Chapter XV “The Cruel Crawling Foam, the Cruel Hungry Foam.”
“Well, Ædric, if we can once get over to the other shore we shall be all safe, for Wilfrid is feared by all these South Saxons in a way that I never could understand.”
“But who dost thou think they are who are pursuing us?”
“It must be the Eorldoman Berchthune.”
Corman had now stretched himself out again, and was preparing to have his doze out. Fortunately, the weather was fine. Their situation was uncomfortable enough with fair weather; it would have been deplorable had it rained. The little raft lay stranded on a wide-stretching bank of mud; all round little rivulets washed their muddy courses out of the soft ooze. On one side, but at some distance, a belt of shingle, marked with a long brown streak, the boundary of the sea at high water, was surmounted by a brown growth of wind-blown bushes, relieved here and there by a weird oak-tree, whose blighted growth appealed in outstretched leafless branches to the north-east to protect it from the violent treatment it always received at the hands of its tormentor, the south-west wind; above, a grey sky, windless and still, while all the world below looked sodden, and muddy, and brown. On this world of mud a sea-gull or two were having an eager feast, not unaccompanied by an occasional fight over some succulent crab or juicy winkle, while a curlew dipped its curved beak among the brown sludge, or plaintively cried to its more fortunate mate. Overhead a heron winged its way, looking sardonically down on the dot of the raft and the somewhat larger speck of the boat. It was a dull, dreary scene—a world of mud, a world of wood, a world of grey and brown.
Ædric looked at it all wearily enough. He began to feel sleepy too. It seemed so odd to be so close to their enemies, doing nothing, and yet perfectly safe. They were not more than five hundred yards off, and in the perfect quiet he could hear the voices of the men as they occasionally spoke.
Gradually he dozed off. The seagulls came nearer, the crabs crawled up on to the edges of the raft, and the lobworms busily raised their piles all round. So passed an hour. But what is it that causes the crabs to sidle away, and the gulls to get up on circling wings, screaming the while?
“Wake up, Corman, wake up, Ædric, and see what your pursuers are doing,” the wild birds seemed to cry.
Weary of doing nothing, the idea had occurred to Berchthune to make a movable kind of platform of planks, by which two men could approach the raft. By laying down one set of boards and then standing on them, they were able to lay another set ahead, then getting on these, they were able to pull up the others, and slide them past and place them ahead again, and so they were able to make laborious but sure way up to their prey. In this way they had already advanced about fifty yards, and were getting more adroit in moving the boards.
Heavily Corman was sleeping, and Ædric was far away in dreamland. Nearer and nearer the boards were being pushed; not without much noise and mirth from those in the boat, however. Several times the two adventurous ones had, in the confidence of their skill, gone too much to the side of their treacherous platform, with the result that they had slipped into the fathomless mud, and had to crawl ignominiously back upon their fickle plank, blacker and humbler men. Each of these checks to their pride had evoked shouts of laughter from their comrades and showers of abuse from Berchthune, who was fretting at the delay.
Ædric was dreaming blissfully, and Corman still snored.
Nearer and nearer the men approached, when a shout from their comrades urged them to more activity. The other boat had been seen returning from the Selsea shore. It ran on the mud at the nearest point to the raft, and a man was seen to get out and walk over the slippery surface towards Corman and Ædric.
“Why, he’s got boards on his feet!” said the begrimed and weary South Saxon, as he squatted on his precarious plank to look at the strange spectacle, disgusted at the mean advantage of the other man.
Quite safely the man slithered his way over the mud, carrying four flat boards in his hands. He had already gone nearly half the distance, and this in about five minutes; while the enterprising South Saxons had taken nearly an hour to get over an equal space.
“Get on with ye, sluggards, or they will escape yet!” shouted Berchthune, stamping with rage at the idea of his game getting away, after all the hours of waiting on the mud, and the certainty of its falling into his hands at last, on which he had consolingly counted. The two South Saxons now realised that they must make the most desperate exertions if they hoped to get to the raft before the other man. They tugged at their boards—splash they went, into the mud ahead; quickly they got upon them—splash came the last ones they had trodden on out of the mud behind; they toiled at them to put them into their places, then jumped upon them, and once more heaved at their last resting-place. They had no time to look up, splash—slosh—heated work; grimy, filthy, slimy toil—and all the time the crew shouted to them, cheering them on, and encouraging them to fresh exertions. Brother Corman was well avenged for the trouble they had given him in the morning. The men were a great deal nearer the raft than the other man was; but he was going on steadily, and well. And in spite of all the South Saxons could do, the boards would stick in the mud, and their labour was terrific. Their plight was piteous: the perspiration rained off their foreheads, and formed little lanes of white down their muddy faces. And all the time Berchthune yelled at them, and the crew hied them on. And now the men were not more than ten yards distant, while the other man was about the same. The excitement on board the boat became intense, for their men, going as they were in a line from them, seemed to be much nearer than the other man, whose whole distance was visible.
“Make a jump for it!” roared Berchthune. “By Woden’s beard, I’ll have ye flayed alive if ye don’t beat that ‘nithing’ there.”
The men tugged amain, but, alas for their success! they could not get their last resting-place up; they had, in their eagerness, placed the board they were standing on too far away from the one they had just left. They leant over the mud, they stretched themselves, they gasped, they dripped, but all to no purpose, and, worse than all, their last standing place began slowly to increase its distance.
They had placed their boards on the slippery brow of one of the many little rivulets which drained the mud-banks, and as they leant over to get at the other planks left behind, all their weight, being on one side, caused the boards to lift at the other end, and begin slowly to slide down into the little gully.
One of the men had reached over so far that, as the board receded, he fell forward on his face in the mud, clutching desperately to the other planks. The other man was just able to recover his balance before too late.
“Hold on to my legs, man, can’t thee?” roared the prostrate South Saxon, as loud as he was able, for his mouth was very near the mud. The other man did as he was told. The situation was now too ludicrous, even for the man who was hastening, as fast as his awkward mud-pattens would allow him, to rescue Corman and Ædric. He stopped still and begun to roar with laughter.
By this time Corman was beginning to be aware that there were other existences besides his own. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, looked about him, and could scarcely take in the situation. When he did he also burst out laughing, and Ædric, waking up, was astonished to see Corman sitting on the raft, his mouth wide open, and peals of laughter shaking him from head to foot.
The unfortunate South Saxons were not nearly so much amused; the wretched one, who was now acting as a kind of animated tow-rope to the other planks, was hanging on grimly to the tenacious boards, while his comrade held on fast to his ankles and all the time the other boards were slowly slipping over the ooze. Neither man dare let go, and yet there was no hope of being able to pull the obstinate boards out of the mud, as there was no purchase by which they could be raised, and they were besides slimy with mud.
For a minute the tension lasted; then slowly the man’s hands slipped off the greasy planks, and he lay spread out, face downwards, on the ooze. The other South Saxon still held on to his legs, and the two, now that his comrade had let go of the firmly-imbedded planks, glided more speedily into the bed of the little rivulet. There was no danger of the prostrate man sinking into the mud provided he did not attempt to walk. The long weed-like grass that spread over the surface kept him up, so long as he lay outstretched; but he wanted to get on the boards on which his comrade was seated, and the difficulty was how to do it. He wriggled and twisted, and sank his knees into the slime, but at last he succeeded in rolling himself down sideways on to the plank; and there the two men sat, disconsolate and helpless, within six yards of Corman and Ædric.
All this time the Eorldoman Berchthune was shouting himself hoarse with abuse at the wretched adventurers, and Corman and Ædric were enjoying the sport.
Their rescuer had now waddled up to them. Corman knew how to use mud-pattens, but the difficulty was how to carry Ædric. He could use one leg, and they managed by putting one mud-patten on his foot, and holding him between them, to get him off the raft.
The South Saxons, seeing their prey escaping them, when they had so nearly grasped it, and urged on by the abuse of Berchthune, determined to make one more effort. Profiting by his experience of the buoyant nature of the mud, if only its properties were clearly understood, the South Saxon who had wriggled on to the planks beside his comrade determined to try the plan again. It was only six yards—only three times his own length—and the mud-pattens were not yet adjusted. Throwing himself forward on to the mud, he began to wriggle over it towards the raft. The other man, not to be out-done, began doing the same.
“Quick, Ædric, or we shall be too late after all,” cried Corman.
The South Saxons were just reaching the raft as Corman and their deliverer assisted Ædric off between them. Wildly their pursuers flung themselves upon it. The others were only a few paces off. Without hesitating a moment, the first South Saxon reared himself erect on the raft, and sprang fiercely after the retreating figures. He just managed to reach the skirts of Corman’s frock, and plunged knee-deep in the mud. He held on to the poor, old worn gown of the monk, who struggled to wrench it out of his grasp, while Ædric and the other man pulled at Corman. Suddenly there was a crack, and the torn handful of Corman’s garment remained in the South Saxon’s hand, who sank deeper in the yielding mud with the recoil.
The other South Saxon had been more prudent; he stood upon the raft and looked at the now secure Corman and Ædric, and at his miserable comrade—for miserable he was, far more so than at first sight appeared. He wriggled and struggled to get out; plunged his hands and arms up to their elbows in the mud. The more he strove, the more hopeless his position became. Deeper—deeper, down he sank—the mud was now up to his waist. If only he could get one leg out, or throw himself flat upon the mud again; but the suction of the mud was upon him. Its awful grasp had got sure hold of him.
“For the love of Valhalla, lend me a hand!” he roared.
“I can’t, man. I can’t reach thee!” cried the other.
“Give me that oar—give me them both. Quick!”
The oars were flung to him; he placed them under his armpits, and so low had he sunk that he rested on them. For a time they bore him up, but the slight sticks, only roughly flattened at the end, began to sink too; and the pain in his shoulders was acute. His situation was desperate, for although he was being only very slowly engulfed now, yet none the less was the progress very sure. The tide had begun to rise—it was coming in rapidly. Would there be time for the raft to float before he was suffocated, or would the sea flow over his head first before there was water enough to float it? It was a desperate hope.
Meanwhile, Corman and Ædric were safe in the boat Wilfrid had sent for them, and were far away on the other side.
Up and up flowed the tide. The sea gulls had had their feast of crabs, and were screaming overhead. The wretched man’s eyeballs were starting from his head; his head was sunk between his shoulders. Up and up crept the tide. The lobworms had ceased to pile their little heaps; the crabs were playfully scampering to meet the crawling froth, pushed further and further with each succeeding wavelet.
No hope! the water has reached his chin; the slimy froth and scum of the mud forms a collar round the doomed man’s neck. One more prodigious effort, one despairing, gasping heave. No good! The hands are clasped over the mouth, with the instinct of self-preservation, even in inevitable death; but the water knows no barrier. The froth bubbles up, it is on a level with the lower lip, each wave and ripple washes higher, now the mouth is covered. With a desperate wrench, the gasping man raises his mouth above the water, but, unable to keep up the strain, his head sinks again, and this time the cruel water has reached the nose. The head falls down, a few bubbles, a little brown patch, hardly to be distinguished from seaweed, around which the yellow froth laps in the ripple, is all that marks where a strong man has died. Soon even that will have disappeared, and the place that knew him shall know him no more.
The sea had been washing round the raft for some minutes, but the water-soaked logs were heavy, and had been sucked into the mud. The drowned man’s head had been entirely covered before the awkward structure showed any signs of lifting. Indeed, the water was nearly floating over it, and the South Saxon had begun to dread a similar death to that of his comrade, when the raft gave a lurch, and once more was afloat. The man had no oars, or anything to propel it with; but as the other boat would be afloat also before many minutes, they would come and pick him up.
Presently the idea occurred to him to push the raft with one leg on the bottom; in this way, and with a favouring tide he was enabled at last to reach his companions.
The Eorldoman Berchthune was very sullen, and greeted the man with violent abuse for not having made more haste at first; and this was all the misguided ceorl got for having volunteered on a perilous enterprise: for having been face to face with death, and that almost the slowest, most lingering, which could happen to man. But then in those days what were men made for but for death?
The tide had now risen high enough to float the boat. Berchthune was about to give orders to shove her off the bank, when a horseman galloping hastily down the shingle on the shore, and riding his horse as far out as he dared, shouted to the boat:
“Cædwalla has been made king of Wessex, and is marching upon us.”
There was now no thought of pursuing Ædric. Orders were instantly given to turn the boat’s head towards Boseham again, and it was not long before they reached its little quay. There the horseman met them, having ridden his horse at full speed, and then Berchthune learnt fuller particulars of the startling news.
Cædwalla was only a day’s march distant, advancing with a powerful force of West Saxon eorls, and his own veteran band of faithful followers, no longer outlaws, but honoured friends of the king. He was burning to avenge his last defeat and reassert his claim to the throne of the South Saxons.
This was grave news. Berchthune mounted his horse and rode off at once towards Cissanceaster, directing his followers to come after him as soon as possible.
But all this time Ædric and Corman were making the best of their way to Wilfrid. Corman, indeed, when he saw that Ædric was safe, intended going back to look after Father Dicoll, but Wilfrid’s men advised him not, and as there was no boat, for they would not lend him theirs, he was compelled to go on. He cast one more lingering, sad look at Boseham, and mourned over his dearly-loved friend, Father Dicoll.
But Ædric was delighted; he should not now have to live at Selsea among perfect strangers. After a long ride over a drearily flat country, they came to a clearing amid the gorse and bush; on the other side of this clearing a building, that to Corman and Ædric looked immense, towered aloft over a hamlet of low thatched houses and a few farm buildings. The smell of the sea was all round, and stacks of seaweed filled the air with their peculiar odour.
What struck Corman and Ædric, however, was the order and tidiness of everything. The thatched cottages were well thatched, the walls looked well built, and the few people they met all looked better fed and happier than those about Cissanceaster and Boseham. As they got nearer to the large building a solemn sound rose and fell in measured cadence. Ædric had never heard a sound like it, at least not produced by artificial means; it was to him like the wind playing among the tall trees and the sea rolling on the shore mingled with the deep mutter of thunder on the horizon.
“What is it, Corman? is it an enchantment?”
“No, my son; it is the service of vespers in the new church Wilfrid has been building. He has brought over from Rome new wind instruments; and Gregory, the celebrated bishop of Rome, who sent Augustine, the monk, hither, has set new music to the canticles of the church. Thou wilt now be able to see how Christians perform their service of the voice and heart to God.”
“It is very grand,” said Ædric, who had never heard any music more beautiful than the harp, and no singing in combination more than a chorus to some interminable gleeman’s tale in verse.
They had now got well into the village, and were approaching a long, low, barn-like structure; round the entrance everything was unusually tidy, and some attempt had been made to form a path of shingle and sand, edged with white flints, from the neighbouring beach. In front of this door their guide stopped, Ædric was lifted off the horse-litter by Corman and the other man, and they entered a large room or hall. Ædric had never seen a room like it. The floor was very clean, and a fresh pile of reeds lay near the door, to replace the soiled ones that served as a mat. There was a long table down the middle of the room, and across one end was another table, in the centre of which was a large massive oaken chair; on each side of the table were wooden squares, or trenchers, which served for plates; by the side of these were horn drinking-cups. At the end of the room, opposite the large chair, was a wooden reading-desk, and on this was a splendid manuscript, heavily bound and chained to the desk. Ædric could see that there were some lovely pictures in it, and he longed to examine the volume. He had never seen a book in his life before, and the nearest idea he had ever had of a drawing had been some carvings on a horn which his father very highly prized, and some pictured hangings which were treasured among the family’s most valued belongings, and which tradition said had been taken in the sack of the haunted ruins at Brædynge. Father Dicoll and the poor monks had no books; they had no parchment, and no paper. Ædric had heard of writing, but it had always been spoken of with awe, for it was considered to savour somewhat of magic. It was therefore with a solemn feeling, as well as one of curiosity, that he looked at the large mysterious volume. At the side of the room opposite the door, and nearly in the middle on that side, was a bright fire. The logs were piled up on iron bars, and a large square of hard trodden clay served as hearth. The smoke from the fire found its way up and out of the hall by an aperture in the roof immediately above it, but, as it did not always take this way out, there was a strong smell of burnt wood and smoke in the room.
Ædric and Corman were led up to the bench before the fire, and told that the clerks who were with Wilfrid were at service and they were to wait there until it was over. Ædric felt awestruck at the silence, the neatness, the comfort of everything, but especially at the stillness of the place, the hall of his own home having always been full of noisy domestics, familiar and lazy; the remains of the last, and indeed of several previous feasts, were left on the floor, and the whole place habitually reeked of feasting, rude plenty, and dirt. But here was something very different. Order and cleanliness were visible everywhere.
Presently there was a noise of feet outside on the shingle path, and a tall figure entered the room. It was Wilfrid, followed by his two faithful companions, Bernwine and Hildila. Corman at once arose and stood in submissive silence before the great churchman, while Ædric tried to get up, but was arrested by the kind voice of Wilfrid bidding him be seated.
The boy was at once won by the gentle voice and kind smile of the bishop, but was at the same time much in awe of him. Somehow he seemed so very much farther away from him than Father Dicoll had seemed; it was not that he did not greet him in quite as friendly a way, or with even a kinder smile, but the boy had a feeling that he was a much smaller object, and could not possibly be of any interest to Wilfrid. At the same time there came across him all that Dicoll had said about him, and, with the instinct of a boy who is quick to recognise what is put on or assumed in manner, he felt as if Wilfrid’s kindness were a matter of policy, and not a matter of the heart. It is not to be supposed that Ædric could have given these reasons for his awe of him, but in very great awe of Wilfrid he certainly was, and what was even more curious, brother Corman seemed equally in awe of the bishop. As not infrequently happens when very ingenuous, candid natures come in contact with deeper, more intricate, more commanding minds, it seemed to strike both that it was Wilfrid’s part to be both kind and sweet in manner, while with Corman himself it was his nature to be so.
“My son, thou must be very tired after thy journey,” said Wilfrid. “Thy couch is prepared, and supper shall be taken to thee there. I will entrust thee to the care of Father Bernwine, who will make a careful nurse, and see that thou art well cared for. In the morning, if all be well, I will talk with thee. Meanwhile, Good-night, and may the peace of God go with thee.”
This was all said with such sweet dignity that Ædric, who would much rather have sat up and did not feel at all sleepy, did not venture to dispute the arrangement, although at home he would undoubtedly have boisterously done so. He was supported out of the room, therefore, by Bernwine, after taking an affectionate leave of Corman, who remained awaiting the bishop’s instructions.