CHAPTER IX
THE RENDEZVOUS
CHANCELLOR was seated in the narrow stern cabin by the table on which lay astrolabe and backstaff. Powerful hands clasped behind his curly head, he nodded as the landsman entered.
“You asked for a word with me, my lad?”
“Yes, Master Dickon. And I pray that you will hear me to the end, for this is a matter that I may no longer keep to myself.”
Gripping the deck beam overhead, to steady himself against the roll of the ship, Thorne began his tale.
“I am Ralph Thorne, son of him called the Cosmographer, and I fought Master Durforth at Orfordnesse in your presence.”
The master of the Edward showed no surprize at this, but as the youth went on to unfold all that had taken place in London, he fell serious and his eyes never left the speaker's face.
“It is ill doing,” he made response in his slow fashion, “to lay a charge against a man without proof, on hearsay and suspicion.”
“That is true, Master Dickon. But so is my tale.”
“According to your story, you came secretly to the ship. Since then you have lain hidden. How am I to take your word against that of a gentleman?”
Thorne felt his cheeks grow hot as he leaned forward, checking a harsh retort with an effort.
“Sir, my presence here should be a surety of my mission, which is to serve the king.”
“Was the murder of the honest gentleman your father included in this mission?”
“My father? Nay, he is alive and hearty.”
Something in the face of the older man choked the words in his throat.
“My father—what of him?”
“Within an hour of our embarking Master Robert Thorne was slain with your sword in his cottage, and all his maps were burned on the hearth.”
As the youth made no response, Chancellor added slowly:
“The truth of this is established by Master Cabot, who, after bidding us farewell on the shore, went to your father's cottage to have speech with him. Finding him as I have said, Master Cabot returned to the shore and came out to us in a skiff, to ask if any upon the ships had knowledge of the deed or of my lord Renard."
“What of Renard?" asked Ralph through set teeth.
“He was to have escorted the venerable pilot back to London, but, missing him in the village, apparently went on alone.”
Ralph bent his bead a moment, touching with his hand the rude drawing on the table, so unlike the delicate tracery of his father's charts.
It came into his mind that the Cosmographer would never, now, behold him returning with the king's navigants, and the certainty that Master Thorne was no longer living filled him with a longing to have lived otherwise. With his own sword!
“Sir,” he cried, “I do hold it ill of you that you should have thought me guilty of my father's murder. One thing I must ask of you—nay, two. A sword and to be put aboard the Confidentia where Durforth is.”
“Not so.”
Chancellor rose, stooping to avoid the deck beams overhead, and held out his hand.
“I did no more than test you with words. A man may lie with his tongue, yet his eyes must e'en bear witness of his honesty. Your eyes are honest. 'Tis so I judge a man."
“Your friends,” assented the armiger, “do say that you are just, Master Chancellor. I have found you so.”
The big pilot shook his tawny head as if impatient of a burden that was not to his liking.
“In these treacherous days when poison is in the very air of England, I may not easily know who is friend and who is unfriend. More this I had other evidence that approved your innocence.”
“How?”
“A ship's master is more careful than you reck. When Peter rowed me out that night, I questioned him of the new hand that he had trepanned.”
Chancellor smiled and when he did so his weatherbeaten face glowed with a kindly light.
“Peter's a rare rogue—cheats the gallows with every breath; yet is he loyal to those he serves. None so long before you appeared upon the shore he wandered off to the ale house to wet his throat. There he heard the tumult raised by my lord Renard's fellows when they sought to put an end to you.
“Peter hath the Spanish gab and heard something of their secret talk. I examined you straitly while you lay unconscious, and knew you for Robert Thorne's son.”
“Yet told me naught of his fate!”
“It is not easy to relate such news, my lad. You lay ill. Moreover,” the pilot added quietly, “I will not join in fellowship with other men if they be not open with me. I bade Peter put you to test, the which he did after a fashion of his own.”
He motioned Thorne to a seat beside him in the stern casement and put his hand on the youth's shoulder.
“It was not in my mind to deal hardly by you. 'Twas best you should lie hidden, lest Durforth come to know of you and demand your punishment of Sir Hugh who holds him in much esteem.”
“And what, Master Dickon,” cried the armiger, “is your thought of Durforth? I will face him and accuse him of abetting my father's murder—which was by Renard's hand I will swear.”
“Master Durforth was on his ship when it took place.”
“It is true that the pair of them slew my father,” insisted Thorne from set lips, “and I shall take vengeance for that black deed.”
“But Durforth we may not accuse. Others might have caused the moldering victuals to be put in the holds. Durforth is a skilled navigator, and hath on the Confidentia a rare globe showing the passage we must follow.”
“What of the course he laid down, to the inland sea?”
“Faith,” smiled the pilot, “I would give half my share in this venture to know the troth of that. He hath made no mention of it in council. 'Tis a riddle that will some day resolve itself.
“My lad, I will enroll you among the gentlemen adventurers. You will be the fourth upon this ship. We will observe closely Durforth's actions, and know whether he be honest man or rogue. On the morrow the council meets in the cabin of Sir Hugh and I will ask Durforth of this inland sea and Town of Wooden Walls.”
Chancellor was a man slow of decision but one who would not draw back once he had made up his mind. Seeing this, Thorne shook his head, yet would not gainsay the plan of an older and wiser man. He thought that the master of the Confidentia was too shrewd for Chancellor's questioning, and in this he was right.
BUT it fell out not as they had planned. The mist thinned away steadily though the near-by shore was still hidden. They could hear the surf breaking on the rocks, and the cries of rooks and gulls. Once the lookout of the Edward sighted a skiff with one man in it—a dwarf whose fishskin garments glittered with spray.
He pulled out to stare at the Edward which was making little way in the heavy cross seas. And then, with a glance to windward he bared pointed teeth in a soundless laugh and pulled away for the shore.
The three ships bore in, and presently sighted the cliffs of a headland. But the wind which had been rising steadily, grew to a full gale, twisting and buffeting the little vessels until Sir Hugh made signal to put about and gain sea room entrance into the bay being impossible.
A lowering sky seemed to press the very masts of the Edward, and through the sweeping cloud wrack Ralph caught a glimpse of the silver circle of the sun, low over the land. He noticed that the cries of the birds had ceased, and that the mariners were taking in all but the main- and foresails.
Obeying a second signal from the admiral-ship, Chancellor, whose vessel was the handiest of the three, ran within hail of Willoughby on the lee side. The shout of the captain general came to them faintly over the thud and hiss of the waters and the whining of rigging.
“The rendezvous is Wardhouse. A''s name, Dick, stand by me.”
The next moment the dim light was eclipsed as if a lamp in the sky had been put out; a blast heeled the Edward, splitting the main course. As far as Thorne could see the horizon was a void, laced with the white of flying foam.
Out of the blackness the white crests of waves roared at him, crashed on the bow, filling the air with spume, and raced aft to merge into the boiling wake. He propped himself against the bulwarks and hooked one arm around a backstay, bending his head to snatch a breath of air.
He did not dare to stir from this post of vantage, but the able shipmen he could see laboring at the jeers, where the mainyard with its shreds of sail was being lowered away and secured. Ever and anon he heard Chancellor's shout—no louder than a whisper—and the answering pipe of Peter's whistle.
For a while he watched the stern lantern of the Bona Esperanza pitching in the murk ahead of them. Sir Hugh was carrying more sail than Chancellor, and drifted farther to leeward, so that presently the point of light winked out. Ralph, awed by the racing seas, kept the deck, full of wonder and interest, and half believing that the ship would break into pieces the next moment.
So it happened that some hours later—he judged it to be the mid hours of the short night—he heard a startled cry from the fore deck.
“Ice on the weather bow!”
From the topgallant poop behind him came the hoarse bellow of Burroughs, the master.
“Helm hard a-weather! Veer out the foresheet to wear ship!”
For a moment the Edward seemed to hang back and Thorne loosened his hold to peer over the side. He could see no ice, nothing save a vague blur of white where the seas were breaking. Then the ship brought-to on the other tack with a lurch and he lost his balance, rolling into the lee scuppers.
A rush of water drenched him, and he struggled to his knees, coughing and shivering, when a powerful hand caught him under the shoulder and drew him erect. He made out the great bulk and the reeking leather garments of the boatswain.
“Gunner,” Chancellor's clear voice rang out, “fire me a caliver to leeward.”
The wind all at once seemed to Thorne to grow bitter and chill as in mid-winter. He waited until one of the small guns of the forecastle flashed and roared.
“Are we doomed, Peter?” he cried. “Is our time run out?”
The boatswain, who had been peering over the bulwark, roared with laughter.
“'Tis the younker! Nay Master Ralph, thou'lt live yet to be hung. This is no more than a fairish blow, a goodish blow, ye might say. The caliver was fired to warn the others of the ice, if so be they are within sight or hearing, which I doubt.”
THE Edward rode out the storm and headed back to the coast without sighting either of the consorts. Chancellor thereupon set about finding the Wardhouse. He picked up the two headlands from which they had been driven by the gale and ran east for a day along a coast that was brown and bare of trees, with snow lying on the heights.
This snow, the Iceland mariner maintained, never melted, a thing that seemed beyond belief to the other shipmen. But they saw nothing of any habitation, much less a town.
They did sight a clump of islands lying several miles offshore, and Chancellor decided to put out and land upon one of them. The Edward was in sore need of both wood and water.
The island they selected was overgrown with stunted firs and birches on the higher ground, and a rocky pinnacle offered a good lookout. Burroughs had noted a likely cove for anchorage where he thought they would find fresh water.
The work was not at an end when those on the ship saw the boat put out without the casks, and half the men. Peter, coming over the side, reported to Chancellor that a man sent to the height had seen a dwelling near the center of the island, where the forests hid it from view from the sea.
“What manner of dwelling?”
“A great house it be, with wall and tower.”
“Then it is the Wardhouse. For this is the northernmost point of land, and must lie along the seventieth degree of latitude. Aye,” Chancellor added thoughtfully, “no other ships from our part of the world have ventured as far as this.”
He ordered Robert Stanton, master gunner, a dour man, except in liquor, with two gentleman, Thorne and a half dozen hands to make ready to accompany him to the shore. The gentlemen donned corselets and girded on their swords, taking also hand guns, while, the mariners were content with pikes and cutlasses. Leaving the ship in charge of Burroughs, they went off in the pinnace.
On the gravel of the beach they noticed marks where other boats had been drawn up—fishing craft or ketches, the Icelander said. And Stanton hit upon a beaten path that led in the direction of the house. It bore the signs of frequent use, but no heel marks were visible. And it took them up through the pines, past gullies where snow lay in deep patches, to a clearing where only ferns and a kind of flowering moss grew
A stout log palisade stood in the center of the open space and a thatched roof and the bole of a rude stone tower were to be seen above it. Chancellor, bidding his men look to their arms, went up to the gate and thrust it open.
“Christians have been here before us by token of yonder grave and the cross above it,” one of the gentlemen observed, and they went on with more assurance to the door.
It opened as readily as the gate.
“Ho, within! Have you no welcome for way farers?”
The cry went unanswered, and the house was found to be deserted, though signs of occupancy were not wanting. In the hall were stacked bales and fardels of traders' goods, broad cloth, kerseys and raisins, and round pewter. A book of reckoning bearing the name of one John Andrews, of Cairness, lay upon the bundle.
This book disclosed no more than lists of barter, by which Chancellor made out that the cloth and pewter had been exchanged in the past for such things as furs, tallow and fish. It did mention that these shipments had been made to and from the Wardhouse.
“So a Scotsman, Andrews, hath been before us hither at the Wardhouse,” he observed, more surprized than chagrined at the discovery. “A bold trafficker, by all that's marvelous!”
“Why this Andrews had his lady with him,” remarked the gunner, who had been exploring the tower. “At least divers skirts and cloaks and other gear lie up aloft.”
By the size and number of the cooking pots that were hung, neatly polished, by the hearth, a fair sized company had dwelt in the house not long since. Chancellor ordered a search of the island, and posted another man in the lookout on the peak.
By evening they were sure that the island was inhabited by no more than foxes and squirrels and a host of sea birds that circled, screaming, about the invaders. So the ship was left with Master Burroughs and a half dozen, and the main company repaired to the palisades, glad enough to set foot ashore again and gathered around the great fires.
The trader's stores Chancellor would not touch, saying that they belonged to another.
FOR six days they rested at the Wardhouse, keeping watch for Sir Hugh's two vessels, but sighting nothing except several icebergs that drifted near the island, and on the sixth day large pack to the north. Chancellor went to the lookout to study this and called a council that evening.
“'Tis now seven days that we abode at the tryst,” he said slowly, “and before now Sir Hugh should have put in appearance. Wherefore, I deem that something has befallen him, to make him change his plans, and it is my wish to go on alone. What say you, my masters?”
Burroughs and the two merchants agreed with him, and one of the gentlemen adventurers added a word.
“Please you, Master Dickon, we grieve sorely that misfortune hath been the lot of the two goodly ships and our companions. But, for the reason of the love we bear you, we will fare on with right good cheer.”
“Sir Hugh and his men are worthy of better fortune, I must needs say. I have reason to think—” he hesitated—“a traitor hath led them elsewhere. I know not whither. But each day the cold increaseth and if we do not venture forth, the passage will be closed to us by ice.”
At this the Icelander moved forward from the outer circle to where Chancellor sat on a stool close to the fire. Knuckling his forehead, he asked leave to speak.
“Save ye, my master, and if so be ye will let me have my say”
“Say what you will,” put in the pilot, to encourage him, for the man was ill at ease.
“Thankee, Master Dickon, thankee! If we weigh with a southeast sun[1] we will come before long upon the great ice pack, which we may not pass around. Then we must make a landfall and endure the winter as best we may. Saving your respect, the winter in this sea is perilous. Now, God be praised, we have a fair harbor here at this place, and the good Sir Hugh may join us if we abide here.”
“Honestly spoken,” nodded the pilot. “And to my mind we go into danger, the greater since Sir Hugh hath left us. But, my masters, I hold it dishonorable to avoid a great attempt for fear of danger.”
“Aye,” cried the others. “'Tis so we think, Master Dickon.”
Thorne, who had been frowning into the fire, looked up quickly.
“By your leave, sir, it is in my mind that we should leave a man in the Wardhouse.”
Chancellor looked a silent question.
“Sir Hugh,” explained the armiger, “knoweth not that a traitor is in his company. If so be the captain general should come to this island after we have sailed, who is to tell him? And how is he to know the course we follow?”
“Ha! We could leave a written message.”
“A writing, so please you, might fall into other hands. 'Tis clear that folk do come to this Wardhouse. And, by the same token, we hit on this rendezvous only by chance. A man left here could signal to Sir Hugh from the peak, if the sails were sighted.”
This aspect of the situation had not struck the pilot who was readier for action than planning.
“That is true,” he nodded, “but even so, I will not order one of my shipmen to bide alone on this island in peril of his life.”
“Nay, Master Dickon,” Thorne smiled, “I will stay here. For, look you, I am of no use upon a ship. None knoweth so well as I the warning that should come to Sir Hugh's ears. As for peril, I would face a thousand Laps and all their sorcery rather than another storm like the last. Nay, indeed here is scant peril, for if you come not to death, you will return hither to search for me.”
“Aye, that we will.” It was Chancellor's turn to smile. “Lad, I fear me you are disposed to have the blood out of Durforth, will-he, nill-he!”
“Aye, that I will,” responded Thorne so promptly that the others stared and laughed, knowing for their part little of his suspicions or his desire to avenge his father.
“Then let it be so. But I will not leave you alone.” Chancellor turned to the ring of faces that glowed ruddy in the firelight. “My masters, you have heard the talk between us. It is expedient that we man the Wardhouse. This youth maintains that the lesser peril is his, but I think otherwise. I'll order no man of mine to abide with him, yet such is my desire.”
When no one spoke up, he glanced at the young adventurer who had first assented to going on.
“Nicholas Newborrow, what say you?”
“I say this, in all due respect.” Newborrow flushed, and fingered the clasp of his cloak. “I dare what any man dare, but in this unknown part of the world we face no human foes. Whither passed Sir Hugh? What of the good men and true he had with him? Whence came this grave?”
He pointed through the gray vista of the enclosure to the rough wooden cross.
“Whither fared the humans who were in this Wardhouse none so long before our coming? We saw no boat put off from the island.”
“It is idle,” quoth Chancellor, thrusting out his long chin—for he liked not Newborrow's words or their effect on the listeners—“to wonder upon that which we have not seen.”
“We have seen, my master, this place where night cometh not at all, but a continual light shining upon a huge and mighty sea. Fare on with you I will, but here I will abide not. This is an evil place.”
“So that is your mind. What of the others?”
A brief silence fell, and after a moment Peter Palmer thrust aside the shipmen in front of him and greeted his leader. His round face was knotted with uneasiness.
“A plague on them that hangs in stays when there's work to be done. I'll bide with the younker. If so be my time's run out, here is Christian soil and sepulcher.”
He pointed to the grave and its cross.
“I can ill spare you, boatswain.” Chancellor thought it over with palpable concern. “Still, you and Thorne are mates, and that is good. Stay then, and God keep you.”
To the armiger he added:
“My course I can not give you, save that we sail east from here, and—I fear me—must winter on the Ice Sea. So, if you follow, watch the shore for the ship and huts. Master Burroughs, see to it that Thorne has weapons and victuals enough for two men for a twelvemonth. We hoise our sails at the third running out of the glass.”
- ↑ i.e. sail east.