfat for the work. You, Luke, and you, Thomas, and the
two Deedes, and William of Sandgate. You will work the boat.
And now we need a few men of their hands. Do you come,
little sir?”
“I pray you, my dear lord, to let me go!” cried Nigel.
“Yes, Nigel, you can go, and I will bring your gear over to
Calais this night.”
“I will join you there, fair sir, and with the help of Saint
Paul I will bring this Red Ferret with me.”
“Aboard, aboard! Time passes!” cried Badding impatiently,
while already his seamen were hauling on the line and raising
the mainsail. “Now then, sirrah! who are you?” It was Aylward,
who had followed Nigel and was pushing his way aboard.
“Where my master goes I go also,” cried Aylward, “so stand
clear, master-shipman, or you may come by a hurt.”
“By Saint Leonard! archer,” said Cock Badding, “had I more
time I would give you a lesson ere I leave land. Stand back and
give place to others!”
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
“Nay, stand back and give place to me!” cried Aylward, and
seizing Badding round the waist he slung him into the dock.
There was a cry of anger from the crowd, for Badding was
the hero of all the Cinque Ports and had never yet met his
match in manhood. The epitaph still lingers in which it was
said that he “could never rest until he had foughten his fill.”
When, therefore, swimming like a duck, he reached a rope and
pulled himself hand over hand up to the quay, all stood aghast
to see what fell fate would befall this bold stranger. But Badding laughed loudly, dashing the saltwater from his eyes and
hair.
“You have fairly won your place, archer,” said he. “You are
the very man for our work. Where is Black Simon of Norwich?”
A tall dark young man with a long, stern, lean face came
forward. “I am with you, Cock,” said he, “and I thank you for
my place.”
“You can come, Hugh Baddlesmere, and you, Hal Masters,
and you, Dicon of Rye. That is enough. Now off, in God’s name,
or it will be night ere we can come up with them!”
Already the head-sails and the main-sail had been raised,
while a hundred willing hands poled her off from the wharf.
Now the wind caught her; heeling over, and quivering with eagerness like an unleashed hound she flew through the opening
and out into the Channel. She was a famous little schooner, the
Marie Rose of Winchelsea, and under her daring owner Cock
Badding, half trader and half pirate, had brought back into
port many a rich cargo taken in mid-Channel, and paid for
in blood rather than money. Small as she was, her great speed
and the fierce character of her master had made her a name of
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SIR NIGEL
terror along the French coast, and many a bulky Eastlander or
Fleming as he passed the narrow seas had scanned the distant
Kentish shore, fearing lest that ill-omened purple sail with
a gold Christopher upon it should shoot out suddenly from
the dim gray cliffs. Now she was clear of the land, with the
wind on her larboard quarter, every inch of canvas set, and
her high sharp bows smothered in foam, as she dug through
the waves.
Cock Badding trod the deck with head erect and jaunty
bearing, glancing up at the swelling sails and then ahead
at the little tilted white triangle, which stood out clear and
hard against the bright blue sky. Behind was the lowland of
the Camber marshes, with the bluffs of Rye and Winchelsea,
and the line of cliffs behind them. On the larboard bow rose
the great white walls of Folkestone and of Dover, and far on
the distant sky-line the gray shimmer of those French cliffs for
which the fugitives were making.
“By Saint Paul!” cried Nigel, looking with eager eyes over
the tossing waters, “it seems to me, Master Badding, that already we draw in upon them.”
The master measured the distance with his keen steady
gaze, and then looked up at the sinking sun. “We have still four
hours of daylight,” said he; “but if we do not lay her aboard ere
darkness falls she will save herself, for the nights are as black
as a wolf’s mouth, and if she alter her course I know not how
we may follow her.”
“Unless, indeed, you might guess to which port she was
bound and reach it before her.”
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
“Well thought of, little master!” cried Badding. “If the news
be for the French outside Calais, then Ambleteuse would be
nearest to Saint Omer. But my sweeting sails three paces to that
lubber’s two, and if the wind holds we shall have time and to
spare. How now, archer? You do not seem so eager as when you
made your way aboard this boat by slinging me into the sea.”
Aylward sat on the upturned keel of a skiff which lay upon
the deck. He groaned sadly and held his green face between
his two hands. “I would gladly sling you into the sea once
more, master-shipman,” said he, “if by so doing I could get
off this most accursed vessel of thine. Or if you would wish
to have your turn, then I would thank you if you would lend
me a hand over the side, for indeed I am but a useless weight
upon your deck. Little did I think that Samkin Aylward could
be turned into a weakling by an hour of salt water. Alas the
day that ever my foot wandered from the good red heather of
Crooksbury!”
Cock Badding laughed loud and long. “Nay, take it not to
heart, archer,” he cried; “for better men than you or I have
groaned upon this deck. The Prince himself with ten of his
chosen knights crossed with me once, and eleven sadder faces
I never saw. Yet within a month they had shown at Crecy that
they were no weaklings, as you will do also, I dare swear, when
the time comes. Keep that thick head of thine down upon the
planks, and all will be well anon. But we raise her, we raise her
with every blast of the wind!”
It was indeed evident, even to the inexperienced eyes of
Nigel, that the Marie Rose was closing in swiftly upon the
stranger. She was a heavy, bluff-bowed, broad-sterned vessel
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SIR NIGEL
which labored clumsily through the seas. The swift, fierce little Winchelsea boat swooping and hissing through the waters
behind her was like some keen hawk whizzing down wind at
the back of a flapping heavy-bodied duck. Half an hour before
La Pucelle had been a distant patch of canvas. Now they could
see the black hull, and soon the cut of her sails and the lines of
her bulwarks. There were at least a dozen men upon her deck,
and the twinkle of weapons from amongst them showed that
they were preparing to resist. Cock Badding began to muster
his own forces.
He had a crew of seven rough, hardy mariners, who had
been at his back in many a skirmish. They were armed with
short swords, but Cock Badding carried a weapon peculiar to
himself, a twenty-pound blacksmith’s hammer, the memory of
which, as “Badding’s cracker,” still lingers in the Cinque Ports.
Then there were the eager Nigel, the melancholy Aylward,
Black Simon who was a tried swordsman, and three archers,
Baddlesmere, Masters and Dicon of Rye, all veterans of the
French War. The numbers in the two vessels might be about
equal; but Badding as he glanced at the bold harsh faces which
looked to him for orders had little fear for the result.
Glancing round, however, he saw something which was
more dangerous to his plans than the resistance of the enemy.
The wind, which had become more fitful and feebler, now fell
suddenly away, until the sails hung limp and straight above
them. A belt of calm lay along the horizon, and the waves
around had smoothed down into a long oily swell on which
the two little vessels rose and fell. The great boom of the Marie
Rose rattled and jarred with every lurch, and the high thin
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
prow pointed skyward one instant and seaward the next in
a way that drew fresh groans from the unhappy Aylward. In
vain Cock Badding pulled on his sheets and tried hard to husband every little wandering gust which ruffled for an instant
the sleek rollers. The French master was as adroit a sailor, and
his boom swung round also as each breath of wind came up
from astern.
At last even these fitful puffs died finally away, and a cloudless sky overhung a glassy sea. The sun was almost upon the horizon behind Dungeness Point, and the whole western heaven
was bright with the glory of the sunset, which blended sea and
sky in one blaze of ruddy light. Like rollers of molten gold, the
long swell heaved up Channel from the great ocean beyond.
In the midst of the immense beauty and peace of nature the
two little dark specks with the white sail and the purple rose
and fell, so small upon the vast shining bosom of the waters,
and yet so charged with all the unrest and the passion of life.
The experienced eye of the seaman told him that it was
hopeless to expect a breeze before nightfall. He looked across
at the Frenchman, which lay less than a quarter of a mile
ahead, and shook his gnarled fist at the line of heads which
could be seen looking back over her stern. One of them waved
a white kerchief in derision, and Cock Badding swore a bitter
oath at the sight.
“By Saint Leonard of Winchelsea,” he cried, “I will rub my
side up against her yet! Out with the skiff, lads, and two of you
to the oars. Make fast the line to the mast, Will. Do you go in
the boat, Hugh, and I’ll make the second. Now if we bend our
backs to it we may have them yet ere night cover them.”
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SIR NIGEL
The little skiff was swiftly lowered over the side and the
slack end of the cable fastened to the after thwart. Cock Badding and his comrades pulled as if they would snap their oars,
and the little vessel began slowly to lurch forward over the
rollers. But the next moment a larger skiff had splashed over
the side of the Frenchman, and no less than four seamen were
hard at work under her bows. If the Marie Rose advanced
a yard the Frenchman was going two. Again Cock Badding
raved and shook his fist. He clambered aboard, his face wet
with sweat and dark with anger.
“Curse them! they have had the best of us!” he cried. “I can
do no more. Sir John has lost his papers, for indeed now that
night is at hand I can see no way in which we can gain them.”
Nigel had leaned against the bulwark during these events,
watching with keen attention the doings of the sailors, and
praying alternately to Saint Paul, Saint George, and Saint
Thomas for a slant of wind which would put them along side
their enemy. He was silent; but his hot heart was simmering
within him. His spirit had risen even above the discomfort of
the sea, and his mind was too absorbed in his mission to have
a thought for that which had laid Aylward flat upon the deck.
He had never doubted that Cock Badding in one way or another would accomplish his end, but when he heard his speech
of despair he bounded off the bulwark and stood before the
seaman with his face flushed and all his soul afire.
“By Saint Paul! master-shipman,” he cried, “we should never hold up our heads in honor if we did not go further into the
matter! Let us do some small deed this night upon the water, or
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
let us never see land again, for indeed we could not wish fairer
prospect of winning honorable advancement.”
“With your leave, little master, you speak like a fool,” said
the gruff seaman. “You and all your kind are as children when
once the blue water is beneath you. Can you not see that there
is no wind, and that the Frenchman can warp her as swiftly as
we? What then would you do?”
Nigel pointed to the boat which towed astern. “Let us venture forth in her,” said he, “and let us take this ship or die
worshipful in the attempt.”
His bold and fiery words found their echo in the brave
rough hearts around him. There was a deep-chested shout
from both archers and seamen. Even Aylward sat up, with
a wan smile upon his green face.
But Cock Badding shook his head. “I have never met the
man who could lead where I would not follow,” said he; “but
by Saint Leonard! this is a mad business, and I should be a fool
if I were to risk my men and my ship. Bethink you, little master, that the skiff can hold only five, though you load her to
the water’s edge. If there is a man yonder, there are fourteen,
and you have to climb their side from the boat. What chance
would you have? Your boat stove and you in the water – there
is the end of it. No man of mine goes on such a fool’s errand,
and so I swear!”
“Then, Master Badding, I must crave the loan of your skiff,
for by Saint Paul! the good Lord Chandos’ papers are not to be
so lightly lost. If no one else will come, then I will go alone.”
The shipman smiled at the words; but the smile died away
from his lips when Nigel, with features set like ivory and eyes
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SIR NIGEL
as hard as steel, pulled on the rope so as to bring the skiff under the counter. It was very clear that he would do even as he
said. At the same time Aylward raised his bulky form from the
deck, leaned for a moment against the bulwarks, and then tottered aft to his master’s side.
“Here is one that will go with you,” said he, “or he would
never dare show his face to the girls of Tilford again. Come,
archers, let us leave these salt herrings in their pickle tub and
try our luck out on the water.”
The three archers at once ranged themselves on the same
side as their comrade. They were bronzed, bearded men, short
in stature, as were most Englishmen of that day, but hardy,
strong and skilled with their weapons. Each drew his string
from its waterproof case and bent the huge arc of his war-bow
as he fitted it into the nocks.
“Now, master, we are at your back,” said they as they pulled
and tightened their sword-belts.
But already Cock Badding had been carried away by the
hot lust of battle and had thrown aside every fear and doubt
which had clouded him. To see a fight and not to be in it was
more than he could bear.
“Nay, have it your own way!” he cried, “and may Saint
Leonard help us, for a madder venture I have never seen! And
yet it may be worth the trial. But if it be done let me have the
handling of it, little master, for you know no more of a boat
than I do of a war-horse. The skiff can bear five and not a man
more. Now, who will come?”
They had all caught fire, and there was not one who would
be left out.
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ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
Badding picked up his hammer. “I will come myself,” said
he, “and you also, little master, since it is your hot head that
has planned it. Then there is Black Simon, the best sword of
the Cinque Ports. Two archers can pull on the oars, and it may
be that they can pick off two or three of these Frenchmen before we close with them. Hugh Baddlesmere, and you, Dicon of
Rye – into the boat with you!”
“What?” cried Aylward. “Am I to be left behind? I, who am
the Squire’s own man? Ill fare the bowman who comes betwixt
me and yonder boat!”
“Nay, Aylward,” said his master, “I order that you stay, for
indeed you are a sick man.”
“But now that the waves have sunk I am myself again. Nay,
fair sir, I pray that you will not leave me behind.”
“You must needs take the space of a better man; for what
do you know of the handling of a boat?” said Badding shortly.
“No more fool’s talk, I pray you, for the night will soon fall.
Stand aside!”
Aylward looked hard at the French boat. “I could swim ten
times up and down Frensham pond,” said he, “and it will be
strange if I cannot go as far as that. By these finger-bones, Samkin Aylward may be there as soon as you!”
The little boat with its five occupants pushed off from the
side of the schooner, and dipping and rising, made its slow way
toward the Frenchman. Badding and one archer had single
oars, the second archer was in the prow, while Black Simon
and Nigel huddled into the stern with the water lapping and
hissing at their very elbows. A shout of defiance rose from the
Frenchmen, and they stood in a line along the side of their
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