The Mayor of Troy Part 15

"Wh'st! Miss Mar-ty!"

"Gracious goodness!" After a moment's hesitation she craned out timorously. "Cai Tamblyn . . .?"

"Miss Marty!"

"What on earth are you doing there at this time of night?"

"Sentry-go."

"Nonsense. What do I want of a sentry?"

"You never can tell."

"Are you here by the Major's order?"

"Ch't!" answered Cai Tamblyn. "_Him!_"

"Then go away, please, and let me beg you to speak more respectfully of your master."

"I reckon," said Cai, slowly, "you don't know that, barrin' the n.i.g.g.e.r under the stairs, this here town's as empty as my hat.

Well, a man can but die once, and if the French come, let 'em; that's all I say. Good night, miss."

"The town empty?"

"Males, females and otherwise, down to Miss Jex at the post-office."

(Cai Tamblyn nursed an inveterate antipathy for the post-mistress.

He alleged no reason for it, save that she wore moustaches, which was no reason at all, and a monstrous exaggeration.) "There's Miss Pescod gone, and Miss Tregentil with her maid."

"But where? Why?"

"Up the river. Gallivantin'. That's what I spoke ye for, just now.

Mind you, I don't propose no gallivantin'; but there's safety in numbers, and if you've a mind for it, I've the boat ready by the Broad Slip."

"But what foolishness!"

"Ay," Mr. Tamblyn a.s.sented. "That's what I said to the Doctor when he first mentioned it. 'What foolishness,' I said, 'at _her_ time o'

life!' But then we never reckoned on the whole town goin' crazed."

"The Doctor?" queried Miss Marty, with a glance down the dark street.

"He thinks of everything," she murmured.

There was a pause, during which Mr. Tamblyn somewhat ostentatiously tested the lock of his musket.

"You are not going to frighten me, Cai."

"No, miss."

"I--I think an expedition up the river would be very pleasant. If, as you say, Miss Pescod has gone--"

"Yes, miss."

"I must bring Scipio."

"Very well, miss. If the French come, they _might_ think o' looking under the stairs."

Twenty minutes later Miss Marty--escorted by Scipio, who bore a lantern--tiptoed down the street to the Broad Slip, fearful even of her own light footstep on the cobbles.

The Broad Slip--it has since been filled in--was in those days a sort of dock, inset between the waterside houses and running up so close to the street that the vessels it berthed were forced to take in their bowsprits to allow the pack-horse traffic to pa.s.s. On its south side a flight of granite steps led down to the water: and at the foot of these (the tide being low) Cai Tamblyn waited with his boat.

"I declare my heart's in my mouth," Miss Marty panted, as she took her seat. Cai directed Scipio to sit amids.h.i.+ps, pushed off in silence, and taking the forward thwart, began to pull.

"Now there's a thing," he said after a few strokes with a jerk of his head towards the dark longsh.o.r.e houses, "you don't often see nor hear about outside o' the Bible; a deserted city. Fine pickings for Boney if he only knew."

Miss Marty's thoughts flew back at once to a corner cupboard in the parlour, inlaid with tulips in Dutch marqueterie, and containing the Major's priceless eggsh.e.l.l china. To be sure, if the French landed, she--weak woman that she was--could not defend this treasure.

But might not the Major blame her for having abandoned it?

"I--I trust," she hazarded, "that our brave fellows have succeeded in their enterprise. It seemed to me that I heard the sound of distant firing just now."

"If they hadn't, miss, they'd ha' been back afore now. I had my own doubts about 'em, for they're a hair-triggered lot, the Troy Gallants. No fear of their goin' off; but 'tis a matter o' doubt in what direction."

"Your master," said Miss Marty, severely, addressing Cai across Scipio (who for some reason seldom or never spoke in Cai's company)-- "your master has the heart of a lion. He would die rather than acknowledge defeat."

"A heart of a lion, miss, if you'll excuse my saying it, is an uncomfortable thing in a man's stomach; an' more especially when 'tis fed up on the wind o' vanity. I've a-read my Bible plumb down to the forbidden books thereof, and there's a story in it called Bel and the Dragon, which I mind keeping to the last, thinkin' 'twas the name of a public-house. 'Tis a terrible warnin' against swollen vittles."

"You are a dreadful cynic, Cai."

"Nothin' of the sort, miss," said Cai, stoutly. "I thinks badly o'

most men--that's all."

His talk was always cross-grained, but its volume betrayed a quite unwonted geniality to-night. And half a mile farther, where the dark river bent around Wiseman's Stone, he so far relaxed as to rest on his oars and challenge the famous echo from the wooded cliffs.

Somewhat to Miss Marty's astonishment it responded.

"And by night, too! I had no idea!"

"Night?" repeated Mr. Tamblyn, after rowing on for another fifty strokes. He paused as if he had that moment heard, and glanced upward. "'Tis much as ever. The sky's palin' already, and we'll not reach Lerryn by sunrise. I think, miss, if you'll step ash.o.r.e, this here's as good a place as any. Scipio and me'll keep the boat and turn our backs."

Miss Marty understood. The boat's nose having been brought alongside a ridge of rock, she landed in silence, climbed the foresh.o.r.e, up by a hazel-choked path to a meadow above, and there, solemnly thrusting her hands into the lush gra.s.s, turned to the east and bathed her face in the dew. It is a rite which must be performed alone, in silence; and the morning sun must not surprise it.

"You've been terrible quick," remarked Cai, as she stepped down to the foresh.o.r.e again in the ghostly light. "You can't have stayed to dabble your feet. Didn't think it wise, I s'pose? And I dare say you're right."

From far ahead of them as they started again, the voices of the singers came borne down the river; and again Miss Marty's memory supplied the words of the song:

"The young men of our town, they might if they wo'ld-- For summer is a-comin' in to-day-- They might have built a s.h.i.+p and have gilded her with gold In the merry merry morning of May."

"The young men . . . the young men . . . they might if they wo'ld."

Ah, Miss Marty, was it only the edge of the morning that heightened the rose on your cheek by a little--a very little--as the sky paled?

And now the kingfishers were awake, and the woodlands nigh, and the tide began to gather force as it neared the narrower winding channel.

To enter this they skirted a mud-flat, where the day, breaking over the tree-tops and through the river mists, shone on scores upon scores of birds gathered to await it--curlews, sandpipers, gulls in rows like strings of jewels, here and there a heron standing sentry.