Chapter XIV “’Twixt Cup and Lip, there’s many a Slip.”
It was nearly dusk before brother Corman returned; Father Dicoll and Ædric were seated outside on the little quay looking for him.
“There he is,” cried Ædric, as he caught sight of the little raft coming sluggishly up with the tide. “I wonder what message he has brought?”
“Whatever it is, it is now too late for thee to go away to-night.”
“How glad I am! And perhaps it will rain to-morrow. I do wish it would, and then I couldn’t leave thee. Dost thou think it looks like rain, Father Dicoll?”
Father Dicoll looked up.
“No, I can’t say I think it does. The sun seems to me to be setting beautifully.”
And now brother Corman was coming nearer; they could hear the splash of his oars, and he seemed to be singing.
Ædric was all impatience to know what was to happen to him, but walking was yet far too painful, so he had to master his eagerness until Corman got nearer. But at last he could stand it no longer, and called out:
“Am I to go to-morrow?”
Brother Corman ceased his chaunt and his rowing, and turned round; but all he said was:
“Wait till I get on shore.”
“How provoking he is! Why can’t he tell me at once?”
But Father Dicoll said nothing. If he had said anything it would have been to reprove Ædric for his impatience; but he was a wise man, who trusted to silence for doing the work of words—a method which, however, requires great knowledge in its application.
It was not long before Corman had run his raft alongside the quay, and with provoking deliberation, as it seemed to Ædric, moored her to a post; he then picked up the oars, and putting them over his shoulder, came up to Father Dicoll and Ædric.
“Well, brother Corman, and how hast thou fared?” said Father Dicoll.
“Well enough. Wilfrid will have a litter brought down to the shore yonder by noon to-morrow, and Ædric is to go there to meet him. He promises to care for him well; and he also told me news which, if it be true, may make a great deal of difference to the boy’s fortunes, and indeed for all the country round.”
“What was that?”
“Why, that Centwine of Wessex is dead, and bid all men own the outlaw Cædwalla to be king in his stead, before he died.”
“How knew Wilfrid of that?”
“How knows Wilfrid of everything? He is not like us. He is troubled about much serving; the doings of the world concern him, and the great ones of the earth are those in whom he delights.”
Father Dicoll said nothing, but turned towards their hut. Ædric followed, leaning on Corman’s arm, and using a stick for a crutch.
When they got inside Father Dicoll prepared their frugal meal, as Corman was tired with his long walk and row. Then they had evening service, and after that Ædric was attended to; the bandages on his leg were changed, and he was made comfortable for the night. He felt very sad as he lay down, and felt much inclined to rebel at being sent away without having a voice in the matter; but the lessons of the last few days were beginning to bear fruit, and he recognised the duty of submitting his own inclinations to the wisdom of those whom he had found by experience to be kind and good.
The next morning they were all up at the usual hour. Not much was said. Father Dicoll thought it better to let the many conversations he had had with Ædric remain in the boy’s mind without further comment, and Ædric himself was too unhappy at parting to say or ask much. As the hour drew near for him to be put on board the raft, he felt more than ever inclined to be rebellious; but again the kindness of the good monks, and their constant teaching on the subject of self-obliteration, came to his mind, and he sorrowfully prepared for his departure.
The little raft was made ready to receive Ædric by Corman, who placed on it a few skins and a pitcher of water. As the boy had brought nothing with him there was no difficulty about baggage. When all was ready, Father Dicoll assisted Ædric down the path to the quay, and helped him on board, directing him to lie down in such a position as not to inconvenience Corman while rowing. Then, giving him his blessing, he took an affectionate farewell.
Ædric could scarcely refrain from tears, but, remembering how Ceolwulf would have laughed at him if he had given way to his emotion, he mastered his feelings, and smiled back at Father Dicoll.
“I shall soon come back and see thee; thou knowest; my leg is very nearly well now, thou hast cured it so wonderfully, and when I go back to Wihtea thou and brother Corman will come over and teach us all to be good.”
Father Dicoll nodded and said, “As God wills it, my son.” Then brother Corman got on to the raft, and, pushing off, began to row slowly away.
Ædric waved his hand to the good monk, and then sank back on his couch with a wistful look.
“What is Wilfrid like, brother Corman? dost thou think I shall like him?”
“I am sure thou wilt; but I don’t suppose thou wilt see very much of him, he is always so busy. Thou seest he is not like Father Dicoll and me. He is not a simple monk like us, and he has a great deal to look after.”
“Then shall I have to be all by myself all day? Will no one talk to me or tell me stories as thou and Father Dicoll were always doing?”
“No, there is no fear of that; he has several monks and priests with him, and I expect Bernwine, or Hildila, will look after thee.”
“And who are they?”
“Well, Bernwine is Wilfrid’s nephew, and a priest. Hildila is also a priest, and they are reported to be good men.”
They were going gently by the sedgy banks; the trees were a deeper russet-brown than they had been when Ædric came wearily past them a few weeks before. He had felt lonely and in great pain then; he was stronger now, and his leg was nearly well, but Dicoll doubted whether he would quite regain the full use of it, as the wound had been very severe and had cut through a tendon. But he felt more lonely now, and dreaded the going among an entirely new set of faces, without a single friend to welcome him.
They went on in silence for some little time. At last Ædric said:
“I wonder if Wulfstan did really go with Ceolwulf?”
“I should think there was no doubt about it.”
“If people are dead dost thou think they can come and tell us where they are, and what they are doing?”
“I never knew myself any that did,” answered Corman, cautiously. “But all men have believed it to be possible, and there are countless legends and stories which tell of such occurrences.”1
“Then why dost thou think my father Ælfhere or my mother Alftruda never came to see me and tell me what has become of them?”
“Why, my son, what a very unreasonable question! How can I tell?”
Ædric looked dissatisfied. He thought the monks knew everything: a not uncommon belief with children in respect of those who are older than they are; a belief that is at the same time flattering and embarrassing, and which serves as the basis for the greatest number of impositions quackery and charlatanism have known how to successfully palm off on ignorance.
Again they lapsed into silence. Boseham was still in sight behind them. Ædric turned his head to look once more at the quiet little place where he had learnt so much.
“Why, Corman, isn’t that a man on horseback on the quay?”
Corman looked. “Well, it does look like some one on a horse. I wonder who it can be.”
“Hark! I think I hear somebody calling,” said Ædric.
Corman ceased rowing, and the raft, sluggishly moving when Corman rowed his hardest, ceased to ripple through the water.
A loud halloo came over the water.
“What can he want. Is he calling us?” asked Ædric.
“Hush! he is saying something,” said Corman.
An indistinguishable shout again reached them.
“I can’t make out what he is saying, but it seems to be very important. I wonder who he is. Now, it may be right to go back, but it may be wrong. Hark! he’s calling again.”
“Something about ‘back’ is what he seems to say,” said Ædric.
Corman still waited, and gazed in the direction of the horseman.
“What I can’t understand is, why Father Dicoll is not there. I don’t think it is all right, or he would be on the quay, and would wave to us, or make some signal.”
Ædric looked carefully to see whether he could not make out his figure anywhere. At last he called out:
“I see him. There he is; he is waving his hands.”
Corman looked where Ædric pointed, and saw Father Dicoll, who was certainly making some kind of sign, but it did not seem to him that they were signs to return.
“I think he means us to go on. Now do thou watch him, don’t look at the other man at all. I will turn the raft round and row back. If he waves his hands, as if sending us away, tell me at once.”
Corman then turned the raft round, while Ædric looked intently at Father Dicoll.
The man had stopped shouting as soon as he saw that the raft was coming back, but Dicoll went on waving his arms more than ever. He was standing a little way behind the man, so that his movements were not seen by him.
“Well,” said Corman, “what dost thou make of it?”
“I think he means we are to return,” said Ædric.
Corman turned round to look.
“Well, I don’t know; it looks as though he were beckoning, certainly, but it is very difficult to see from this distance. However, I will go on rowing a little longer, and then, perhaps, we shall be able to make out what it all means.”
So saying, Corman pulled against the tide, that was running out fast. He did not make much way, but Dicoll never ceased to make signs, waving his arms about frantically.
“I think he does perhaps mean we are to go on,” said Ædric, who had been carefully watching him.
“Well, I will turn round again, and we shall see whether he changes his movements.”
Directly the raft was turned round the horseman began to shout vigorously, but Father Dicoll ceased to wave his hands and arms.
“What dost thou think of that, Ædric?”
“I think it means we are to come back.”
“I don’t though; now see,” and Corman once more turned the raft round as if to row back. Instantly Father Dicoll began to wave his arms frantically, and the horseman ceased to shout. Suddenly he caught sight of Father Dicoll, something flashed in the air, and Father Dicoll ceased to wave his arms.
“What does that mean? He hasn’t struck Father Dicoll, has he?”
“I don’t like the look of it. I certainly shall not go back until I have left thee in a safe place.”
Corman again turned the raft round, and headed it for the entrance of the creek. As he did so, the shouting began again.
“Ah! thou mayest shout, shout till thou art hoarse too, but I shan’t come back yet.”
“Oh, Corman, he has struck Father Dicoll! I saw him raise his arm, and then I saw Father Dicoll fall. How dreadful! and all because Father Dicoll tried to save me.”
Corman was very much overcome.
“If any ill hath happened to him, the Lord will requite the doer of it; but it would be a grievous thing for any evil to befall him. Oh, Dicoll, my father, what shall I do bereft of thee? Sweet has thy intercourse been to me. Desolate am I, and deprived of life, if thy life be taken from me,” and Corman ceased rowing, and gazed ruefully towards Boseham.
“Oh, Corman, look! the man is galloping along the shore, and——why, there are several more men coming down. What are they going to do?”
Corman and Ædric remained for a few moments in speechless curiosity. The man on horseback had galloped furiously up to the men, and was gesticulating rapidly. The men dispersed and ran about the shore. At last they all seemed to be running to one spot. They all collected round something, the man on horseback appearing to be energetically directing them.
“Why, it’s one of the Boseham boats they are launching, I do believe,” said Corman.
“So it is, and now they are getting into it. What do you think it means?”
“I think they are going to row after us.”
So saying, Corman began rowing again as hard as he could.
They were about three-quarters of a mile away, and had to go about a mile more before they could reach the “hard,” or landing place, on the other side of the creek, for they had to row out of the little creek, at the head of which Boseham stands, and cross the larger creek that wound its muddy way up to within a mile of Cissanceaster.
The tide was running out strongly, and this was all in their favour, for as they got farther down the stream ran stronger.
Corman knew the importance of making the full use of the tide, and he strained every muscle to get into the main channel.
The other boat was now manned, and the crew were rowing vigorously, but unscientifically. The horseman had got in, and was steering.
“They are not gaining much, if at all,” said Ædric.
Corman said nothing. He had need of all his strength and breath; the drops of perspiration on his brow told how hard he was working. The clumsy raft went sluggishly along in spite of all his toil, and the other boat came nearer.
“Why can’t I row? I know how; I have often done it at home. I could at least take one oar.”
Corman shook his head, and rowed hard.
Nothing more was said by Ædric, and the oars splashed and the water gurgled under the unwieldy logs of the raft, as it slushed its way through the water.
“They are gaining on us now. Well done!” cried Ædric, as one of the men twisted his oar under the water, and was knocked by the handle of it against the next man, and so into the bottom of the boat. It was comic to see his legs go up in the air, and to hear the shouts of wrath from the helmsman.
“That has stopped them a bit. Now if they only would stick in the mud! the tide is falling fast, and they couldn’t get off.”
Corman was getting tired with his exertions. It was quite clear, unless some accident happened to the other boat, they must be caught. They were so near to each other now that Ædric could distinguish the men. They were all strangers to him. The man who commanded was a tall, grey-bearded man, muscular and wiry. He wore a helmet and linked mail shirt, across which a chain hung supporting a two-edged battle axe; his keen eyes glared from under thick, bushy, grey eyebrows, and two wings of a hawk attached to his helmet gave him a very war-like air.
“Who can he be, I wonder?” said Ædric.
Corman only shook his head by way of answer, and kept rowing desperately, but there was evidently no chance. Suddenly an idea struck him. “Ædric,” he gasped, “dost thou see any shallow spot ahead over which we could go, but on which they would stick? If thou dost, point to it, and I will row over it.”
Ædric looked about; the sea was so muddy that it was difficult to tell where the deep water was, but the current ran in stronger eddies, and with more of ruffle on its surface in the channel, and the boy saw one bank that he thought would do.
They had now got to the part of the creek where the Boseham lake, or creek, joined the arm that went up to Cissanceaster. There was a long spit of mud running out from the western shore. If they could pass over this they would gain a good bit on their pursuers, who might, perhaps, be tempted to follow them, in which case they would inevitably run aground, and would have to remain for some hours.
“I see a lane of deeper water across that bank there, only you must row very hard for it. It is some way off yet!” cried Ædric.
Corman tugged at the oars, the awkward raft moved hardly any quicker, and the drops of perspiration rolled off the monk.
Nearer and nearer the other boat came after them. The steersman was laughing. Ædric could see his great mouth opening in a broad grin of triumph. The men were not rowing nearly so hard now, and he could hear them talking. They were quite confident of success.
“Pull, Corman, pull! we are just going into the shallow part.”
And the poor monk rowed harder than ever. His eyes were straining and bloodshot, and the muscles of his neck stood out like knotted cords. The bow of the other boat was only a few yards off. The man in the bows had put his oar in, and was standing ready to jump on board the raft. The water curled under the bows.
Suddenly the man in the bows was jerked violently forward, a large rush of water spread over the yellow surface ahead, and a wild shout of joy rang out from Ædric.
“They are ashore, they are ashore! Hurrah!”
And so it was: the boat, drawing quite two feet of water, had plunged into the mud, and was now stuck fast. All was instantly confusion and clamour on board. The chieftain stormed and raged, notwithstanding it was entirely his own fault; for he had not followed the wake of the raft, but had tried to cut it off. The raft was still in comparatively deep water, and was going away merrily. The men on board all stood up, and pushed and tugged at their oars, but as fast as they pushed their oars in, and moved the boat at all, they pulled her on again by trying to get their oars out of the deep, clinging, holding mud. Fierce imprecations and abusive epithets flew from the commander, but all to no purpose.
“Get out, men! out with ye, or we shall remain here for ever. See how the tide is falling!” shouted the old man.
The men tumbled over the gunwale into the shallow water, but they could hardly have done a more useless thing. Instead of pushing the boat off they only pulled it all the deeper into the mud; for not being able to obtain any foothold, they hung on to the sides of the boat to prevent themselves sinking in. It was a ludicrous sight to see all these strong men hanging round the boat, wallowing and plunging in the black, clinging mud. The helmsman grew more and more furious, the more it became apparent that their position was hopeless. The men, disgusted with the mud and their fruitless exertions, tried to get in again, and the sight was still more comic, as they all struggled to climb over the side of the high and awkward boat. Their muddy legs all had the appearance of wearing long black silk stockings, and as they wriggled and plunged, they gradually became covered with the same horrible, greasy, shiny coating. Sometimes a man would be seen to raise himself up, get one leg over the gunwale, lie down on his side, and try to roll himself into the boat, his other leg would wave in the air, and just as he was succeeding, some of the other men, intent on their own endeavours, would pull the boat too much down on that side, and he would roll over into the mud again. At last one or two succeeded in getting in, and the others, with their assistance, were hauled over the side, not without much bruising of legs and arms, and a plentiful bedaubment of mud.
Meanwhile Ædric and Corman were getting on well. The monk had rested a little when he saw that they had got far enough away to be safe from any arrow, supposing the men had bows and arrows with them, and he and Ædric were laughing at the miserable plight of their pursuers.
Suddenly Corman began to row vigorously again. He had looked round, and instantly worked as hard, or harder, than ever at the oars.
“Why, Corman, what is the matter?” said Ædric; but the monk did not answer. Ædric looked about, puzzled; there was no other boat in sight, and the men were still far too busy trying to get into their boat to be thinking of any means of pursuing them, even if they had a chance of finding any. But while Ædric was wondering what had caused these renewed exertions of brother Corman, the raft came to a stop. It also had run on the mud.
Their position was now singular, and very tantalising to both parties, but especially so for Corman and Ædric, for a few strokes more or a few inches more water and they would have been over the bank and into the little lake that ran into the deep channel on the other side. But there was no help for it. They could not push the logs of wood across, tied together as they were, and they were compelled to sit patiently and watch the struggles of the men in the other boat.
These latter had at last got in again, and a loud shout told Corman and Ædric they had discovered that they also were aground.
“What shall we do?” asked Ædric, ruefully.
“Sit here, my son, until the Lord sends the water back again.”
Poor Corman was not sorry altogether. It had been a terrible trial of his strength, and he had pluckily answered to it; but he was very exhausted. Fortunately he had the pitcher of water on board, which he had put there in case Ædric should want any, or feel faint, and it now came in very usefully. After taking a long draught, he uttered a sigh of satisfaction, and stretched himself at full length on the raft, closing his eyes and folding his hands together on his chest.
Ædric pushed a skin under his head, but the monk took no notice. The boy would have liked to have talked, but he respected Corman’s fatigue, and watched the other boat’s crew instead. They were doing nothing, sitting listlessly on the sides of the boat, some with their black legs hanging over, some with their legs inside, all looking disconsolate and foolish. They evidently had no bows with them, or they would have tried a shot at the raft.
The tide had now gone down a long way, and both boat and raft were left high and dry. Corman still slept, and Ædric was beginning to be very weary of their position, when he thought he heard some one hailing them. He looked about, but could see no one. Thinking it was his fancy, he was going to lie down when again he heard a voice calling, and this time there was no doubt it was some one calling Corman. The boy instantly awoke the monk, who sat up and rubbed his eyes with a dazed look.
“Corman, there is someone calling you.”
“Is there? Where?” said Corman, sleepily.
“I don’t know where. Listen, there it is again.”
Corman got up and stood upon the raft, which had by this time settled down with its weight into the mud. He looked about; the tide had got down so low that the mud banks in places obscured a view of the water. But as Corman looked round he caught sight of a small boat in the Cissanceaster channel as near to him as it could get, which was about a quarter of a mile off however. As soon as the men—for there were two—in the boat saw Corman, they shouted to him again.
“Hullo!” cried Corman; “what dost thou want?”
A confused collection of sounds answered.
“I can’t hear thee,” shouted Corman. “Who art thou?”
“Wevcumfrolfrid” was all Ædric could make out.
“What does that mean?” said Corman. “Speak more clearly,” he shouted.
Again the incomprehensible sound came back.
“Well, they’ve got very weak voices, whoever they are,” said Corman.
“We’ve come from Wilfrid,” came at last distinctly across the mud.
“They have come from Wilfrid,” cried Ædric, joyously. “We shall escape, then, after all.”
“I don’t know that,” said Corman. “How are we to get to them, or they to us?”
At last an idea occurred to him. He got up again.
“Hast thou any mud-pattens?” he shouted.
No answer. He yelled out his question again. This time the word “No” reached him.
“Canst thou not get any?” he yelled.
“We’ll gongetsome.”
“Well, that is sensible,” said Corman, as he saw the boat go off towards the opposite shore.
Notes
1 See “the Dialogues of St. Gregory the Great” for the belief in supernatural messages, a work not likely to be known by Corman, but surely representing the orthodox belief of the time.