CHAPTER XVI

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*Concerning one Dan Foe--A Friend in Need*

My state was now more desperate than ever, for, in the twinkling of an eye, three swords were pointed at me, to which a fourth would soon be added. Drawing my own I went back slowly to the cliffs, they following.

This time the odds were overwhelming, and there seemed little chance enough of winning through; but still I was resolved to fight it out until I either did so or was killed. Take me alive they should not--that I swore.

At first I was for making one big dash for it; cutting my way right through the knaves, that is, and so escaping: but a moment's thought convinced me that 'twere madness to attempt it, for who could safely hope to turn aside three ready swords at once? One would be sure to find a place inside my body. No, there was nothing for it save to wait and play the ugly game out to a finish--whether life or death. And even as I told myself this was so, up came number four.

What with the struggle he had had to free himself, and then the run, his breath was wellnigh sped, and so he stood there, pumping out his very heart, the while he pointed at me with his sword.

"Well, and what now?" enquired the leader sternly. "Why gape you thus? Know you this fellow?"

"Know him!" gasped the bond-breaker. "Know him! Aye, verily!"

"Who is he, then?"

"One--Michael--Fane ... Spy ... malcontent ... murderer! I, Dick Harland, tell you so."

"Ah! whom hath he murdered?"

"My goodly comrade Adam Blunt. He lies up yonder stricken through the heart by this same fellow's sword."

"Is this thing true?" enquired the leader, turning to me.

"'Tis true enough that I have killed the rascal," I replied; "but 'twas a fair straight fight--not murder."

"This hath an ugly look," quoth he, stroking his beard the while he frowned upon me. "Why killed you him?"

"'Twas either that, or being killed myself," I answered; "and most of us choose life in place of death."

He paused a moment with a puzzled look, then turned to Harland, saying:

"You would have killed this man, then, eh?"

"Nay, not so. We had him down and were about to bind him, when he escaped us by a trick. Then we called on him to yield, but he withstood us."

"And why would ye have bound him?"

"Because our orders were to take him, dead or living."

"Ah! whose orders?"

"Our godly chaplain's."

"What! Dr. Ferguson's?'"

"The same. He bade us take this fellow at all costs. Two pounds was the reward for him if dead, and five if----"

He stopped and glanced around him foolishly. In his excitement he had let out a secret which he had not meant to. I started at his words: so did the leader.

"Two pounds if dead," he murmured to himself, "and five if living. Verily, the fellow hath some value, then. But, come," he added quickly, "you say that he escaped you by a trick. What trick was that?"

"Why, as we held him safely on the ground he gave the password of the night, and when, in our amazement, we drew back, he freed himself and laid about him handsomely."

"Ah, a dangerous fellow, by my life," rejoined the other, in whom, no doubt, the thought of promised gold was working. "He also gave it unto us just now. How came you by that word, young man?"

"I got it from a friend," I answered.

"Liar! liar!" broke in Harland fiercely. "He is a spy--a malcontent! He hath no friends among us."

"Stop!" said the leader, holding up a hand. "Such ranting will not help us. Young man," he added, frowning on me, "'tis clear that you are up to no good purpose; and now I come to think of it, you did deceive me when I spoke about the pistol shots we heard. Yea, verily, methinks the statement of our comrade here is true. But say, now, are you for us or against us?"

"Neither."

"Ah, there you stand condemned. A man who fights and kills as you have done this night, and then claims that he takes no side, is little to my liking. I trust him not. Therefore, lay down your sword and pistols and come with us peaceably. So shall your words be proven, whether they be true or false. Down with your arms, I say!"

I did not move, but gripped my sword a little tighter, and stood ready for the worst.

"You will not yield, then?" he went on, after watching me intently for a moment.

"Try me and see," I answered curtly.

"Which means a threat of further violence," quoth he.

"Nay, a simple invitation," I replied.

"Ah, so you mock me, eh?"

He took a threatening step towards me.

"Have a care! I pray you have a care!" sang Harland from behind. "That sword of his is over-ready, as my poor comrade Adam Blunt proved to his cost."

"Perchance your comrade lacked my skill," returned the leader sneeringly. "Again I ask, young man, wilt yield?"

"And again I answer--try me and prove the matter," I replied.

"I pray you let us fall upon him in a heap," cried Harland. "His pistols count for naught, for one of them hath been discharged and the other hath been soaked with water. Let us fall to, I say, and smite him hip and thigh."

"What now!" rejoined the other, turning on him angrily. "Dost take me for a craven coward? Do I, who fought in Cromwell's Ironsides, and who with this same blade have slain a good score of lusty fellows; do I, I say, need help from such as you against this stripling? Nay, verily, I trow not. I give you one more chance, young man," he added turning to me. "Wilt yield?"

"Not while I have a sword and life," I answered firmly.

"Your blood be on your head, then, not on mine," said he. "Friends, bear witness that I would have spared this fellow; also mark well my strokes, from which ye may learn something. Now, back with you and give us room."

They fell back hurriedly, and next moment we were at it tooth and nail.

That was a fight indeed, and one which even now, with over forty years between, still sets my blood a-tingling when I think of it.

This time my foe was no half-hearted fellow, but a battle-seasoned soldier, who by his own account--and as I doubted not--had fought in Cromwell's Ironsides, and smitten many a skilful swordsman to the death. As I write these words I see again the stern, set face, the gleaming eyes that flashed beneath his head-piece, the moonlight glimmering on his breastplate, the sword that seemed to be alive--so swift and ready were its movements. His height was little less than mine, and though I judged his years to be well over fifty, his quickness, both of hand and foot, was wonderful to see.

At first there was a look of mockery, if not of pity, on his face, but when he found how well I knew my business this soon changed to one of crafty eagerness. He thought me worth the killing, and he meant to do it; while I, on my part, had then a no less firm intention.

Thus round and round we went upon that narrow strip of shore, each fighting for his life beneath the staring moon; while those who watched us made no sound except to gasp when a stroke or thrust of more than common deadliness seemed to foretell the end.

At times our feet were fairly covered by the swirling foam, and once I was driven, knee-deep, back into the sea by a sudden, mighty rush that took me unawares, and came near finishing the business. But I saved myself by springing out of reach, and then, with an answering rush, drove my opponent back towards the cliffs.

And now it was that youth began to tell. The Roundhead's breath came faster than it had done, and there was more of fury in his fighting, less of tempered skill. Perceiving this, I played a luring game, and, retreating slowly, encouraged him to press me fiercely, content to guard myself while he attacked. His blows and thrusts came fast and furious, and one false movement would have surely meant my death, but I contrived to parry everything, and soon the tale began to tell upon him sorely. His breath rushed forth in gasps, and in the end I knew that I should kill him if the fight continued. But I had slain one man that night and had no desire to add another to the list if I could help it. Therefore I sprang back suddenly and cried:

"Hold! Let us end this business while we have the chance. You have fought well, indeed, but I am the younger man and have no wish to kill you. Let then each of us depart in peace while he hath both life and honour to his credit."

"What's that!" he wellnigh shrieked. "A beardless stripling such as thou doth offer quarter to a man like me? Behold my answer to your mockery!"

With that he charged upon me like a maddened bull, and, with a diving movement, aimed a blow at me which must have brought his very hilt against my ribs had it gone fairly home.

"How's that?" he hissed as he delivered it.

'Twas thus--with one swift, glancing stroke I turned his sword aside and ran him through the body. Our eyes met as I drew my blade out, and ne'er shall I forget the look in his; 'twas one of such startled horror and surprise as haunts me to this day.

He stood there swaying for a moment, staring at me like some stricken beast, then, with a sobbing cry of "Help! I'm done for!" reeled and fell back dead.

Heaven knows that when I saw him lying there a poor misshapen heap upon the shingle I felt no glory in the deed, but rather sorrow. He had fought manfully, and had, moreover, scorned to take advantage of my lonely state when urged to do so.

But there was little time for vain regrets, for barely had he fallen ere the other three came on with angry shouts and threatening swords.

"Have at him! Down with him!" they cried, and so pressed forward with a will, albeit with some caution also.

I fell back slowly till I reached the cliffs, then, having those behind me as a rear-guard, stood alert and ready, waiting for the onslaught; nor was it long in coming. There was a pause, then, as one man, they rushed upon me.

A dazzling flash of steel broke out beneath my eyes as three long shining blades shot forward in the moonlight. With one great swinging stroke I swept them all aside, then with a downward blow clave Harland through from chin to chine.

That was good start enough for anything, and made the other two draw back in doubtful wonder. But indeed they were fine lusty fellows, who by the look of them had known much fighting, and so next moment they came on again with still greater fierceness and determination.

For a time I held my own, parrying their deadly strokes, and checking every artful trick for mastering me; but no man can go on against such odds for ever, and what I had already gone through now told a woeful tale. My breath and strength began to fail, together with that quickness, both of hand and eye, which meant everything to me just then.

Suddenly my sword-arm stung with pain, and, by warm blood trickling down beneath my sleeve, I knew that I was wounded. At that I made a forward rush, then sprang aside and sought to gain some breath; but, perceiving how things stood, they got between me and the cliffs and drove me slowly back towards the sea.

My firm resolve now was to die fighting; take me alive, I swore they should not. I would, at any rate, save Ferguson three of his proffered pounds. Thus, as they came slowly on, I watched their every movement, and, by the look of exultation on their faces, I knew that they accounted me as vanquished, and only waited for a good safe chance either to make me prisoner or cut me down. But just as everything seemed hopeless, and I was meditating one last desperate effort, a loud voice hailed us from the cliff-top, crying:

"What's that? Who are you?"

"Help! help!" I answered, caring naught in my extremity whether I called on friend or foe.

That which followed was so utterly bewildering that I scarce know how to set it down with clearness. Fearing, doubtless, lest help might be at hand, and bent on ending matters ere it could arrive, my adversaries made a sudden furious rush, which forced me back, waist-deep, into the sea. Next moment, as it seemed, a man came running from the bottom of the cliffs with upraised sword.

"What now? What now?" he shouted. "Have at you for rank cowards!" and reaching my would-be slayers, he laid on with such a right good will that they turned and fled at headlong speed towards Charmouth.

Hot, breathless, and confused, I staggered from the water, and sinking down upon a rock, sat staring at my rescuer like one bedazed.

He was a sturdy, well-set man, some few years older than myself, with a fine, bold face and manner.

"Why, thou art wounded, friend," said he, pointing with his sword at the blood which trickled slowly from my sleeve.

"Nay, 'tis but a prick," I answered.

"Well, we had best make sure of that," said he, and kneeling down, pulled up my sleeve and found the wound. A small vein had been pierced, but nothing more. Taking a kerchief from his neck, he bound it tightly round the spot, then, rising, said:

"You were hard pressed, methinks."

"Yes, I have fought with five this night," I answered, "and have slain three of them--two here, and one up yonder."

"Good, now, by my life! Most excellent!" cried he. "I dearly love a man who wins to victory against such odds."

"The victory was far from being mine," I answered; "for, had you not thus come in the nick of time, I should most surely have been lying dead beneath the sea by now. You saved my life, sir, and I owe you much."

"Nay, 'twas naught," he murmured, sheathing his sword and gazing out across the moonlit water. "Faith, I scarcely struck a blow; 'twas but a nimbleness in coming down yon cliff-path. But to have killed three men out of five! Ah! that was lovely; that was worth the doing. Yes, by my life, such lusty deeds as those have made Old England what she is, and will, methinks, make her still greater and more feared in years to come."

"Well, well," said I, not wishing to dwell further on my work of death, "and whither go you, pray?"

"To Lyme, to join the Duke."

"Ah! I also go to Lyme, though not to join the Duke; but rather to my bed."

"Good, then by your leave I'll bear you company," said he. "So, when you are ready----"

"And that is now," I answered, rising.

He paused a moment to gaze down upon the two dead men, then off we went together.

"Know you who those coward rascals were?" he asked me as we strode along.

"Some of Duke Monmouth's men," I answered.

He stopped and looked at me, then broke into a laugh.

"What now?" I asked.

"Why, just to think of it," said he, "that I should start my fighting for the Duke's cause by drawing sword against his followers! But, say, why did these fellows thus attack you?"

"Because I stand in no high favour with a man named Robert Ferguson."

"Ah! a canting rogue. I know him well. And so you are not for the Duke?"

"Nay, I am for the King," I answered boldly, having now made up my mind on that point.

Again he laughed in merry fashion.

"Oh, what a mocking whirligig is life!" said he. "Here walk I side by side with one with whom perchance I may cross swords in battle."

"Aye, like enough," I answered grimly; "but, say, why stand you for the Duke?"

"Well, now, it might well be for the same reason that you join King James; but, to tell honest truth, it is because his side doth seem to promise most of fine adventure. I love adventure; I was made for it; and some day I will make my name thereby, though not with sword--with pen."

"Ah! you are a writer, then?"

"Nay, but a sorry scribbler as yet; but, look you, some day I will write a book which shall assuredly set all England tingling in my praise. In short, I will be famous. Mark well those words, and think upon them in the years to come."

"That I will," I answered wonderingly.

Talking of many things, we reached at length the place where he must turn aside into the town, while I, who thought it wisdom to avoid the haunts of men, intended to go home along the shore. There he took my hand, and said:

"I would crave one favour ere we part."

"Aye, twenty, and they are granted if 'tis in my power to do it," I answered warmly.

"Nay, 'tis but a little one," said he. "I would know the name of one who used his sword so well."

"My name is Michael Fane; and may I, too, know that of one who saved my life?"

"Dan Foe--a name unknown at present, but one which, as I told you, shall hereafter be as common and familiar as the King's. And so, friend Fane, good night; and if we meet in battle, may we fight fair and bravely, like true Englishmen!"

With that he grasped my hand again, then turned and sped towards the town.

And thus it was that I met one who, as Defoe (a name he took long afterwards), is known to all of you as the writer of that wondrous history of a shipwrecked man upon a lonely island.[1]

[1] The author of _Robinson Crusoe_ was out in the Monmouth Rebellion joining the Duke at Lyme.

On leaving him I hurried on my way along the silent shore with strangest thoughts for company. Once someone shouted from the cliffs, and, yet again, some fellows hailed me from a boat which lay close inshore; but I heeded not, save to increase my speed, for, truly, my adventures for that night were all-sufficient.

So, in the end, I reached The Havering without mishap, and there, tired out in body and in mind, I sought my bed, and slept like any dog.

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