And now, being in the month of June, and our year of exile (as it liked us to call it) nigh at an end, Dawson one night put the question to Don Sanchez, which had kept us fluttering in painful suspense these past six months, whether he had saved sufficient by his labours, to enable us to return to England ere long.
“Yes,” says he, gravely, at which we did all heave one long sigh of relief, “I learn that a convoy of English ships is about to sail from Alicante in the beginning of July, and if we are happy enough to find a favourable opportunity, we will certainly embark in one of them.”
“Pray, Señor,” says I, “what may that opportunity be; for ’tis but two days’ march hence to Alicante, and we may do it with a light foot in one.”
“The opportunity I speak of,” answers he, “is the arrival, from Algeria, of a company of pirates, whose good service I hope to engage in putting us aboard an English ship under a flag of truce as redeemed slaves from Barbary.”
“Pirates!” cry we, in a low breath.
“What, Señor!” adds Dawson, “are we to trust ourselves to the mercy and honesty of Barbary pirates on the open sea?”
“I would rather trust to their honesty,” answers the Don, dropping his voice that he might not be heard by Moll, who was leading home the goats, “than to the mercy of an English judge, if we should be brought to trial with insufficient evidence to support our story.”
Jack and I stared at each other aghast at this talk of trial, which had never once entered into our reckoning of probabilities.
“If I know aught of my fellow-men,” continues the Don, surely and slow, “that grasping steward will not yield up his trust before he has made searching enquiry into Moll’s claim, act she her part never so well. We cannot refuse to give him the name of the ship that brought us home, and, learning that we embarked at Alicante, jealous suspicion may lead him to seek further information there; with what result?”
“Why, we may be blown with a vengeance, if he come ferreting so nigh as that,” says Dawson, “and we are like to rot in gaol for our pains.”
“You may choose to run that risk; I will not,” says the Don.
“Nor I either,” says Dawson, “and God forgive me for overlooking such a peril to my Moll. But, do tell me plainly, Señor, granting these pirates be the most honest thieves in the world, is there no other risk to fear?”
The Don hunched his shoulders.
“Life itself is a game,” says he, “in which the meanest stroke may not be won without some risk; but, played as I direct, the odds are in our favour. Picked up at sea from an Algerine boat, who shall deny our story when the evidence against us lies there” (laying his hand out towards the south), “where no man in England dare venture to seek it?”
“Why, to be sure,” says Dawson; “that way all hangs together to a nicety. For only a wizard could dream of coming hither for our undoing.”
“For the rest,” continues the Don, thoughtfully, “there is little to fear. Judith Godwin has eyes the colour of Moll’s, and in all else Simon must expect to find a change since he last saw his master’s daughter. They were in Italy three years. That would make Judith a lisping child when she left England. He must look to find her altered. Why,” adds he, in a more gentle voice, as if moved by some inner feeling of affection and admiration, nodding towards Moll, “see how she has changed in this little while. I should not know her for the raw, half-starved spindle of a thing she was when I saw her first playing in the barn at Tottenham Cross.”
Looking at her now (browsing the goats amongst my most cherished herbs), I was struck also by this fact, which, living with her day by day, had slipped my observation somewhat. She was no longer a gaunt, ungainly child, but a young woman, well proportioned, with a rounded cheek and chin, brown tinted by the sun, and, to my mind, more beautiful than any of their vaunted Moorish women. But, indeed, in this country all things do mature quickly; and ’twas less surprising in her case because her growth had been checked before by privation and hardship, whereas since our coming hither it had been aided by easy circumstances and good living.
CHAPTER XIV.
Of our coming to London (with incidents by the way), and of the great address whereby Moll confounds Simon, the steward.
On the third day of July, all things falling in pat with the Don’s design, we bade farewell to Elche, Dawson and I with no sort of regret, but Moll in tears at parting from those friends she had grown to love very heartily. And these friends would each have her take away something for a keepsake, such as rings to wear on her arms and on her ankles (as is the Moorish fashion), silk shawls, etc., so that she had quite a large present of finery to carry away; but we had nothing whatever but the clothes we stood in, and they of the scantiest, being simply long shirts and “bernouses” such as common Moors wear. For the wise Don would let us take nought that might betray our sojourn in Spain, making us even change our boots for wooden sandals, he himself being arrayed no better than we. Nor was this the only change insisted on by our governor; for on Dawson bidding Moll in a surly tone to give over a shedding of tears, Don Sanchez turns upon him, and says he:
“It is time to rehearse the parts we are to play. From this day forth your daughter is Mistress Judith Godwin, you are Captain Robert Evans, and you” (to me), “Mr. Hopkins, the merchant. Let us each play our part with care, that we do not betray ourselves by a slip in a moment of unforeseen danger.”
“You are in the right, Señor,” answers Jack, “for I doubt it must be a hard task to forget that Mistress Judith is my daughter, as it is for a loving father to hold from chiding of his own flesh and blood; so I pray you, Madam” (to Moll), “bear that in mind and vex me no more.”
We lay this lesson seriously to heart, Dawson and I, for the Don’s hint that we might end our career in gaol did still rankle woundily in our minds. And so very soberly we went out of the forest of Elche in the night on mules lent us by Sidi ben Ahmed, with a long cavalcade of mules charged with merchandise for embarking on board the pirates’ vessel, and an escort of some half-dozen fierce-looking corsairs armed with long firelocks and a great store of awesome crooked knives stuck in their waist-cloths.
After journeying across the plain, we came about midday to the seaboard, and there we spied, lying in a sheltered bay, a long galley with three masts, each dressed with a single cross-spar for carrying a leg-of-mutton sail, and on the shore a couple of ship’s boats with a company of men waiting to transport our goods and us aboard. And here our hearts quaked a bit at the thought of trusting ourselves in the hands of these same murderous-looking pirates. Nevertheless, when our time came we got us into their boat, recommending ourselves very heartily to God’s mercy, and so were rowed out to the galley, where we were very civilly received by an old Moor with a white beard, who seemed well acquainted with Don Sanchez. Then the merchandise being all aboard, and the anchor up, the men went to their oars, a dozen of each side, and rowed us out of the bay until, catching a little wind of air, the sails were run up, and we put out to sea very bravely.
“Señor,” says Dawson, “I know not how I am to play this part of a sea-captain when we are sent on board an English ship, for if they ask me any questions on this business of navigating, I am done for a certainty.”
“Rest easy on that score, Evans,” replies the Don. “I will answer for you, for I see very clearly by your complexion that you will soon be past answering them yourself.”
And this forecast was quickly verified; for ere the galley had dipped a dozen times to the waves, poor Dawson was laid low with a most horrid sickness like any dying man.
By sundown we sighted the island of Maggiore, and in the roads there we cast anchor for the night, setting sail again at daybreak; and in this latitude we beat up and down a day and a night without seeing any sail, but on the morning of the third day a fleet of five big ships appeared to the eastward, and shifting our course we