Chapter XX A Great Sea-Fight
As the plague died out in England, and life resumed its ordinary course, the war with the Dutch threatened to be more formidable than ever, for the French king made common cause with the Dutch. The great Admiral de Ruyter came out of the Texel and made straight for England with a splendid fleet of eighty-four ships. They were to be joined by the French fleet from the Mediterranean, consisting of thirty more ships.
Wholly unsuspicious of what was taking place, the English admiral, Monk, now his Grace of Albemarle, awoke one summer’s morning to find to his great surprise that the Dutch fleet was lying at anchor half the channel over. Prince Rupert should have been with him, but with his usual impatience of inaction, he had steered westward with his White Squadron, therefore Albemarle had but sixty vessels, great and small, with which to face the enemy, but nevertheless, with English pluck, he gave the signal to attack.
“He would neither wait for the weather nor Prince Rupert,” he said.
There was a great south-west wind, which blew the English ships straight upon the Dutch, who were surprised at the suddenness of the attack, and had not so much as time to weigh anchor, but cut their cables and made their way back to their own shore.
Everything was against the English. Their ships were so laid down by the gale that they could not open their lower port-holes to leeward, whereas the Dutch, facing them with their broadsides to windward, had the free use of all their tiers of guns. A terrible fight ensued. Monk had followed the Dutch to Dunkirk, but being forced suddenly to tack, his topmast came to grief, and he was obliged to lie to.
It were in vain to tell here of the gallant deeds done alike by Dutch and English. It was a fight for the supremacy of the seas. Many of the English officers had protested against the unequal attack made upon them by the Dutch. “A mad fight” it is called in history. The English suffered severely; many of their ships were sunk, some were taken, and nearly all those which came into action were ruined in their masts and rigging by the chain-shot, a new invention.
So night fell; but on the morrow Monk resumed the conflict, and all day long the English fought against a far superior force. Another night fell and another day dawned—the third day of carnage—and the fight was renewed; but now Monk fought retreating, and after removing the men from some of the disabled ships, he caused them to be burnt.
Where was the White Squadron? Where was Prince Rupert and his brave men? On the first day of the battle the prince had stopped on his westward course, intelligence having reached him that the Dutch were at sea.
To put back, to make for Dover, was speedily done; but when he reached the Downs he heard no sound of battle, nor could he obtain any information concerning the enemy. Reginald was beside him, and together they strained their ears to catch the least sound. At last, on the 3rd of June, heavy cannonading was heard. Instantly the prince spread his flying canvas to the wind.
He came up just in time to save Monk. All day they fought, and all the following day also. How any man survived to tell the tale is marvellous. In the beginning of their second day the Prince Royal, esteemed the best man-of-war in the world, struck on a sand-bank, and was taken by the Dutch. It seemed as if nothing human would stop the fighting and the carnage; only God’s hand could stay it.
Suddenly there arose and enveloped both fleets a thick and impenetrable fog. The guns were silenced and the slaughter ceased. When it lifted, the Dutch fleet was in full retreat, and the English were too disabled to follow them. Victory or no victory, it had been a cruel experience. It was called an English victory, and thanksgivings were ordered.
Truly we had reason to thank God that we had not lost our whole fleet.
Monk and Prince Rupert from henceforth remained close together, and when De Ruyter again put to sea with a stronger force than ever, they went out together to meet him, and drove him back in rage and despair to the Texel. Then the English scoured the Dutch coast, burned and destroyed two ships of war and one hundred and fifty merchantmen, and laid two defenceless villages in ruins.
It was in vain that some brave English officers tried to prevent this last deed of savage warfare. They could not do so; the anger of their men, their thirst for blood, was in the ascendant.
In the hope of stopping the carnage, Reginald, now commander, besought Rupert to let him land, believing that by his presence he might bring a certain amount of discipline to bear upon the excited sailors, but he accomplished little. He was standing in the midst of a group of men when he caught sight of two women, one with a child in her arms, trying to make their way along the bank of the canal towards a barge which was floating still uninjured on the water. Two half-drunken sailors were pursuing them.
To shout to them to desist Reginald knew would have been useless, so with quick strides he caught them up, seized one man by the neck and threw him to the ground, threatening the other with his sword. The men recognized their officer, and muttering an excuse kept quiet. The two women, exhausted, had sunk on the ground, unable to go a step farther. Reginald went up to encourage them; the youngest woman, a mere girl, sprang to her feet.
“Save us,” she cried, “save us!”
Then she stopped short, for, notwithstanding his changed appearance, she recognized their deliverer and cried out:
“Reginald Newbolt!”
“My Lady Agnes!” he answered, and, kneeling before her, he seized her hand.
The sense of safety relaxed the tension on her nerves, and she would have fallen had he not caught her in his arms.
“How on earth did she come here?” he exclaimed, addressing himself to the woman who was with her.
“No time to ask that now,” was the answer; “for God’s sake, carry her to yonder barge!”
Without hesitation Reginald proceeded to obey. He noticed how light she was and how thin too the face was which rested on his shoulder. For a second he almost doubted whether it could be Agnes, the girl who had skated so merrily with him on the lake at Hampton Court.
It was a good ten minutes before they reached the barge. The woman had run on in front, slipped down the bank, and, notwithstanding the weight of the child in her arms, had leapt into the barge. Reginald followed her example.
“We must put off,” she said, “or the soldiers will be after us.”
“There is no fear whilst I am with you,” said Reginald, as he laid Agnes down on a wooden bench. “Get some water.” But it was not needed, for of herself Agnes opened her eyes, and, seeing Reginald stooping over her, a smile of wonderful sweetness lighted up her face, and, holding out her hands to him, she said:
“I am so glad, so glad!”
He could not answer her, but, taking both her hands in his, he kissed them, not once but thrice. She blushed rosy red and sat up.
“Is it not wonderful,” she said, “wonderful that you should save me?”
“Yes, it is wonderful—God’s will,” said Reginald; “but how on earth are you here? I thought you were in England, up north somewhere.”
“I wish I could get there now,” said Agnes, tears filling her eyes, “But you will take me, take me now at once!”
“How can I?” he said. “There is war on land, and war on sea, and I am not my own master. But tell me quickly how you came here at all.”
“Jeanne, tell him; I do not remember,” said Agnes.
“My lord,” said the woman, “I cannot tell you much. My husband brought her to me one night. He told me to keep her safely, for she was worth much money to him. He had been paid to find her and bring her out of London from the midst of the plague by a person he knew of, a dwarf, the servant of some great lord. We presumed he was her lover.”
“I had no lover,” said Agnes indignantly; “I do not know who the man could be. This is all I can remember: I was very miserable; Ann had gone into a poor house, and I was alone with Patience in Somerset House. The plague was getting worse each day, and I was frightened. One night I went to sleep and woke up, and the whole place was red as if in flames. Patience had been sitting beside me when I fell asleep, but she was gone, and I was frightened. I got up, and somehow I found myself in the streets. They were quite empty, I saw nobody. I will go to Ann, I thought; she will take me in, and I ran as fast as I could. It seemed to me that I heard steps behind me, but I dared not look round. Suddenly I felt myself caught up, my breathing stopped, and I remember nothing more until I found myself alone with this good woman on this very barge.”
“And she was like mad,” said Jeanne. “I could not quiet her, I could not keep her still; my husband had to threaten her. ‘You are quite safe,’ he said, ‘if you will keep quiet.’ But she cried so bitterly and called out so loudly that he was fearful others would hear her, so he shoved out into the middle of the river; we kept afloat for several days up and down; but she knew nothing of what went on, for she never recovered her senses. She was stricken with a terrible fever of the brain, which lasted well-nigh two months. At first she made much noise, but at last she was quite still. Once only my husband landed and got to London. He came back with much money; he told me it was his reward for saving the girl. I took all the care I could of her. We put out to sea and came over to Holland, hoping to do some business, as we always did—the shipping of wood and various other sorts of merchandise—but we did nothing because of the plague and the war which followed, so he put us ashore in this little village, and he went to and fro picking up what odd jobs he could. Happily we had that money, and my husband told me that if he could get to England he would have much more, for he had received only half what had been promised to him. But we managed to live, and I did what I could for her.”
“Ay, indeed she did; she has been very good to me,” said Agnes. “I was ill a long, long time, and she nursed me well and kindly, and always promised, ‘as soon as we can we will go back to England’, for I told her who I was, and that I felt sure a mistake must have been made, that no one wanted me, that I had been safe with Patience. Both she and her husband think also there must have been a mistake, only, the man who gave him the business to do took him several times to Somerset House and pointed me out to him. Is it not strange, Reginald?”
“Very,” he answered; “I do not understand it at all.”
“Do you know what Ben Davies was told the last time he saw his employer?” said Agnes. “That it was not only because of the plague that I was removed, but because I was a great heiress, and that my estates had been stolen from me, that the people who now held them wanted to get rid of me, but that there was a man who loved me, and wished to save me.”
“And you believed him?” said Reginald.
“No, I did not,” she answered, “because you see I am Agnes De Lisle and you are Reginald Newbolt, and Newbolt Manor is De Lisle Abbey, and I knew you would not hurt me.”
“If I had only known it!” he said. “I would to God I had!”
“Well, you know it now,” she answered, “and you can take me home.”
“I wish I could,” he answered, “but I am not going home myself. To whom can I trust you?”
“I have waited so long,” said Agnes, “I can wait a little longer, and until you are ready I can stay with Jeanne. I am not afraid of her.”
She had risen and was standing before him. He almost laughed as he looked at her in her quaint Dutch dress, short petticoats and sabots, and on her head a little tight cap which could not hide the golden hair curling about her face. Ah! she was very pretty and very young, a pale white shadow of the Agnes of olden days; but to him the very sadness of her sweet face added to its beauty. She had been all smiles and dimples; now one had to watch, for the smiles and the dimples were gone.
He left her standing, and walked twice round the deck of the little barge; then he came back to her.
“I think you are wise,” he said; “remain with Jeanne; only you must go farther up the canal. It is not safe for you to stay here. Where is the woman’s husband?”
“We do not know; we thought he would have come back before this,” said Agnes. “Perhaps he is killed!”
Jeanne, hearing this, began to weep.
“Oh no, the good God would not afflict me so!” she said. “If we did wrong in taking the money our eyes were blinded, and we did not know. Surely we shall not be punished!”
“Your husband did wrong,” said Reginald severely. “It is quite certain no man has a right to kidnap a girl; but you have been kind to her, and that will stand you in good stead. Tell me how I can find your husband.”
“If I only knew!” said Jeanne.
Even as she uttered the words, a man came running along the side of the canal.
“Ah, there he is!” said Jeanne, clapping her hands; “thank God!” And she took the kerchief off her neck and waved it to him.
When he came near, and was about to leap into the barge, he saw the English officer and hesitated.
“Come on!” said Reginald.
The man obeyed, and in a minute more stood in front of him frowning deeply.
“What does he here?” he whispered to his wife.
“He has saved our lives, and he is the little lady’s friend,” she said.
“I have heard your story,” said Reginald, looking at him severely, “and it is by no means a creditable one. For a sum of money you could kidnap a girl and carry her away. Do you know it is a punishable offence?”
“I know it,” answered Ben Davies, “and I ran the risk. There was no work going, and we were reduced to our last coin. I never meant any harm should happen to her. I was told it was to save her from the plague and from a bad man who would despoil her.”
“She is the queen’s ward,” said Reginald, “and I am the man who would despoil her.”
The bargeman doffed his hat. “I am in your hands, sir,” he said, “to do as you will with me, but I pray you to remember that we have given her the best we could, and my wife has nursed her by night and by day.”
“That shall go to your account,” said Reginald severely; “in the meantime, what are we to do now?”
“I would have taken her to England long ago if I could,” said Ben, “but you know the high seas have been impossible for little crafts like mine. We should have been made prisoners, and goodness knows what might have befallen us.”
“There you’re right,” said Reginald; “but is there no place of safety farther inland where you can go for the present until I can arrange to take my Lady Agnes home?”
“Yes, higher up away from the sea; we were going there,” answered Ben Davies.
“Then I think you had better go,” said Reginald. “I am on Prince Rupert’s ship, and I will tell his highness what has happened.”
Agnes clapped her hands. “Ah, Prince Rupert will remember me!” she said. “He has known me always. I saw him last at my Lord Craven’s. He is a great friend of mine.”
“Rest assured he will see you righted,” said Reginald. “What is the name of the village you propose taking her to?” said Reginald, turning to the barge-man.
“It is off the great canal,” he said, “and therefore safe;” and he named a little village unknown to Reginald. “It is not far. I can take them there to-night and be back here to-morrow for you, sir, if you choose to visit it.”
“Are you sure they will be quite safe there?” he asked.
“Quite safe,” he answered. “My father was an Englishman, my mother is a Dutch woman. She lives there; I will take them to her.”
“Will this suit you, Lady Agnes?” asked Reginald.
“Quite well,” she answered, “if you think it right; but why do you call me my Lady Agnes? I am not so; I am simply Agnes Beaumont De Lisle;” and there was just a touch of pride as she spoke the last name.
Reginald smiled. “Then I will leave you,” he said, “until to-morrow, when I hope we shall be able to manage something for your return home; but it will be difficult. We cannot take you on our battleships,” he said, smiling.
“Why not?” she asked. “I should not be afraid. I can never understand why I was so frightened the night I was lost; I must have been ill. Have you heard anything of Aunt Patience or of Ann?”
“Nothing,” answered Reginald. “You know I left home immediately after my father’s death, and I have not been back since. I have been wandering half over the earth, or rather the seas, and communication is not easy. But we shall hear soon now,” he said.
“Alas, if they have died of the plague!” said Agnes; “what shall I do? It was awful when I was there!”
“We will hope not; we must not look on the black side of things. Let us trust we shall find them safe and well,” answered the young man.
“Patience will have grieved sorely for the loss of me,” said Agnes.
“Well,” said Reginald, “‘joy cometh in the morning’, and now I must leave you, or I shall be reported missing. Farewell; may God be with you!”
She smiled up at him, holding out her hand.
“Everything is coming all right,” she said. “I am well content.”
“So am I,” said Reginald, “but I am loath to lose sight of you even for a time.”
“Sir, I will answer for it, no harm shall come to her,” said Jeanne.
“Thank you, my good woman!” said Reginald; and he would have put a piece of money in her hand, but she would not touch it.
“I will not barter a human life again,” she answered.
“You’re right there,” said Reginald, and he sprang ashore, waving his hat as he walked rapidly back towards the village.
“How brave and handsome he looks!” thought Agnes to herself. “I did not know he was so fine a man.” And certainly the last two years had worked a wonderful difference on Reginald.
He had changed from a youth to a man. His seafaring life had bronzed his fair complexion; the habit of command, the discipline (though it was somewhat lax in those days), had given him a more manly deportment. Altogether the alteration in his appearance was wholly to his advantage, and it was even surprising that Agnes had recognized him.
As soon as he had disappeared, Ben Davies began loosening his little craft.
“We must be quick,” he said, “or night will overtake us before we reach Broek, and there are so many adventurers about, one is not safe even on the canal.” Turning quickly to Agnes, he said:
“I understand you are a great lady; I always thought you were. I earnestly beg your pardon if I have injured you, and I entreat you to plead my cause with your friends.”
“Indeed I will,” she answered. “Of course you were very wrong to carry me away; but you have been so good to me, and Jeanne, dear Jeanne, and my little Lisette, I love you all.” She picked the child up from the deck and hugged and kissed her.
“I have been very happy with you sometimes, since I got well,” she said.
“Oh, no harm shall come to you, I promise!” he answered; and she smiled again in answer that wonderful bright smile of hers, which brought a look of gladness to the two other faces.
Thank God that there are in the world some who have this gift of joy giving! They are like angels dropped down upon the earth to scatter little grains of gladness in sad places.