Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (fantasy books to read txt) 📕

For half an hour or more they glided down the canal unmolested and in silence. Now it ran into a broader waterway along which they slid towards the sea, keeping as much as possible under the shadow of one bank, for although the night was moonless a faint grey light lay upon the surface of the stream. At length Foy became aware that they were bumping against the sides of a long line of barges and river boats laden with timber and other goods. To one of these—it was the fourth—the pilot Hans made fast, tying their row-boat to her stern. Then he climbed to the deck, whispering to them to follow.

As they scrambled on board, two grey figures arose and Foy saw the flash of steel. Then Hans whistled like a plover, and, dropping their swords they came to him and fell into talk. Presently Hans left them, and, returning to Foy and Martin, said:

“Listen: we must lie here a while, for the wind is against us, and it would be too dangerous for us to try to row or pole so big a boat down to the sea and across the bar in the darkness, for most likely we should set her fast upon a shoal. Before dawn it will turn, and, if I read the sky aright, blow hard off land.”

“What have the bargemen to say?” asked Foy.

“Only that for these four days they have been lying here forbidden to move, and that their craft are to be searched to-morrow by a party of soldiers, and the cargo taken out of them piecemeal.”

“So,” said Foy, “well, I hope that by then what they seek will be far away. Now show us this ship.”

Then Hans took them down the hatchway, for the little vessel was decked, being in shape and size not unlike a modern Norfolk herring boat, though somewhat more slightly built. Then having lit a lantern, he showed them the cargo. On the top were bags of salt. Dragging one or two of these aside, Hans uncovered the heads of five barrels, each of them marked with the initial B in white paint.

“That is what men will die for before to-morrow night,” he said.

“The treasure?” asked Foy.

He nodded. “These five, none of the others.” Then still lower down he pointed out other barrels, eight of them, filled with the best gunpowder, and showed them too where the slow matches ran to the little cabin, the cook’s galley, the tiller and the prow, by means of any one of which it could be fired. After this and such inspection of the ropes and sails as the light would allow, they sat in the cabin waiting till the wind should change, while the two watching men unmoored the vessel and made her sails ready for hoisting. An hour passed, and still the breeze blew from the sea, but in uncertain chopping gusts. Then it fell altogether.

“Pray God it comes soon,” said Martin, “for the owner of that finger in your pocket will have laid the hounds on to our slot long ago, and, look! the east grows red.”

The silent, hard-faced Hans leant forward and stared up the darkling water, his hand behind his ear.

“I hear them,” he said presently.

“Who?” asked Foy.

“The Spaniards and the wind—both,” he answered. “Come, up with the mainsail and pole her out to midstream.”

So the three of them took hold of the tackle and ran aft with it, while the rings and booms creaked and rattled as the great canvas climbed the mast. Presently it was set, and after it the jib. Then, assisted by the two watchmen thrusting from another of the boats, they pushed the Swallow from her place in the line out into mid-stream. But all this made noise and took time, and now men appeared upon the bank, calling to know who dared to move the boats without leave. As no one gave them any answer, they fired a shot, and presently a beacon began to burn upon a neighbouring mound.

“Bad business,” said Hans, shrugging his shoulders. “They are warning the Government ship at the harbour mouth. Duck, masters, duck; here comes the wind,” and he sprang to the tiller as the boom swung over and the little vessel began to gather way.

“Yes,” said Martin, “and here with it come the Spaniards.”

Foy looked. Through the grey mist that was growing lighter every moment, for the dawn was breaking, he caught sight of a long boat with her canvas spread which was sweeping round the bend of the stream towards them and not much more than a quarter of a mile away.

“They have had to pole down stream in the dark, and that is why they have been so long in coming,” said Hans over his shoulder.

“Well, they are here now at any rate,” answered Foy, “and plenty of them,” he added, as a shout from a score of throats told them that they were discovered.

But now the Swallow had begun to fly, making the water hiss upon either side of her bows.

“How far is it to the sea?” asked Foy.

“About three miles,” Hans called back from the tiller. “With this wind we should be there in fifteen minutes. Master,” he added presently, “bid your man light the fire in the galley.”

“What for,” asked Foy, “to cook breakfast?”

The pilot shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “Yes, if we live to eat it.” But Foy saw that he was glancing at the slow-match by his side, and understood.

Ten minutes passed, and they had swept round the last bend and were in the stretch of open water which ran down to the sea. By now the light was strong, and in it they saw that the signal fire had not been lit in vain. At the mouth of the cutting, just where the bar began, the channel was narrowed in with earth to a width of not more than fifty paces, and on one bank of it stood a fort armed with culverins. Out of the little harbour of this fort a large open boat was being poled, and in it a dozen or fifteen soldiers were hastily arming themselves.

“What now?” cried Martin. “They are going to stop the mouth of the channel.”

The hard-featured Hans set his teeth and made no answer. Only he looked backward at his pursuers and onward at those who barred the way. Presently he called aloud:

“Under hatches, both of you. They are going to fire from the fort,” and he flung himself upon his back, steering with his uplifted arms.

Foy and Martin tumbled down the hatchway, for they could do no good on deck. Only Foy kept one eye above its level.

“Look out!” he said, and ducked.

As he spoke there was a puff of white smoke from the fort, followed by the scream of a shot which passed ahead of them. Then came another puff of smoke, and a hole appeared in their brown sail. After this the fort did not fire again, for the gunners found no time to load their pieces, only some soldiers who were armed with arquebuses began to shoot as the boat swept past within a few yards of them. Heedless of their bullets, Hans the pilot rose to his feet again, for such work as was before him could not be done by a man lying on his back. By now the large open boat from the fort was within two hundred yards of them, and, driven by the gathering gale, the Swallow rushed towards it with the speed of a dart. Foy and Martin crawled from the hatchway and lay down near the steersman under the shelter of the little bulwarks, watching the enemy’s boat, which was in midstream just where the channel was narrowest, and on the hither side of the broken water of the bar.

“See,” said Foy, “they are throwing out anchors fore and aft. Is