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Then there were the eager Nigel, the melancholy Aylward, Black Simon who was a tried swordsman, and three archers, Baddlesmere, Masters and Dicon of Rye, all veterans of the French War. The numbers in the two vessels might be about equal; but Badding as he glanced at the bold harsh faces which looked to him for orders had little fear for the result.
Where is Cock Badding? Badding is warden!" shouted the crowd. A moment later a short swarthy man, bull-necked and deep-chested, pushed through the people. He was clad in rough russet wool with a scarlet cloth tied round his black curly head. His sleeves were rolled up to his shoulders, and his brown arms, all stained with grease and tar, were like two thick gnarled branches from an oaken stump.
They had all caught fire, and there was not one who would be left out. Badding picked up his hammer. "I will come myself," said he, "and you also, little master, since it is your hot head that has planned it. Then there is Black Simon, the best sword of the Cinque Ports.
A moment later the same fierce hiss ended in a loud wooden crash, and a short, thick crossbow-bolt was buried deep in the side of their boat. "Close in, close in!" roared Badding, tugging at his oar. "Saint George for England! Saint Leonard for Winchelsea! Close in!" But again that fatal crossbow twanged. Dicon of Rye fell back with a shaft through his shoulder.
But Badding, Masters the archer and he had been hustled back to the bulwark and were barely holding their own from minute to minute against the fierce crowd who assailed them, when an arrow coming apparently from the sea struck the foremost Frenchman to the heart. A moment later a boat dashed up alongside and four more men from the Marie Rose scrambled on to the blood-stained deck.
See how she points. It is Picardy and not Gascony that she will fetch this journey in spite of her wine-staves." "Then we must lay her aboard!" cried Cock Badding. "Come, lads, here is my own Marie Rose ready to cast off. Who's for a trip with a fight at the end of it?" There was a rush for the boat; but the stout little seaman picked his men. "Go back, Jerry!
"We have still four hours of daylight," said he; "but if we do not lay her aboard ere darkness falls she will save herself, for the nights are as black as a wolf's mouth, and if she alter her course I know not how we may follow her." "Unless, indeed, you might guess to which port she was bound and reach it before her." "Well thought of, little master!" cried Badding.
Each drew his string from its waterproof case and bent the huge arc of his war-bow as he fitted it into the nocks. "Now, master, we are at your back," said they as they pulled and tightened their sword-belts. But already Cock Badding had been carried away by the hot lust of battle and had thrown aside every fear and doubt which had clouded him.
"Where my master goes I go also," cried Aylward, "so stand clear, master-shipman, or you may come by a hurt." "By Saint Leonard! archer," said Cock Badding, "had I more time I would give you a lesson ere I leave land. Stand back and give place to others!" "Nay, stand back and give place to me!" cried Aylward, and seizing Badding round the waist he slung him into the dock.
"What is it?" Cock Badding shaded his keen eyes with his strong brows hand. "She has but just gone out," said he. "She is La Pucelle, a small wine-sloop from Gascony, home-bound and laden with barrel-staves." "I pray you did any man join her at the very last?" "Nay, I know not. I saw no one." "But I know," cried a seaman in the crowd.
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