Chapter XIV. How I Came Aboard the "Faithful Friend"
We followed a roundabout course, now across broad meadows, now treading green cart-tracks, now climbing some grassy upland, anon plunging into the shadow of lonely wood or coppice until the moon was down, until was a glimmer of dawn with low-lying mists brimming every grassy hollow and creeping phantom-like in leafy boskages; until in the east was a glory, warming the grey mist to pink and amber and gold, and the sun, uprising, darted his level beams athwart our way and it was day.
And now from coppice and hedgerow, near and far, was stir and flutter, a whistling and a piping that rose ever louder and swelled to a trilling ecstasy of gladness.
"Hark to 'em--O pal, hark to 'em!" quoth Godby, lifting head to watch a lark that soared aloft. "Here's music, Martin, here's cure for the megrims, hope for the downcast and promise o' joys to come. O hark to 'em!"
All the day Penfeather led us on by lonely ways, never seeming to weary and never at a loss, silent for the most part as one in profound thought, and I speaking little as is my wont, but Godby talked and sang and laughed for the three of us.
It was as we sat outside a little ale-house snugged 'mid trees, eating of bread and cheese, that Penfeather turned suddenly and gripped my arm:
"Martin," says he, "'twill be plaguy business carrying women aboard ship--along o' these lambs o' mine--there's scarce a rogue but cheats the gallows with his every breath!"
"Why then, tell her so, Adam, plain and to the point."
"'Twould be vain breath, Martin, I know her too well--and she is a Brandon!"
"A curse on the name!" says I, whereupon Godby choked into his ale, stared in surprise and would fain have questioned me, but meeting my eye, spake no word.
"D'ye know aught of navigation, Martin?" says Adam suddenly.
"No whit, Adam, but I'll handle a boat with any man."
"Ha!" says he, and sat there pinching his chin until, our hunger being appeased and the ale all drank, we fared on again. So we tramped, and though our road was long I will here make short work of it and say that at last we came, very hot and dusty, into the village of Lewisham, where we would fain have baited awhile at the 'Lion and Lamb,' a fair inn; but this Adam would by no means permit, so, leaving the village, we presently turned aside from the main road into a lane very pleasantly shaded by tall trees and bloomy hedgerows, the which (as I do think) is called Mill Lane. In a while we reached a narrow track down which Adam turned, and now as we went I was aware of strange sounds, a confused hubbub growing ever louder until, deep amid the green, we espied a lonely tavern before which stood a short, stout man who alternately wrung his hands in lamentation, mopped at bloody pate and stamped and swore mighty vehement, in the midst of which, chancing to behold Penfeather, he uttered joyful shout and came running.
"Master Penfeather," cried he, "O Master Penfeather, here's fine doings, love my eyes! Here's your rogues a-fighting and a- murdering of each other, which is no great matter, but here's them a-wrecking o' my house, which is great matter, here's them has broke my head wi' one o' my own pottlepots, which is greater matter, here's me dursen't set of it i' the place and my wife and maids all of a swound--O Master Penfeather, here's doings, love my limbs!"
"Ha," says Penfeather, "fighting, are they, Jerry?"
"Like devils, Captain, your rogues and the rogues as my Lord Dering 'listed and brought here yesterday--O love my liver--look at yon!" As he spoke was a crash of splintered glass and a broken chair hurtled through the wide lattice.
"So!" says Adam, striding towards the inn, and I saw a pistol in his hand. Following hard on his heels I entered the inn with him and so to the scene of the riot.
A long, low room, full of swirling dust, and amid this choking cloud a huddle of men who fought and struggled fiercely, roaring blasphemy and curses. Two or three lay twisted among overturned chairs and tables, others had crawled into corners to look to their hurts, while to and fro the battle raged the fiercer. Leaning in the doorway Penfeather surveyed the combatants with his quick keen glance, and then the hubbub was drowned by the roar of his long pistol; the thunderous report seemed to stun the combatants to silence, who, falling apart, turned one and all to glare at the intruder. And, in this moment of comparative silence while all men panted and stared, from Penfeather's grim lips there burst a string of blistering sea-oaths such as even I had scarce heard till now; for a long minute he reviled them, the smoke curling from his pistol, his black brows knit across glittering eyes, his thin nostrils a-quiver, the scar glowing on his pallid cheek, his face indeed so changed and evil that I scarce knew him.
"...ye filthy scum, ye lousy sons o' dogs!" he ended. "Ha, will ye fight agin my orders, then--mutiny is it?"
"And who a plague are you and be cursed to ye!" panted a great fellow, flourishing a broken chair-leg threateningly and scowling in murderous fashion.
"He'll tell ye--there, behind ye, fool!" snarled Penfeather, pointing sinewy finger. The big man turned, Penfeather sprang with uplifted pistol and smote him, stunned and bleeding, to the floor, then bestriding the prostrate carcass, fronted the rest with head viciously out-thrust.
"And who's next--come!" says he softly, scowling from one to other of the shrinking company. "You, Amos Penarth, and you, Richard Farnaby, aye and half a dozen others o' ye, you've sailed wi' me ere now and you know when I say a thing I mean it. And you'd fight, would ye, my last words to you being 'see to it there be no quarrelling or riot.'"
"Why, Cap'n," says one, "'tis all along o' these new 'listed rogues--"
