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Humphrey Bold by Herbert Strang

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HUMPHREY BOLD

A Story of the Time of Benbow

by

HERBERT STRANG

1909







CONTENTS

Chapter 1: The Wyle Cop.
Chapter 2: Joe Breaks His Indentures.
Chapter 3: I Meet The Mohocks.
Chapter 4: Captain John Benbow.
Chapter 5: I Lose My Best Friend.
Chapter 6: I Take Articles.
Chapter 7: A Crown Piece.
Chapter 8: I Fall Among Thieves.
Chapter 9: Good Samaritans.
Chapter 10: The Shuttered Coach.
Chapter 11: I Hold A Turnpike.
Chapter 12: I Come To Bristowe--And Leave Unwillingly.
Chapter 13: Duguay-Trouin.
Chapter 14: Harmony And Some Discord.
Chapter 15: The Bass Viol.
Chapter 16: Across The Moat.
Chapter 17: Exchanges.
Chapter 18: In The Name Of King Lewis.
Chapter 19: I Fight Duguay-Trouin.
Chapter 20: The King's Commission.
Chapter 21: I Meet Dick Cludde.
Chapter 22: I Walk Into A Snare.
Chapter 23: Uncle Moses.
Chapter 24: I Make A Bid For Liberty.
Chapter 25: I Spend Cludde's Crown Piece.
Chapter 26: We Hold A Council Of War.
Chapter 27: Some Successes And A Rebuff.
Chapter 28: I Cut The Enemy's Cables.
Chapter 29: We Bombard The Brig.
Chapter 30: The Six Days' Battle.
Chapter 31: The Cockpit.
Chapter 32: I Become Bold.




Chapter 1: The Wyle Cop.


'Tis said that as a man declines towards old age his mind dwells
ever more and more on the events of his childhood. Whether that be
true of all men or not, certain it is that my memory of things that
happened fifty years ago is very clear and bright, and the little
incidents of my boyhood are more to me, because they touch me more
nearly, than such great matters as the late rebellion against His
Majesty King George, whom God preserve.

Especially does my thought run back to a day, fifty-six years ago
this very summer, when by mere chance, as it would appear to men's
eyes, my fortunes became linked with those of Joe Punchard, who is
now at this moment, I warrant, smoking his pipe in the lodge at my
park gates. I was eleven years old, a thin slip of a boy, small for
my age, and giving no promise, to be sure, of my present stature
and girth. The neighbors shook their heads sometimes as they looked
at me, and wondered why Mr. John Ellery, if he must adopt a boy--a
strange thing, they thought, for a bachelor to do--did not choose
one of a sturdier make than poor little Humphrey Bold. They even
joked about my name, averring that names assuredly must go by
contraries, for I was Bold by name, and timid by nature. The joke
seemed to me, even then, a very poor one, for a boy must have the
name he is born with, and I have known very delicate and
white-handed folk of the name of Smith.

Mr. Ellery, a bachelor, as I have said, adopted me when my own
father and mother died, which happened when I was still an infant
and, mercifully, too young to understand my loss. My father, as I
called him, was a substantial yeoman whose farm and holding lay
some three miles on the English side of Shrewsbury. He was well on
in years when he adopted me, and dwells in my memory as a strong,
silent man who, when his day's work was done, would sit in the
inglenook with a book upon his knees. This taste for reading marked
him out from the neighboring farmers, with whom, indeed, he had
little in common in any way, so that he was rather respected than
liked by them. But he was wonderfully kind to me, and if my love
for him was qualified with awe, it was from reverence, and not from
fear.

My frail appearance, on which the neighbors jested, caused my
father to look on me sometimes with an anxious eye, and he would
question the housekeeper and the maids about my appetite, and
whether I slept well o' nights. On these matters he need not have
had any concern, since I ate four hearty meals a day, with perhaps
an apple or a hunk of bread in between; while as for sleeping,
Mistress Pennyquick was wont to declare, five out of the seven
mornings in the week, when she woke me, that she knew I would sleep
my brains away. This prediction scarcely troubled me, and since the
motherly creature never disturbed me until I had slept a good nine
hours by the clock, I do not think she was really distressed on
this score.

Until I reached my eleventh birthday I did not go to school, being
taught to read and write and cipher by my father himself. But one
day he set me before him on his horse and rode into Shrewsbury,
where, after a solemn interview with Mr. Lloyd, the master, I was
put into the accidence class at King Edward's famous school. As we
rode back, I remember that my father, who was generally so silent,
talked to me more than ever before, about school, and work, and the
great men who had been in past time pupils in the same school,
notably Sir Phillip Sidney. And from that day I used to trudge
every morning, barring holidays, into the town, and say my hic,
haec, hoc as well, I verily believe, as the rest of my schoolfellows.

But with the opening of my school days I began to know what misery
was. My lessons gave me little trouble, and the masters were kind
enough; but among the boys there were two who, before long, kept me
in a constant state of terror. They were older than I by some four
or five years, and in school I never saw them; but outside they
used to waylay me, tormenting me in many ingenious ways. Looking
back now I see that much of my terror was needless. They seldom
ill-treated me in act; but knowing, I suppose, that the imagination
is often very apprehensive in weakly bodies like mine, they took a
delight in threatening me, conjuring up all manner of imaginary
horrors, and so working on me that my sleep was disturbed by
hideous nightmares. I told nobody of what I suffered, and when
Mistress Pennyquick noticed that I was pale and heavy-eyed
sometimes in the morning, she did but suppose it was due to a
closer application to books than I had known formerly, and
forthwith increased my daily allowance of milk.

My father, if he had known of these doings, would doubtless have
taken strong measures to put a stop to them, for the older, though
not the worse, of the two bullies was a nephew of his own. His
sister was married to Sir Richard Cludde, of a notable family whose
seat lay north of Shrewsbury, towards Wem, and it was his only son,
named Richard after his father, who made one of this precious
couple of harriers. There was little coming and going between the
houses of the two families, for Mr. Ellery had not approved his
sister's match, Sir Richard's character being not of the best, and
heartily disliked the fine-lady airs which she put on when she
became wife of a baronet; while she on her side resented her
brother's cold looks, and nourished a special grievance against him
when he adopted me and announced that he would name me his heir. I
make no doubt that she gave tongue to her feeling in the hearing of
her son Dick, for among the many taunts which he and his boon
fellow Cyrus Vetch cast at me was that I was what they pleased to
call a "charity child."

I have mentioned Cyrus Vetch. If I feared Dick Cludde, I both
feared and hated his companion. Cyrus was the son of a well-to-do
merchant of the town--a man little in stature, but stout, and
wondrous big in self esteem. He was the owner of much property,
already one of the twelve aldermen, and ambitious, folk said, to
arrive at the highest dignity a citizen of Shrewsbury could attain
and wear the chain of mayor about his bulldog neck. He doted on his
son, who certainly did not take after his father so far as looks
went, for he was a tall, lanky fellow with a sallow face, the
alderman's countenance being as red as raw beef.

Hating Cyrus as I did, and not without cause, as will be seen
hereafter, I may be a trifle unjust in my recollection of him; but
I seem to see again a weasel face, with a pair of little restless
cunning eyes, and lips that were shaped to a perpetual sneer. As to
the sharpness of his tongue I know my memory does not play me
false: Dick Cludde's taunts bruised, but Cyrus Vetch's stung.

I had been less than a year at the school when an event happened
which had a great bearing on my future life. It was in the autumn
of the year 1690. I left afternoon school, and walked up Castle
Street, intending to turn down by St. Mary's Church as I was wont
to do, and make my way by Dogpole and Wyle Cop to English Bridge
and so home. But just as I came to the corner I spied Cludde and
Vetch waiting for me, as they sometimes did, at the back end of the
church. To avoid them, I went on till I came to the corner of
Dogpole and Pride Hill, hoping thereby to escape. But Cyrus Vetch's
keen eyes had seen me, and when I came to the turning by Colam's,
the vintner's, there were my two tormentors, posted right in my
path.

"Aha, young Bold!" says Cyrus, clutching me roughly by the arm, "so
you thought to give us the slip, did you?"

I could not deny it, and said nothing.

"Hark 'ee, young Bold," Cyrus went on, "you're to bring us tomorrow
morning a good dozen of old Ellery's apples, d'you hear?"

"A good dozen, young Bold," says Cludde, with the precision of an
echo.

"Let me go, please, Vetch," I said, endeavoring to wrench my arm
away.

"Not so fast, bun face," says he, giving my arm a twist. "You'd
best promise, or it will be the worse for you. Now say after me,
'I, Humphrey Bold, adopted brat of John Ellery'--Speak up now!"
"Please let me go, Vetch," said I, wriggling in his grasp.

"You won't, eh? You're an obstinate pig, eh? You defy us, eh?" and
with every question the bully twisted my arm till I almost screamed
with the pain.

"Don't be a ninny," says Cludde. "What's a few apples! Why, old
Ellery's trees are loaded with 'em."

Vetch's grip somewhat relaxed while Cludde was speaking, and,
seizing the opportunity, I wrenched my arm away with a sudden
movement and took to my heels. Being thin and light of foot, I was
a fleet runner, and though they immediately set off in pursuit, I
gained on them for a few yards, and had some hope of distancing
them altogether. But just as I came to where Dogpole runs into Wyle
Cop, a stitch in the side, which often seized me at inconvenient
times, forced me to slacken speed. Seeing this, they quickened
their pace, and in a few moments they would have had me at their
mercy.

But in that predicament I heard Joe Punchard whistling, through the
open door of the shop where he did 'prentice work for old Matthew
Mark, the cooper. I knew Joe well; he had often brought barrels to
our farm, and once or twice on my way home from school I had gone
into the shop and watched him at his work.

Now, as a fox when the hounds are in full cry behind him will run
for shelter into any likely place that offers, so I, hard pressed
as I was, rushed panting into the shop, too breathless at first to
explain my need.

"Hallo! What's this!" cried Joe, who was just rolling down his
sleeves before closing work for the day. "What be the matter,
Master Bold? You be all of a sweat and puffing like to burst."

"They're after me! Keep 'em off, Joe!" I gasped.

"After you, be they! Some of your schoolmates worriting of you, eh?
Don't be afeared, lad. I be just going home, and I'll see you safe
to Bridge.

"Ah! there they be," he added, as my pursuers appeared in the
doorway.

"Good afternoon to you, and what might you be pleased to want?"

"Out of the road, Joe Punchard!" cries Cludde, walking into the
shop. "I'll teach that little beast to run away."

And he came forward to where I stood, sheltering myself behind
Joe's thick-set body.

"Bide a minute," says Joe, lurching so as to shield me. "What ha'
Master Bold bin doin' to you?"

"What's that to you?" says Cyrus Vetch, edging round him on the
other side. "He's a young sneak, that's what he is, and wants a
good basting, and he'll get it, too."

"Not so fast now," says Joe, sticking out his elbows to broaden
himself. "I know you, Master Vetch, and 'tis my belief you and
Master Cludde are just nought but a brace of bullies, and you ought
to be ashamed of yourselves, Master Cludde in particular, seeing as
the little lad be your own cousin."

"You shut your mouth, Joe Punchard!" shouts Cludde in a passion.
"He my cousin, indeed!--the mean little charity brat!"

"And a blubbering baby, too!" says Vetch, "cries before he is
hurt."

"'Tis not much good crying after," says Joe with a chuckle, before
I could protest that I was not crying; I always did hate a
blubbering boy.

"Now you two boys be off," Joe went on. "I'm going home, and I'll
see to it you don't bait Master Bold no more this side of the
Bridge. And what's more, I tell you this: that if I cotch you two
great chaps worriting the boy again, I'll take and leather you,
both of you, and that's flat."

"Try it, bandy-legs," said Vetch with a sneer. "We'll do as we
please, and if you dare to lay a hand on either of us, I'll--I'll--"

"What'll you do, then?" says Joe, who all this while had been
spreading himself in front of me. "What'll you do then? D'you think
I care a farden what you'll do? You'd better behave pretty, Master
Vetch, or 'twill be worse for you, my young cockchafer."

At this the two boys backed a little, and Joe, thinking them
daunted by his threatening mien, turned to take down the key of the
shop from its nail on the wall. But he had no sooner left my side
than Vetch sprang forward, and catching me by the arm, gave it a
cunning twist that, in spite of myself, made me shriek with pain.
Joe was round in an instant, and made for my tormentor, who with
Cludde ran towards the door. But in their endeavor to escape they
impeded each other: Vetch tripped, and before he could recover his
footing Joe had him in an iron grip, and began to shake him as I
had many times seen our terrier shake a rat he had caught in the
barn.

"Let me go!" yells Cyrus. "Help, Dick! Kick his shins!"

But Cludde, though a big fellow enough, was never over ready to put
his head in chancery. He stood in the street, shaking his fist, and
writhing his face into terrible grimaces at me.

"Let me go!" cries Vetch again.

"You young viper!" says Joe, shaking him still. "You'll misuse the
little lad before my face, will you? And squeal like a pig to be
let go, will you?

"Aha! You shall go," he says with a sudden laugh. "Dash me if
'twere not made o' purpose."

Joe Punchard, I have forgotten to mention, was short of stature,
standing no more than five feet three. But he was very thick-set and
heavily made, with massive arms and legs, the latter somewhat bowed,
making him appear even shorter than he was. It was these legs of his,
together with his big round head and shock of reddish hair, that
inspired some genius of the school with a couplet which was often
chanted by the boys when they caught sight of Joe in the street. It ran:

O, pi, rho, bandy-legged Joe,
Turnip and carrots wherever you go.

But bandy-legged as he was, Joe had the great strength which I have
often observed to accompany that defect of nature. So it was with
exceeding ease he lifted Cyrus Vetch, for all his struggles, with
one hand, and dropped him into a barrel that stood, newly finished,
against the wall--a barrel of such noble height that Vetch quite
disappeared within it. Then, trundling it upon its edge, as draymen
do with casks of beer, he brought it to the street, laid it
sidelong, and set it rolling.

Now the Wyle Cop at Shrewsbury, as you may know, is a street that
winds steeply down to the English Bridge over the Severn. Had it
been straight, the bias of the barrel would doubtless have soon
carried it to the side, and Joe Punchard might have risen in course
of time to the status of a master cooper in his native town. But
when I went to the door to see what was happening, there was the
barrel in full career, following the curve of the street, and
gathering speed with every yard. Joe stood with arms akimbo,
smiling broadly. Cludde was racing after the barrel, shouting for
someone to stop it.

If I had not already been in such mortal terror of the consequences
of Joe's mad freak, I should have laughed to see the wayfarers as
they skipped out of the course of the runagate, not one of them
aware as yet that it held human contents, nor guessing that the end
might be more than broken staves.

By this time Joe himself had come to a sense of his recklessness.
He gripped me by the hand, and dragged me down the hill at so
fierce a pace that in half a minute all the breath was out of my
body. I wondered what he purposed doing, for the barrel was now out
of sight past the bend, and could scarce have been overtaken by the
wearer of the seven league boots. But as we turned into the
straight again, just by Andrew Cruddle, the saddler's, we again
espied the terrible barrel, rolling with many bumps towards the
head of the bridge.

And then I verily believe that my heart for some seconds ceased to
beat, and I am sure that Joe shared my dismay, for he tightened the
grip of his great strong hand upon my puny one until I could have
sworn it was crushed to a pulp. At the bridge head were two
gentlemen, who had to all appearance been engaged in chatting, for
one still sat on the parapet, while the other stood within a foot
or two of him. They were not talking now, but gazing at the barrel
rolling down towards them, and the one who was seated wore the
trace of a smile upon his face.

But the other--Heaven knows what terror seized me when my eyes
lighted upon him: it was none other than Joshua Vetch, the father
of the boy who, as I feared, was being churned to a jelly; and he
stood full in the path of the barrel.

Mr. Vetch, as I have said, was a small but corpulent man, and stood
very upright, with a slight backward inclination, to balance, I
suppose, the exceeding greatness of his rotundity. His countenance
habitually expressed disapproval, and his shaggy brows were drawn
down now in an angry frown. I perceived that he said something to
his companion, and then I saw no more for a while, a mist seeming
to gather before my eyes.

When I regained possession of my faculties, dreading what might
have happened, I found myself on the skirts of a group of five or
six, and heard the loud voice of Mr. Vetch bellowing forth words
which, for modesty's sake, I forbid my pen to write. He was not
dead, then, I thought, nor even hurt, or assuredly he would not
have had the strength to curse with such vigor. But what of Cyrus?

"I'll have the law on the villain! Run for a potticary! D'you hear,
you gaping jackass? Run for Mr. Pinhorn and bid him come here!"

And then followed a string of oaths like to those I had heard
before. The group parted hastily, and out came Dick Cludde, with a
face as white as milk, and sped up the town as fast as his long
legs would carry him. No doubt he was the "gaping jackass" whom Mr.
Vetch had so addressed in his fury.

Pushing my way through the townsmen who had gathered, and whose
numbers were swelled every moment by the afflux of aproned grocers,
and potboys, and 'prentices, and others from the streets, I saw
Cyrus laid on his back by the parapet, white and still, his father
pacing heavily up and down, and his friend Captain Galsworthy
fending off the prying onlookers with his cane.

"I'll thrash the villain to a pulp! I'll send him to the
plantations, I will! I'll break every bone in his body!"

So Mr. Vetch roared and, much as I disliked him, I could not but
feel a certain compassion, too, for all the world knew how he doted
on his son. I looked around for Joe Punchard, to see whether he was
in hearing of these threats, but he was not among the crowd.

By and by came Mr. Pinhorn, the surgeon, and some while after him
four lads bearing a stretcher, upon which the unconscious form of
my enemy was conveyed slowly up the town to Mr. Vetch's house on
Pride Hill. I followed on the edge of the crowd until I saw the
doors close upon the bearers, and then I betook myself home, in
sore distress at the fate in store for my friend Joe Punchard, and
in some terror lest I should share it, the mad freak of which he
was guilty having been performed on my behalf.



Chapter 2: Joe Breaks His Indentures.


It was so much later than my usual hour for returning from school
that I was not surprised to see Mistress Pennyquick at the gate of
our farm, shading her eyes against the westering sun as she looked
for me up the road. I endeavored to compose my countenance so as to
betray no sign of the excitement through which I had passed; but
the attempt failed lamentably, and when the good creature began to
question me, I burst into tears. This was so rare an occurrence
with me that she was mightily concerned and adjured me to tell all,
promising that if I had done wrong she would shield me from my
father's anger. And when in answer to this I told her what Joe
Punchard had done to Cyrus Vetch, and the terrible things I had
heard the alderman threaten against him, she laughed and said I was
too tender hearted for a boy, and Joe Punchard would be none the
worse for a basting, and a deal more to the same tune, which almost
broke through my determination to say nothing of what had caused
the mischief; for, after all, Dick Cludde and Cyrus Vetch were my
schoolfellows, and, in my day; for one boy to tell on another was
the unpardonable sin.

My father came in soon after, and when he heard so much of the
story as I had told Mistress Pennyquick he drew his fingers through
his beard and said in his quiet way: "To be sure, barrels were not
made for that kind of vetch!"

And then we sat down to supper. We had hardly begun when there came
a smart rap on the door, and, with the freedom of our country
manners, in walked a visitor. My heart gave a jump when I saw it
was none other than Captain Galsworthy, the gentleman with whom Mr.
Vetch had been in converse at the bridge.

We knew the captain well; he was, in a way, one of the notable
persons of our town. We boys looked on him with a vast admiration
and reverence, not so much for his title--for there are captains
and captains, and I have known some who have done little in the
matter of feats of arms--as because he bore on his lean and rugged
countenance marks which no one could mistake. A deep scar seamed
his right temple, and on one of his cheeks were several little
black pits which we believed to be the marks of bullets. He spoke
but rarely of his own doings, and until he came to Shrewsbury a few
years before this he had been a stranger to the town: but it was
commonly reported that he had been in the service of the Czar of
Muscovy, and since that potentate was ever unwilling that any
officer who had once served him should leave him (save by death or
hanging), it was supposed that the captain had made his escape. He
lived alone in a little cottage on the Wem road, and, not being too
plentifully endowed with this world's goods, he eked out his
competency by giving lessons in fencing, both with singlesticks and
swords.

Well, in comes the captain, cocking a twinkling eye at me, lays on
the table the cane without which he never went abroad, and, placing
a chair for himself at the table, says:

"'Tis to be hoped we are not in for a ten years' Trojan war, Master
Humphrey."

Though I understood nothing of his meaning, I knew he made reference
to the recent escapade, and I felt mightily uncomfortable. My father
looked from one to the other, but did not break his silence.

"They haven't put you to the Iliads yet, I suppose," says the
captain, helping himself to a mug of our home-brewed cider, "but
you know, neighbor Ellery, 'twas an apple that set the Greeks and
Trojans by the ears, and 'tis apples, or rather the want of 'em,
that is like to put discord between some of our families
hereabout."

"You speak in riddles, Captain," says my father at last; "and why
are you eying Humphrey in that quizzical way?"

"Why, bless my soul, don't you know? I thought it had been half
over the county by this."

"I know that that 'prentice lad Punchard hath half-killed young
Vetch, and richly deserves what he will no doubt get tomorrow."

"And is that all? Have you told only half your story, Humphrey?"

This direct question made me still more uncomfortable, especially
as my father's eyes were sternly bent upon me. He hated lies, and
half truths still more, and I could see that he was dimly
suspecting me of a complicity in Joe Punchard's action to which I
had not confessed. But Captain Galsworthy was a shrewd old man, and
he saw at once how the matter stood.

"No peaching, eh, lad?" he said kindly. "I've an inquisitive turn
of mind, and after that performance with the barrel--and it was a
monstrous comical sight, Ellery, to see the little alderman skip
out of the way when the barrel made straight for his shins, but not
so funny when he pulls at the shock head sticking out and finds it
belongs to his own son--after that performance, I say, I caught
young Dick Cludde by the ear, and made him tell me the story. And
it begins with apples--like this excellent cider of yours, Ellery."

He quaffed a deep draught and leaned back in his chair, giving me
another friendly wink. The captain was ever somewhat long winded
over his stories, and I could see that my father was growing
impatient; but he sat back in his chair with his hands upon the
arms and said never a word.

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