The epitaph still lingers in which it was said that he
"could never rest until he had foughten his fill." When,
therefore, swimming like a duck, he reached a rope and pulled
himself hand over hand up to the quay, all stood aghast to see
what fell fate would befall this bold stranger. But Badding
laughed loudly, dashing the saltwater from his eyes and hair.
"You have fairly won your place, archer," said he. "You are the
very man for our work. Where is Black Simon of Norwich?"
A tall dark young man with a long, stern, lean face came forward.
"I am with you, Cock," said he, "and I thank you for my place."
"You can come, Hugh Baddlesmere, and you, Hal Masters, and you,
Dicon of Rye. That is enough. Now off, in God's name, or it will
be night ere we can come up with them!"
Already the head-sails and the main-sail had been raised, while a
hundred willing hands poled her off from the wharf. Now the wind
caught her; heeling over, and quivering with eagerness like an
unleashed hound she flew through the opening and out into the
Channel. She was a famous little schooner, the Marie Rose of
Winchelsea, and under her daring owner Cock Badding, half trader
and half pirate, had brought back into port many a rich cargo
taken in mid-Channel, and paid for in blood rather than money.
Small as she was, her great speed and the fierce character of her
master had made her a name of terror along the French coast, and
many a bulky Eastlander or Fleming as he passed the narrow seas
had scanned the distant Kentish shore, fearing lest that
ill-omened purple sail with a gold Christopher upon it should
shoot out suddenly from the dim gray cliffs.
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