Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times

“You old fool!”

“Ay, to be sure, skipper, it’s a man’s nature to be a fool over a woman. It’s nature’s remedy to keep us from being too wise. As I was saying, I don’t know which I like best. If she kisses and fondles you without a kick, why it’s all sweet sugar and milk and honey, and I smack my lips. If she cries ‘kiss me not, old bear,’ and struggles and pooks me, and pretends to tear out my eyes with the ends of her pretty fingers, and tugs my beard, and pulls out the hairs, why it is pickles and sharp sorrel-sauce, and hot peppers, and I smack my lips and like it all the same. Ah, skipper, take all the women out of the world, and you may heave me overboard whenever you like!”

“Women will be thy ruin,” said Gil.

“That’s what Mas’ Peasegood says, and then he went on at me for an hour as good as to say if ever I’m damned it will be for a woman’s sake, bless her for it. Mind, here’s another hole here. Zooks, I touched a big eel with my boot.”

“But once for all,” said Gil, “I will not have thee hanging like a chicken-thief about Master Cobbe’s garden.”

“An’ where would’st have been if I had not been here to-night, skipper? Suppose the founder had come running at thee with his naked sword? The sight of a naked sword always was too much for thee, my lad. Remember how I taught thee to fence, and you pook me your point the second time into my thigh. Why, it would have been out sword and at him, and thou mightest have hurt the old boy.”

“Old boy! He’s fifteen years younger than you if a day, Wat.”

“Bah! Years! What are years? He was born after I was, but look at us. I’m a younger man than he. A man’s not old till he feels old, skipper; and when he feels old heave him overboard if he be a sailor. If he be a land-goer, dig a hole in his mother-earth and pack him up warm to sprout out and grow little boys for the future times. Well, as I said, suppose you had pricked the old man or he had pricked thee?”

“The better for me it seems,” said Gil, grimly. “It would be the high road to his favour. But are you sure you are right here? How dark it is!”

“Right? to be sure I am,” growled Wat; “right as I was to-night in having a bit of a talk with pretty Janet, lad.”

“And that I forbid for the future,” said Gil, stopping with the water nearly up to his waist.

“Forbid away,” grumbled Wat, “but as long as my skipper goes amongst rocks Wat Kilby goes as well to watch over him the while.”

“Then that settles it, Wat,” said Gil; “I am going no more.”

“Ho, ho, ho! – ho, ho, ho!” chuckled the old sailor. “Sattles! What? have you and young mistress fallen out?”

“Hold your peace!” said Gil, sharply; “and learn to obey my orders.”

“Saints on earth, I’m like so much wax or Stockholm pitch in his hands, and he does with me as he likes. It’s a brave deal deeper here than I thought, skipper; wait till I have out my blade and feel my way a bit.”

He pulled out his sword, and began to sound with it in the darkness; but, save in the direction of the house and garden, the water seemed to grow deeper and deeper; and, after taking a step or two in different directions, the old fellow drew back and paused grumbling.

“It’s deeper than I thought,” he said; “the water goes down above my head everywhere. Let’s wait a bit.”

“What for?” said Gil, angrily. “Do you think the Pool will grow shallower? This comes of trusting another.”

“Well, I thought I knowed the bearings,” said Wat.

“What fools we’d look if it were daylight,” said Gil; “standing up to our middles.”

“Chesties,” said Wat, correctively.

“Well, to our chests or chins, if you like,” cried Gil. “Heaven be praised that it is so dark.”

“So don’t say I,” cried Wat, softly; “for if it was not so dark I could see which way to steer.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Wat,” whispered Gil, in a low angry voice, “that you have persuaded me into trusting to your guidance, and that now you know nothing of the depth of the Pool?”

“I could have sworn as that little sandy reef ran right across to the other side.”

“And now there is deep water all round.”

“Unless we go back.”

“Confusion!” ejaculated Gil. “Am I to understand that you don’t know the way at all?”

“Well, skipper,” growled Wat, “I won’t say I don’t know the bearings of the channels; but if you like to take the rudder I’ll give up to you.”

This being tantamount to a declaration of his own want of knowledge, Gil began cautiously to feel his way about, with the result that the first two steps he took placed him up to his chin in water, that would, he felt, be over his head at the next.

Dressed as he was, swimming was a most difficult task, the high, heavy boots he wore filling with water, and being sufficient to drag him down; and yet sooner or later he felt that he should be obliged to trust to his powers as a swimmer, and gave the hint to his companion.

“Be ready to swim, Wat,” he whispered.

“No, no; there be no need to swim,” was the response. “Only hit the right place, and it won’t reach above your boots.”

Gil did not respond, but tried in various directions, always to find the water deepen; and at last he stood with it bubbling at his lips, and he knew that the next moment he must strike out.

Even now he could have made an effort to go back ashore in the direction of the house, but it might mean an encounter with the founder, and this was to be avoided at all hazards, for Mace’s sake; and after all, he thought, what was before them was nothing more than a good swim, for he never once realised the fact that there was danger in his position: it seemed more ludicrous than full of peril.

He gave a glance round, and, having decided in his own mind where lay the shore they sought to reach, he uttered a low warning to Wat, and tried to wade towards it.

The second step rendered it necessary for him to swim, and striking out boldly he had gone a few yards before he turned his head to speak to Wat.

“This way,” he whispered; but there was no response for a few moments, and then, with a hoarse blowing noise, the old sailor spluttered out, “Why, I went right over my head.”

This added to the ridiculous side of the question, and, contenting himself with bidding Wat keep close, Gil swam on in the direction of the shore, making very slow progress, and now becoming aware for the first time of the difficulty of the task he had undertaken.

Wat was swimming close at hand, making a good deal of noise, but Gil never thought for a moment that he would have any difficulty, and it was not until they had progressed slowly for about five minutes that the first intimation of danger came like a chill of dread.

“Can you touch bottom, skipper?” said the old fellow.

“No,” said Gil, after a pause. “We are in deep water. Why?”

“Because, if we can’t directly, I shall drown!”

“Nonsense, man,” whispered back Gil. “Swim slowly and steadily, and we shall soon reach the shore.”

There was no more said for a few moments, and then from old Wat, in a low panting voice —

“Skipper, I shan’t never reach no shore; and this ain’t even brackish water, let alone salt.”

“Don’t talk,” said Gil, sharply; “but swim, man, with a long steady stroke.”

“Not even salt water,” said Wat hoarsely, as if he had not heard his leader’s words. “Drowned in a miserable pond.”

“Will you hold your peace,” whispered Gil, “and swim on, man? Who ever thinks of drowning at such a time as this?”

“I’m nearly spent,” said Wat, hoarsely. “I didn’t think it would be so deep.”

It was very hard work to keep himself afloat; and the knowledge that his old faithful companion and follower was losing heart robbed him of a good deal of the energy which he had left. But Gil Carr had been reared amongst dangers, and instead of beginning to lament that they were in such a condition, and praying or calling for help, he tried to rouse up more energy both in himself and his follower, though, as regarded the latter, with but little result, for he awoke more and more to the fact that Wat’s straggles were growing fainter each moment, and that unless he could aid him he was a drowning man.

He stopped swimming away from him then, and taking a few strokes back, with his boots seeming to be made of lead, he tried to make out where Wat was swimming, and only found him by the bubbling water which was just closing over his head.

It required almost superhuman energy as, with a vigorous snatch, Gil caught his follower by the beard and drew his face above water, holding him so while he drew breath.

“No use – save yourself!” panted Wat. “I’m spent, skipper – spent.”

“Do as I bid you,” cried Gil, angrily. “Turn over – your back – float – that’s well. Now mind: leave me free. If you clutch my arms we shall both go down.”

As he spoke he tried hard to kick off his heavy boots, but they clung to his legs, and to have continued striving meant to sink. Throwing himself upon his back then, and with one hand grasping Wat Kilby’s hair, he once more struck out, gazing of necessity upwards at the starless sky, and feeling more and more that unless some miracle interposed in their favour they must both lose their lives. It was impossible to tell in what direction he was going when his every energy was directed to trying to keep them both afloat; and, strive to contain himself how he would, there was always the knowledge upon him that, moment by moment, he was growing weaker.

For the water came more and more over his lips, thundered more heavily in his ears, and kept, as it were, forcing itself up his nostrils, burning, and strangling him, and causing such an intense desire to struggle with all his might for life, that, but for the disciplining of years and the power it had given him of mastering his own emotions, there would have been a minute’s desperate struggling, a few agonised cries for help, and then the water would have closed over his head.

The water that had risen at each stroke to his chin was now always above his lips, then above his nostrils, and it was only by frantic efforts that he recovered himself for a few moments; but directly after his heavy boots dragged him lower and lower, and with a gasping cry he gave one more tremendous stroke, when he felt his head forced in amongst a clump of reeds, and for the moment he could breathe.

He lay with the back of his head in amongst the reeds for some minutes, not daring to move lest he should glide back into deep water, but even now the waves were rippling end playing in his ears. He could not stay long, however, like that, for he had Wat Kilby to think of; and throwing one arm back over the reeds he dragged himself more amongst them, and at the same time pulled Wat close to his side.

How it was done he never afterwards knew, only that he contrived somehow to rouse the old sailor sufficiently to once more take a little interest in life, and draw himself over and amongst the reeds.

So far from being in safety, all they had gained was the power to breathe, for at the least movement the thin, whispering, water-grasses gave way, and their position was worse.

“Can you hear me speak, Wat?” said Gil at last, in a hoarse voice, as he felt that he was once more gaining breath.

“Ay, skipper,” said the old fellow, faintly; “I be not dead yet.”

“Can you draw yourself more amongst the reeds?”

There was a few minutes’ pause, and then Wat said with a groan, “No, skipper. If I move, it means going below; there’s nothing to hold on by.”

Gil foresaw that this would be the reply, for on feeling cautiously round he could only come to the conclusion that they were half floating, half lying, among some nearly-submerged reeds, and that the slightest effort to better their condition meant the destruction of the frail support.

“Wait till you get your breath, Wat, and then shout for help,” said Gil.

“Nay, I’ll not call,” was the hoarse reply. “Do thou shout, skipper.”

“I order you to call, Wat,” was the half-angry reply; and, in obedience, Wat uttered a hoarse hail from time to time, for his voice to go floating over the water, borne by the breeze away from the Pool-house, and here the two men lay some three hundred yards from the garden, cold, benumbed, and gradually growing more helpless, while those who were nearest slept on hearing no cries, and in utter ignorance of the peril in which the two well-known adventurers lay.

The hails uttered from time to time reached one or two of the cottages, but those who heard the sounds float from off the lake merely turned once in their beds, and thought of marsh spirits, or the night-walkers that had been seen from time to time, passing along the tracks; while the less superstitious said to one another, “Captain Culverin and his men be out to-night. What be in the wind now?”

Again and again did Gil make an effort to find where they lay, and see if he could not reach the boat, and come back to his companion’s help; but the darkness was made more intense by the thick mist which was heavier than ever. He was rested though, and had the nerve to make a bold effort, but those boots that clung to his legs far above his knees were like lead, and he dare hardly stir.

Try how he would, he was fain to conic to the conclusion that he must lie passive amongst those reeds, saying a few words to Wat Kilby from time to time, to encourage him; for the old man, sturdy as he was, seemed to have taken quite a fatalist view of their case.

“Wait for daylight, skipper?” he said, sadly. “No; I think it be morning that will have to wait for me, and I shan’t answer to my number. The cold water be getting into my joints, and I be too stiff to move.”

To remain for long in their cramped and helpless situation seemed to Gil at first impossible; but hour after hour glided away, and save the rippling of the water hardly a sound greeted the sufferers’ ears. Too numbed and helpless even to cry out for help, they lay waiting for morning, hardly hoping to see the dawn, for at any moment a slip would have sent them into deep water, to go down at once.

Sometimes a soft wind stirred the thick steamy mist upon the water and rustled the reeds above their heads; while, at intervals through the night, the cry of some coot or duck floated weirdly across the great Pool, but, at last, all those things seemed to Gil to be part of a confused dream, as he grew, more and more numbed and helpless. The water washed higher over his face, but he could not raise his head to avoid it, nor disturb the current of his thoughts, which were flowing placidly enough now, and quite unmingled with despair, along his life-course; and it seemed ridiculous to him that he, who had braved so many perils of the mighty sea, should perish on this pitiful pond. Then he began to think of Mace and her feelings when she heard of his death; and, with a sigh, he thought it seemed hard indeed that he should die now when he was so sure of her love. But he whispered a blessing upon her to the soft summer breeze, and thanked Heaven that they had parted so happily that night.

Wat Kilby had not spoken for hours, but lay there in a state of torpor, till suddenly he exclaimed: —

“You there, skipper?”

“Yes, Wat.”

“I wouldn’t care so much only – ”

There was a pause here.

“Only that I have got my bag of tobacco here in my pocket, and it be quite wet through.”

After that, there was utter silence.

How two went a-fishing, and what they caught

“You may argue, Brother Brisdone, till all is blue,” said Master Peasegood, “but I maintain that what I say is right. Now, look here; go back to the early days, and take your own apostle.”

“My own apostle?” said Father Brisdone, smiling, as they walked down the lane, soon after sunrise, one bearing a basket the other a bag. The heavy dew lay upon leaf and strand, and sparkled in the brilliant sunshine; birds sang and flitted from bough to bough, scattering the heavy drops from off each spray; and, as the two clerics had come out of the cottage after an early breakfast, they had stood breathing the soft pure air, and smiled back at smiling Nature.

“My own apostle?” said Father Brisdone.

“Yes, Saint Peter; the rock upon which your church is built. Well, what was he – a fisherman?”

“Yes,” said Father Brisdone, “before he took up his holy calling.”

“Fisherman still, good brother. Did he not become a fisher of men? Depend upon it, brother, Peter, if he had been down by the lake again, would have enjoyed a good pull at the net.”

“Maybe, maybe,” said the father, smiling.

“Well, let’s grant it. Now, I was a fisherman before I took to the cloth, and I have been a fisherman ever since, right or wrong; and I hold that there is very little wrong in providing a dinner.”

“I’ll not argue with you,” said Father Brisdone. “If all men were like you, Brother Peasegood, this would be a happier world.”

“Wrong again!” cried Master Peasegood. “You see you force on an argument. If all men were like me, brother, it would be an unhappier world; for, look you, I’m too fat. I’m as big as three small men; and, if all were like me, we should be so crowding and elbowing each other that we should be quarrelling for want of room. Ha, ha, ha!” and “ha, ha, ha,” he laughed again, making the rocks and woodlands echo to his jovial mirth; the stray rabbits betrayed their whereabouts by showing their little white tails as they hopped into their holes; and snake and lizard upon sunny bank hurrying away to safety long before the footsteps could be heard.

“There’s something in fishing that seems to expand the heart,” continued Master Peasegood to his willing hearer. “I never knew a man who was a good fisherman who was very wicked or brutal.”

“In other matters,” said Father Brisdone, with a smile.

“Well, well, well, but the fish we catch are vile, cruel things, which persecute their smaller fellows. Why, I’ve known a luce of twenty pounds seize and half swallow one of ten, and kill himself in the act. Oh, no, brother, I have no pity for a great luce or pike; and, besides, see what they are when nicely treated, well cleaned, and stuffed, and buttered, and baked. Ha, ha, ha! we have the advantage of you there, Brother Brisdone; we can be carnal-minded, and eat, and drink, and wive if we like. But come along and let’s begin. I can sniff the water now, with its soft wreaths of mist floating around. We’ll have the boat and set our lures, and fish for a couple of hours, and then take a brace of the finest to Master Cobbe, and beg some more breakfast for our pains.”

“But suppose we catch no fish?”

“But we shall catch fish – more, perhaps, than you expect.”

The two friends trudged on, and, upon turning a corner of the narrow lane, came upon Mother Goodhugh, standing at the turning where Sir Mark had made his first acquaintance with Wat Kilby.

“Good morrow, Mother Goodhugh,” said the stout parson.

“Save thee, my daughter,” said Father Brisdone.

“Are you both going to curse the murderer of Abel Churr?” said Mother Goodhugh, sourly.

“Nay,” said Master Peasegood; “and it would behove thee better, good woman, if thou did’st not sprinkle these curses of thine about with so liberal a hand. Come along, father.”

“Yes, go along,” cried the old woman, maliciously; “time-servers and makers of friendship with the ungodly as you are. But you’ll see, you’ll live to see.”

“She’s a terrible old woman,” said Master Peasegood, with a curious smile upon his lip; “and she seems to make my fat go cold, like unto that of venison on an unwarmed dish. I’ve given her up, father, as a bad nut to crack. The worst of it is, that if I turn prophet my sayings are never fulfilled; while, when she raises her voice, her prophesyings come to pass, and the simple folks here believe in her more than in me. But thank goodness, here we are.”

Three hundred paces brought them to the edge of the lake, over which the soft white mists were disappearing before the sun. The boat lay on the sandy beach, with a chain holding it fast to the trunk of an old willow; and, as soon as the basket and wallet had been laid in, Master Peasegood helped his friend to take his place.

“I don’t think I shall swamp the boat, Brother Brisdone,” he said, laughing, as he sent the skiff well down in the water. “If I do, just you hold on tightly to my gown, for I’m too fat to sink.”

A hearty “Ha, ha, ha!” floated across the lake as he finished his speech; and then, taking the little oars, he proceeded to paddle across for some distance before pausing and opening the large basket he had brought.

The first thing taken out was a large can of water with a lid pierced with holes; and then from the bag were shaken out a dozen bladders, each tied round the centre with a string and a loop. From his basket Master Peasegood then brought out a dozen goodly hooks, whose points were stuck in a piece of cork, and whose strings were neatly tied in a bunch; and, as he took them off, one by one, each was baited with a fresh young gudgeon from the can, the string attached to one of the bladders, and this dropped overboard to float away.

In a short time the whole of the hooks were baited, and the lake dotted with the bladders that floated here and there, borne by the breeze or tugged by the lively gudgeons. Then, and then only, did Master Peasegood nearly upset the boat by leaning over the side to wash his hands, and smile at his companion.

His smile was not perceived though, for Father Brisdone was sitting with one elbow upon his knee, his cheek upon his hand, gazing out and away at the soft landscape, with the Pool-house and its works glorified by the morning sun.

“Now we’ll sit and talk for awhile,” said Master Peasegood, smiling jollily. “What do you say to a pleasant subject for discussion – say purgatory?”

“Because thou hast been putting these poor gudgeons into a state of misery, brother?” said Father Brisdone.

“Let the gudgeons rest,” said Master Peasegood. “They have all gone overboard like so many finny Jonahs, for the benefit of those on board this ship; and, if they are lucky, they will soon be safe in so many whales’ insides. Ha, ha, ha! Master Brisdone, I’m afraid I’m a very irreverent disciple. By all the saints, there goes one of the Jonahs. See!”

He pointed to where, just by a reed-bed towards which the bladder had drifted, there was a tremendous swirl in the water, and away it went skimming along at a rapid rate.

“Ha, yes, I suppose that will be a great fish,” said Father Brisdone, sadly; “but I was thinking of the maiden at yon house – sweet little Mace.”

“Bless her!” said Master Peasegood.

“Amen,” said his companion. “Brother Joseph, she is at a perilous age, and I do not think her father’s to be trusted.”

“You mean with her future?” said Master Peasegood. “I fear so too. Poor child, she needs a mother’s counsel!”

“Think you she has a lover?” said Father Brisdone, quietly.

“Two fierce luces playing round the little gudgeon,” cried Master Peasegood, excitedly. “One of them will snatch it up directly. Nay, nay,” he continued, reddening; “I meant no inference. I was thinking of yon bait. There it goes.”

He pointed to where a gudgeon had leaped several times out of the water to escape a couple of fierce pike, one of which seized it and bore it off.

“Lovers?” he continued. “Yes, that courtly fellow from town is trying to win her, and so is Gilbert Carr.”

“And she?”

“She loves Culverin Carr with all her pretty little soul, but he shall not have her unless – ”

“Unless what?”

“He mends his ways. She shall marry no scapegrace who plays fast and loose with women’s hearts. He trifles with Mistress Anne Beckley, and the silly girl is mad for him.”

“Nay, I think you wrong him, brother. I believe in Gil Carr as a true gentleman at heart. I love the brave, bold youth.”

“I hope I do wrong him,” said Master Peasegood. “He’s a fine, handsome fellow, but I will not have my little white moth played with, and the tender down upon her winglets crushed by unholy hands.”

“Why do you call her white moth?” said the father, dreamily.

“It is a fancy of the people here, because she dresses in white; and they meet her, looking soft, and white, and ethereal, in the woody lanes at eventide where moths abound. Ah, Father Brisdone, happy men are we who early marry ourselves to the Church, and know nought of these fleshly troubles. Yes, they call her the white moth; and between ourselves it’s a glowworm that often comes wooing to her, and I fear his light will burn.”