4-1/2B, EROS By MALCOLM JAMESON "4-1/2B, Eros."...
A strange code, but grizzled space-trader Karns used it to break the perilous Mercury-Venus Jinx.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Makee chop chop.
Kwei!
Kwei!"
The two Venusian coolies squatted down between the shafts and with one quick motion elevated the sedan chair to shoulder height.
Then they started off in a lazy run through the torrential downpour, splashing mud right and left as their sturdy yellow legs struck into the watery lane of muck that passes for a road in Venusberg.
Captain Hank Karns, the Lone Trader, sank back in his seat and watched idly with mild blue eyes as first one grass hut and then another appeared momentarily through rifts of rain.
There would be time enough to worry about Cappy Wilkerson's plight when he reached the administration building and found out more about the charges against him.
No doubt it was just another shakedown, the effort of some minor official to pry loose a little more than the customary cumshaw.
Captain Karns had berthed his own old trading tub not an hour earlier and as he registered the arrival of his _Swapper_ he noted that under the date of three days before there was the entry: "_Wanderer_, Captain Wilkerson, en route Mercury to Luna."
After it was the notation in red: "Detained by order Collector of the Port; captain in custody."
Hank Karns thoughtfully pawed his long white beard.
Cappy Wilkerson was a careful and upright man and a lifelong friend; what manner of charge could they have trumped up against him?
That they were trumped up he took for granted, for the local government of autonomous Venus was notoriously corrupt and always had been.
The Venusians themselves were the descendants of coolies brought centuries before from tropical Asia.
They took little or no interest in government.
Politics had, therefore, fallen into the hands of white adventurers, most of whom lived on Venus for the very good reason they were not wanted elsewhere.
The Central Council of the loose Interplanetary Federation seldom interfered with them unless for acts so flagrant as to affect the Federation as a whole.
The old space merchant left his chair at the courtroom and squeezed through the crowd at the back just in time to hear the whack, whack, whack of the gavel marking the end of the trial.
Standing defiantly in the prisoner's box was Cappy Wilkerson, his eyes flashing and his iron-gray mane thrown back.
He looked like an indignant old lion brought to bay by a pack of jackals.
The judge, a young man with a monocle and a stiff black pompadour, was dressed in a smart military uniform which made him appear anything but judicial.
He was biting out his words as if what he was saying was inspired by personal venom.
"I have heard all you have had to say, including your filthy imputations as to the integrity of this court.
Your guilt is so apparent that we need not trouble even to preserve the record of your silly and malicious allegations...." Here the judge contemptuously tossed a sheaf of papers into a wastebasket.
"Therefore, bearing in mind not only your guilt but your contumacious conduct before me, I sentence you to five years at hard labor in such a one of our prison camps as the Director of Welfare and Beneficence may select.
"It is further directed that your ship, together with its illicit contents, be confiscated and sold at public auction in order to defray the cost of these proceedings.
Marshal!
Take him away."
Hank Karns was on his feet at once, elbowing and pushing his way forward through the departing throng of curiosity-seekers.
His voice was shrill with indignation.
"Hey, you can't do that!"
he yelled.
Officials closed in on him at once, and the judge's face grew red with anger.
"This is a court of law," he said, "and the decisions of the presiding judge are final.
Now get out before I haul you up for contempt."
"Tarnation damn!"
muttered Hank Karns as he turned and left the building.
This was no ordinary shakedown.
This called for action, and quick action, for it was unthinkable that his buddy should be carted off to the insect-infested, fever-ridden, infamous Great Swamp of Venus.
White men lived but a few months there; a year, let alone five years, was as good as life.
A bulletin caught his eye, and as he read it he gasped.
The paste that fastened it to the board was still wet, but the paper bore characteristics of printed type.
It must have been prepared at least a day ago.
It read: COLLECTOR'S SALE One confiscated tube ship, the _Wanderer_, complete with fittings.
The cargo of the same consisting of miscellaneous trade goods.
Saturday.
Inquire at Collector's Office for details.
"Phew!"
gasped Hank Karns.
"_That_ was quick work.
And planned."
He turned and made his way to the Collector's Office.
The man at the front desk gaped at him woodenly.
"S'already sold," he said indifferently, the third time Karns put his question.
"But it says Saturday...." "Okay--it says Saturday.
So what?"
"B-but this is only Tuesday...." "We have a Saturday every week, dodo.
Now trot along and annoy somebody else for a change.
I have work to do."
Hank Karns blinked.
Why, Saturday was the day the _Wanderer_ docked.
These Venusians were getting raw.
They must have sold her that very day!
"Who is that old man?
Throw him out!"
Karns turned slowly and viewed the new speaker.
He was a big man, with piercing black eyes and a hawk nose, and heavily bearded--a strange sight for super-tropical Venus where men kept clean shaven for coolness.
But the man turned abruptly away and entered an inner office, slamming the door behind him.
Hank Karns' eyes followed him all the way--they were fixed on the back of the fellow's neck.
There, oddly enough, just above the shoulder line, peeped a line of color demarcation.
Above the line, which was made visible by the fact that its wearer had pulled open his collar for comfort, the skin was the normal pallor usually seen on Venus; below, it was a mottled chocolate color.
"Didja hear what the collector said?"
snarled the clerk.
"Scram!"
Without a word, Hank Karns turned and left the office.
He passed through the thronged corridors almost in a daze.
There was Cappy Wilkerson, gone to the Swamp, virtually condemned to death.
There was his ship sold, even before the trial which was to condemn it.
And everywhere there was high-handed insolence, seemingly inspired by this overbearing man with the duplex complexion.
What did it mean?
And the fact that he could not yet place those sharp eyes and that predatory nose, though somewhere, sometime, he had encountered them before, puzzled Hank Karns still more.
Something stank in Venus.
* * * * * An hour later he sat morosely in a tiny tavern he had long known, hidden up the blind alley known as Artemis Lane.
For half a century it had been familiar to him as the hangout for his kind.
"So you see how it is," the bartender was concluding.
"At this rate there won't be any more.
With all the old-timers dead or in the Swamp, how in hell can _I_ keep running.
No sir, this joint is for sale--for what it'll bring.
Drink up and have another."
Captain Karns took the proffered drink from the grizzled tavern-keeper, but despite its cheering nature--for it was purest "comet-dew"--he took it glumly.
Never in all his long and active life had he heard so much evil news at one sitting.
Another of his old pals had come to grief, and all because he had touched at Mercury.
Mercury, it appeared, was poison to all his tribe.
The record was too consistent to be accounted for by coincidence.
Coincidents do not occur in strings.
"And what makes it stink all the worse," persisted the indignant bartender, bitterly, "not a damn finger is lifted to stop the flow of trilibaine.
The town is lousy with it.
Half these natives stay hopped up all the time."
"I thought the Federals had cleaned that up ten years ago," commented Hank Karns.
"It's back," was the laconic retort.
Hank Karns said nothing.
The fact that three of his buddies were languishing in the malarial swamps of Venus, continually subject to the indignities of brutal guards was uppermost in his mind.
And besides that, two others--Bill Ellison and Jed Carter--had died on Mercury when their ships mysteriously blew up on the take-off.
That, too, had an especial significance, for those two were the only members of the trader tribe who had any sort of reputation as fire-eaters.
In their youth, of course, all of them had been bolder and more truculent, but as they gained in experience they learned that there is more to be gained by soft words than bluster.
If Hank was to secure the release of his friends it must be by guile, the use of a cunning superior to that employed by their common enemies.
_If_ he was to secure!
There was no if about it.
He must.
For it was Bob Merrill and Ben Wilkerson who had once rescued him, Hank Karns, from an even more deadly situation.
More than twenty years ago that had been, on far-off Io, and Hank Karns winced at the memory of it.
On that occasion he had, through the machinations of the notorious Von Kleber gang, been convicted and sentenced as a pirate.
Ten hateful and horror-filled days and nights he had spent in the mines of Sans Espérance, the Federal Penitentiary, digging radioactive ores.
Two of his friendly competitors heard of it and pled for a new trial wherein it was shown that he had been sent up through perjured testimony to screen the trial of the real culprits.
The wave of public opinion they started then did not subside until Von Kleber and his outlaws were put finally behind the bars.
No, there was no choice.
Cappy Wilkerson and Cappy Merrill must be released and Ellison and Carter avenged.
How?
That remained to be seen.
"Wa-al," drawled Hank Karns, elaborately, now that his mind was made up, "I'll be seein' you.
I'm taking a little trip into Mercury and back."
The bartender shook his head ominously.
"No fool like an old fool," he said, and he didn't laugh.
In the rain-lock, or the vestibule outside the bar, Karns stopped.
He felt inside the lining of his vest and after much fumbling produced a dog-eared memorandum book.
He ran through the yellowed pages until he found one covered with cryptic entries.
They appeared as if made long ago, but several interlineations in various colored inks showed that amendments had been made from time to time since the original writing of them.
Halfway down was the group P2, and what followed had been twice changed.
The line that stood in lieu of them read: "Vbg--wickerware--4-1/2B, Eros."
Hank Karns read the line through two or three times, then snapped the book shut and replaced it in its hiding place.
He carefully buckled up his slicker and jammed his sou'wester tight upon his head.
Then he stepped forth into the steamy drizzle of Artemis Lane.
He sloshed his way through mud and water until he came to the main drag.
He turned to the right and splashed along until he came to the corner where Erosville Road turned off.
He took the turn and plugged along for four blocks of its twisting, boggy length.
A dozen steps farther on he lifted his eyes and peered from beneath dripping brows at the signs about.
Across the street was what he sought--a sagging awning crudely painted with the legend; "An Shirgar--Dealer in Native Basketry."
On the bedewed window below was another, "Hir Spak Anglass."
Hank Karns stopped under the awning long enough to squish some of the water out of his shoes, then he entered.
A swarthy, turbanned Venusian met him, rubbing his hands together obsequiously and bowing jerkily at every step.
"Yiss, milord.
Valcom to mizrable shop.
Vat vishes milord?"
"Wickerware," said Hank Karns, tartly, for him.
"For export."
"Ah," breathed the representative of An Shirgar.
"Zhipluds, eh?
You pay?"
Captain Karns shook his head, and pointed to the private door at the back.
"Ah, vickware.
No pay.
Maybe boss ut see, eh?"
"Yep, trot him out," said Hank Karns, and began fingering the clever basketware of the Venutian hillmen.
He knew it would be quite a while before the Earth-man came, if this was operated like the Callistan branch had been, twenty years before.
After a time, without quite knowing how he knew, he was aware that someone else was in the showroom, studying him from a distance.
"Howdy," he said, turning around.
"I kinda wanted to finance a deal that's too big for me to swing--is this the place?"
"Might be," said the man non-committally.
He was a typical Terrestrian business man, not much over thirty, baldish, and plainly not given to foolishness.
"I don't touch anything as a rule unless I see a profit in it.
And no chance of loss.
What is your collateral?"
Hank Karns mentioned his ship.
The man snorted, and started to turn away.
"You're wasting time."
"I got a ring, too.
It's a--well--sorta heirloom."
The man came back.
He was still not interested, but he took the ring Karns offered him and weighed it in his hand.
Then he applied a loup to his eye and examined it closely.
"You've hocked this before?"
"Yes," chuckled Hank Karns.
"And got it back, too."
"Hmmm," said the man.
"It looks genuine.
What do you want?"
"I--uh--am dropping into Mercury to do a little trading.
When I get back I might want to buy a chair or so--mebbe a houseful of stuff--and just wanted to be sure my credit was good."
"You speak in riddles, my friend," said the man with a curious, tight little smile.
He was tossing the ring thoughtfully all the while.
"I'm only a lone trader," said Hank Karns, wistfully, "and don't know no better.
Supposing you keep the ring while I'm gone--to appraise it, so to speak.
All I want to know is who to call for when I get back.
_If_ I get back."
The man pocketed the ring.
"Where will the call come from?"
"I dunno.
Space, mebbe.
Jail, mebbe."
"My radio call is care assistant dockmaster, Venusberg sky-yard.
Mention berth twenty-three somehow.
As to the jail angle, I do not as a general thing do business with people in jail.
In that event, I might send you a lawyer, in consideration of this ring.
Tell Rashab, the night turn-key--you'll know him by the double scar on his chin--that you want to see Mr. Brown.
I can't guarantee he'll go, but if he does, bear in mind he's a very cagy fellow and that Venusberg jail is studded with dictaphones and scanners.
If what you have in mind smacks at all of illegality, it's likely he'll walk out on you."
"Yep," snapped Hank Karns, beginning to shut the clasps on his slicker, "I'll remember.
Only I don't think it'll be a lawyer I'll need.
If the joint is lousy with spy-machines, what I'll want is an old friend--a man of my type."
The man, whatever his name was, for he had still not given it, laughed outright for the first time.
He slapped the Lone Trader on the back.
"Men of your type, you old humbug, are extinct as the horse."
Hank Karns looked up to laugh back at him, but he was gone.
In his place stood the turbanned Venutian, still doing washing motions with his hands.
"Milord no like vickvare?
Milord go now?"
"My Lord, yes.
I go now."
Karns jammed on his sou'wester, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.
A half hour later he was making ready for the take-off for Mercury.
It was a shot in the dark, but it was a chance he had to take.
"To hell with that," thought Hank Karns.
Then briskly to the boy he had brought with him this trip as a general utility man, "Hey, Billy, look alive!
Bear a hand with getting them there rakes stowed!"
* * * * * "So that's Mercury," exclaimed Billy Hatch, four days later, as he stared goggle-eyed into the visiplate.
This was his first interplanetary trip.
"Yep," said Karns, "That's her, the doggonedest planet barrin' none in the whole dad-frazzled system.
After you've been here you can tell 'em you've seen wind blow, and I mean blow.
That's what them rakes is for.
To get around you lie down on your belly and pull yourself along by them.
It's a helluva place.
The sun on your back'd fry you, 'cepting there's always a ice-cold hurricane cooling you off."
"How can that be, cap'n?"
"Convection's the ten-sol word for it.
It's cause she's sizzling hot on one side and colder'n the underside of a iceberg on t'other.
The wind goes straight up over the desert and comes straight down over the back side glaciers.
Then it scoots for the desert again--and how!
Nobody could live an hour in any part of the place if it warn't for the temp'rate strip, and that's cockeyed enough.
You gotta steady, hundred-two-hundred-mile wind going straight into the sun, for that's right down to the horizon.
In the lee of a house you burn up, in the shade of it you'd freeze solid in five minutes.
And the houses have to be stone and streamlined."
Hank Karns kept a watchful eye on the terrain coming up to meet them.
Mooring a ship in that wind required the utmost art.
"As I told you, itsa helluva place.
Nuthing grows there but a sort of grass and some moss.
The only animals is varmints, like the cangrela and the trocklebeck.
It's cangrela claws and trocklebeck hides we trade for."
Billy Hatch listened, wide-eyed.
This was romance.
"The trocklebeck is a critter something on the order of a armadillo, only it's got horns and big claws to hang onto the ground.
It grazes, with its head allus into the wind.
The cangrela is built along the lines of a crab and has claws, too.
It crawls up behind the trocklebeck and kills 'em while they're feeding.
Trocklebeck scales and cangrela claws are both harder'n hell.
They use 'em in machinery."
"Oh," said Billy Hatch.
"But you better git forrard there and tend to them grapples, 'cause a-gitting hold of the ground here is ticklish business.
Ef we miss it's just too bad.
We'll roll over and over for miles and miles, like as not."
Hank Karns said no more for a time.
As a matter of fact, he was far from ready to land.
He had deliberately come up on the wrong side of the planet for making the landing at Sam Atkins' little trading store.
He wanted to give it a general bird's-eye view.
It was in a valley scooped out by the wind that he saw the first sign of a major alteration.
Behind a huge artificial wind-break lay a group of new buildings, and one of them was dome-topped with a squat chimney.
A matter of ten miles farther away was another new house and a small warehouse behind it.
Just over the next low ridge lay Atkins' place.
"Standby," warned Hank Karns, as he brought the ship's nose into the hurricane and began losing altitude.
"Don't let go 'til I tell you--and that'll be when we're practically down."
Just as the keel kissed the ground, Karns gave the signal and the anchors fell.
At the same instant he cut his rockets and the ship began falling away to leeward, dragging her anchors behind.
In a moment they grabbed, pulled loose and grabbed again.
That time they held.
Karns released a long pent-up sigh.
It was a perfect landing.
Sam Atkins' house lay but a bare hundred yards on the quarter.
There was still the business of shooting a wire over the trading post and making it fast at both ends, Atkins coming out to do his share.
Then Captain Karns slid down the wire to the shack and allowed himself to be hauled in by the trading post keeper.
"I'm glad to see you, Cap'n, and sorry at the same time," was his greeting from Sam Atkins.
Atkins was a grumpy sort and a self-made hermit.
He seemed to enjoy the solitude of windswept Mercury and the tedious, strenuous work of snaring cangrelas.
"How come sorry, Sam?"
asked Hank Karns, as innocently as if he had never visited Venus.
Atkins looked mournfully at him and jerked a thumb eastward.
"I've got neighbors--bad ones.
Whatever you do, don't go over there.
They'll trick you somehow.
They don't want outsiders coming here, they've got a ship of their own that makes a trip every week or so."
Hank Karns raised his eyebrows.
"Trocklebecks must be breeding faster'n they used to," he observed.
"Mercury never produced enough to justify more than two trips a year, if that."
"Trocklebecks," stated Atkins, "are practically extinct.
And the cangrelas are starving.
I doubt if I could scare up four cases of prime claws to save my soul.
It's _pagras_ that's doing it.
The place is crawling with them.
They bite the trockelbecks and they curl up and die."
"Mmm," commented Hank Karns.
He remembered those serpents well.
They were originally a Venusian beast--a variety of dragon, and extremely venomous.
They were really legged snakes, having thirty-six pairs of taloned legs and crab-like claws near the head, but the body was slender, rarely exceeding a yard in girth, for all their thirty-foot lengths.
"I'm closing up shop here," said the gloomy Atkins next.
"You can take the pick of what I own if you'll set me down at the next stop you make."
"Now you just keep your shirt on, Sam Atkins," replied Hank Karns, "I'm not a-doing anything of the damn kind.
I'm going over and have a talk with those gents in the next valley...." Sam Atkins glared at him.
"No fool like an old fool," he remarked, hopelessly.
Hank Karns chuckled.
"Seems folks are agreed pretty well about me.
But let's eat, so I can get along my way."
Unmooring and getting in the anchors was a troublesome job with only a green boy for a helper, but Hank Karns managed it.
At that it was a much easier maneuver to move the ship that mile over the ridge than to try to crawl it in the teeth of a permanent typhoon.
Moreover, if there was cargo to take aboard--and Hank Karns felt sure there would be--the ship would have to be moved anyhow.
So he took off, circumnavigated the planet, and came up again, this time to the little office building and warehouse next to Atkins' shack.
He took good care not to go near the other group of buildings.
As he descended, casting about for a good spot to fling out his grapnels he kept a sharp eye out for signs of life about the buildings.
All he saw was a couple of bronzed men, both bald as billiard balls, working over some object in the lee of the warehouse.
Upon sighting the descending spaceship one went inside the warehouse and the other caught hold of the guide-wire and let himself be blown down to what appeared to be the office building.
The man had on a heavily quilted suit of gray material--quilted so that if he lost his hold and was blown away, he would not bruise himself to death along the ground.
On the fourth try, Hank Karns managed to ground his ship not far from the office door.
This time he landed to leeward and had to make his way up-wind by crawling, assisted by a Mercurian "staff," or one of the rakes among his trade goods.
As he crawled, he observed he was being watched from a loophole beside the door.
But as he drew himself erect, the door opened and a man came out to greet him.
"Hello, Captain," said the man, cordially, "we're very glad to see you.
Come in and rest yourself."
The man, Karns observed, was dressed in a heavily quilted suit and was breathing heavily.
But he had a full head of hair and a luxuriant mustache.
"Howdy, yourself," returned the Lone Trader.
"Phew!
It's shore dusty hereabouts--I've heard of the place but I never seen it.
The far Trojans is my bailiwick and the asteroids in that corner...." "Really?"
said the man, helping his visitor through the door.
The office was a single room, and no one else was in it.
There was a bottle of voilet-hued liquor on the table and two glasses.
"Have a drink?
This is home brew--our Mercurian version of comet-dew--made from flowers that grow under the glacier lips."
"Don't care ef I do," remarked Karns, and sat down in the seat indicated.
"As I was saying, I thought I'd look in on this place, seeing as how I had to make the perihelion hop home.
Have to git home to see my oldest grandchild married."
"Wouldn't be interested in a bit of cargo, would you?"
asked the man.
"Our own ship is overdue, and I have some freight for Venus."
"I'm allus interested in a bit of cargo," said Karns, "but this trip I can't stop by Venus--time's too short."
"Oh, well," said his host, indifferently, "it doesn't matter about that.
I was thinking of shipping some boxes of claws and hides to our agent at Venusberg for sale there.
We are a new company and have no outlets on Terra yet, unless you wanted to speculate on your own account and buy them outright."
"Speculation's my business," said Hank Karns, serene and bland.
And added, with just a touch of foxiness, "_ef_ the buying price is right."
"Oh, we won't quarrel about that," laughed the man.
"The hides are a by-product with us--this is a pharmaceutical outfit.
We make a preparation from the hormones of these beasts.
You can have the horns at almost any price."
They spent the better part of an hour in good natured haggling, the child-like old man raising first one trivial objection after another to win small advantages--chiefly in the matter of valuation of the various items of trade goods he had to offer.
None of the lone traders ever dealt in cash.
The _Swapper_ was most appropriately named.
At last they shook on the bargain--and a bargain it most obviously was from the trader's point of view.
Mr. Raoul Dement, or so the company man styled himself, presented the visiting captain two flasks of the violet liquor after the old custom of the trade.
"Nice stuff," observed Hank Karns, licking his lip.
"The best I ever."
"There's twelve cases of it in the warehouse," said Dement, with a wink.
"Now, if you were the smuggling sort, there would be a nice profit for you.
But, of course...." "Hell," exploded Hank Karns, "running comet-dew's no sin.
Wisht I had a decimo for every gallon I've hauled.
Once in a coon's age I get stuck with a little fine, but shucks--the customer'll allus pay that for you."
There followed more dickering, but the upshot of it was that Hank Karns signed up for everything that had been offered him.
"Bon voyage," said Mr. Dement.
"If you ever pass this way again, drop in and visit."
"Sure will," said Hank Karns, looking his man in the eye.
He was interested in his host's forehead.
About an inch from the right temple there was a slight depression--the ineradicable scar of an old skull injury.
* * * * * Mercury was still a big disk behind when the _Swapper_ straightened out on her earthward trajectory.
"Step alive there, Billy, we got lots to do."
All the blandness, all the gullibility and child-like faith were gone from Hank Karns' face now.
He looked much more like work-ridden gnome than an emaciated Santa Claus.
For they had unpacked every case and strewn its contents on the deck, looking for contraband of a more serious nature than the harmless comet-dew.
But no case contained anything except what the invoice declared.
Hank left the job of repacking to the boy and went about a minute search of the ship itself.
In that he was not a moment too soon.
Behind the control board--hidden under the vine-like mass of electric leads--were two thermobombs.
Their detonating coils were already hot.
The control board was divided into three panels, each controlling an opposite pair of the six tubes which were arranged hexagonally about the stern.
Two of the panels were about to be ruined by fire.
Hank Karns' first impulse was to snatch the bombs loose and let them burn out harmlessly on the deck, but suddenly he checked it.
Instead he withdrew his hand and stuck his blistered fingers in his mouth.
Then he shouted a warning to Billy Hatch.
"Hey!
Stand by for a blast.
Bring an extinguisher, quick!"
The boy ran up, but nothing happened for several minutes.
Then the two boards flashed fire.
They put the fire out, but the damage was done.
The _Swapper_ was not nearly up to acceleration.
She could never get to Earth at that velocity.
She would have to limp into Venus on her two remaining tubes and have yard electricians renew her wiring.
"Pretty neat," said Hank Karns, admiringly, contemplating his ruined controls.
"I did the best I could, Cap'n," said Billy, modestly, thinking the compliment was meant for him.
"You did all right, son," said the skipper.
"Supposing you turn in now.
I'll do what's left."
Hank Karns did not at once change course for Venus.
He was still unsatisfied that he knew all he should know about his ship and its seemingly innocuous cargo.
It was too obvious to miss that Dement had ordered the bombs planted to ensure the _Swapper's_ going into Venus.
It was an easy guess that the suggestion to take liquor on board was a device to ensure the ship's arrest and the confiscation that was sure to follow, Venusian courts being what they were.
But to Hank Karns' suspicious mind there was much more to it than that.
In the first place, he could have obviated both.
He could have snatched the bombs before they exploded, and he could yet jettison the liquor.
Moreover, if the mere elimination of all visitors to Mercury was what they were after, those bombs could just as well have been of feroxite and designed to destroy the ship entirely, as was done in the case of the openly hostile Merrill and Carter.
No, the master plot required the _Swapper_ to go into Venus and be done away with there.
Why?
He thought that over.
Suddenly he arose and unlocked his little safe.
From its lead container he withdrew a small pellet of radium and set up his fluoroscope.
Then he dragged out one of the trockelbeck hides.
He searched it systematically from horn to stubby tail, from the scaly back to the claws of the feet.
Then he put his fluoroscope away.
Grinning into his beard, he went aft and got a pair of pliers, a hammer and a cold chisel.
One of the horns came away as he screwed it off.
He knew already from its fluorescence that it was hollowed out and filled with some substance, but he wanted to make sure.
He shook the pale green powder inside out into his palm and sniffed it.
Yes, that was it.
There was the unmistakable odor of crushed cherries and the sickish sweetness of the hashish of the skies--trilibaine!
Ah, now he was getting somewhere.
And as he split a few back scales at random he found that each had a few grams of the insidious drug within it.
One such hide would supply a retail peddler for many months, each scale a separate delivery.
He delayed no longer.
He shifted his course toward Venus and at the same time sat down to his radio key.
He sent: "URGENT: Venusberg Sky Yard.
Attention assistant dockmaster.
Four tubes disabled account switchboard fire.
Please reserve for me berth twenty-three.
Litigation in prospect.
Can you recommend lawyer?
(signed) Hank Karns, captain, TS Swapper."
"Well," he said to himself as he carefully swept up the tell-tale green dust from the deck and added it to the bundle of broken scales and neatly bored and threaded horns preparatory to firing it all through the garbage tube into his wake, "I've shot my wad.
Now let's see how smart Mr. Brown turns out to be."
* * * * * He learned very soon that the thermobombs were but an added precaution.
He had not been waiting more than a couple hours when his loudspeaker began to buzz.
He glanced at it in surprise, as he was still a long way from Venus.
The message began coming through, harsh and peremptory, "Lay to, _Swapper_, to receive a boarding party.
Lay to, or take the consequences.
Sky-guard calling.
Lay to!"
Hank Karns cut his rockets and went to the airlock to await the arrival of the cruiser.
It was not long in coming.
Two smartly uniformed young officers sprang in.
"Let's see your manifest," ordered one, curtly, while the other headed for the hold.
In a moment the second came back with two flasks of the pale violet comet-dew.
"The old boy is lousy with the stuff," he reported to the other.
"Cases and cases of it."
"Yes," said the first, "and not a damn word about it in the manifest.
This makes the second one of these old coots we've hauled up this month--what do you say, shall we call this one conspiracy?"
"Why not?"
countered the other.
Karns said nothing beyond the usual blustering protests that would be expected of him.
Then he lapsed into silence as the two took over after ordering their own vessel to proceed.
They did not go to the commercial sky-yard, but to the official one.
Other officers met them, and Hank Karns was led straight away to jail.
He protested every step of the way, demanding to be taken before the Terrestrial resident commissioner, or to be booked in the usual way.
Both those demands were refused, whereupon he asked for a lawyer.
"Don't kid yourself, old man," said one of his guards.
"You're in Venus now.
Here you are."
[Illustration: Ray-gun levelled, the guard shoved Hank stumblingly forward.
He staggered and nearly fell, striking his head against the barred window.
Outside he could see the form of a spaceship.
But it was not the _Swapper_.
The guard laughed and swaggered out.]
There he was.
There was no question about that.
The barred door slammed behind his departing escort with an air of utter finality.
"Hi-ya, pop!"
screamed some hoodlum down the corridor.
"Whatcha in for?"
After that nothing happened.
Hank Karns looked about him at his cramped cell and settled down to make the best of it.
It would be tiresome, locked up alone this way, but in a day or so perhaps the mysterious Mr. Brown would put in his appearance.
The next day came, but no Mr. Brown.
However, early in the morning another visitor came in his place.
Karns heard footsteps approaching and the jangle of keys.
His door was flung open and a tall stranger stepped in.
The man was quite old and clad in the blue uniform, faded and patched, of a space skipper.
He was obviously a lone trader, but if he was, he was the only one in the universe that Hank Karns did not know.
For this man, with his beetling gray eyebrows and hard steely eyes beneath, he had never laid eyes on before.
"Two minutes, no more," warned the guard, and stood back in the corridor where he could both see and hear.
"Howdy Hank," said the newcomer.
"Danged if it ain't gitting so that Tom Bagley spends half his time bailing you out or paying fines.
Why, I'd hardly landed here but what I heard you'd been slung into the calaboose again, and I says to myself, says I...." "Yeah, Tom, I know," said Hank Karns, penitently, trying not to look at the eavesdropping guard.
Inwardly he was seething with doubt and curiosity.
Could it be that this was some minion of the collector trying to trick him, or was he acting for Mr. Brown?
He remembered telling the fellow in the wickerware place that what he really needed was a man of his own type.
Maybe they had found one.
At any rate, he chose to pretend he knew him.
"Anyhow," went on the stranger, "I looked up a feller named Brown that I know here and asked him what to do.
He said things looked pretty black and his advice was to plead guilty and say nothing.
Might get off with a fine or something.
And that he had a little money of yours.
He got me this pass, but said he couldn't work it twice.
Now tell me, Hank, what do you want me to do?
I gotta get out of here for Mercury in a day or so."
Hank Karns looked at the man steadily for a moment.
He was on the spot.
The man was evidently from Brown, but he knew neither of them personally.
But worse, the guard was listening to every word, and there were doubtless dictaphones as well.
But the two minutes were running out and there would not be a second visit.
"I'll tell you, Tom, there isn't but one thing you can do.
I'll have to take my medicine, I guess, but I hate like everything to lose them trocklebeck hides and horns.
The critters is dying off--poisoned by pagras.
Them danged snakes are all over Mercury.
You might not have money enough to buy 'em in, but sorta keep track of 'em, won't you?
They're not worth much now, but they'll be _mighty_ valuable some day.
There's a man here from Io that'll pay a good price for 'em, ef you can find him."
"Time's up," snapped the guard, coming forward.
"All right, you old scalawag," said the phony trader captain, jovially, "I'll do my best.
But watch your step with that jedge.
He's tough."
"I know," said Hank Karns, despondently, and settled his face in his hands.
The door slammed and the footsteps withdrew, ringing emptily down the metal passage.
Dreary day followed dreary day.
Time after time Karns heard footsteps ringing in the corridor, and as often he heard the rattle of keys as some door was opened and another unfortunate was ordered out to meet his doom--the sentence that was to change his state from slow dry rot to the swift wet rot of the Swamp.
But it was never Karns' door.
Then at last came the day when guards took him to the identical court where Wilkerson had been tried.
The evidence was brief and to the point.
He was apprehended trying to sneak into Venus when his clearance papers called for Terra as his destination.
He had on board eight cases of illicit liquor.
He had no acceptable explanation.
Guilty.
Two years in the Swamp and the loss of his ship was the sentence.
Then they took him back to his cell to await the next caravan to the penal camps.
The second stretch of waiting was harder to take than the first, for he had placed the enigmatic collector now in his memory.
The man was Von Kleber, thought to have died many years ago in the uranium mines of Sans Espérance.
Karns knew him to be a convict from the fact that he had grafted new skin on his face and head so that the burns and baldness caused by radioactivity would not show.
But that he was the notorious Von Kleber himself had not occurred to him.
And with that recognition came the other.
Raoul Dement was the man known as Frenchy the Hop, vice-president of the Von Kleber ring.
It was he who had operated the narcotic racket while the big boss turned his attention to such other lines as piracy, white-slaving and smuggling in general.
If such men could flourish unchecked in the well-policed Jovian satellites for more than a decade, it was hopeless to expect to dislodge them from their place on corrupt and autonomous Venus.
And so time dragged on and Hank Karns sat, awaiting the day when he would be taken away to the Swamp.
He wondered apathetically whether he would be sent to the same camp where Wilkerson and Hildreth were.
But at last there came a day when footsteps rang again in the corridors and he heard doors being opened and men taken away.
Finally men stopped before his own cell and called him forth.
Between two soldiers they marched him away.
To his surprise they took him first to the street, where three sedan chairs were waiting.
The guards very politely indicated that Karns was to get in the middle one and they took the others.
Hank clambered in and they set off.
Shortly they drew up before the courthouse.
He was met inside by a tall, slender man of nearly his own age who wore the uniform of Chief Inspector of the Interplanetary F.B.I.
"How are you, Captain?"
he said cheerily.
"Sorry you had such a long stay in jail, but we'll try to make that up to you.
Come in here and let me show you something?"
Hank Karns looked at the inspector in amazement.
He was Frank Haynes, the man who had broken the Von Kleber case years before.
There had been a time when they worked closely together on the information that Karns furnished when he was released from Sans Espérance.
He said nothing in reply, though, as Haynes was leading the way into the courtroom.
In the dock were two baldheaded prisoners--Von Kleber, erstwhile Collector of the Port, and Mr. Dement, manager of the Mercurian drug works.
The judge was a new one--a judge who looked like a judge should look.
"There they are, thanks to you," said Haynes, pointing.
"Two as clever criminals as ever plagued the system.
We've been a long time catching them.
But their career is over now.
"Our local operative, known as Brown to you, has been trying for months to locate the source of the trilobaine flood but without avail.
The Venusian authorities blocked him at every turn but there was nothing we could do about that unless we could hang a Federal offense on them.
It was you who did that for us.
I am very glad I gave you that identification ring after our cleanup on Callisto and the list of the secret addresses of our agents.
I felt then that you were a man of discretion and would not abuse its privileges and today I most certainly am more than justified.
When I interviewed you in your cell...." "You!"
Inspector Haynes grinned at Hank's surprise.
"Pretty effective disguise, eh?
Well, as I was about to say--you gave me all the tips that were needed.
First of all, your mention of the scourge of pagras told me it was trilobaine you had aboard, for that is a distillation of pagra venom.
That gave us jurisdiction.
I attended the secret auction and tried to bid.
Everything in the ship went for a song to Von Kleber's pals, but when I went to bid on the trocklebeck hides I ran into stiff opposition.
They were not to be had at any price.
So I stopped bidding.
"Our operatives trailed those hides through five sets of owners before we came to the Collector himself.
Early this morning we made our raid and took in all their supplies of drugs and twenty-five of their peddlers.
Previously we had raided Mercury and those men came in about an hour ago.
They had quite a thriving little business, and why we didn't think of their method of smuggling in the trilobaine before this I'll never know.
We knew, of course, that it must be coming in the ships that they confiscated.
That much we were sure of.
But we couldn't prove a damn thing until we knew _how_.
Thanks to you, the ring is busted now, and we can do something for those poor devils who were innocently duped into being carriers of the drug.
Runners have already been sent to the Swamp to bring back your friends.
And there you are.
You'll find your old _Swapper_ in the Yard, completely overhauled and stocked to the gunwales with grade A trade goods."
Hank Karns, trader, tugged at his grizzled beard and looked rather sheepishly at the floor.
"Dag it all," he said "that's fine enough.
But gosh, I sure hated to make a damfool of myself in front of everybody thataway."
Inspector Haynes broke into laughter and crossed over and slapped him on the back.
"You old liar.
You loved it!"
THE BOY SCOUTS ON PICKET DUTY by Scout Master Robert Shaler CONTENTS CHAPTERS I.
The Mysterious Steamer II.
A Contraband Cargo III.
On a Lone Scout IV.
The Hut on the Beach V. Kidnapped by Smugglers VI.
The Flight of the "Arrow" VII.
A Gathering of the Clan VIII.
The Blazing Beacon IX.
Deeds in the Darkness X.
The End of the Raid XI.
Aboard the "Arrow" XII.
A Surprising Adventure CHAPTER I THE MYSTERIOUS STEAMER In the wake of an easterly squall the sloop _Arrow_, Lemuel Vinton master and owner, was making her way along the low coast, southward, from Snipe Point, one of the islands in Florida Bay about twelve miles northeast of Key West.
With every sail closehauled and drawing until the bolt ropes creaked under the strain, the _Arrow_ laid a fairly straight course toward Key West.
She bore a startling message, the nature of which her captain had considered of sufficient importance for him to prolong a cruise he had undertaken and to hasten back to the port whence he had sailed, twenty-four hours previously, to inform the authorities.
The sloop had not sped far from the Point, and the receding shore line had scarcely grown dimly blue on the horizon under a peculiar yellow-gray sunrise, when Captain Vinton's crew began to make their appearance on deck.
The crew consisted of five Boy Scouts, an older companion who was in charge of them, and a Seminole Indian guide, called Dave, who had been hired to conduct the boys on a brief exploration of the Everglades.
Four of the boys belonged to a troop of scouts who had their summer headquarters at Pioneer Camp, far away among the New England hills.
They had, however, formed a resolution to spend the present summer not at Pioneer Camp, where most of their younger comrades would be, but in seeing some new sections of their native land.
To this end, three of them---Hugh Hardin, his chum Billy Worth, and Chester Brownell---had gladly accepted an invitation from the fourth, Alec Sands, to spend a month at Palmdune, the Florida residence of Alec's father, who had sent them on this cruise.
With them Mr. Sands had sent his secretary, a young man named Roy Norton, who had left them temporarily at Key West while he attended to business in Havana.
When he had returned from Havana, he had found a new member of the party---Mark Anderson, the son of the captain of Red Key Life-Saving Station.
The _Arrow_ had been anchored off Snipe Point during the previous night, where Captain Vinton had gained the information which made him decide to return to Key West.
This knowledge, which he had already imparted to the boys, was to the effect that throughout the night before, while he and Dave alternately watched, he had seen a gray steamer or perhaps a gunboat cruising among the islands off the Point, occasionally coming close enough to the beach to be made out distinctly, but showing no lights and making no signals.
Immediately his suspicions had been aroused by this mysterious action.
His impression was that the vessel belonged to a country which was then hostile to the United States.
In that case she was either grappling for the cable between Key West and the mainland terminus at Punta Rossa, which lay close inshore at Snipe Point, or was trying to make connection with some other vessel carrying supplies or ammunition from some West Indian port, perhaps intending to run the blockade.
Why she should attempt to tamper with the cable, he could not understand, knowing the superior efficiency of the wireless system; but he thought she might be one of the elusive filibustering vessels reported to have been seen in the Gulf of Mexico several days before this.
Stories about these mysterious vessels had caused official orders to be sent to Tampa and to Galveston, Texas, concerning the departure of several transports with American troops.
And Captain Vinton himself had almost encountered a notorious filibuster named Juan Bego, one night during the earlier part of this pleasure cruise; that is, he had sighted a vessel which he felt sure was the _Esperanza_ of Captain Bego, in waters which were supposed to be debarred to the enemy.
All this had tended to make him more alert and wary than ever, even suspicious; and he had resolved to lose no time in reporting his most recent discovery.
"You boys might as well heave them old tarpon poles overboard now," he said seriously, as he shifted the helm.
"That there craft I seen las' night ain't Yankee built, I'll swear; and if she should take a notion to foller us, we want to be light and shipshape, without no signs o' lubberliness that the squall may have brought to the surface.
How's everything in the cabin, Dave?
Tight and neat?"
The Seminole grunted, nodding his head in affirmation.
Apparently he was too disturbed in mind to reply verbally; besides, like most of his kind, he was a poor sailor, and he did not enjoy the speed at which the _Arrow_ was now sailing.
It upset his mental balance as well as his bodily equilibrium.
Obeying the captain's instructions, the boys tossed overboard their heavy poles, saving only the lines and reels.
"When we get back to Key West, what's the first thing to do, Captain?"
inquired Alec.
"Report seeing that steamer to the naval authorities," was Vinton's prompt answer.
"I didn't know there were any-----" "There's likely to be some there now, waiting for orders."
"And will they search for the strange vessel?"
"You bet they will!
We ain't goin' to let no sneakin' furrin tub show us her heels,---are we, lads?"
"Not if we can help it!"
exclaimed Hugh.
"I guess one of Uncle Sam's revenue cutters will give chase to that steamer, or gunboat, or whatever she may be."
"Not if she's a gunboat, I reckon!"
quoth Vinton with a chuckle.
"Cripes!
that vessel was certainly a clipper for goin'!
Her cap'n was wise enough to keep to wind'ard, for he seemed to know where the rough water begins to rise and how to make the most o' them keys.
Never mind; off Nor'west Cape he'll have to come out like a seaman and take his duckin'!
H'ist that there jib, Billy, and make Dave move his carcass where it'll do some good."
But Dave did not want to bestir himself from his position on the weather gunwale, where he crouched dejectedly, letting the stiff breeze dry his spray-soaked garments.
He groaned, protested, grunted, and finally swore volubly as Alec prodded him, while Billy hoisted the flying jib.
"What for so much hurry?"
he grumbled.
"Get to Key West by afternoon, anyhow.
Dave want plenty sleep."
"You slept like a top for six hours last night!"
declared Alec.
"No-o; Dave watch, saw steamer,---no more sleep, no forty winks."
"Oh, come!"
laughed Billy.
"I heard you snoring, Dave; you woke me up!
I thought it was thunder!"
"Nothing less than thunder or a cannon firecracker would wake you up, Billy,---as a general rule," said Hugh, flinging one arm over his chum's shoulders and giving him a vigorous hug.
"Look yonder, boys!"
shouted Captain Vinton at the helm.
He pointed aft, and the four lads sprang to their feet and hurried toward him, alert and eager for a new surprise.
Some distance behind them, toward the mainland, a thin trail of smoke which had not been seen for two or three hours was now visible inside the keys.
Could there be any reason for the reappearance of that smoky blur against the sky?
Was it made by the mysterious steamer?
If so, was she following the _Arrow_?
"By the shades o' shad, I orter know that boat!"
exclaimed Vinton in puzzled chagrin.
"See?
She's coaled up, goin' for all she's worth.
Alec, git out my glass from the cabin, take a look, and see if there's many men aboard."
Alec ran to do the captain's bidding.
Descending into the cabin, he took from a locker an old-style marine telescope with which he hurriedly returned to the deck.
After some focusing he managed to catch a glimpse of the steamcraft, just before she partially disappeared from sight behind one of the sandy reefs that fence off the sound.
"The crew of the steamer seem to be quite excited," Alec said, as he trained the telescope upon them.
"I can see sailors running across her deck, and two of them have just hoisted an American flag.
Some others are waving signals and---" "What?"
shouted the captain.
"American flag, did you say?"
"Yes.
What do you think of that?"
"Reckon she wants to speak us."
"Why?"
asked Chester.
"Looks like this is the first time she's seen us," said Vinton, taking the marine glass from Alec.
"But it can't be the same craft we sighted back yonder, last night.
Anyhow, if they're wavin' signal flags,---and they are, sure enough!---they must want to speak the _Arrow_.
That's plain.
I'm goin' to ease in more and see who's aboard.
Look!
the dinged old boat is comin' out from behind the bar now."
Pondering some contingency which he did not explain to the boys, Vinton shifted the helm; and his sloop, hitherto heading in a southwesterly direction, now began to edge closer to the line of keys.
Had Vinton not known his course so thoroughly from long experience in sailing these channels, inlets, and lagoons, it would have been dangerous; but he dexterously eluded the various reefs and oyster bars and brought the _Arrow_ safely into smoother water.
Meanwhile, the boys noticed that the wind, which had blown so strongly, was beginning to slacken, thus allowing the steamer to gain on the _Arrow_ quite perceptibly.
They saw then that she was a small steamer, like a steam yacht, and light gray in color,---perhaps one of the United States revenue cutters.
Captain Vinton was astonished.
He had already begun to have serious doubts that this could be the same mysterious vessel he had seen cruising about the islands the night before.
All at once, unexpectedly, his doubts were resolved into a certainty that it was not the same, for even while he was wondering, a strange thing happened: A long, low, gray shape, something like a built-for-speed tug-boat with a short funnel, darted into view from between two keys, and, crossing the wake of the revenue cutter, glided swiftly along the very course the _Arrow_ had taken, heading back toward Snipe Point.
Before the sloop and the steamer had come within hailing distance of each other, the strange craft, not depending on the dying easterly wind, was well along the course, sending back---toward a trail of darker smoke.
CHAPTER II A CONTRABAND CARGO "Well, what d'you know about that?"
queried Billy, easily relapsing into slang when the first few minutes' surprise had worn off.
"Dunno much about it," Captain Vinton answered in a somewhat gruff tone, "but it looks to me mighty like a filibuster's craft, or p'rhaps a smuggler's."
At the word "filibuster," the boys---figuratively speaking---pricked up their ears.
"What on earth can they be trying to smuggle?"
was Hugh's eager question, to which the captain replied promptly: "Arms,---leastways, cartridges or gunpowder.
They ain't tryin' to smuggle 'em _into_ Fluridy, but _out_ of it," he explained.
"Some gang of raskils is buyin' small quantities of war goods up state---or else from Cuby---totin' 'em down the coast an' through th' Everglades, and gettin' 'em aboard some steamboat like that one, and so away where they'll do the most harm.
Get me?"
"Yes," replied Alec, "but I never would have thought such tricks were possible in these days."
"Boy, you can't never tell what's just possible or what ain't, in these days," gravely asserted Captain Vinton.
"All sorts o' things is like to happen, and sometimes it's durned hard to know just what's goin' on.
But if that's any filibustin' outfit, they'd better make tracks out o' these waters as fast as they can lay beam to wind'ard."
So saying, he shifted the helm again and bore away at an angle that would enable them to come close to the revenue cutter, now scarcely a quarter of a mile astern.
Lighter and lighter came the wind, slower glided the _Arrow_ over the long heavy swells, nearer and nearer came the cutter, going at a steady, rapid rate.
Soon the two vessels were within hailing distance, and a megaphone call came across the water, clear and distinct: "Sloop, ahoy!
Can you understand?"
"Aye, aye!"
called Vinton.
The five boys gathered around him, eager to hear the interchange of calls.
Even Dave rose and shambled over to the little group at the tiller.
On the other vessel they could now see a number of men in blue uniforms and one in a civilian's suit of gray tweeds.
"Who've you got aboard?"
came the next question from the captain of the _Petrel_.
Vinton briefly stated his passenger list and explained the purpose of their cruise.
"Bound for Key West now?"
shouted the _Petrel's_ captain, whom Vinton, studying him through the marine glass, recognized as James Kelsey.
"Trying to dodge that craft that just passed us, or trying to catch her?"
"We were goin' to report as how we seen her las' night off Snipe Point," bawled Vinton, speaking through a megaphone which Dave had handed to him.
"Thought you fellows were at Key West."
"We were until this morning," came the answer.
"We've been chasing that boat.
She's the _Esperanza_, a smuggler.
Have you seen her throwing anything overboard, or picking up stuff---like boxes or small kegs?"
Then a light of understanding broke upon Vinton's mind.
So that was what the smuggler had been doing all night!
Not grappling for the cable, but stealthily picking up a contraband cargo of munitions of war, small stores such as could be cast adrift along the coast in some prearranged method and gathered in by those who had been instructed to recognize the floating objects!
What were they?
Water-tight kegs of dynamite, submerged, but buoyed up by thrice their weight of corks?
Boxes of rifle bullets?
Or merely harmless glass bottles containing, perhaps, written descriptions of the country to be invaded, photographs of fortifications, details of naval or military equipment?
The answer was not long forthcoming.
"Ain't seen her pick up anything," shouted Vinton, "but reckon that's her lay.
What's she after?"
"Dynamite."
"By thunder!"
ejaculated the captain in a low tone of awe.
"Yes, that's just what they'll do, if they can," Billy commented with one of his irrepressible grins.
"They'll buy thunder.
You've said it, Cap!
But what'll they use it for?"
Vinton paid not the slightest heed to Billy's poor pun.
Instead, while Alec gave Billy a dig in the ribs, the captain put the same question to Kelsey.
"Oh, you know they've started another one of those dinky revolutions in Panama, two generals fighting for the presidency," explained Kelsey.
He no longer was obliged to shout curtailed messages through his megaphone, but spoke through it in a tone only a few degrees louder than ordinarily; for the sloop and the steamer were now almost alongside.
"Well, the U.S. and Cuba want to stay entirely out of the little war game; but one side of the revolution, the Visteros, are sore at Uncle Sam and trying to make him take a hand.
They've got agents in all the Gulf states, in Cuba and Hayti, and they're trying to stir up trouble."
What kind o trouble?
"Any old kind.
They're not particular as to the brand.
It's war stores they want, and discontented loafers for soldiers of fortune.
And the Visteros are stealing dynamite to threaten the Canal."
"Bosh!"
roared Vinton in a loud guffaw.
"They couldn't do it!
Let 'em try!"
"Yes,---let 'em!
But meanwhile, we're out to put the kibosh on this smuggling.
By the way, Vinton, now that you've made your report, you can turn around again when you've got the wind, and go back up along the coast.
No need to go to Key West now."
"Hum-mp!"
grunted Dave.
"Waste time, get sick---all for nuthin'!"
"Shut up, you greasy Seminole!"
muttered Vinton, and he turned away scornfully.
"All right, we will," he called to the _Petrel_.
"What you goin' to do?"
"First find out if that craft hid anything over there behind that key where she was lying, and then follow her."
More confabbing of an unimportant and general nature followed between Vinton and Kelsey and the man in tweeds, who was evidently the special correspondent of some newspaper.
At the end of the conference, Kelsey called out: "Well, I guess we'll mosey on, Lem.
Goodby and good luck to you.
If you meet any smugglers in the upper 'glades or along the coast, send word to Tampa; they'll rush a cutter with some of the Gulf police to the spot.
Keep a sharp eye on strange-looking craft, will you?"
"Aye, aye!"
responded the _Arrow's_ captain, little knowing into what adventures this pursuit of smugglers would lead him and his crew.
In a few minutes the _Petrel_ had swung about and was heading in the direction from which the _Esperanza_ had appeared.
The _Arrow_ was left becalmed and drifting on the heavy swells of the Gulf; but her crew, excited by the prospect of encountering freebooters of the main, forgot to be seasick, even if they had been so inclined, and fell to preparing their noonday meal.
Vinton tilted his cap over his left eye and surveyed the trim _Arrow_ with frank satisfaction, at the conclusion of their repast.
"All shipshape, boys?
Good!
Reckon I'll let one of you steer awhile, and hit my bunk for an hour or two.
There'll be wind out'n the sou'east, later on; and then I'll take charge again.
All you've got to do now is to turn her around, with her nose pointin' yonder,"---he waved a hand toward the distant Sanibel Islands that stretch along the coast south of Charlotte Harbor,---"and take 'vantage of every puff of wind that you can use for tackin'.
Understand?"
They signified their readiness to manage the sloop, once she had gone well beyond any reefs or bars, and they drew lots to see who should be first to take the captain's place while he rested.
The draw, fell to Chester and he took charge of the helm.
Alec came next, then Billy took his turn, and finally Hugh.
While one steered, the others kept a look-out for the erratic _Esperanza_, thinking it might again appear from some unexpected quarter.
Mark and Roy Norton lounged in the bow and lazily swapped fishing stories, not at all averse to leaving the work to the rest.
With the departure of the _Petrel_ on her return to the waters near Snipe Point, and with a barely-perceptible rise of wind, the sloop _Arrow_ laid a zigzag course toward the Ten Thousand Islands and came abreast of them about five o'clock.
Beyond a broad inlet that led into the bay, a white sand beach, sparsely overgrown with crabgrass and waving palmettos, indicated to Dave that they were near one of his old camping places.
He called Captain Vinton's attention to it, hinting that it would be a good place to spend the night.
"Why not aboard the sloop?"
queried Vinton, though he knew perfectly well that Dave would seek any excuse to stretch his unseaworthy limbs on _terra firma_ in preference to tossing on the bosom of old ocean.
"Bad weather comin',---windy to-night," said the Seminole prophet, pointing to a bank of jagged slaty-gray clouds that was rising in the west over the gulf.
"Reckon you're right, Dave.
If that brings half the wind its looks promise, I'd ruther have these keys between it and us---eh?
There's anuther squall brewin' out yonder.
Come on, let's go ashore, lads."
Making in shoreward, the _Arrow_ presently cast anchor off a shallow cove "inside" the nearest bar.
All five boys got into the sloop's dory, and after landing the others on the beach, Hugh rowed back to the sloop to bring the captain, Norton and the guide ashore.
When they landed, they discovered Billy and Alec, Chester and Mark engaged in examining a big battered tin box, locked, with its cover sealed up with black sealing wax, which they had found half buried in the sand.
"What is it?
What have you got there?"
Hugh asked quickly, running forward.
"It looks like part of Captain Kidd's buried treasure!"
said Billy, whose eyes were sparkling with anticipation.
"Nothing of the sort!"
declared matter-of-fact Chester.
"It's probably a lot of old maps and charts."
"Let's open it and see," was Alec's advice.
But the captain interposed.
"Let it alone, boys," he said.
"It's marked with a small initial 'B.'
That may stand for Bego or---bait."
CHAPTER III ON A LONE SCOUT The captain's oracular advice mystified the boys until, seated by their evening camp fire of driftwood, he explained to them that the mysterious box might be filled with articles such as Juan Bego and his men were both hiding and collecting.
"I dunno as he's been as far up the coast as this," Vinton added, "but 'twouldn't be hard for a sly old sea-dog like him to creep along these keys at night time 'most any distance."
"Are we far from the Everglades?"
asked Billy, cautiously stirring the fire; for, in spite of the spring warmth, there was a decided chill in the air so close to the ocean.
"Well, the 'Glades are a good stiff hike from here," replied the captain.
"Eh, Dave; how about it?"
The guide made no answer.
Wearied with doing nothing all day, save lying around on the deck of the _Arrow_ a prey to seasickness, he had fallen asleep.
Above the splash of the surf and the rustle of the wind in the palmettos, his snores could be heard distinctly, making night hideous.
Alec was on the point of waking him with a nudge in the ribs, when Hugh restrained him.
"Let him sleep, Alec," he whispered.
"Poor old Injun, he's comfortable at last!"
"So am I," added Chester, stretching himself out on the warm sand.
"This is better than those stuffy little bunks in the cabin, isn't it?"
The next minute he regretted those words, for Captain Vinton looked at him with an aggrieved expression, as if peeved to hear any disparagement of the _Arrow_.
The good captain was inordinately proud of his sloop, which he preferred to all other craft; indeed, had he been offered the command of one of the gigantic Atlantic liners, it is likely that he would have declined the honor.
Presently Vinton rose and, beginning to stroll up and down the beach, looked all around him and up at the sky in the scrutinizing way which seafaring men have when they retire for the night or turn out in the morning, to ascertain what sort of weather they may expect.
Overhead, he saw large masses of clouds scudding across the starry heavens, driven by the wind which bid fair to continue all night and all the next day.
Off on the lagoon loomed the dark hulk and slender mast of the sloop, rising and falling on the choppy waves, her bow light gleaming across the water like a watchful eye.
At his feet lay the dory, drawn up on the sand and moored by a line fastened to a palmetto, well out of reach of the rising tide.
Behind him sparkled the ruddy camp fire with the recumbent figures of the five scouts, Norton and the Indian grouped around it, and nearby lay the neat little pile of provisions and utensils covered with a tarpaulin.
What matter if rain should chance to fall during the night?
They had brought light blankets and rubber ponchos from the sloop, so they would be well protected.
Everything was safe and in order; he was satisfied and at peace with all mankind,---even with the smugglers who had roused his righteous wrath,---and his youthful companions were happy, enjoying the cruise and their adventures.
So unpromising did the weather beyond the keys look, and so congenial seemed the lagoon and this sheltered islet, the captain came to the conclusion that it would not be amiss if they should linger there a day or two longer than they had planned.
After all, Alec's father had set no time limit for the cruise and the boys were in no hurry to return to Santario.
Thinking thus, he rejoined his crew around the fire and heard them discussing a plan to take the dory and row out on the lagoon in the morning, if it were not too rough, in the hope of catching some fresh fish for breakfast.
He assented to this plan, for he himself intended to go aboard the _Arrow_ the first thing on the morrow to look her over and see how she had weathered the night.
Wrapping himself in a blanket and bidding the boys follow his example, he lay down beside the embers and was soon asleep.
Hugh and Billy, lovers of surf-bathing, would fain have taken a dip into the breakers before going to sleep; but Alec sensibly counseled them against this.
"Wait till daylight If you shed your clothes now and go in, the mosquitoes will eat you alive before you're dry again," he warned them.
"Besides, it's dangerous to go in around these shores in the darkness.
You might stumble into a hole or a sea-puss and be carried out to sea before you knew what had happened.
And Dave told me there are sharks that-----" "Oh, forget it!"
laughed Billy.
"We have no intention of furnishing supper to a shark.
Anyway, real, live, man-eating sharks are as scarce as hens' teeth---almost."
Nevertheless, being overruled by Hugh, who saw the wisdom of Alec's advice, he promptly abandoned the desire for a plunge; and, as he soon learned, they did well to seek the protection of their smoke smudge, for the mosquitoes were truly formidable.
Even under the canopy of smoke, these noxious insects darted viciously to bite and torment the campers.
Time and time again, the boys were awakened from sleep by the attacks of these buzzing pests; but at last they grew more accustomed to such onslaughts, and pulling nets closely around their limbs and faces, they sank into deeper slumber.
* * * * * * "The evening red, the morning gray Sets the traveler on his way.
The evening gray, the morning red Brings showers down upon his head."
Hugh whispered these words softly to himself when he awoke in the dim twilight hour just before dawn.
It was still too dark for him to distinguish objects clearly, and for a moment he felt that queer sensation of being lost, of not knowing just where he was---that feeling which sometimes comes to one even in the most familiar surroundings.
At once, however, it left him, and the little rhyme crept into his mind instead.
"Wonder why I waked up so suddenly?"
was his silent query as he lay there blinking up at the sky, watching the few visible stars grow pale and paler.
"Thought I heard some noise like distant thunder, very far away, and then it changed into the sound of muffled oars, or the tchug-chug-tchug of a motor boat.
Then a voice said softly, 'It's a fine morn---' Oh, pshaw!
Must have been dreaming.
Is anybody else awake?"
He sat up and peered through the dusk.
No, his companions were still asleep, prone on the sand.
The breeze had lessened and the nocturnal insects had begun to take flight into the shadowy undergrowth, retreating before the advance of day.
Across the dark stretch of water between this island and the mainland a flock of waterfowl flew noiselessly and vanished over the dunes.
The surf broke with monotonous, soothing rhythm, stirring the silence with little waves of sound.
"It must have been the surf I heard," Hugh thought, still trying to decide what had roused him from sleep.
Quietly rising, so as not to disturb his friends, he stole down to the beach and stood gazing at the sloop, which now rode calmly at anchor, her bow light still shining.
"And yet it did sound like a motor boat," he said aloud.
The sound of his own voice, breaking the stillness, almost startled him.
With a short, low laugh at his habit of talking aloud when alone, he turned his back on camp and walked on for some little distance up the beach, until he rounded a curve of the shore and saw before him a narrow channel separating the island on which he stood from another, slightly larger.
Clumps of young palms grew on that other island, taller and greener than those around the camping place.
Hugh had been told that a palmetto bud cut out of a young, fresh, green palm would be fine with a piece of fat pork in making a stew; so he felt tempted to swim across the estuary and gather a choice bud.
The fact is, this desire was chiefly an excuse for a bit of exploration.
Hugh loved to prowl around in unfamiliar places even if he were alone, though he naturally preferred to share a quest of discoveries with some comrade.
So now, shedding his coat, outer shirt, and shoes, but retaining his other garments for protection against mosquitoes, he dived into the inlet and swam across it easily.
Continuing his tramp, he presently found himself on the slope of a sandy mound which formed the northeastern extremity of the small island.
From the top of this he could obtain a good view of the surrounding islands and the mainland.
He sat down to rest on the mound and to enjoy the outlook.
By this time the eastern sky was beginning to show a pale rosy glow, and soon the first rays of the rising sun turned the edges of clouds into flame.
Across this glowing expanse the mainland stretched as far as the eye could see, a dark, low-lying, emerald-hued mass, varied and mysterious.
As Hugh gazed, the sun rose into view, flooding earth and sky and sea with glorious light.
The boy drew a deep breath of wonder and turned to look around him on all sides.
As he did so, his eyes rested on something which changed his breath of admiration into a gasp of astonishment.
At the base of the mound on which he sat, partly hidden by clumps of stunted cypress and palms, was a small hut built of bamboo and thatched with palm leaves.
It was built in the form of a lean-to against the slope of a sand dune near the shore, and at first glance it seemed to be part of the island itself.
Indeed, it was so well concealed that Hugh might never have noticed it at all, save for the fact that he caught sight of a canoe with three men in it approaching the hut, from behind still another island.
Some instinct warned him not to let himself be seen, and he slid down from the top of the mound and lay flat, watching the canoe.
He felt like a scout in the enemy's territory, or a sentry on duty, stationed there to observe the actions of unknown foes.
To his surprise, the canoe came to land directly in front of the hut, and the three men sprang out into the shallow water and drew it up on the beach.
From the bottom of the canoe they lifted a long object rolled in canvas.
Suspending this from their shoulders, they disappeared into the hut.
CHAPTER IV THE HUT ON THE BEACH Hugh was agog with curiosity.
He felt that he must find out who were those three stealthy strangers and what they were doing there.
"Perhaps they're smugglers," was his first thought.
"If they are, I'd be doing a real service to Uncle Sam if I could report their whereabouts to the _Petrel_ when she comes back this way.
Gee!
it's worth the risk!
Here goes!"
Without stopping to think much more about it, Hugh began to creep forward on hands and knees down the mound and quite close to the bamboo lean-to.
Though usually unwilling to play the part of an eavesdropper, he felt justified in his present impulsive venture by the actions of the three men, for they seemed to be engaged in some underhand work which would not stand the light of day.
So hiding himself behind a cypress stump, Hugh listened eagerly, straining his ears to catch every word.
The men spoke in low voices so he could not hear everything, but he heard enough to convince him that they were indeed smugglers.
They were arranging to convey a cargo of dynamite from a point near the mouth of the little stream Sandgate on the peninsula (Florida) over to this retreat on the island.
This was to be done on the first night when there was no moon and the wind was blowing off shore.
"There's a guy named Durgan lives over yonder in a little clearing 'bout a hundred yards up from the mouth of the creek," said one of the men.
"Lives there all year 'round alone, fishin' an' raisin' turtles fer market.
Queer ol' cuss, kind-a looney,---but he's friendly to us and willin' to oblige us by showin' a light in his cabin winder when the coast is clear."
"You theenk dat will be next-----" The rest of that question was lost to Hugh, because the man who had first spoken muttered a warning of silence, then added something in a still lower tone.
In vain Hugh tried to catch the words.
Then the man whose accent indicated that he was either a Creole or a Haytian spoke again.
"Eet is not alway so easy to tell when dere will be no moon," he said.
"And der wind, eet blow effery way---in one day."
"Never mind,---just wait," came the answer.
"One o' these nights, perhaps to-morrow, we'll-----" Again the sentence was lost.
Hugh frowned impatiently.
However, as they went on talking he heard some more of their designs---in particular, the fact that the dynamite was to be used for blowing up a railroad bridge.
Thinking that he had heard enough by this time and knowing that if they discovered him he would be captured as a spy, Hugh began to wonder how and when he should leave his hiding place and crawl back to camp with the least risk of being observed.
At any moment the men might emerge from the hut or others of their gang might join them.
Yet he did so want to learn where they had come from, and whether their vessel was lying at anchor somewhere among these many islands!
So he lay there, flat on the sand, scarcely daring to breathe lest he should be heard, heartily wishing the men would give some more definite hint of their purposes, and devoutly hoping that none of his friends, missing him from camp, would come in search of him with shouts and calls!
"That would be fierce!"
he whispered inaudibly.
"That would give me away and scare off these jail birds mighty quick!"
Suddenly the distant tchug-tchug of a gasoline motor boat came to his ears.
Raising himself on his elbows, he peered over the stump, out across the glittering blue water, and saw a good-sized dory, manned by a solitary individual who wore light oilskins, coming swiftly toward the hut on the beach.
"That must be the motor boat that passed our camp last night," thought Hugh.
"I feel sure now, surer than ever, that I heard it go by in the darkness.
But it's coming over from the mainland now.
Wonder who's that man at the tiller?"
Down he sank again and waited.
Presently the motor-dory drew up alongside the strip of beach in front of the bamboo hut and came to a standstill.
The man in oilskins called out: "Hey!
You-all in thar!"
Instantly one of the three rascals came forth from the hut.
"Hello, Durgan!"
he called, not at all loudly, through his cupped hands.
"What's the news?"
"Beat it!"
was Durgan's warning answer.
"Thar's a campin' party on th' island below here---I seen 'em 'bout ten minutes ago---old Cap'n Lem Vinton, an Injun, an' four or five boys."
"Lem Vinton, eh?
All right, Joe, we're going.
Can you tow us around Spider Key?"
"Nope.
I'm goin' home now," Joe Durgan replied tersely, with the abruptness of one who has done an irksome duty and would avoid further responsibility for the present.
Suiting actions to words, he quickened his engine and made off toward the Florida shore.
His boat had scarcely become a speck on the water, when Hugh began to crawl back to the other side of the mound.
Joe Durgan, who was evidently not nearly so "looney" as represented, had warned the smugglers of the presence of the _Arrow_ near their retreat, and Hugh realized that no time should be lost if Vinton were to spread sail and go in pursuit of them or of the _Petrel_.
"Now's the time for me to beat it, too," he resolved.
"While they're talking they won't hear me or see me, and I can hurry back to the place where I left my coat and shoes."
When he had gone some little distance without being discovered, he fancied he was safe and rose to his feet, intending to run as fast as his legs could carry him---which was no snail's pace, indeed!
Scarcely had he begun to move forward, however, when he heard a shout, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps.
Being fleet of foot and having no desire to be caught and treated as a spy, he set off running at full speed.
The ground was quite rough and he had to turn aside to avoid bushes and hollows, yet he had no difficulty in keeping ahead of his pursuers.
The very impediments in his way served to retard pursuit, and he did not despair of escaping.
He had to cross over a ridge, at the top of which he was exposed to view.
He had just reached it, when he heard some one shout: "Stop!
Come down,---or I'll fire!"
"Fire away!"
thought Hugh, knowing how unlikely it was that any one would be so desperate as to shoot at him.
"You can't stop me with that foolish bluff!"
Ignoring the threat, he rushed down the little hill, hoping soon to find some spot where he could turn off to one side or the other, hide in shelter, and thus evade the rascals.
He was surprised to find that he had gone so far in his wanderings, that the smugglers' island was so much larger than it had seemed.
For a moment he felt a vague fear that he had lost his bearings and was running in the wrong direction.
To ascertain how near his pursuers were, he threw a glance over his shoulder.
This proved fatal to his hopes, for his foot caught in a tangle of crab-grass and down he came headlong.
Over and over he rolled; and then for some seconds he lay still, a little dazed by his fall, unable to move.
The next minute he found himself in the grasp of two men.
"Hullo, youngster!
What made you try to git away from us?"
asked one of them in an angry tone.
He was a short, thick-set, burly man, with black eyes that seemed to glitter like a serpent's.
His huge hands fastened upon Hugh's arm in a grip of steel.
Hugh replied truthfully but not very wisely: "I'm on my way to camp, and I want to get there as soon as possible."
"Camp, eh?
Who are you?"
"I don't see what that has to do with my being in a hurry to get there."
"Maybe not, but we want to know where you was hidin' before you hit the trail," said the other man, a dark-visaged fellow with a sinister cast in one eye.
"Come on now!
Spit it out!"
"I was just exploring this island for fun," replied Hugh.
"I was hunting for---" "You were hiding!"
vehemently declared the black-eyed man.
"Whereabouts?"
"On the ground, of course; there are no trees to climb around here."
"None o' yer guff!"
The swarthy captor dealt Hugh a hard thwack on the side of his head.
"What's yer business here, anyhow?
Where's yer camp?"
No answer.
"By gad, I'll make ye open up!"
cried the cross-eyed knave, losing his temper.
He was about to strike Hugh again, when the other man, still holding the lad in a steel-trap grip, pushed him aside with one foot.
"Hold off, Harry," he commanded gruffly.
"I know where his camp is.
He's one of Lem Vinton's crew.
That's the _Arrow_ over yonder, but he ain't going back to it yet awhile."
"Let me go!"
shouted Hugh, struggling to free himself from the grasp of those sinewy hands.
"Let me go, I say!
What---what do you want with me?
I tell you---help!
Hel-----" The frantic shout was checked by another blow from the angry ruffian's fist, and Hugh measured his length upon the sand.
"Shut up, will ye?"
snarled the man, thrusting a bunch of sharp-edged grass into Hugh's mouth.
"Look here, Branks," he added, "we can't let this kid blow the gaff on us to Lem Vinton.
Why, the cap'n wouldn't wait ten minutes before he'd sail out to find that blamed cutter ag'in; and then we'd have him and the _Petrel_ on our trail."
"Harry, you're right---dead right.
The boy has got to come with us, until-----" "Sure!
Here, lend a hand.
Tie his arms."
With their leather belts they bound the lad's hands securely, despite his struggles.
Once, by a manful effort, he managed to break away and run forward a few yards.
But they were after him instantly, before he could get the gag out of his mouth.
In the tussle that followed, he kicked and writhed so vigorously that the cross-eyed captor howled with pain.
Then, beside himself with rage, he felled Hugh by a blow on the head.
Myriads of stars reeled in the sunlight before Hugh's eyes, then the light of day changed to pitch darkness, and Hugh sank down on the sand---a limp heap, unconscious.
CHAPTER V KIDNAPPED BY SMUGGLERS When Hugh regained his senses, about half an hour later, he found himself lying on the bottom of a canoe, bound and gagged, staring up at the sky.
The sun beat down upon him, full in his face, causing him to close his eyes until he could just see through the lashes,---a trick he had learned in many games played in the woodlands.
In the present instance it served him well, for the three men who were paddling the canoe swiftly toward the mainland believed that he had not yet recovered fully from the punishing they had given him; so, after their first glance, they paid little attention to the captive.
Though the threatened storm which Captain Vinton and Dave had looked for on the previous evening had given way to a mild and sunny day, the breeze was still brisk and the sea was choppy.
The canoe bobbed up and down on the short waves, and Hugh was rolled from one side to the other or bounced roughly with every motion of the light craft.
He felt sick and sore, his head ached miserably, and though he had had no breakfast, the very thought of food was repugnant to him.
On the island, he mused, his friends would have discovered his discarded garments by this time, and would be calling and hallooing to him---in vain.
What would they think of his prolonged absence?
That he had been drowned, or attacked by sharks, or lost in a quicksand?---what on earth would they imagine had happened to him?
And Billy?
Poor Billy, he would be quite frantic over the strange disappearance of his chum!
The actual state of affairs would be about the last guess to enter their minds.
Well, it could not be helped now.
He would have to bide his time and await developments, trusting that his friends would not delay their coming to the rescue.
Meanwhile, where were these three villains taking him against his will?
After dodging from one island or key to another, slipping along the shady shores, the canoe suddenly struck out across the wider stretch of water, beyond which lay the mainland.
Presently it thrust its nose into the soft bank of a stream, or, rather, a sluggish water-course which made a clear channel in an ocean of waving saw-grass.
The men shipped their paddles, stepped out, and lifted Hugh to his feet; then they dragged him ashore.
He was able now to look about him, to see where they had landed.
A desolate spot it was, being merely an indentation in the swampy coast, a deep cove formed by two projecting arms of land which boasted of no vegetation except the tall grass and a group of stunted palmettos.
Into this cove flowed a stream, and at a little distance from the mouth of the stream stood three log cabins, thatched with bundles of grass.
They were all that remained of a little camp of fishermen and beach-combers, which had once shown promise of becoming a village before it had been finally abandoned to the wilderness.
From the stove-pipe chimney of one of these cabins, the largest, a thin spiral of blue smoke rose and drifted away on the breeze.
This was the only sign of human occupancy.
The other two dilapidated buildings might readily be imagined to shelter only spiders and snakes.
Toward this habitation the smugglers now led their young captive, having first removed the gag from his mouth.
"Now you can shout an' yell all you've a mind to," said Branks, his black eyes twinkling with grim mirth.
"Raise the roof, if you want; there won't be anybody for miles around to hear you."
Hugh made no reply, though his quick temper was at the boiling point.
He did not believe a word of the taunt; indeed, on the way over from the island, listening to the men's talk, he had formed the opinion that they were trying to "bluff" him, trying to impress him with the idea that he was helpless and far away from his friends.
The chief thing which puzzled him was: Why had not the _Arrow_ given chase to the canoe if his friends had caught sight of it, as they must have done?
It seemed very unlikely that no one of his party had seen the canoe stealing out across the water.
Hugh did not know that Vinton, as soon as the canoe had been sighted, had given orders to go aboard the sloop at once, and that the _Arrow_ had promptly gone in pursuit, but such was the case.
Only, by some accident, the sloop had struck shoal water and was now stuck fast on a sandbar, waiting for the tide to lift her afloat.
Meanwhile, approaching the hut, Branks strode forward, paused, and gave a weird, low whistle.
He was answered by a similar one, and then the cabin door was opened by a man dressed in a brown flannel hunting-shirt, corduroy trousers, and hip boots rolled down to the knees.
He stood shading his eyes with both hands, as if blinded by the sunlight on emerging from the windowless cabin.
"That you, Harry?"
he inquired.
"No, it's me---Branks," replied the other man.
"Confound your eyesight, Joe!
can't you tell an honest poor cuss from a crook?"
He laughed at this merry sally, and Joe Durgan responded with a snort.
"Who you-all got thar?"
was his next question, as the others came up.
"A kid, eh?
What you-all doin' with _him_?"
He blinked at Hugh, much as a sleepy owl blinks at a hunter who has discovered its nest.
Then a thought crossed his mind: "O-ho!
you're one o' the crowd campin' o'er yonder!"
"Right you are, Mr.
Durgan!"
declared Hugh with calm politeness.
"But why I've been captured and brought here, I don't quite see.
I wasn't doing any harm that I know of just prowling around the islands for the fun of it,---nothing more."
"Whar your frien's?"
"Don't know, I'm sure.
They'll be over here looking for me in a short while, I guess."
"They will, eh?
Don't say so?
Well, come in and make yourself to home."
There was something so sinister in this invitation and in the leer which accompanied it, that Hugh felt a qualm of misgiving.
He hung back, uncertain what to say next, until cross-eyed Harry gave him a push that sent him staggering through the doorway.
The four men then entered the cabin after him, closing the door cautiously.
Inside the hut they were in comparative darkness, the only light coming in between the chinks in the log walls.
An opening which had once served as a window was now boarded across, for some unknown reason.
The only furniture in the dwelling consisted of a fine old mahogany table---sadly out of place---three cheap wooden chairs, a cupboard against one wall, and a rude bunk beside it covered with deer-skins.
From the cupboard Durgan brought forth a tallow candle set upright on a broken saucer.
Lighting this, he placed it on the table.
"Sit o'er thar," he said to Hugh, pointing to the bunk.
Hugh obeyed in silence; and the men then gathered around the table, speaking in tones so low that he could scarcely distinguish the words.
"A strange scene!"
he thought, surveying the dingy interior.
"Outside, broad daylight; in here, four scoundrels in candle-council, planning deeds of darkness; and I, trussed up like a calf, watching them because there doesn't seem to be anything else I can do.
At least, not just now."
He lay down on the bunk, heaving a sigh of weariness.
Hearing the sigh, Joe Durgan glanced up.
"If you'll behave like a good lad an' not try to run away," he said, grinning, "I'll untie your hands, and you kin be more comf'table-like.
What say?"
"Thanks!"
said Hugh; and when Durgan, assuming the word to be a promise of good behavior, unbound the prisoner, Hugh lay down again and feigned sleep.
In his heart he was grateful to Durgan for the kindness, but he was no less resolved to take every opportunity for escaping that might arise.
The men continued to speak in low voices, but he heard enough of their discussion to convince him once more that they were arranging to meet at a spot where some sort of a cargo was to be run, the first night when there would be no moon and an off-shore wind.
As far as he could learn from the snatches of talk which reached his ears, the spot was to be close to this deserted settlement; before them was a little sandy bay where boats could come ashore, even should there be a heavy sea running outside.
It was further decided that Joe Durgan would show a light in a window of one of the smaller cabins if the coast was clear.
In order to draw off the revenue cutter men from the spot, they proposed also to set afire two small hay ricks which stood near.
By so doing, they hoped that the crew of the _Petrel_ would try to extinguish the flames, so as to prevent the fire spreading inland to an extensive grove of valuable cypress trees.
As this was sure to be no easy work, the smugglers calculated to run the cargo and carry the goods into the cellar of the cabin.
"Didn't know this hang-out had a cellar," said Branks.
"Why don't we-----" "Shut up!"
interrupted the cross-eyed man, holding up a grimy finger which he pointed at Hugh.
"Did you say cigar, Branks?"
he added craftily in a louder tone, so that Hugh might hear.
"No, I said cel-----" "I won't sell one, but I'll give you one," again interposed the other.
"Here, take it!"
And he added under his breath with an ugly oath, "You double-dyed fool!"
Hugh lay still, breathing deeply and heartily wishing the men would go away.
He began to fear they would spend the day there in hiding.
Presently, however, they rose from the table and went out, closing and locking the door behind them.
He was a prisoner!
He sprang up and rushed over to the door.
"Let me out!"
he cried, beating on it with clenched fists.
"You crooks'll have to pay for this when you're caught!"
A loud laugh was the only answer.
CHAPTER VI THE PLIGHT OF THE "_ARROW_" Hours later, when the _Arrow_ was finally clear of the bar, she veered around and made down the coast, passing the little bay where the canoe had landed.
So occupied with the distressing problem of Hugh's disappearance had her crew been,---for not one of the party could believe him drowned,---and so busy in trying to keep the sloop from being pounded to pieces by the waves while stranded, that no one aboard had noticed the canoe on its return trip across the strait.
When sailing order had been restored and Captain Vinton had ceased to rage and swear at the mischance, his one idea was to return to the waters where he knew the _Petrel_ was cruising.
Strange to say, he was the only one who guessed that Hugh had fallen into the hands of "coast-prowlers" as he called them,---with adjectives too lurid to mention!---and was, being held captive lest he betray their plans.
With this idea in mind, he was determined to bring the revenue cutter to Hugh's rescue; he knew the _Petrel_ could cope with the situation.
By an unlooked-for stroke of fortune, he had not gone very far down the coast before he sighted the cutter, and soon he brought the _Arrow_ within hailing distance.
He communicated the news to the officers on board, and a sort of council of war took place immediately.
Together, they were not long in forming a plan of reprisal.
It was decided that they should proceed forthwith to a small fortress a few miles southward, where a squad of regulars was stationed.
The place was called Fort Leigh, but it scarcely deserved the name, being in reality only a temporary camp located on the site of an old fortification which had been a military headquarters during the Seminole wars.
Its nearness to the vicinity in which, according to the _Petrel's_ reliable information, the smugglers were operating was the reason why all decided to go there for assistance.
Lieutenant Driscoll was in command at the fort and he could be counted on to bring the smugglers to terms.
"Why, it's the most high-handed piece of knavery I've heard of for many a long day!"
he exclaimed when the information formation was brought to him by Vinton and the others.
"Those scoundrels must have their nerve, all right, to kidnap a young fellow merely because they didn't want him to tell tales!"
"It's an outrage!"
agreed Norton emphatically.
"But we've got to get busy right away, Lieutenant.
What are we going to do about it?"
"You're right.
We must lose no time," replied Driscoll directly.
"We'll set out this very hour and invade the haunts of gang.
They're not many miles from here, I'm told, hiding in the Everglades.
Come with me; I'll have my men ready in half an hour.
"You boys'll go along, of course," he added.
"If we have to pitch camp for a night or two, while we're hunting them, we'll need you for signalers or scouts, or for picket duty."
"Picket duty?"
echoed Chester.
"Yes, both in camp and along the line of march.
I presume you all are willing to serve?"
"Yes, sir; we certainly are!"
came the eager chorus.
Then, abashed at their lack of military formality, the speakers saluted in more soldierly fashion and stood at attention, awaiting orders.
These were soon given, and after a hurried preparation the whole party---with the exception of three privates who remained at the fort---sallied forth against "Bego's gang."
It was decided not to go on board the _Petrel_ for the few miles' trip back along the coast, but to use the _Arrow_, instead; for the latter would not be so easily recognized by the smugglers.
"No doubt they'll have pickets posted at different points near Durgan's settlement, if, as we suspect, they have a rendezvous there," said Lieutenant Driscoll.
"But we'll camp tonight on Palmetto Key, cross over to the shore the first thing to-morrow morning-----" "Before daylight?"
"Of course; and then we'll land on 'em, hot-and-heavy.
I count on their trying to ship a cargo to-morrow night, when there'll be no moon."
"I understand," said Norton.
"Will you permit me to make a suggestion, Lieutenant Driscoll?"
"By all means, my dear sir.
What is it?"
"Well, the fact that you mentioned their pickets gave me an idea that it would be well if you sent some of us,---say these scouts and myself, for instance,---over to the mainland to-night to act as pickets for you fellows encamped on Palmetto Key."
"An excellent idea!
But how do you propose to communicate with us, in case there should be anything doing to-night?"
"By means of bonfires on the shore, or by wig-wagging with torches."
"I thought you would say that!"
exclaimed the lieutenant heartily.
"You mean---you don't approve of that part of the plan?"
Lieutenant Driscoll laughed.
"Oh, not at all!
That is, I meant only that I was pleased to discover a civilian who knows anything about signaling."
Amused at the lieutenant's patronizing comment, Norton merely smiled in his good-natured way, though he would fain have answered more sharply.
Alec and Billy glanced at him and then at each other, and Alec whispered: "I guess the lieutenant doesn't know that Boy Scouts are expected to be pretty efficient signalers, does he, Bill?"
To which Billy responded with a snort: "What he doesn't know would fill a book!"
Fortunately these remarks were not heard by anyone but Dave, for the lieutenant and Norton were arranging a system of signals to be used in case of necessity.
Meanwhile, with Vinton at the helm, and the men of Driscoll's company crowded on the deck of the sloop talking with the other scouts, the trim little _Arrow_ was making good speed over the blue water.
Billy and Alec walked restlessly up and down the deck, their minds busy with thoughts of Hugh, for whom they felt no little anxiety.
"Wonder what he's doing now?"
said Alec.
"I'd give anything to know for sure that he's alive and safe!"
was Billy's rueful rejoinder.
"I've heard all sorts of stories about what rough-necks like those smugglers do to any one that butts in on their game!"
"You don't believe they'd kill him?"
"No-o, hardly that.
But they might----" "The worst of it is," interrupted Alec, "we don't even know that he's alive.
He might have been drowned or-----" "I won't believe that, Alec!
I can't believe it!"
"But you said just now-----" "I don't know what I said or what I meant!"
"Calm down, Billy, old scout!
You're all upset."
"Who wouldn't be, I'd like to know?"
"I don't blame you," said Alec in genuine sympathy.
"We all are, you know; but we've got to keep our heads, and we mustn't despair."
"Yes, you're right, Alec."
There was a brief silence, while the two friends stood by the rail watching the low-lying shore slip past them as the _Arrow_ flew onward.
Then Billy spoke again, and his voice was steadier.
"We're going to find Hugh and get him out of danger," he said quietly, "so let's get ready to do our level best."
"I'm with you, Bill!
That's the stuff.
That's the way to feel!
Why, it helps a lot not to lose hope at the start!
Come on, let's find out what we're going to do first."
Mark Anderson came over to them just then, tugging at his cap to keep it from being blown away.
"We're almost at Palmetto Key now," he said.
"Whew!
I'll be glad when we're off this boat on dry land,---and _doing_ something!
This cruising-around-while-you-wait gets my nerve!
I've had about enough of the salt water, anyway.
When we get Hugh back, me for the choo-choo cars home to Santario!"
It was a natural impatience, and some of the boys shared it for the time being.
They might change their minds later, they agreed, but at present most of them were of Dave's opinion of the cruise---"Heap much trouble, not much fun."
However, the prospect of excitement and a possible encounter with smugglers on the outskirts of the Everglades, cheered them considerably.
Gliding through the channels between islands and keys, and keeping out of sight of watchers on the mainland as far as possible, the _Arrow_ finally cast anchor off Palmetto Key nearly opposite Durgan's cove, and the boat made two trips ashore with Norton and the boys.
Dave went with them, of course, for he was thoroughly familiar with that section of the coast.
Each was armed with a revolver and a belt of cartridges, but orders were given that there should be no shooting except in self-defense or as a last desperate resort to make "the gang" deliver up their prisoner.
They landed on a little grass-covered peninsula about a hundred yards from the cove, and immediately began to look around them for good station points to observe the movements of "the enemy."
The ground in that locality was somewhat higher than the surrounding expanses, and therefore less swampy; but there were numerous little zigzag ditches or watercourses in which the tide rose until it overflowed the banks.
"We'd better not linger here," said Norton.
"When the tide comes in, this little point of land will be under water."
"No, no," said Dave, shaking his head.
"Safe here---see!"
He pointed to the dry grass blades on which were no traces of brine.
"You stay here.
Me and Billy go get canoe."
"Canoe?
Where can you get one?"
Again Dave pointed, this time to a group of three ramshackle cabins just visible through the bushes.
In one of those cabins Hugh was even then a prisoner.
Had Dave or Billy known this, they would not have hesitated to swim to the place, if need be to say nothing of the difficulty of going there and "borrowing" a canoe, in which they all could approach the smugglers' headquarters.
Dave explained that the cabins on the cove were called "Durgan's settlement," and that the place bore a bad reputation.
He added that to his certain knowledge the revenue men had intended for some time past to raid the place, and that they had waited only for more proof that the smugglers foregathered there.
Having assured the others that he and Billy would soon return with some kind of a canoe or boat, Dave set forth, accompanied by Hugh's chum.
The others, separating, took up their positions where they were concealed by the long grass, but where they had a good view of the islands and straits, the cove, and the three cabins.
They were now pickets on duty.
CHAPTER VII A GATHERING OF THE CLAN "If there are any of the gang around here, where on earth are they?"
The question came in a whisper from Billy, as he and the Seminole pursued their way cautiously along the edge of a watercourse, in the direction of the cabins.
Bending forward, sometimes crawling on hands and knees, they advanced---an inch at every step, it seemed to impatient Billy.
"Do you think they're hiding near here?"
he asked, and Dave shook his turbaned head.
"Gone 'way," was his answer.
"Boat come back to-night, mebbe so."
"Boat?
What boat?"
"_Esperanza_."
"Oh!
Then you think they'll try to leave this part of the coast soon?"
"Dunno.
Wait.
We see, we tell _Petrel_."
There was nothing else to do, so Billy curbed his eagerness to learn the present whereabouts of the smugglers and crawled forward in silence.
Once he drew back with a gasp of horror as a large moccasin snake darted across his path; but seeing the loathsome creature glide away to a safe distance, he went on, following the guide.
Nevertheless, a chill ran down his spine when he thought how narrowly he had escaped stumbling full tilt upon the reptile, which, unlike the rattlesnake, never gives warning of its presence.
When they had traversed the stretch of marsh between the peninsula and the cove, alternately walking on soft springy ground above a bed of coralline limestone and wading knee-deep along the watercourse, they emerged upon the left bank of the cove.
The two smaller cabins were not more than twenty paces distant, and between them was a plank bridge rudely built in the form of a trestle.
Dave and Billy approached this bridge.
Suddenly they stopped short and crouched in the high grass.
Plainly to their ears came the shrill barking of a dog.
Dave expressed his feelings in one round oath, which, being uttered in his native dialect, sounded to Billy "Like gargling the throat."
It needed no expletives to inform Billy that the dog's appearance on the scene of action was certain to cause trouble.
"Ketch um dog, choke um!"
said Dave, looking about him to see if the barking had brought anyone to the place.
"Where is the cur?"
Billy asked.
"Don't see um," replied the Seminole.
He straightened up until his head was above the top of the grass.
"A-ah!"
he exclaimed in a guttural tone.
"Man in sailboat yonder."
Impulsively Billy scrambled to a kneeling position, and his gaze followed Dave's.
The two spies then beheld the figure of a man seated in the stern of a dug-out canoe that carried a mast and sail and was coming around the bend of a stream.
"If he sees us-----" began Billy.
"S-s-sh!"
Dave interrupted warningly.
"Wait, see where he go."
"Is the dog barking at us or at him?
What d'you think, Dave?"
"At us," was the answer.
"Man come, let dog loose,---we better go back!
Incah!"
"No," said Billy firmly.
"Dog or no dog, I'm not going back till I've found out where they've hidden Hugh!"
If Billy had only known that Hugh was locked in that further cabin!
If Hugh had only been able to communicate with his friends on picket duty!
How much trouble would have been avoided,---yet what an adventure they would have missed!
Dave now explained to Billy that his purpose had been to purloin the sailing canoe, so that the smugglers on shore would be dependent on a boat from the _Esperanza_ to take them and their goods away.
This would enable the crew of the _Petrel_ to intercept the smugglers as soon as they landed.
But now, with the appearance of this man in the canoe, Dave's plan seemed about to be thwarted.
* * * * * * Meanwhile, what of the others who remained on the peninsula?
More than an hour passed before any one saw a suspicious figure on the landscape.
Then Alec, whose post was farthest removed from the landing place, suddenly caught sight of two men walking along the shore.
They were carrying the same battered tin box which he and Billy had found half buried in the sand, many hours ago.
Evidently the box was heavy, for they appeared to stagger with its weight.
Alec raised his voice in the weird, low call of the otter.
As his patrol was named after that animal, he knew that Chester, also of the Otter patrol, would recognize the signal.
In this case it meant "Danger.
Look around you."
From a distance, hidden behind a clump of palmettos, Chet responded with the same call twice, in quick succession.
But the men carrying the box heard the calls.
They knew it was still too early in the afternoon for otters to be hunting so noisily, and they were surprised, startled, suspicious.
To Alec's dismay, they dropped the box, stood still, and stared all around them.
Alec lay flat on the ground, trusting that his khaki suit and brown flannel shirt would help him to escape observation.
At the same time he dread lest one of the other pickets would be seen too soon.
The two men, after gazing out to sea as if expecting to sight a vessel on the horizon, picked up the box and came on again.
Every step brought them nearer Alec, who of course had been told to allow all strangers to pass unchallenged---until to-morrow.
"Hark!"
said one of the men, listening.
"That's Rover barking!"
"He barks at nothing!"
declared the other.
"Eet is a fool dawg, zat Rover!
I know heem, yes."
"You haven't as much sense as that 'fool dawg,' Max!"
retorted the first speaker, who was none other than the swarthy ruffian, Harry Mole.
"Somethin's going on over there at the settlement or the dog wouldn't bark.
Come on, hurry; Branks may need us."
So saying, he and his companion passed by, and Alec, who had heard every word, breathed a sigh of relief.
He wished the two men were not going in the same direction Dave and Billy had taken; but he felt sure that the latter could give a good account of themselves if discovered in hiding.
"But that would upset the whole scheme," he reflected.
"Perhaps I'd better sneak around, ahead of those two rascals, and warn Dave and Billy to lie low?
Or shall I---no, I've been stationed here, and it's up to me to stick to this post."
As he watched the two men stumbling on over the uneven ground, he wondered with a little thrill of apprehension whether they would run across any of the other pickets, or even meet Billy and Dave returning from their quest.
However, no such undesired event came to pass, and the two smugglers finally disappeared behind a row of trees covered with vines.
After that, the watchful young pickets waited in silence, with only a low-spoken word now and then as they paced back and forth under cover to emphasize the stillness.
An hour passed,---another hour,---the sun began its slow descent into the broad bosom of the ocean.
Long before this, the _Arrow_ had slipped away a little farther up along the coast, so that she would be out of sight behind one of the numerous islands in case the _Esperanza_ drew near Durgan's cove.
Once the dog's barking sounded louder, and nearer, but after a minute or two it ceased, and silence reigned over all.
"What's become of Dave and Billy?"
wondered Chester.
The same question was troubling the minds of Roy Norton and Mark Anderson, in their respective station-points; but there seemed to be no answer to it at present.
Twilight crept upon them apace, then deepened into the shadows of night.
As they had arranged, they left their posts and assembled at the place chosen for their landing.
After hours of more-or-less solitary watching, it seemed good to be together in council, to eat their simple supper, and to compare notes.
In the midst of their evening meal, the faint purring of a motorboat's engine reached their ears, and after a few minutes a boat with two figures in it was seen approaching them, gliding almost noiselessly along one of the waterways.
The occupants of the boat were Billy Worth and Dave.
Reaching the place, they stopped the engine, ran the boat's nose into the soft bank, and sprang ashore.
"Where---how----did you get it?"
asked Norton in surprise.
"The boat?
Oh, we just borrowed it from Joe Durgan and his friends!"
Billy declared.
"We saw the boat tied to a little trestle over there at the deserted settlement, and when we saw Durgan and two other men go into one of the cabins, we sneaked up quickly and took the boat from them without asking permission and got away with it!"
"Didn't they see you, or hear the engine?"
"No," answered Billy.
"That's strange!
Are you sure?"
"There were no windows in the cabin, that we could see," explained Billy, "and when they got inside, they made a lot of noise."
"Gee!
won't they be wild when they find their boat gone!"
said Mark.
"They may think it slipped its moorings and drifted away on the tide.
At least, that's what Dave says."
The Seminole grinned.
"Anyhow, they look for boat soon," he said.
"Something doin' tonight, you bet!"
Alec had risen and was standing erect, his face turned toward the ocean.
"What are you staring at?"
queried chester.
"See any stars?"
"There's just one," replied young Sands, pointing southwest.
"Mighty low down---there!
Now it's out."
"No, it isn't.
I see it!"
"So do I!"
exclaimed Billy and Norton.
"There it is again!"
"What a queer star!"
"Perhaps it's a lighthouse.
Captain Vinton said that there is one somewhere near this locality."
The sky was cloudy; there was no moon.
Overhead, a few large stars glittered brilliantly, but the seeming star at which they were gazing was unlike any of those celestial lights.
It steadily grew larger, yellower.
Finally two lower gleams appeared, and then all three vanished, as if they had been snuffed out.
"What is it?"
asked Norton, turning to Dave.
But the Seminole guide apparently did not hear the question.
He was staring in the direction of the three cabins, whence arose in the murky darkness a shower of sparks, then one---two----three shooting green stars.
"Look!"
he exclaimed hoarsely.
"By Jove!
a Roman candle!"
ejaculated Norton.
"It's a signal!"
"No star out to sea," Dave said.
"No star, but um boat."
"Boat?
You mean-----" "_Esperanza_!
She come here to-night."
CHAPTER VIII THE BLAZING BEACON Had it been daylight, the boy scouts on picket duty would have seen the same long, low, gray craft something like a built-for-speed tug boat, which had surprised Captain Vinton when it first appeared among the Keys, now coming to anchor outside Durgan's Cove, in the darkness.
As it was, however, they could see nothing after the _Esperanza's_ lights went out; but, waiting impatiently, they presently heard the dip of oars, the faint rattle and squeaking of row-locks, and then a low whistle which seemed to come out of the quiet that brooded over the ocean.
"It's a boat from the _Esperanza_!"
muttered Norton.
"One of us had better steal back to the camp, and see what our friends are doing.
Dave, you-----" "Oh, let me go!"
interposed Alec.
"I can run the motor boat over to our camp and bring the soldiers here in about twenty minutes---or less."
"My dear boy, those fellows out there who are coming ashore would be sure to hear a motor boat," declared Norton.
"Even with a muffler on, the sound would reach them."
"But it's the only boat we have, .sir," said Mark, "and, when all's said, that's why Billy and Dave took it---to bring the men over sooner than they could tramp across these flats."
"You're right, Mark; but-----" Again he was interrupted by one of his eager young friends---Chester, this time.
"Perhaps Dave could pole the motor boat over," he suggested.
"Could you, Dave?
It's not a large boat by any means."
"Uh-huh, sure!"
assented the guide.
"But slow work---lose heap time."
"No matter.
Anyway, we've got to give those fellows time to land and to get to the cabins before we surround them.
Go ahead, Dave; and Alec, you go with him to run the boat back.
I guess you know more about a gasoline engine than any of us.
Hurry now---and good luck!"
The intrepid young scout needed no urging.
Before Dave had found a suitable pole, Alec had taken his place at the stern and was pointing her in the direction of the peninsula on which Lieutenant Driscoll and his men were waiting.
In a few minutes Dave was pushing the light but substantial launch along the waterway, and almost immediately it disappeared from sight, swallowed up in the darkness.
It returned in about half an hour, crowded to the gunwales, carrying the dozen men.
In the meantime, a rather startling incident had occurred.
Dave and Alec had been gone only ten minutes or so, when the assembled pickets observed a bright light burst forth from the surrounding gloom and rapidly increase until it assumed the proportions of a large bonfire.
The outlaws were carrying out the first part of their plan, which was to attract the revenue men away from the vicinity of the cabins while they effected a loading of their munitions or other contraband goods upon the _Esperanza's_ boat.
They counted on the probability that the revenue men would hasten to put out the fire on the coast---which was quite a little distance from the cabins---and would be unaware of other operations at the same time.
But in this scheme they reckoned without their pursuers; for the crew of the _Petrel_---even now hurrying to the scene of action---had received information of this very ruse, and had decided to ignore it and to make directly for Durgan's Cove.
Not knowing that the _Arrow_ was lying near, or that the dozen men from the fort, with the scout pickets, were already on the scene, those energetic seamen of the _Petrel_ were bending every effort to reach the smugglers' headquarters on time.
Captain Bego, of the _Esperanza_, however, knew that the _Petrel_ was on his trail, and he was all the more anxious to make "a getaway with the goods."
The bonfire, instead of dying down at last, seemed to rise higher and higher, casting a lurid glow over the marshes and streams, and even upon the dark waters of the ocean.
Made of driftwood, bundles of dried saw-grass and withered cypress boughs---industriously piled on by Max, the half-breed, who had been sent there for that very purpose---it blazed merrily, and a shower of sparks swirled around it, veering toward the cabins.
To all appearances, the three cabins seemed doomed to take fire; in which case nothing could save them or their contents.
The soldiers from the fort and Dave had disappeared into the darkness of the deeper shadows.
Eager to see the fire and to find out what was going on in that vicinity, Billy, Alec, and Roy Norton crept forth from their hiding place and approached the glowing beacon.
For the most part, they followed the bank of a creek or inlet which, like all its fellows, wound and zig-zagged through the springy turf of the marsh.
This particular waterway reflected the glow of the bonfire more brightly than the others, from which fact they deduced that it would be the most direct path.
On getting nearer, the hum of human voices showed them that a number of men had assembled, some of whom were engaged in throwing water over the blaze, others in patrolling the beach.
Evidently the bonfire was burning too high and casting too much light to suit their purposes.
"Who are they?"
queried Alec in a whisper.
"I don't know," answered Norton as quietly.
"Look!"
Billy exclaimed softly.
"There are three mulattoes in that bunch over by the dune.
And see that tall, skinny, dark man with the oilskin coat over his left arm?
That must be Captain Bego."
"He certainly looks like Vinton's descriptions," Norton observed.
"And he's giving orders as if he-----" "Hark!
What's that noise?"
Breathlessly they waited and listened.
After another full minute they again heard the sound---a low rumbling, like distant thunder.
"Gee!
it sounds dangerous," said Billy.
"I wish we knew what it was."
"I can make a pretty good guess," Norton added, still whispering.
"It's a-----" In the middle of his sentence he was interrupted by a shout from one of the mulattos.
"Boat!
Boat comin'!"
cried the man, running toward the others, who by this time had almost extinguished the bonfire.
His announcement was distinctly heard by the three hidden scouts.
"Wonder if he has seen our captured launch or a boat out at sea?"
said Alec.
"Boys, he means---the _Petrel_!"
"Oh!"
the other two exclaimed dubiously.
"How do you know?"
demanded Billy.
"How can you tell?"
"It's just a guess on my part," Norton admitted readily; "but before we came ashore today, Vinton told me that he wouldn't be at all surprised if the _Petrel_ came cruising back this way by evening; and so, when that fellow came running up with the news, my first thought was that the _Petrel_ was not far off."
"But where are the soldiers all this while?"
asked Alec.
"Why haven't they followed us here?"
"They may have gone to the cabins, instead," replied Norton.
"Perhaps Dave has guided them to the bonfire by another way, and they're just waiting to make an attack when that fire-raising gang start toward the cabins."
"I guess you're right, Billy.
Come on, let's get nearer."
With one accord, the three moved forward.
CHAPTER IX DEEDS OF DARKNESS As yet, neither the soldiers nor the revenue men had appeared on the scene.
In spite of his shrewd guess, Norton began to believe that the smugglers, having come to the conclusion that their bonfire was not necessary, after all---because they fondly imagined the _Petrel_ was far away down the coast---would waste no more time trying to attract the cutter to that spot, but would proceed boldly, under cover of darkness, to run their goods from the cabins to the _Esperanza_.
Such seemed to be Bego's decision, also; for as Roy, Billy, and Alec drew nearer, they heard the swarthy leader directing most of his men to "shoulder arms and march over to Durgan's headquarters."
Presently the group near the bonfire was diminished by the departure of eight or nine men, who picked their way gingerly over the uneven ground, muttering directions to one another as they went Billy could hardly restrain his impulse to follow them.
At one time they passed so close to the ambushed pickets that the latter could distinguish the words "after midnight" and "set the boy loose."
"They're talking about Hugh," said Billy to himself, and his heart beat fast with excitement.
The words gave him assurance that his chum was alive, which was some comfort.
"I think I'll just have to follow them," he mused a few moments later; and telling Norton and Alec that he would be back very soon, he slipped away, trailing Bego's men, before Norton could prevent him from going.
It would have been better for Billy had he remained in hiding; but he was eager to know how Durgan and his confederates would manage to run their cargo on board the _Esperanza_, having no motor boat to use; and he was even more eager to find out what had become of Hugh.
Without stopping longer, therefore, in the neighborhood of the bonfire, he hurried away toward the spot at which he had heard the men propose to run the cargo.
He must have crept onward for ten minutes or so, when he head a pistol fired.
The shot was followed by two or three others in quick succession.
This made him more than ever eager to find out what was happening.
He doubled his speed.
Fortunately, by mere chance, he had stumbled upon the very stretch of ground which he and Dave had traversed earlier in the day; the trail was fairly good, and he knew just how to proceed.
All this while he had not seen a single person, and he had not been seen by any of the smugglers.
After a few minutes he heard more shots sounding much nearer, then shouts and hoarse yells, mingled with the sharp staccato of pistols and rifles.
He felt sure that by this time the soldiers under Lieutenant Driscoll had come up and were having a lively fight with the outlaws, the latter trying to defend their property, and the former to confiscate it.
At any moment he expected to find that the men whom he was following were returning to the beach to join their comrades; but evidently they had received strict orders to go straight to the cabins, for they went on, and he followed them.
Now he availed himself of all the knowledge of stalking and trailing which he had gained in scoutcraft games at Pioneer Camp.
Which party, the soldiers or the smugglers, would succeed in their object seemed doubtful.
The darkness was intense, and though Billy pictured the whole scene, as yet he could not see anything except an occasional spurt of flame as a revolver or rifle spat viciously.
Even the forms of the men he was following had disappeared from view.
This did not discourage him, for he was used to following a trail in the dark.
Still he stumbled onward, forgetting that bullets flying about were no respecters of persons.
At last he reached the top of a low mound whence he could see dimly a number of dark figures scurrying hither and thither.
From their actions and from the babel of shouts, commands, oaths and shooting that came from the little clearing around the huts, he judged that they were engaged in a determined struggle.
That the soldiers were having the best of it, he had no doubt.
It appeared to him that they had captured not only part of the intended cargo but also some of Bego's men; while others, bolder villains, seemed to be trying to rescue their comrades.
In his rejoicing over this turn of affairs, he gave a yell of triumph---and just at that moment a bullet whizzed over his shoulder, almost searing his neck!
The yell quavered on his lips, and he dropped down on his knees, which were trembling and knocking together.
"Whew!
that came pretty close to yours truly!"
said Billy, speaking aloud as if he expected some one to hear him.
"That's what might be called being 'under fire,' and I don't like the sensation---not by a long shot!"
Even in moments of danger or of distress, Billy managed to see the funny side of circumstances.
He grinned now at his little joke, but all the while he was intently scanning the scene before him and wondering if he would be drawn into taking part in it.
Also, he was anxious to know where his friends were at that moment.
Would they join in the fray?
Suddenly his eager gaze was shifted to a new quarter.
He stared, wide-eyed and breathless.
Out of the night, running like mad along the shore and across the acres of sand and clay and mud, came a body of men armed with rifles.
They were making directly toward the scene of conflict as fast as they could find their difficult way.
"Who are they?
Where have they come from?"
Billy wondered.
And then, like a flash, he understood.
"Oh!"
he gasped.
"Oh, I know, I know now!
They're the men from the _Petrel_!
Marines, I guess---if that's what you call 'em."
It was true; the new arrivals were the Revenue Service men, and as it chanced, they had come just in the nick of time.
For Joe Durgan, Branks, Harry Mole, Max, the villainous half-breed, and others at the huts, were being reinforced by Bego's followers who had hurried up from the bonfire; and they were beating back the soldiers, whom they now outnumbered.
Suddenly Billy heard another yell, a wild, eerie, shrill call, and Dave, leading Norton and the Boy Scouts, sprang from their boat which had crept up to the farther side of the clearing, and dashed forward to meet the crew of the _Petrel_.
Recognizing them even in the darkness---which now began to be relieved by stray gleams of moonlight struggling out of the clouds---the revenue men turned to the left under Dave's guidance, and took a short-cut, coming up in the rear of the battle.
Alone on the little mound, Billy realized that he was separated from his reunited scout friends and their allies by a small mob of desperately fighting men.
He was cut off from the rest by reason of Dave's having steered the boat along a watercourse of which he, Billy, knew nothing; in fact, he had lost his bearings and knew not in which direction the improvised camp lay.
However, the conflict before him absorbed his thoughts and left him no time to worry about his own predicament.
He was still wondering how the revenue men had happened to arrive at a critical time.
The explanation was as follows: Unknown to Billy or to any of his friends, the _Petrel_ had steamed full speed to Palmetto Key; and Captain Vinton, sighting the cutter from the deck of the concealed _Arrow_, had signaled to her captain, telling him just where to land his men.
This accounted for their unexpected arrival, which soon turned the tide of battle in their favor.
Creeping forward, Billy saw the smugglers fleeing in all directions, after setting fire to the two smaller cabins.
As they ran, they exchanged shots with the soldiers and the revenue men; but, owing to the gloom, these shots failed to take much effect, beyond slightly wounding their captors.
Fired on in turn, they ran toward the beach, past their smouldering bonfire, near which their boat was drawn up on the sands waiting to take them back to the _Esperanza_.
The light of the blazing huts now illumined the scene, and in the glow, Norton caught sight of Billy running toward them.
He hailed the lad with a shout: "Hi!
Hurry up, Billy!
Where have you been all this time?"
"Watching the fight!"
shouted Billy, whose voice sounded doleful.
"Wishing I could butt into it earlier!
Come on, come on!
We're chasing 'em!"
"Hold on!"
Norton exclaimed loudly.
"We've had about enough of this.
Here we'll stay, my boy, and let our better-armed friends capture the gang.
When they get to their boat it will be a case of 'first come, first served' to get away.
Most of them'll be caught and captured.
Meanwhile, it's up to us to find Hugh.
He must be in that largest shanty there, unless-----" "Come on!"
yelled Billy, seeing his brother scouts already commencing the search.
He dashed over to the remaining shanty and flung himself against the door.
"Hugh, Hugh!"
he called.
"Are you in there?"
No answer---only the roaring and crackling of the flames as they devoured the old walls and crumbling roof of the nearby abandoned dwellings.
"Hugh!"
shouted Alec and Chester, banging on the door, while Mark ran around the cabin, looking in vain for a window or other means of entrance.
The door gave way and the three scouts rushed in, followed by Norton.
Dave stood in the doorway, his lanky form with the red glare of the fire behind it casting a grotesque shadow on the interior wall of the cabin.
He remained there on guard, lest any of the smugglers should return.
Alec struck a match.
Its sputtering flame lighted the single room, dispelling the shadows for a brief moment.
Anxiously they all peered around the dingy shanty.
"Hugh, where are you?"
said Billy in a hoarse whisper.
"Are you here?
Can't you speak?"
Still no answer.
Then Alec's match went out.
"Have you another match?"
asked Norton.
Like Billy's, his voice was husky.
A vague dread seemed to seize him, weighing down upon him like a tangible thing.
"Yes," said Alec.
"Here's one more---the last."
Again he struck a light and a hasty search was made.
Every moment was precious.
In vain.
The cabin was empty.
CHAPTER X THE END OF THE RAID At the beginning of the fight, Hugh wakened from a troubled sleep into which he had fallen, wearied with fruitless efforts to break the lock of the door.
One thought was ever in his mind, even in his dream: to escape.
For this purpose he had clawed away a wide chink in the log walls, he had even dug under the threshold---without avail.
Nevertheless, he was glad to be active and thankful that he had been unbound before his captors went away, leaving him a prisoner in the shanty until they were ready to release him.
Joe Durgan had even been considerate enough to leave a half loaf of bread and a glass of beer on the table; but Hugh declined these delicacies.
All during the fight he crouched by the locked door, listening in alternate hope and dread of the outcome, now and then raising his voice amid the din and confusion outside.
It was perhaps not strange that none of his friends heard him, for his shouts only mingled with those of the smugglers and were lost in the general clamor.
But they were heard by one man, who, though not exactly a friend, was yet an amiable enemy.
In the midst of the conflict, when the Revenue Service men had arrived to turn the tide of fortune, the door was quickly opened and shut, and a man stood in the room, panting hard.
Hugh sprang to his feet, ready for any new emergency.
"What are you-all doin' thar, youngster?"
said a voice in the darkness, a deep voice which Hugh recognized as Durgan's.
"Trying to get out, of course," he replied defiantly, every nerve in his young body tingling with excitement.
"What did you expect me to do, Durgan?"
"Eh?
Oh, nothin'.
Thought you might ha' gone to sleep like a good little boy."
The man's harsh laugh sounded hollow and unpleasant.
Hugh shuddered.
"I was asleep," he said, "but when----" "Real unkind o' your friends to wake you up, eh?"
interrupted Durgan.
His hand stole behind him.
With a quick turn he opened the door, and admitted some one.
"Come in, Harry," he said.
"The kid's here, all right.
What did I tell you?"
"That so?"
growled Harry Mole.
"Well, we know who he is now.
Somebody tipped off the officers about the run we was goin' to make to-night; and since it wasn't this kid, it must-a been one of his bunch.
Shall we heave him into the stream, Joe, or leave him here?"
"Not on your life!"
Durgan replied promptly.
"He's caught on to too much about us while he's been here, and he can tell those ginks a lot that we don't want 'em to know.
So's long as we kin get out o' here alive, we'd better take him along."
"He spoiled our plans to-night.
He deserves to be knocked on the head an' thrown out to the 'gators!"
"Spoilt our plans, you bet!
But he'll get his, by-and-by.
Come, take him and hustle away.
Cripes!
hear them bullets smashin' into the wall!"
"Remember, kid," said Mole, "if you shout or let out a word, we'll stick a knife between yer slats."
From the fierce way in which Mole uttered this threat, Hugh did not doubt he would do as he said.
However, he did not yield without a silent struggle, though he was soon overpowered by the two burly ruffians.
Each taking him by an arm, they led him outside and dragged him over a stretch of bumpy ground, stumbling along in the semi-darkness.
Scarcely five minutes after they left the hut and the two burning shanties behind them, Hugh's friends burst into the empty cabin---too late to rescue him.
But these young, well-trained scouts lost no time in searching the place.
Separating into pairs---Norton and Mark, Alec and Chester, with Billy and Dave in advance, following Durgan's and Mole's trail---they formed a line of communication between the cabin and the site of the bonfire, hoping that by thus keeping a picket line they might catch sight of Hugh or his captors beating a hasty retreat toward the shore.
Meanwhile, Durgan and Mole with Hugh between them walked very fast indeed.
Had they not supported Hugh, he should have fallen several times; for, young and strong as he was, he was almost worn out with the rough treatment he had undergone.
Every minute he thought they would stop, and, making an end of their senseless threats, release him and run.
But they evidently had no intention of doing so.
Hugh tried to ascertain in what direction they were leading him, but he soon gave this up as useless.
He was on the verge of despair, when suddenly out of the gloom came a startlingly familiar call---the call of the Wolf patrol.
"_Wow-ow-ooo-oooo-hoo-Hugh!_" It sounded not far away, on his left, and the lad's heart bounded with joy.
He knew that that call could come from none other than Billy Worth, and Billy must therefore be near at hand, ready to lead his comrades to Hugh's rescue.
For one wild moment he was tempted to answer the call---then discretion prevailed, and he kept silence.
Naturally, the two men also were startled at the sound.
Mole gave Hugh a prod in the shoulder with the point of a knife and Durgan swore volubly.
"None o' that thar, Harry!"
he warned.
"Don't hurt the kid.
If you do, we'll-----" "Aw, shut up!"
retorted the other, and they hurried on.
By great effort Hugh said nothing, asked no questions, did not even answer the wolf-call.
Instinct told him it would be better to do as his captors had ordered, and now he pretended to feel resigned to his fate---knowing that help was forthcoming.
As they went on, sounds of a lively scuffle reached his ears, and he could also hear the dull booming of surf, by which he knew that he could be at no great distance from the shore.
Behind him, evidently following, again sounded the wolf-call, giving him courage and renewed hope.
Durgan turned to him angrily.
"What made you jump when you heard that thar howl?"
he demanded.
"Nothing.
Where---where are we going?"
Hugh ventured to ask, at length, forgetting that he was not to utter a word of protest.
"I'm dog-tired, and my knee aches---a sprain, I guess."
"You lie!"
retorted Mole fiercely, and he struck Hugh across the mouth.
"You'll soon have time enough to rest yourself, youngster," added Durgan in a kinder tone.
"You're in luck that things ain't no worse for you."
But Hugh scarcely heard; at any rate, he paid no heed.
Boiling with rage at the insult, he gave one shout: "Billy!
This way, scouts!"
and struggling desperately, he managed to slip from his captors' grasp.
In another minute he had whirled around and was running as fast as he could put foot to the ground.
To his surprise, Mole and Durgan did not chase him.
When he paused for an instant to rub his bruised knee and to look around, he dimly saw them in the distance running to a spot where a crowd of men were pushing and struggling to get into a boat.
Presently he discerned a larger body of men hastening to the place, and in the dim light of the moon he saw that they were soldiers and seamen.
While he stood lost in wonderment, Uncertain where to go, he heard footsteps and familiar voices near.
He gave the call of his old patrol, and Billy answered it immediately.
The next minute, Billy rushed into view, and the two chums were reunited in a vigorous bear-hug of sheer, silent rejoicing.
They found words at last.
"Billy, old scout, I was beginning to think I might never see you again!"
"You were?
Why, Hugh, I'd have looked for you from here to Yucatan and back again, twenty times over, by sea and land, before I'd give up!"
cried Billy, forgetting in his enthusiasm how near he had come to the verge of despair.
"I'm dying to know whatever happened to you," he added.
"But here come the rest of the bunch; so you'll have to tell all of us your story."
"It's soon told," said Hugh; and after joyful greetings had been exchanged, he told them all that had happened to him since his unlucky morning stroll to the hut on the far-away beach.
In their turn, they related the events of their search for him, and described the fight around the cabin in which he had so lately been a prisoner.
"And there's the end of the fight now," said Norton, pointing to the group of combatants and to a boat manned by five oarsmen who were putting out to sea.
"Look!
There they go!---all of them who managed to escape No!
By Jove, the boat's coming back to shore!
I suppose Uncle Sam's men threatened to shoot the rascals if they didn't come back."
"Serves 'em right!"
said Chester.
"Let's go over there and watch proceedings," urged Alec.
"I second the motion!"
Hugh declared, eager to see the latest developments.
So without further discussion, they hurried over to the place, and were in time to witness the capture of Bego and his gang.
* * * * * * * By morning, a sullen company of prisoners was put aboard the _Petrel_ and conveyed southward to Key West for trial.
The interval between their capture and the departure of the revenue cutter was spent in putting out the fire near Durgan's cove, all that remained of the three adjoining shanties being a heap of charred logs and wind-swept ashes.
Durgan's motor boat was fastened by means of a long cable to the aft rail of the _Arrow_, which was commissioned to tow it to a wharf at Charlotte Harbor, where it would be delivered to a brother of the smuggler.
This brother, a thoroughly honest fisherman, was well known to Captain Vinton.
Bego's ship, the _Esperanza_, remained at anchor off the cove.
Arrangements were made for its safe delivery at Charlotte Harbor, as soon as a suitable crew could be sent to convey it to that haven.
Hoping that his presence might not be required at the trial, though fully resigned to the probability of having to attend it, Hugh wrote out and signed a full statement of his experiences with the outlaws.
This paper was also signed by Norton, Captain Vinton, and Lieutenant Driscoll, as testifying their belief in its veracity.
The captain of the _Petrel_ undertook to deliver it to the proper authorities, and it was eventually accepted in lieu of Hugh's personal testimony.
Having attended to these matters, the crew of the _Arrow_ went aboard about noon.
The day was perfect for the return voyage, a fair breeze blew against her weather-stained sails, and the ocean was as blue as sapphire.
The entire party was glad to be on the sloop's clean decks once more; even Dave seemed happy and relieved when Durgan's Cove and its outlying shores faded into a velvety green blur along the horizon.
So they left the scene of their adventures, and glided swiftly away "on the home stretch," as Chester called it, under cloudless skies.
CHAPTER XI ABOARD THE "_ARROW_" It was not until the second day of the voyage back toward Santario that Hugh felt quite himself again.
The nervous strain of his experiences as a captive would have been enough to exhaust him, and in addition he had suffered real buffeting and hardship at the hands of his captors.
Dave stretched a hammock for him on deck at the captain's orders, and there Hugh spent nearly the entire first day of the homeward trip.
The other boys and Norton diverted his few waking hours with stories and riddles and simple games, and Captain Vinton, himself, contributed more than one tale from his store of recollections.
"Tell you what, boys," the old captain said as he concluded one of his yarns, "we fellers these days meet with a few excitin' experiences now and then, but to get some idea of what lively times on the water may be, go back to John Paul Jones and his day, or even to the sea fights of '62."
"Have you read much of the history of those days, captain?"
inquired Roy Norton interestedly, while the boys leaned forward to hear the reply.
"Son," said Captain Vinton in answer, turning to Alec Sands, his blue eyes alight with a keen expression, "Son, go to my cabin and bring me an old, worn book from the shelf there: 'Famous American Naval Commanders,' it is called."
Until Alec's return, the captain looked out over the water with far-seeing eyes, and the others, watching him, wondered what stirring scenes his imagination was picturing to him just then.
He glanced up as Alec handed him the volume of naval history and grasped it with the firm gentleness of a true book lover.
He turned it over thoughtfully, straightened its sagging covers, opened and closed it several times, and finally spoke: "Thar's the answer to yer question, Norton," he said.
"And that's only one of about a dozen hist'ries I've got on my old shelf.
When times is dull or I'm waitin' fer a party who've gone into the Everglades, or when the _Arrow_ is lyin' off shore in a dead calm, then I start in at the first page of the book that happens ter be on the end of the shelf, and I live over the old days of the privateers, when it meant somethin' to sail the seas."
"Who is your _biggest_ hero?"
asked Mark as the captain paused.
The old man smiled humorously before he answered.
"Wal', my biggest hero," he said, "is the littlest hero on record as a sea-fighter, I guess.
Like Napoleon Bonaparte, his bigness was not in his body but in his mind.
And that's Paul Jones of the _Bonhomme Richard_."
As the captain pronounced the name of his hero, he struck his worn book a resounding slap, and his jaws clicked in emphasis of his statement.
"Can't you tell us something about him?"
asked Chester, fascinated by the old captain's earnestness.
"That's the ticket---I mean, please do," endorsed Billy heartily.
"No, I can't do that," was the deliberate reply, as the captain rose to relieve Dave at the tiller, "but you can all borry the book and read the historian's account of the battle between the _Serapis_ and the _Bonhomme Richard_.
I git so excited when I read that, I hey ter go put my head in a pail o' water to cool it off!
Fact!
You know that's whar the cap'n of the _Serapis_ calls out: 'Hev ye struck?'
And John Paul Jones shouts back: 'Struck!
I am just beginnin' ter fight!'"
As Captain Vinton straightened his rounded shoulders and delivered this emphatic quotation, he shook his fist at an imaginary enemy and then brought it down hard on the railing.
Then he grinned sheepishly.
"You see how 'tis," he said, laughing at himself as he moved away.
"Guess I'll hev ter stop talkin' or go fer that pail o' water!"
The boys, left to themselves, discussed the theme that the captain's words had suggested, and were rather ashamed to see how vague their knowledge of the famous battle was.
So, at Alec's suggestion, Norton agreed to read the account of the fight as given in the captain's book; and grouped about Hugh's hammock, the boys listened eagerly.
"That makes our experiences on picket duty seem tame in comparison," said Alec, commenting on the story when Norton had closed the book.
"We were not all on the firing line," replied the young man, smiling.
"I'll venture to say that Hugh did not find his share at all tame."
Hugh smiled and nodded ruefully as his mind flew back to his dangerous situation as a captive of the desperate filibusters, and he felt that he could understand a little of what it meant to be in the thick of the fight.
"Me, too," exclaimed Billy, shuddering at a sudden recollection.
"I haven't told you fellows that I came near having my ear shot off, that time the other night when I was separated from the rest of you for a while.
Excuse me from anything nearer real battle fire than that!"
Just at that moment, a soft, regular thump-thump-thump from the deck behind Hugh's hammock made all the boys turn quickly.
There stood Dave, skillfully flinging gayly colored hoops over a post at some distance from him.
"Oh, ho!
A game of ring-toss, is it?"
cried Chester, rising eagerly.
"Say, boys, let's form rival teams and have a tournament."
"Good!"
echoed Billy.
"The Pickets versus the Pirates!"
"That sounds exciting!"
called Hugh, sitting up in the hammock.
"Count me in on that, boys.
Guess I can get up long enough to take my turn now and then."
"Let Dave and Mr. Norton choose sides," suggested Alec, "Dave for the Pirates and Mr. Norton for the Pickets."
"Hurrah!"
cried Mark.
"On with the game!"
In less time than it takes to tell it, Dave, grinning broadly at his prominence, and Norton, entering into the contest with his usual spirit of enthusiasm, had chosen sides and a list was hastily written and posted on the cabin wall as follows: Pirates vs Pickets Dave Norton Hugh Billy Chester Alec Mark Captain Vinton "Oh, but I can't play!"
protested the captain.
"I've got my hands full with the _Arrow_!"
"We'll take turns and spell you at the helm," returned Norton.
"All hands on board are enlisted in this fight."
Pleased at his insistence, the old captain yielded the wheel whenever it came his turn to toss, and he proved to be an adept at the game, to everybody's delight.
Norton and Dave had agreed that the contest should consist of five complete rounds, giving just twenty opportunities to each side.
Only the total successful tosses would determine the winning score, but the best individual records would decide who should be the team captains in subsequent games.
The fun of the thing entered into every one of the contestants, yet not one of them failed to put his best efforts into the game.
"Now we'll see some accurate shooting," called Billy as Hugh took the rings for his fourth turn.
"No fair trying to rattle me," returned Hugh, laughing good-naturedly.
"I'm still the interesting invalid."
"Hush!"
whispered the irrepressible Billy quite audibly.
"Don't say a word, boys!
It might shake his nerve, you know, and he might suffer a relapse!"
"You teaser!"
commented Hugh, beginning his play.
One after another, Hugh steadily tossed the rings over the post.
"Pshaw!
You can't disturb him," ejaculated Alec.
"He is as calm as the sea is just now."
"Five!"
counted Chester softly.
"Six!
You put every one over this time, Hugh.
Billy's jollying just inspired you!"
"And now it is his turn," said Hugh, returning to his hammock.
"Now we shall see something!"
Billy flushed a little, grinned, set his teeth, poised his body firmly, and then swung into the position of the famous "disk thrower."
Thump!
The first ring struck the deck a good foot beyond the post, rebounded, and rolled rapidly toward the railing.
Roy Norton stopped it with his foot and called, "Steady, Billy!
Take your time."
Thump!
The second ring, tossed more cautiously, dropped at least six inches in front of the goal.
Thump!
Thump!
Thump!
Three more landed in quick succession, draping themselves gracefully against the standard that upheld the post.
"One more, Billy.
Make this one count," coached his captain urgently.
By this time, Billy's face was scarlet and his hand shaking.
He took a long breath, fixed his eye on the top of the slender post, and tossed the ring desperately.
It fell well to the right of the goal and rolled up against Dave's feet.
Dave quickly stooped to pick it up, trying to hide the wide smile that parted his lips.
Billy's scout friends made no attempt to be so polite.
Pickets and Pirates alike, they burst into a roar of laughter.
Captain Vinton, his weather-beaten face wrinkled into a dozen humorous lines, called out: "Billy, words is sometimes like a boomerang---they fly back and ketch ye, ef ye don't watch out!"
And so the contest progressed; now luck favored the Pirates, and again Captain Vinton's skill brought up the uncertain score of the Pickets.
At the end of the final round, however, Dave's team had a clean balance of ten counts over the combined records of the Pickets, the winners showing a total of ninety-five successful throws out of a possible one hundred and twenty.
Captain Vinton had the best individual score, securing twenty-six out of a possible thirty points, while Hugh, thanks perhaps to Billy's inspiring comments, stood next with a record of twenty-four.
The sun was setting redly over an almost calm sea as the games were finished.
Dave, beaming at the success of his team, vanished without urging and soon the welcome odors of supper cooking were wafted to the eager nostrils of the hungry boys.
That evening they all gathered around the old captain as he sat at the helm and guided the lazily-moving craft, begging him for another tale from his own reminiscences or from his favorite history.
"Wal', boys," agreed the captain at length, "I'll tell you about one sea fight that I almost witnessed myself.
Fact is, I was a little too young to be thar, but my father was mighty nigh bein' in the thick of it, and I've heard him tell the tale a hundred times ef I hev once.
"It was in March, '62," the captain resumed after a little pause.
"The North was consid'rably stirred up over rumors of how the Confederates hed raised the _Merrimac_ and made out of her a terrible ironclad vessel, warranted to resist all ord'nary attacks.
Then these rumors were followed by news of the destruction of two sailin' frigates, the _Cumberland_ and the _Congress_.
"The Union forces were pretty uneasy when they heard what hed happened off Hampton Roads, but they were all pinnin' their faith to a little new ironclad just built on Long Island and already speedin' south ter meet the _Merrimac_.
My old dad, servin' on the _Roanoke_, was lucky enough to see both them craft:---the big, clumsy _Merrimac_, all covered with railroad iron and smeared with grease, and the nifty little _Monitor_, that they said looked like 'a cheese box on a raft'!
"Wal', 'course you boys hev all read about what happened when the little fellow steamed out ter meet the big fellow, the day after the frigates were destroyed.
"Fer four hours, Dad said, the two ironclads jest pestered each other with hot fire, but the shot and shell slid off them like water from a duck's back.
The little _Monitor_ darted around the big _Merrimac_ like a bee buzzin' round a boy that had plagued it.
"Thar wa'n't no great harm done---except that Lieutenant Worden, who was in command of the Monitor, got hurt by the bits of a shell that drove into his face---but the little ironclad hed proved two things.
Fust, that she could hold her own; and next that the day of wooden vessels in naval warfare was over.
"As you boys know, warships now-a-days are all ironclad.
Folks hey called 'em 'indestructible,' but I guess thar ain't no sech word allowable any more.
Between the new explosives and the airships---wal', they say we ain't heard the last word yet, by a long shot!"
The old captain rose as he spoke, shaking his head thoughtfully and gazing out over the sea and into the sky.
"Wal', boys, off to yer bunks now!
We'll hev a fairly calm night, but thar'll be wet decks to-morrow!"
CHAPTER XII A SURPRISING ADVENTURE The captain's prophecy was literally fulfilled, and the boys had no opportunity for fairweather games the next day.
Instead, clad in oilskins, they lounged about the wet decks, watching the captain's skillful handling of the boat, ringing the big fog bell when the atmosphere grew thick, and clinging to the railing when the sloop pitched and tossed restlessly on the heaving sea.
Dave retired as usual in rough weather into sullen silence, coming on deck most reluctantly only when his services were demanded by the captain.
Late in the day, the storm increased to a gale of some little violence, and the captain decided to make for the nearest harbor.
He had hoped to reach the home haven that night, but his policy was to meet disappointment rather than to run risks.
"Mebbe I hev a surprise up my sleeve fer you boys," Captain Lem said, his eyes twinkling as he saw their long faces on hearing the news of delay.
"Wouldn't mind addin' a little excitement ter the end of the trip, would ye?"
"We're aching for it," returned Billy promptly.
"This has been an awfully long day, you know, captain."
"Wal', ef I've got my bearin's all right, we'll spend the evenin' in a right cheerful place.
That's all I kin say now, but you boys go collect your belongin's, so's we kin land fer the night ef my calc'lations hold good."
Just as the early darkness of the rainy night shut down over the rolling sea, the boys discovered a gleaming light, high and steady, not far off toward the Florida coast.
"Jimmy!"
cried Billy excitedly.
"Bet the captain is going to take us to a lighthouse for the night!"
"Can't be your uncle's light, Mark, where we saw the spongers on the way down," commented Chester thoughtfully.
"We're too near home for that."
"I have an _idea_---" began Hugh slowly.
"And so have I!"
interrupted Alec, glancing at Mark.
At that moment, Roy Norton began to ring the fog bell under the captain's directions.
"Ding!
Ding!
Ding, ding, ding!"
resounded the heavy iron tongue.
There was a pause, and then the signal was repeated.
A longer silence followed and again the slow, clear signal was twice repeated.
By this time, the captain had guided his dauntless little vessel into slightly quieter waters, although she still pitched and tossed in a way that would have alarmed a "landlubber."
Then came a new sound, louder than the noise of the pounding waves, deeper than the clang of the iron bell.
"Boom!
Boom!
Boom, boom, boom!"
An answering signal had broken the silence where the steady light shone.
Mark started, as though recognizing the sound.
"Why, that-----" he began bewilderedly, "that is the signal gun at Red Key!
Captain, are you signaling to my father?"
"Jest so," Captain Vinton replied.
"Keeper Anderson knows my knock on his door!"
"How shall we land?"
asked Chester excitedly, as he saw Dave making ready to drop anchor.
At that moment a rocket went streaking up toward heaven and a second later a slender rope fell writhing across the deck, where Roy stood swinging a torch.
"Hurray!"
called Hugh, seizing the rope just as Norton, at the captain's orders, also grasped it.
"Hurray!
It's the breeches buoy!"
It will be recalled by those who followed the adventures of "_The Boy Scouts of the Life Saving Crew_," that Hugh and Billy, Chester and Alec had been at the Red Key Station on the night of a thrilling rescue.
They had accompanied and in a slight way assisted the life-savers on their patrols, at the launching of the life boat, and in the final use of the breeches buoy.
It was most exciting to return to the scene of their memorable experience in this unexpected fashion.
The boys hauled willingly on the rope and soon it was taut, the odd conveyance swinging by the deck railing.
"You go first, Mark.
While yer father knows my knock and realizes that I didn't give my danger signal, still he may be a mite anxious to see you, knowin' you was comin' home with me on the _Arrow_."
Obeying the captain's directions and grasping his waterproof bundle of clothes, Mark thrust his legs into the breeches buoy, the signal was given, and the trip through the waves began.
Soon the strange vehicle was back again, and this time Chester, buttoning his oilskins about him closely, was ordered ashore.
In a brief time Hugh, and then Billy, Alec, and Norton had followed the others.
Meanwhile, Captain Vinton, with Dave's help, had made everything shipshape on board the _Arrow_.
Then, sending Dave shoreward in the breeches buoy, the captain himself, true to tradition, waited to be the last to leave his ship.
Although they had not encountered a moment of real danger, the boys had been given an experience of actual rescue.
When Captain Vinton joined them on shore, they greeted him enthusiastically and then stood back to watch his meeting with Keeper Anderson.
The latter grasped the captain's hand in a hearty grip.
"Good for you, Lem, you old sea-dog!"
cried the keeper.
"You didn't scare us any and it was great fun for my boy and his friends.
Mark has gone in to see his mother---she'll be some surprised---and to tell her to fix up some hot coffee and things for you 'survivors.'"
"Haw!
haw!
haw!"
laughed the old captain.
"This was the easiest shipwreck I ever managed to survive!
He!
he!
he!"
In great good nature the two men walked toward the keeper's house, while the boys followed, eagerly renewing their acquaintance with the stalwart men of the life-saving crew.
Roy Norton was an interested observer, and when he, too, had met Mrs. Anderson and Ruth, and heard the story of their first exciting encounter, he no longer wondered at the boys' enthusiasm.
That night the crowd slept, as four of them had before, in hastily arranged shakedowns; and when morning dawned, they looked out upon a sea so blue and sparkling they could scarcely realize that it was the gray, angry, heaving expanse of the night before.
The _Arrow_ dipped and rose jauntily on the sapphire water, giving no sign that she, too, had spent a restless night pulling and tugging at her deeply embedded anchor.
After an early breakfast, the four boys said their farewells to Mark and Ruth and their parents, and, with the captain and Norton, went out to the _Arrow_ in boats manned by members of the life-saving crew.
Not many hours later, they reached Alec's home in Santario, and there they found Mr. Sands, waiting a little anxiously for their safe return.
He had learned from the morning papers that the previous night's storm had been severe at sea, and he had not known how or where the _Arrow_ might have weathered the gale.
When he had been told of the "rescue" off Red Key Life Saving Station, he exclaimed impatiently, "Why in the name of sense, didn't you telephone me from Red Key?
Here I have spent many hours in needless anxiety."
The boys looked at one another in silence.
"It simply never occurred to us that we were back within communicating distance," replied Alec at last.
"We haven't seen or heard a telephone since we left home."
"And really, Mr. Sands," said Roy Norton quickly, "when you hear what strange, unusual experiences the boys have had, you will not wonder at their forgetting the convenience of a little, every-day matter like the telephone.
For myself, I offer no excuse.
I should have been more thoughtful.
But I, too, have dropped the customs and responsibilities of home life about as thoroughly as have the boys, I am afraid."
"That is all right, Norton," said Mr. Sands.
"I spoke hastily, for my nerves were a little frazzled.
"Now, boys, make yourselves comfortable and clean, and then come out on the veranda and tell me the tale of the exciting trip."
It was an eager quartette of boys who responded to this invitation; and when they finally started to relate their experiences, Mr. Sands found it necessary to hear them in turn in order to get any clear idea of connecting events.
At length, however, he had followed them on their trip south, in imagination; had seen the panting tarpon on the deck of the _Arrow_; had taken the winding waterways into the Everglades; had encountered the revenue cutter and the filibuster; had watched through a night of adventure with the scouts on picket duty; and had finally swung safely through the dashing waves to the Life Saving Station.
"Well, boys, I little thought when I put you aboard Captain Lem's sloop for a little cruise south that you would see so much variety and excitement.
But if you are not sorry, I am not.
You are all home again, safe and sound, and none the worse for your experiences.
Take it easy, now, for the rest of your stay here and have the best time you can."
This advice the boys were not at all reluctant to follow.
For a day or two they lounged about the broad piazzas in hammocks and easy chairs, reading books from Mr. Sands' well stocked library or from Alec's own bookshelf.
On the second evening of this quiet home life, however, Billy's uneasy spirit led him to say: "Fellow scouts, I move you, sirs, that we take to the road.
My hiking muscles are aching for use.
We have sailed and paddled and motored.
Now I propose, sirs, that we tramp."
"Second the motion!"
echoed Chester.
"What do you think of the idea, Alec?"
asked Hugh, turning to their young host.
"Will your father think we are ungrateful guests if we go off for a day or two so soon after the cruise?"
"We'll plan a trip," replied Alec readily, "and submit the scheme to him to-night.
If he has no objections, we will telephone Mark and ask him to join us, and perhaps Norton can go along, too."
Alec's suggestion was carried out, and Mr. Sands not only approved the plan but added interest to it by producing some excellent road maps and proposing a tour of adventure.
"Suppose," said he, "instead of traveling as one company, you divide your forces, three of you taking one route and three another to your night's camping place.
Here is a good spot to camp," indicating it on the map, "and I will send the machine there with the essential supplies so that you can 'hike' without being heavily burdened.
How does that strike you?"
"As being far better than our first plan," applauded Billy.
The other boys agreed enthusiastically, and the details were promptly arranged.
Early the next morning, as the arching sky and gray waters began to take on a rosy glow from the approaching sunrise, the automobile shot out of the driveway between the palms and down the shell road in the direction of Red Key, carrying Alec and Chester to meet Mark Anderson.
The whir of the motor drowned the twitterings of the awakening birds, but could not dull the fresh odor of the jasmine, nor the beauty of the flowering vines and dew-wet hedges.
Even Chester was stirred by the "newness" of the whole world.
"Cripes, Alec, as Captain Vinton would say, this morning air and the view are worth crawling out at an unearthly hour to enjoy!"
he exclaimed.
"That ocean looks about a million miles wide, too; you can't even tell where the sky begins."
"There is Mark!"
was Chester's next comment as the machine swung around a curve that had hidden an intersecting road.
"'Morning, Mark," called Alec in greeting as the two boys jumped out of the car to join the waiting lad.
"Now we're off!"
He turned to the chauffeur, assuring himself that the man understood the directions for reaching their camp with supplies late that afternoon, and then fell into step with the other scouts for their all-day hike.
Beneath their feet the broken shells of the road crackled, overhead the towering palms waved, near the roadside the stiff grass bent noisily in the breeze, and around them momentarily day grew clearer and brighter.
As the morning advanced and the boys strode on nearing the pine woods, robins and bluebirds, shrikes and chewinks greeted them; and as they stopped for luncheon near a broad, open trail in the barren woodland a buzzard sailed above the tree-tops and peered at them curiously.
In the meantime Norton, Hugh and Billy had started promptly twenty minutes after the departure of the machine.
Billy was in high spirits and declared that he scented adventure in the air.
For an hour, however, nothing occurred to disturb the peaceful sway of Nature, and Billy was about to abandon his attitude of expectation.
Suddenly the stillness was broken by the uneven rattle of rapidly moving wheels over the shell road.
Then the clatter of pounding hoofs further shattered the silence.
"It comes!"
shouted Billy dramatically.
Around a bend in the road came a galloping white horse, old and lean, dragging at its heels a reeling hurdy-gurdy cart.
Billy sprang for the horse's head.
Almost at his touch the old creature stopped submissively.
"The poor old nag is all in," said Billy sympathetically, patting her quivering neck.
Meanwhile Hugh and Roy Norton had righted the music cart, and Hugh impulsively seized the handle of the machine and turned it to test its condition.
"Hi---yi---yi!"
A dark-skinned foreigner came into sight, running toward them down the road.
He frowned at them darkly and dashed up to the old horse, swinging a short whip threateningly.
Before the lash could fall on the still trembling beast, however, Hugh and Billy had sprung simultaneously upon the man.
"None of that!"
cried Hugh, wresting the whip from the man's grasp.
The infuriated foreigner turned upon him with an avalanche of rapid words, struggling to break away from his captors.
At that Norton stepped into view before him.
With a few gestures, a few faltering Italian and French words, and with great calmness and good nature, he managed to tell the man that his wagon was safe, and that the boys were willing to let him go if he would not beat the poor, tired, old horse.
Norton's manner, more than anything else, impressed the angry man.
His scowls gave way to a pleasant expression and he nodded smilingly.
The boys stepped back and the hurdy-gurdy driver busied himself at once, testing the harness and wheels and even patting the thin old nag.
Then he climbed upon his seat and gathered up the reins.
Hugh picked up the fallen whip and handed it to him.
The dark foreigner smiled suddenly and, reaching over, put the whip into its socket.
Then, clucking to his horse, he moved slowly down the road.
"Well, what do you think of that?"
cried Billy, puzzled at the sudden capitulation.
"That?"
returned Norton.
"That is a bit of southern Europe---tempest and sunshine, rage and child-like faith combined."
"Like a small boy, he needed to be managed," said Hugh, "and you knew how to do it."
With a new respect for Roy Norton, the two scouts joined him again on their inland hike.
But they did not forget the incident, nor did they fail to relate it that evening to the other three boys, whom they found already established at camp around a blazing fire.
The next morning the returning parties exchanged routes for the homeward trip, but nothing more exciting was encountered than glimpses of orange groves, of pine barrens, of cypress swamps, and of numberless birds.
But their "hiking muscles" had been well exercised and they felt nearer to the heart of Florida because of their long tramp.
There were a number of letters waiting for the boys, some from their home people and others from the scouts who were enjoying the "Geological Survey" at Pioneer Camp.
These the boys shared, eagerly discussing the news and wondering what plans would be made for the fall and winter.
Some of the things that actually did happen the following fall are related in "The Boy Scouts of the Flying Squadron."
THE END
Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible.
The Cornish dialect written by Captain Carter includes inconsistencies in spelling and capitalisation.
Some changes have been made.
They are listed at the end of the text.
Blank spaces, representing missing words in the original MS., have been replaced by "[...]".
Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
Text marked ^{thus} was superscripted.
[Illustration] A CORNISH SMUGGLER [Illustration: LANDING THE CARGO.
_F.
BRANGWYN._] THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A CORNISH SMUGGLER (CAPTAIN HARRY CARTER, OF PRUSSIA COVE) 1749-1809 _WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES_ BY JOHN B. CORNISH SECOND EDITION.
London: GIBBINGS & CO., LTD., 18 BURY STREET, W.C. J. POLLARD, TRURO, PENZANCE, & FALMOUTH.
1900.
WILLIAM BYLES AND SONS, PRINTERS, 129 FLEET STREET, LONDON, AND BRADFORD.
INTRODUCTION.
The existence of the Autobiography which is published in the following pages came to my knowledge in the course of a chance conversation with a distant relative of the writer's family.
The original manuscript has been carefully preserved, and has been for many years in the possession of Mr. G. H. Carter, of Helston.
He received it from his father, the G. Carter mentioned on page 1, who was a nephew of Harry Carter himself.
The memoir of the writer, which will be found in the "Wesleyan Methodist Magazine" for October, 1831, was based upon information supplied by G. Carter, partly from the manuscript and partly from his own knowledge.
It is now printed from the manuscript which was kindly lent to me for the purpose by Mr. G. H. Carter.
The part of Cornwall to which the autobiography chiefly relates is the district lying between the two small towns of Marazion and Helston, a distance of about ten miles on the north-eastern shores of Mounts Bay, comprising the parishes of Breage, Germoe, St. Hilary, and Perranuthnoe.
The bay is practically divided into two parts by Cuddan Point, a sharp small headland about two miles east from St. Michael's Mount.
The western part runs into the land in a roughly semicircular shape, and is so well sheltered that it has almost the appearance of a lake, in fact, the extreme north-western corner is called Gwavas Lake.
From the hills which surround it the land everywhere slopes gently to the sea, and is thickly inhabited.
The towns of Penzance and Marazion and the important fishing village of Newlyn occupy a large portion of the shore, and around them are woody valleys and well cultivated fields.
To the eastward of Cuddan is a marked contrast.
There, steep and rocky cliffs are only broken by two long stretches of beach, Pra Sand and the Looe Bar, on which the great seas which come always from the Atlantic make landing impossible except on a few rare summer days.
With the exception of the little fishing station of Porthleven there is not a place all along the coast from Cuddan Point to the Lizard large enough to be called a village.
Inland the country is in keeping with the character of the coast.
Trees are very scarce, and the stone hedges, so characteristic of all the wild parts of West Cornwall, the patches of moorland, and the scattered cottages, make the whole appearance bare and exposed.
Porth Leah, or the King's Cove, now more usually known as Prussia Cove,[1] around which so much of the interest of the narrative centres, lies a little to the eastward of Cuddan Point.
There are really two coves divided from one another by a point and a small island called the "Enez."
The western cove, generally called "Bessie's Cove," is a most sheltered and secluded place.
It is so well hidden from the land that it is impossible to see what boats are lying in the little harbour until one comes down to the very edge of the cliff.
The eastern side of the point, where there is another small harbour called the "King's Cove," is more open, but the whole place is thoroughly out of the world even now.
The high road from Helston through Marazion to Penzance now passes about a mile from the sea, but at the time of which Harry Carter was writing this district must have been unknown and almost inaccessible.
From all accounts West Cornwall at that time was very little more than half civilised.
The mother of Sir Humphry Davy (born at Penzance, 1778) has left us a record that when she was a girl "West Cornwall was without roads, there was only one cart in the town of Penzance, and packhorses were in use in all the country districts" (Bottrell, iii.
150).
This is confirmed by a writer in the "Gentleman's Magazine," who says that in 1754 there were no roads in this district, the ways that served the purpose were merely bridle paths "remaining as the deluge left them and dangerous to travel over" ("Gentleman's Magazine," October, 1754); and by the official records of the town of Penzance, which show that in 1760 the Corporation went to some expense in opposing the extension of the turnpike beyond Marazion, to which place it was then first carried from Penryn (Millett's "Penzance, Past and Present").
The places of which the names are mentioned in the autobiography, but which are not shown in the map, such as Rudgeon, Trevean, Caerlean, Pengersick, Kenneggey, and Rinsey, are all in the immediate neighbourhood of Prussia Cove.
They are merely little hamlets of four or five cottages each, and there is no reason to suppose that they were any larger one hundred years ago.
Helston, the market town of the district, is about six miles off, and had then a population of some two thousand people.
The chief interest in the autobiography is probably that which it attracts as the most authentic account of the smuggling which was carried on in the neighbourhood in the latter portion of the last century.
Cornwall has long enjoyed a certain reputation for pre-eminence in this particular form of trade, and apparently not without some reason.
A series of letters of the years 1750-1753 were published some years ago in the journal of the Royal Institution of Cornwall (vol.
vi.
pt.
xxii.
p. 374, "The Lanisley Letters") to a Lieutenant-General Onslow, from George Borlase, his agent at Penzance, asking that soldiers might be stationed in the district, because "the coasts here swarm with smugglers," and mentioning that a detachment ought to be stationed at Helston, as "just on that neighbourhood lye the smugglers and wreckers more than about us, tho' there are too many in all parts of this country."
In his "Natural History of Cornwall," published in 1758, Dr. Borlase regrets (p. 312) that "the people of the sea coast are, it must be owned, too much addicted to carry off our bullion to France and to bring back nothing but brandy, tea, and other luxuries."
This is delicate, but there can be no doubt of his meaning; and he goes on to complain that "there is not the poorest family in any parish which has not its tea, its snuff, and tobacco, and (when they have money or credit) brandy," all, we may presume, duty free.
The will of Philip Hawkins, M.P.
for Grampound, who died on September 6, 1738, is perhaps the most striking record, for he actually bequeathed £600 to the king to compensate for the amount of which his tenants had defrauded the Customs.
That the smuggling prevailed to such an extent is not to be wondered at, for the law must have had but a very slight hold on such a rough and scattered population, living so far away from any of the large centres of England.
In such a narrow country too, where no one lives very far from the sea, the miners took to smuggling as readily as the fishermen.
A trip to Roscoff or Guernsey formed a pleasant change after a spell on tribute underground or working stamps.
A rough, reckless, and drunken lot were these tinners, and if riots and bloodshed were more scarce in West Cornwall than in some parts, it must have been due to the judicious absence of the Custom House officials, and not to any qualities in the smugglers.
George Borlase says ("Lanisley Letters") that in December 1750 a Dutch ship laden with claret was wrecked near Helston, and "in twenty-four hours the tinners cleared all," the authorities apparently not daring to interfere; and that just before this date a man who went to the assistance of the revenue officers had been killed near the same place.
Beyond these I have mentioned, the literary records are very meagre, but the whole county, and especially the western part, abounds with legends.
The smuggling was so universal, that every cove, and fishing village on the coast has its own stories, and everywhere the curious visitor is still shown the place where the smugglers landed their cargoes, the secret caves where they stored them, and sometimes, but not often, the places where the "officers" found them.
Prussia Cove, beyond all others, has the richest store of such history.
Here are little harbours cut out of the solid rock, which are now occupied by innocent fishing boats.
The visitor can see a roadway partly cut and partly worn crossing the rocks below high water mark, and caves of which the mouths have been built up, and which are reputed to be connected with the house on the cliff above by secret passages.
In the legends of the Cove the personality of John Carter looms so large that his associates are almost if not entirely forgotten, and everything centres around him alone.
It was he who cut the harbours and the road, it was he who adapted the caves, and he is the hero of most of the tales which are told of the good old days.
One of these stories is worth recording.
On one occasion, during his absence from home, the excise officers from Penzance came around in their boats and took a cargo, which had lately arrived from France, to Penzance, where it was secured in the Custom House store.
In due course John Carter returned to the Cove, and learned the news.
What was he to do?
He explained to his comrades that he had agreed to deliver that cargo to the customers by a certain day, and his reputation as an honest man was at stake.
He must keep his word.
That night a number of armed men broke open the stores at Penzance, and the "King of Prussia" took his own again, returning to the Cove without being discovered.
In the morning the officers found that the place had been broken open during the night.
They examined the contents, and when they noted what particular things were gone, they said to one another that John Carter had been there, and they knew it, because he was an honest man who would not take anything that did not belong to him.
And John Carter kept his word to his customers.
The story that he once opened fire on a revenue cutter from a small battery which he had made at the Cove is well known along the coast.
It is characteristic of the history of the smugglers everywhere that they enjoyed the support of popular sympathy.
This was certainly the case in West Cornwall, where the farmers, the merchants, and, it is rumoured, the local magistrates, used to find the money with which the business was carried on, investing small sums in each voyage.
Harry Carter finding shelter at Marazion when the Government were offering a reward for his capture (p. 26), and the action of the unnamed "great man of the neighbourhood" on his return from America (p. 90), are perhaps the reverse of the picture which George Borlase drew for General Onslow ("Lanisley Letters"); "the countenance given to the smugglers by those whose business it is to restrain these pernicious practices, hath bro't 'em so bold and daring that nobody can venture to come near them with safety whilst they are at their work."
It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that there must have been some powerful influence exerted in his favour to obtain his exchange from prison in France in 1778, and what else can we make of the commission to go privateering against the Americans.
The Government had then recently passed a measure[2] to encourage privateering by authorising the Admiralty to grant commissions, and apparently English sailors were everywhere readily taking advantage of the opportunity so afforded for their enterprise.
[3] But to obtain such a commission the applicant had to find the security of sureties, of whose "sufficiency" the commissioners were to satisfy themselves, and also to send in a written application specifying the ship for which the commission was asked, with full details as to the number of her guns and other matters.
He surely could not have ventured to place himself in the hands of the Government in this way without a friend at Court.
It certainly seems a fair inference from their popularity, their fame, and from the fact that they both rose to leading positions amongst the smugglers while still comparatively young, that Harry Carter and his brother John were superior men to the rough material of which their crews were probably composed.
The accounts of the actual smuggling in the following pages are not very elaborate, but we must remember that at the time when Harry Carter was writing (1809), John Carter and the "Cove boys" were still at it, and Prussia Cove had not yet ceased to be a great centre of smugglers.
This would also explain the absence of any more particular reference to any of his companions.
This reticence, which we must respect, although we may regret it, is quite compensated by the variety of his later experiences.
To have been a prisoner in France during the Reign of Terror, and at a time when the Convention had decreed that no quarter should be given to an Englishman,[4] is of itself no small claim on the attention of his countrymen.
From his account, which is, I believe, unique in English literature, and especially when it is compared with those of French writers, it would seem that the English, who were, of course, prisoners of war, were placed on the same footing as the "aristocrats" and "suspects," the great number of whom made it necessary to utilise the convents and even private houses as prisons.
Alexandrine des Echerolles tells us ("Private life in Public Calamities") that "Bread was distributed daily to the prisoners, and their pitchers were filled every morning with fresh water.
Those who could not pay the turnkeys for their trouble got none, so the rich used to bestow alms upon the poor in this form.... Once a fortnight, I think, they were supplied with fresh straw, or what was called such, each person receiving an armful."
She mentions that by degrees the prisoners managed to make themselves more comfortable by introducing tables, and chairs, and mattresses, which they were compelled to leave behind on their removal to other prisons.
All this coincides very closely with Harry Carter's account, and he seems to have shared their anxiety as to the fate of his friends and the common anticipation of the guillotine.
Even this does not exhaust the interest of his life.
The very first lines of his writing show the object with which he wrote.
In no part of England did the teaching and influence of John Wesley obtain such a hold as in Cornwall.
At the time of his first visit he speaks of the natives of this distant country as "those who neither feared God nor regarded man" ("Diary," May 17, 1743); he accuses them of wrecking and of murdering those who were washed ashore, and describes their pastimes as "hurling, at which limbs were often broken, fighting, drinking, and all other manner of wickedness."
The "Lanisley Letters" contain similar charges of wrecking and murder, and Dr. Borlase confirms the statement as to their drunken habits.
In 1750 Wesley mentions how greatly all these things were changed.
They were, perhaps, not as much changed as he thought, but undoubtedly they were greatly improved, for it is plain fact that the whole of the moral reformation of the Cornish folk is due to him.
He gained followers so rapidly in the west that at the first Methodist Conference in 1744, St. Ives is classed with London, Bristol, and Newcastle; "from this it is evident," says Dr. Smith ("Hist.
of Methodism," i.
213), "that London, Bristol, St. Ives, and Newcastle were regarded as the great centres of Methodism in England at this period."
At the third Conference (1746) Cornwall forms one district out of seven, while the others included in some cases four and in one case six English counties.
In 1750 John Wesley ("Diary," August 18) says of St. Just, "There is still the largest society in Cornwall, and so great a proportion of believers I have not found in all the nation beside."
Similar societies or classes sprang up in the most remote places, such as Rugan, or Rudgeon as it is more usually spelt now, where the society met at which Charles Carter was converted; at Trevean and Caerlean, where Harry Carter preached.
That especial characteristic of Wesley's organisation, "the local preacher," took root firmly in Cornwall from the very first.
To those who are not acquainted with the county it may be necessary to explain that these laymen, earnest men of all classes, who preach, are so common in every village that they constitute a distinguishing feature in the local life.
The services in the small wayside chapels which are so numerous are usually conducted by a local preacher in the intervals between the visits of the regular ministers.
Those who do know Cornwall also know the importance of the local preacher in the history of the Methodist movement.
John Wesley's preaching was received by the poor and uneducated, the miner, the fisherman, and the labourer, and the persecution of the clergy and the magistrates only strengthened the enthusiasm of the people for their great teacher.
From such men sprang the first local preachers; preaching and exhorting not with the dull formality of men who had to do it, but with the earnestness of men who really felt that they had a message to deliver, and labouring under uncontrollable excitement they greatly impressed their hearers: while the familiarity of their persons led their audience to look upon this new teaching as a thing of their own to which they could all attain.
It is impossible to doubt that the hold which the movement gained was greatly due to these men, and Harry Carter was one of them.
John Wesley had set himself from the first against the smuggling which he found so prevalent; he had preached against it at several places, and had even published a pamphlet against it.
We may therefore fairly suppose that Harry Carter, the great smuggler, was regarded as a most important accession to the ranks of his followers.
The autobiography ends abruptly in the year 1795, but the writer lived until April 19, 1829.
The last thirty years of his life he spent at Rinsey.
He lived quietly, keeping himself occupied with a small farm, and occasionally preaching in the neighbourhood.
From the memoir of him in the "Wesleyan Methodist Magazine," to which I have already referred, I cull the two further facts that he retained the intensity of his religious feelings up to his death, and that he never failed in grateful recollections of James Macculloch--the Mr. M. of his French prison experiences.
Of his family I can learn but little.
It is said that originally they came from Shropshire, and certainly the name does not show a Cornish origin.
His father, who was called Francis, was born in 1712, and died on February 28, 1774; his mother, Agnes, was born in 1714, and died in 1784.
Of the eight sons and two daughters of whom he speaks, I can only trace four of the sons besides himself.
Thomas, whom he does not mention, was born in 1737, and died in 1818; and John, whom he refers to as the eldest, Francis, born in 1745, and Charles, born in 1757, and died in 1803, are all mentioned in the autobiography.
His daughter, Elizabeth, as far as I can learn, died while young.
In preparing the manuscript for publication I have taken the liberty of omitting some passages here and there which were simply repetitions, and which did not throw any additional light either on the narrative or his character.
I have corrected all the wrong spellings which could be classed as simple mistakes, but I have carefully preserved all spellings which appeared of interest, as showing the pronunciation of the words, and especially those which illustrate the local dialect.
For instance, the general preference for "a" over the other vowels, and especially in final syllables, is distinctly characteristic of West Cornwall.
In some places, particularly towards the end, the manuscript is somewhat damaged, and many of the pages have lost a portion of the lower corner.
The gaps so caused I have endeavoured to fill with the words which he probably used, and such words are printed in italics.
Where I have been unable to suggest the missing words, I have left blanks.
JOHN B. CORNISH.
PENZANCE, 1900.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A CORNISH SMUGGLER.
As it have been imprest upon my mind for sevral years to take a memorandum of the kind dealings of God to my soul, in particular these laste two or three years, I have been persuaded by sevral of my friends, in particular Mr. Wormsley and Geo.
Carter.
I have thought in general it would be so weak that no person of sense would ever publish it to the world, notwithstanding, this morning being 20 of Dec^{r.} 1809, I have taken up my pen, and may the Lord bring past things to my remembrance just[5] as they are, and if published to the world, may the Lord make it a blessing to every soul that read and hear it for Christ's sake, amen, amen.
I have made sevral remarks at difrante times in years past of sume particular things of my experience for my own amusement, then thinking for no person ever to see it but myself only; and as I have made a general rule more or less for sevral years to have had fixed times to sit in silence to trace my whole life from 8 or 9 years of age, in particular more so since I have tasted the goodness of God, moste particular things that _I have_ past through seems to be tolerable famil_iar_ to me.
I was born in the year of 1749 in Pengersick, in the parish of Breage, in the County of Cornwall.
My mother had ten children, eight sons and two daghturs, eight of whom lived to maturity.
My father was a miner--likewayse rented a little farm of about 12_l._ p^r year--who was a hard labring man, and brought up his family in what we caled[6] decent poverty.
My oldest and youngest brothers were brought up to good country scolars, but the rest of my brothers with myself, as soon as we was able, obliged to work in order to contribute a little to help to support a large family, so that I never was keept to scool but only to read in what we caled then the great Book.
As for our Religion, we were brought up like the rest of our neighbours, to say some prayers after we were in the bed, and to go to Church on particular times as occasion sarv'd us.
When I was aboute 8 or 9 years old, my brother Francis was aboute four years older than me.
He joined the methodist society in Rudgeon,[7] soon after found peace with God, and as him and me was moste times sleeping and waking together he revealed himself unto me, told me the place and time he received the Comfarter.
I seeing such very great chainge upon him, as before time he was a very active boy, I farmely believed the report.
From that time I farmley believed that except I was born again I should in no case see the kingdom of God, so that convictions followed me sharp and often, sumetimes constrained to weep bitterly.
But alas!
as I grew up they went fewer[8] and fainter.
Aboute 9 or 10 years old went to work to stamps, and continued there until 15 or 16.
I worked to bal,[9] as I think, until I was aboute 17, and from thence went with my two oldest brothers to Porthleah[10] or the King's Cove afishing and smuggling, and I think aboute 18 or 19 went at times, with Folston[11] people and sumetimes with Irish, as supercargo, whom we freighted.
Before this time I larned to write, and so far so, that I would keep my own accounts.
I think I might have been aboute 25 when I went in a small sloop, about 16 or 18[12] tons, with two men beside myself, asmuggling, where I had very great success; and after a while I had a new sloop built for me, about 32 tons.
[13] My success was rather beyond common, and after a time we bought a small cuttar of aboute 50 tons[14] and aboute ten men.
I saild in her one year, and I suppose made more safe voyages then have been ever made since or before with any single person.
So by this time I begun to think some thing of myself, convictions still following sharply at times.
I allwayse had a dislike to swearing, and made a law on board, if any of the sailors should swear, was poneshed.
Nevertheless my intention was not pure; I had sume byends in it, the bottom of it was only pride, etc.
I wanted to be noted to be sumething out of the common way of others, still I allwayse had a dislike to hear others swearing.
Well, then, I think I was counted what the world cales a good sort of man, good humoured, not proude, etc.
But man is short sighted, who can disarn spirets when the heart is deceitful above all thing and desparately wicked, oftentimes burning and boiling within in a blaze of passion, though not to be seen without.
Nevertheless in the meantime was capable to be guilty of outward sins the same as others of my companions, and often[15] times, when went out on a party, crying and praying to keep me from a particular sin, was often the first that was guilty of committing it.
Then conchance,[16] after staring me in the face, oh what a torment within I feelt.
[17] So I went on for many years sinning and repenting.
Well, then, in the cource of these few years, as we card[18] a large trade with other vessels allso, we gained a large sum of money, and being a speculating family was not satisfied with small things.
Built a new cuttar, aboute 197[19] tons, then one of the first in England; expecting to make all our fortunes in a hurry.
I was in her at sea in Dec^{r.} 1777, made one voyage about Christmas.
Returning to Guarnsey light, sprung the bowspreat; was recommended from Guarnsey to St. Malos for a bowspreat, and for the want of Customhouse papars and proper despatchis was seized upon by the admiralty of the above place, where they unbent the sails, took them onshore, and confined us all on board with a gard of soldars as presoners, allowing two men to be on deck only at a time; likenwayse their orders was for no person to come alongside, no letters to pass or repass.
But the comanding officer I soon got in his favour, that I conveyed letters onshore, and sent an express to Guernsey, likewayse to Roscoff, when there was soon certificates sent them to certify what I was, as they stopped me under the pretence of being a pirate; their pretence nevertheless was not altogether unreasonable, I having sixteen carriage guns on board and thirty-six men without any maritime pass, or anything to show for them.
Notwithstanding they certainly knew what I was.
I think it was on the 30 Jan. 1778, and I think the latter end of March[20] there was an embargo laid on all English bottams.
They keept me on-board with all the people until I think the 1 May, when they took me onshore in order to examine me, and about four o'clock sent with a strong gard unto the Castle.
This was a strange seeing unto me, the first prison I ever saw the inside of, the hearing of so many iron doors opening, etc.
So I was put up to the last floor in the top of that very high Castle, in a criminal jail, where there were a little short dirty straw, etc.
So after looking round a little to see my new habitation, I asked of the jailor to send me a chair to sit on, and sumething to eat, as I took nothing for the day, then seeming to be in tolarable spirits; but as the jailor left me, hearing the rattling of the doors and the noise of the keys, I begun to reflect, where am I now?
I shall shorley never come out of this place whilst the war lasts, shorley I shall die here, etc.
I suppose in the course of an half hour heard the doors and keys as before for a long time before I saw any person, so in came a man with a chair, my bed, and a little soup, etc.
Well, then, I sat myself down in the chair, looked at my dinner, etc., but then begun to weep bitterly.
I had not loste only my liberty but the cuttar also, which was my God.
My liberty was gone, my honour, my property, my life, and my God, all was gone; and all the ten thousand pounds I expected to get privateering was gone, as there was a commission sent for me against the Americans before I left home.
There I walked the dismal place bewailing my sad case.
But in the space of aboute two hours two or three of my people were sent to join me, and before night I think about eighteen of us, small room full.
Then we begun to sing and make a noise, so that sume of my fears vanished away; hope of life sprung up, and as the Franch was such flatterers in general, a very little hope for the cuttar, etc.
The remainder of the ship's company put in the town criminal jail.
We was all keept in prison until aboute the 20 or 21 day of the same month, when early in the morning were took out by a strong gard of soldars, sent to Dinan prison of war, where we had then plenty of room, etc.
I suppose we were aboute six or seven of us that every evening joined to sing psalms in parts, etc.
But this would not satisfy me, I know there was no Religion in this at all, but one night as I was asleep, as we lay on the floor side by side, I dreamed that I heard like the voice of an angel saying unto me, "Except thou reform thy life, thou must totally be lost for ever."
There was something more that he said, but I cannot now remember it.
When I awaked I was in a lake, sweat from head to foot, and all my body in a tremble.
Nothing but fear and horror upon my mind.
The next day I passed much to myself, very serious and sad, not one smile on my countenance, but keept[21] it all to myself.
Took great care to lett no person know anything of the mattar.
Well, then, as Cain went to build a city in order to divert his mind, I begun to larn navigation, and so loosed my convictions little and little, that in the course of aboute a fortnight I could do the same as I formely uste to do.
I think I was in prison aboute five or six weeks until my oldest brother John[22] was brought to join me, as he come to St. Malas just after I was stopped, from Guarnsey, with certificates from the Governor, etc., in order to try to liberate the cuttar and me.
Well, then, this allmoste so great tryal as any, he being the head of the family, and thought the business muste come to an end at home.
We was keept both in preson until, as I think, sume time in August, and was sent on parol about forty miles in a town called Josselin.
However, we was keeped in difrante places in the country until I think the latter end of Nov^{r.} in 1779, when we were private exchanged by the order of the Lords of the Admiralty in the room of two French gentlemen sent to France in our room.
And then to come by the way of Ostend, being, as well I can remember, aboute five hundred miles.
From thence came by the way of London, and arrived at home the 24 Dec^{r.} in the same year.
We found the family all alive and well, but with the loss of the cuttar, and the business not managed well at home, as my brother was then a presoner, and wanting from home aboute two years, the family in a low state.
Nevertheless, he being well respected with the Guarnsey marchants, was offered credit with many of them.
So went on again in freighting of large vessels, and had very good speed for sume time.
I went again in the little cutter I had before, aboute 50 tuns.
[23] And after making two or three voyages to the King's Cove, went with a cargo on the coast of Wales.
In order to smuggle it, went onshore to sell it.
Left the cuttar to anchor near the Mumbles, where an information was given to an armship called the "Three Brothers," that lay sume distance from there.
And aboute that time there had been some large privateers' cuttars on that coast from Dunkirk, and had taken many prizes, manned and commanded chiefly with Irishmen.
My cutter was represented to be one of them, namely, the "Black Prince," mounting sixteen guns and sixty men.
I had then in the cutter about six men and three beside myself onshore.
When they saw the armship coming upon them, cut the cable and went to sea; and when the ship gave up the chase from the cuttar, sent his boats onshore, took up the cutter's cable and anchor, and found me onshore.
I having left my commission on board, and had nothing to show who or what I was, took me on board the ship as a pirate, and after examining me in the cabin for two or three hours, detained me as a prisoner for twelve weeks until I was cleared by my friends at home through the Lords of the Admiralty.
So after I was at home some time, riding about the country getting freights, collecting money for the company, etc., etc., we bought a cuttar aboute 160 tons,[24] nineteen guns.
I went in her sumetime asmuggling, and had great success.
We had a new luggar built, which mounted twenty guns, and both went in company together from Guarnsey, smuggling along the coast, so that by this time I begun to think sumething of myself again.
Nevertheless convictions never left me long together.
But in the course of this time, being exposed to more company and sailors of all descriptions, larned to swear at times.
And once, after discharging our cargo, brought the both vessels to an anchor in Newlyn[25] Road, when we had an express sent us from St. Ives of a large cuttar privateer from Dunkirk, called the "Black Prince," had been on that coast and had taken many prizes to go out in pursuit of her.
It was not a very agreeable business, notwithstanding for fear to offend the collector,[26] we put round the both vessels to St. Ives Roade, and after staying there two or three days, the same cutter hove in sight Christmas day in the morning.
We not having our proper crews on board, colected a few[27] men together, and went to sea in pursuit of him.
Soon come up with him, so that after a running fight for three or four hours, as we, not being half manned, and the sea very big, the shots so uncertain, the luggar received a shot that was obliged to bear up, and in the course of less then an hour after I received a shot that card of my jib, and another in the hull, that we could hardly keep her free.
So that we bore up after the luggar, not knowing what was the matter of her running away.
We came up with her aboute five in the evning.
Desired the Captain to quitt her, but he, in hope to put her into Padstow, continued pumping and bailing until aboute six, when he hail'd me, saying, stand by him, he was going to quitt her.
So that they hoisted out their boate, but the sea being so bigg and the men being confused, filled her with water, so that they could not free her nomore.
I got my boat out in the meantime, sent her alongside the luggar, so that some of the men jumpt over board, and my boate pickt them up, and immediately the luggar went down.
I hove to the cuttar and laid her to, that she drifted right over the place that the luggar went down, so that some of the men got on board by virtue of ropes hove from the cuttar, sume got hold of the jib tack, and sume pickt up by the cuttar's boate, so that we saved alive seventeen men and fourteen drowned.
As Providence would have it was aboute the full of the moon, or certainly all must be lost.
This was scene indeed.
What cries!
what screeches!
what confusion was there!
We stayed some little time there cruising aboute the place, but soon obliged to get the cuttar under a double reefed trysail, a heavy gale of wind ensuing, and bore up for the Mumbles.
Now I am going to inform you of a little more of my pride and vanity, the spirit of truth had not as yet forgot to strive with me.
Before we come up with the privateer, in expecting to come to an engagement, oh, what horror was upon my mind for fear of death, as I know I must come to judgment sure and sartin.
If I died, I should be lost for ever.
Notwithstanding all this I made the greatest outward show of bravery, and, through pride and presumption, exposed myself to the greatest danger.
I stood on the companion until the wad of the enemies' shot flew in fire aboute me, and I suppose the wind of the shot struck me down on the deck as the shot took in the mainsail right in a line with me.
One of my officers helpt me up, thought I was wounded, and he would not suffer me to go there nomore.
This was a great salvation, and that of God, and not the only one; for all so many hundreds of shot have flyed around me, I never received somuch as a blemish in one of my fingers; but I can remember for many years before this, whenever I expected to come to an engagement, I was allwayse struck with horror of mind, knowing I was not fit to die; and since I have tasted of the goodness of God, I have thought that the greatest hero in the Army or Navy, as long as the spirit of Truth continue to strive with them, even Anson, is struck with the like feelings; and if ever I hear of a coward, I know this is the cause of it.
In the year of 19th April, 1786, I was married to Elizabeth Flindel, of Helford, in the parish of Manaccan, and in April 19, 1787, she bore me a daughter, who was called after her mother's name, and I think it was aboute midle of Nov^{r.} I went in a luggar, asmuggling, about 140[28] tons, mounting sixteen carriage guns.
After making one voyage at home to the King's Cove I got a freight for Costan,[29] and as I depended on them people to look out if there were any danger, according to their promise, came into the Bay, and after sume time spoke with a boate from the above place, saying it was a clear coast, there was no danger to bring the vessel up to anchor, and we should have boats enough out to discharge all the cargo immediately.
So that I brought the vessel to anchor, leaving the jib with the trysail and mizen set, and begun to make ready, opening the hatches, etc., when I saw two boats rowing up from the shore.
I said to the pilot, "There is two boats acoming."
He answered, "They are our boats coming to take the goods out," etc.
Soon after a boat come alongside.
"Do you know these is two man-o'war's boats?"
We immediately cutt the cable, and before the luggar gathered headway were right under the starn.
They immediately cutt off the mizen sheet, and with a musket-shot shot off the trysal tack and boarded us over the starn.
My people having sume muskets, dropt them down and went below.
I knowing nothing of that, thought that all would stand by me.
I begun to engage them as well as I could without anything in my hands, as they took us in surprise so suddenly, I having my great coat on buttoned aboute me, I seeing none of my people, only one man at the helm; and when they saw no person to oppose them, turned upon me with their broad swords, and begun to beat away upon my head.
I found the blows very heavey--crushed me down to the deck--and as I never loosed my senses, rambled forward.
They still pursued me, beating and pushing me, so that I fell down on the deck on a small raft just out of their way.
I suppose I might have been there aboute a quarter of an hour, until they had secured my people below, and after found me laying on the deck.
One of them said, "Here is one of the poor fellows dead."
Another made answer, "Put the man below."
He answered again, saying, "What use is it to put a dead man below?"
and so past on.
Aboute this time the vessel struck aground, the wind being about East S.E.
very hard, right on the shore.
So their I laid very quiet for near the space of two hours, hearing their discourse as they walked by me, the night being very dark on the 30 Jan^{y.}
1788.
When some of them saw me lying there, said, "Here lays one of the fellows dead," one of them answered as before, "Put him below."
Another said, "The man is dead."
The commanding officer gave orders for a lantern and candle to be brought, so they took up one of my legs, as I was lying upon my belly; he let it go, and it fell as dead down on the deck.
He likewayse put his hand up under my clothes, between my shirt and my skin, and then examined my head, and so concluded, saying, "The man is so warm now as he was two hours back, but his head is all to atoms."
I have thought hundreds of times since what a miracle it was I neither sneezed, coughed, nor drew breath that they perceived in all this time, I suppose not less than ten or fifteen minutes.
The water being ebbing, the vessel making a great heel towards the shore, so that in the course of a very little time after, as their two boats was made fast alongside, one of them broke adrift.
Immediately there was orders given to man the other boat in order to fetch her; so that when I saw them in the state of confusion, their gard broken, I thought it was my time to make my escape, so I crept on my belly on the deck, and got over a large raft just before the main mast, close by one of the men's heels, as he was standing there handing the trysail.
When I got over the lee-side I thought I should be able to swim on shore in a stroke or two.
I took hold of the burtins[30] of the mast, and as I was lifting myself over the side, I was taken with the cramp in one of my thighs.
So then I thought I should be drowned, but still willing to risk it, so that I let myself over the side very easily by a rope into the water, fearing my enemies would hear me and then let go.
As I was very near the shore, I thought to swim onshore in the course of a stroke or two, as I used to swim so well, but soon found out my mistake.
I was sinking almost like a stone, and hauling astarn in deeper water, when I gave up all hopes of life, and begun to swallow some water.
I found arope under my breast, so that I had not lost all my senses.
I hauled upon it, and soon found one end fast to the side just where I went overboard, which gave me a little hope of life.
So that when I got there, could not tell which was best, to call to the man-of-war's men to take me in, or to stay there and die, for my life and strength was allmoste exhausted; but whilst I was thinking of this, touched bottam with my feet.
Hope then sprung up, and I soon found another rope, leading towards the head of the vessel in shoaler water, so that I veered upon one and hauled upon the other that brought me under the bowsprit, and then at times, upon the send of a sea, my feete was allmoste dry.
I thought then I would soon be out of their way.
Left go the rope, but as soon as I attempted to run, fell down, and as I fell, looking round aboute me, saw three men standing close by me.
I know they were the man-of-war's men seeing for the boat, so I lyed there quiet for some little time, and then creeped upon my belly I suppose aboute the distance of fifty yards; and as the ground was scuddy, some flat rock mixt with channels of sand, I saw before me a channel of white sand, and for fear to be seen creeping over it, which would take some time, not knowing there was anything the matter with me, made the second attempt to run, and fell in the same manner as before.
My brother Charles being there, looking out for the vessel, desired some of Cawsand men to go down to see if they could pick up any of the men dead or alive, not expecting ever to see me any more, allmoste sure I was ither shot or drowned.
One of them saw me fall, ran to my assistance, and taking hold of me under the arm says, "Who are you?"
So as I thought him to be an enemy, made no answer.
He said, "Fear not, I am a friend; come with me."
And by that time forth was two more come, which took me under both arms, and the other pushed me in the back, and so dragged me up to the town.
I suppose it might have been about the distance of the fifth part of a mile.
My strength was allmoste exhausted; my breath, nay, my life, was allmoste gone.
They took me into a room where there were seven or eight of Cawsand men and my brother Charles, and when he saw me, knew me by my great coat, and cryed with joy, "This is my brother!"
So then they immediately stript off my wet clothes, and one of them pulled off his shirt from off him and put on me, sent for a doctor, and put me to bed.
Well, then, I have thought many a time since what a wonder it was.
The bone of my nose cut right in two, nothing but a bit of skin holding it, and two very large cuts in my head, that two or three pieces of my skull worked out afterwards; and after so long laying on the deck with that very cold weather, and being not alltogether drowned, but allmoste, I think, I did not know I was wounded or loste any blood.
And now, my dear reader, I am going to show you the hardening nature of sin.
When I was struggling in the water for life I gave up all hope, I was dead in my own mind; nevertheless my conscience was so dead asleep I thought nothing aboute Heaven or hell or judgment; and if I had died then I am sure I should have awaked amongst devils and damned spirits.
See here this greate salvation and that of the Lord.
I have been very near drowned, I think, twice before this, and have been exposed to many dangers many a time in the course of time betwen the five years the lugger was loste in the North Channel and this time, privateering, smuggling, etc., but I think conscience never so dead as now.
I stayed there that night and the next evening took chaise.
My brother and me, and the docter came with us so far as Lostwithiel, and arrived at home the night after to brother Charles house.
I stayed there about six or seven days, until it was advertised in the papers, I think three hundred pounds for apprehending the Captain for three months from the date thereof, which set us all of alarm.
So I moved from there to a gentleman's house at Marazion.
I think I stayed there about two or three weeks, and from thence moved to Acton Castle,[31] as my brother John rented the farm, the famely not being there then, so that the keys and care of the house were left to his charge, and after a few days removed to Marazion again, then afraid of the shaking of a leaf.
I think I might have stayed at Marazion for the course of a fortnight, and then went to the Castle again.
[32] I used to half burn my coals by night in order that there should be no smoke seen in the daytime.
In the course of about three months, after my wounds were nearly healed, I used to go at night to the King's Cove and there to drink grog, etc., with the Cove boys until the gray of the morning, convictions following me very sharp still at times.
In my way home to my dreary lodgings, the larks flying up in the fields around me, warbling out their little beautiful notes, used to move me with envy, saying, "These dear little birds answer the end they were sent in the world for, but me, the worst of all creatures that ever was made."
So that I have wished many a time I had been a toad, a serpent, or anything, so that I had no soul, for I know I must give an account for my conduct in this world.
Likewayse there was a gray thrush that sang to me night and morning close to the house, which have preached to me many a sermon.
In the daytime I chiefly spent my time improving my learning on navigation, etc.
I remember one Sabbath day, when I was at Marazion, I heard some people singing of hymns.
I think they were Lady Huntingdon's people, when sincerely wished I had been one of them.
I often[33] thought there was very great beauty in religion, and when I have been with others laughing and ridiculing the methodists, wished I had been one of them, whom I thought best of them.
See what hypocrite was here.
I remember aboute a year before this I went with my wife to Caerlean preaching, on the Sunday afternoon, where I stood as near as I could by the door.
When the word fastened upon my mind, saying, "Thou art the man."
So that I was constrained to turn my face to the wall and weep bitterly, with promises to mend my life, etc.
But, alas!
I had not gone perhaps an hundred yards from the house until I joined my old companions, so lost all my convictions.
That was not the only time by many when I have set up resolutions in my own strength to serve the Lord, etc.
Well, then, in the course of this time, whilst at this place, my wife would come to see me, and sometimes bring the child with her, and spend a day or two, so that I passed my time pleasantly whilst she was with me.
I think it was in the latter end of August my wife was taken very poorly in consumption, being before of a delicate constitution, and was allwayse obliged to come and go at night.
I think it was in the beginning of Oct^{r.} in 1788 when I went to Helford to see her, in company with a servant man to brother John, one night, as she removed from her own house to be with her mother.
I found her in a very weak state, and as I expected then soon to quit the country, I stayed with her about two or three hours, when we took our final farewell of each other, never expecting to see each other no more in time.
Oh, what a trying scene it was, to leave her in flood of tears.
So I arrived home to my dreary solitude a little before day.
I, before then, was greatly distressed for her soul, and through friends desired Uncle James Thomas to visit her, so he did often.
I think it was about the 10 or 12 of the same month, when I was sitting upon a bench in one of the ground floors, bemoaning my sad estate, I began to say to myself, "I have loste my liberty, my property; I have loste my wife also"--as she was the same as dead to me then--so I thought that if her life were spared, it mattered little to me if I was to go to the West or East Indies, so that I could only hear from her by letters, would leave me some comfart.
But that was taken away allso; so that when I was cutt off from every comfart in this life, that I had not the least straw to lay hold of, I begun to see the emptiness and vanity of everything here below, and set up the resolution, God being my Helper, I will serve Him the remnant of my days, so that I immediately fell to my knees and begun to say, "Lord have mercy upon me.
Christe, have mercey upon me," etc.
; and at that time I could not say the Lord's Prayer without form, if any man would give me my liberty, being so long living without prayer.
So, then, as before time I used to divert myself in the daytime in looking at the ships and boats in the bay, the men and cattle working in the fields, etc., but now shut my eyes against them all; and if I had business in the daytime to go to the top of the house, was with my eyes shut.
So I went on with the above prayer, sometimes in hope of mercy, othertimes lost allmoste all hope.
Oct^{r.} 24, in 1788, sailed from Mounts Bay for Leghorn in the ship "George," Capt^{n.} Dewen, master.
Was put on board with a boate from the King's Cove, accompanied by brother John, and I think I was allmoste like a dead man; thought little or nothing consarning my wife or child, or anything in this world, but was earnestely crying for mercy.
I had a little cabin to myself to lodge in, where there was only a single partition between me and the men.
At first it was a great pain to me to hear them swearing, but after a little while took very little notice of it.
I had sume very good books to read with me, but they seem to be all locked up to me, as the natural man cannot desarn the things of the Spirit of God, for they are to be spiritualy desarned.
I remember sumetimes reading, when I could not understand, I should be so peevish and fretfull that I could heave the book overboard.
Then, oh, what a torment in my poor soul I feeled.
Then to think, surely the mercy of God is clean gone from me.
Oh, what burthen my life was unto me.
At them times I seldom prayed then less in secret than twelve times a day and night, and when I could pray with a little liberty, I should be in hope of mercy, and at other times kneel down and groan without one word brought to my remembrance, then allmoste ready to give up all, saying, "Surely there is no mercy for me; all my prayers is no use at all, God pays no respect unto them"; but still I dare not give up praying.
I could look back afterwards and see I was all prayer.
So I think I arrived at Leghorn in the latter end of December, where I passed my Christmas.
I think the first Sabbath after I came there the Capt^{n.} asked me to go on shore to church with him, as there was an English church and clergyman there.
I gladly went.
The minister being a good reader, I saw in his countenance much gravity and solemnity.
I said to myself, "Surely this is the man of God," and thought I was highly favoured to hear him.
The next Sunday I gladly went again, but on coming on board after the service was over, I was told that sacrament days he did not scruple to go to the plays, and play cards, etc., which poisoned my mind so with prejudice, I never went nomore.
In the course of all this time I never meet with one person to give me one word of advice consarning my soul, but I laboured to keep myself to myself so much as posable, still reading and praying with all diligence.
Well, then, the Capt^{n.} got a freight there to go to Barcelona, to load with brandy for New York in America.
I was very glad when I heard of it, as I heard that there was methodists there, in hope I should fall in with sume of them to give me a word of instruction.
So I think we sailed from Leghorn in the latter end of Jan^{y.}
1789.
The Lord still continued to strive with me, sumetimes in hope of salvation, other times allmoste ready to give up all hope; but I still was diligent in reading and prayer, but I was so ignorant of the ways of salvation as I was at the first time I began to pray.
I remember on my passage there one day, scudding before the wind, very cold weather, and a very big sea, looking over the starn.
I thought I should be very glad to be tyed in a rope and towed after the ship for a fortnight, if that would get me into the favour of God.
But alas!
I know all such works would not merit anything from God as salvation.
I arived at New York on the 19 April in '89, and aboute ten or twelve days before I arived there, I was taken with a violent inflammation in one of my eyes, so I could see very little on that eye and the other was much afected allso.
So after two or three days being there, there came a glasar[34] on board to put in a pane of glass in the cabin windows.
And as the Capt^{n.} and mate was not presant, I thought it was my time to enquire out the methodists, and as shame allways hunted me much, I begun to ask him aboute the defrante persuasions of people there; at laste I asked, "Is there any of Mr. Wesly's methodists here?"
He answerd, "There is many."
I asked him, "Do you know any of them?"
He answered, "Yes, many of them."
I asked, "What sort of people are they?"
thinking, if he gave them a bad carakter, to say no further.
His answer, "They are a good sorte of people," so then I asked him, "Do you know the precher?"
He said, "I do, and I go to hear him sometimes."
I said, "Then I shall be obliged to you if you will send your little boy with me to show me the precher's house."
So after he stared a little at me, said, "If you will stay a little until I have done this job, I will ither go with you myself or git sume person that shall."
So that encouraged me very much, set me in high spirits, and after a little further discourse, he told me his wife was a methodist, and soon after took me to his house, where the dear woman received me very kindly.
And when she know I wanted to speak to the precher, she asked me if I did belong to the connection in _England_.
I answered, "No, but I wants to speak to the precher."
She said, "To-night is publick meeting night.
I will go with you a half hour sooner, when we shall find Mr. Dickinson home."
So accordingly we went together, where I found the dear man and his wife in the kitchen.
As soon as I looked at him, I said to myself, "This is the man I wants to see; this is the man of God."
I said, "Sir, I should be glad to speak a few words with you."
So as there was no persons presant but his wife and the good woman that come with me, said, "Say on."
I said, "To yourself, if you please, sir."
So he took me into a small parlour and said, "What do you want of me?"
I said, "Sir, I am an Englishman, and belong to a ship in the harbour.
I know I am a great sinner, and as I am informed you belongs to Mr. Weseley's people, I want to know what I must do."
He looked at me and said, "Do you think God would be just to send you to hell?"
I was surprised at such a question, did not know what answer to make.
Then he begun to say to this purpose, that Christe come to seek and to save that which was lost, etc.
He likewayse asked me, "Do you pray?"
I said, "Yes, a little."
"Do you fast too?"
said he.
I said, "No, sir."
So, after asking me a few more questions he said, "There is a publick prayer meeting here this evning, you may stay if you please."
So I thought he paid me a very great compliment.
I thanked him, and when the time come, that dear woman took me to the _meeting_ house and put me in a place to sit down.
So after they had sung and prayed, the precher gave an exhortation, and I thought all to me, so that I was a little comfarted; and after the meeting was ended, the dear woman took me by the hand, as I was half blind, and lead me home to her own house; and the good glasar, her husband, lead me on board, with a strict charge not to fail coming to see them to-morrow.
So I gladly accepted of the invitation, and when I came there she had brought one of the class leaders and a good old woman to meet me, who gave me great encouragement to seek the Lord.
My eye still getting worse, and as I could not get leeches as I used to do at home, applyed to a doctor, and he cutt the small blood-vessels of the apple of my eye, and so lett the blood out.
So as the ship was going to Baltimore to load, I thought if I went in her I should be in danger to lose the sight of one eye if not both, as both was much afected.
So, then, I concluded to stay there, where I attended all the ordinance; some place to go to every night.
And I think it was aboute the 1 of May when I was asked if I would have a note of admittance to meet in class.
I thought it to be the greatest compliment I ever received in all my life, and gladly accepted it; so that when the leader asked my name, as he took me in surprize, I said "Harry."
He said, "Is that your sir name?"
I said, "Yes."
Then he asked, "What is your Christian name?"
I said, "Henry."
So the people called me, sume Mr. Harry and sume Capt^{n.} Harry, as the sailors I come with me _caled me_ Capt^{n.} Harry; so that in the course of a very little time I got more acquaintance with them dear people.
I could see afterwards I was hungering and thirsting after righteousness, but sometimes in hope of mercy, othertimes allmoste ready to give up all.
I used to walk out of town every morning in sume solitary place to myself to read and pray; and I know since that time if I wanted to know when the clock struck twelve in order to go home, that the family should not wait for me for dinner--I did hardely know much better when the clock had done striking no more than when it begun--I had not the time to count two, for all my soul was in a blaze of prayer.
I think in the beginning of May, Doctor Cook[35] come there to hold confarence.
I wished to make myself known unto him, but was afraid, as at that time I know very little aboute the methodists--afraid of the shaking of a leaf.
And for all[36] I was so highly favoured with so much helps and means I could form no idea of justifying faith.
Sometimes I thought I should here as a man's voice to speak unto me, other times think to see something with my bodily eyes, other times think as if my body should be changed.
I have thought many times that there never was one so ignorant as I was in the ways of salvation.
Sometimes, if I could weep a little under a sarmon, or in a prayer meeting, I should have some hope I was in the way, and sumetimes feel the drawings of the Father, which would give me sume encouragement and hope; other times, if I saw any persons weeping by me, should complain of the hardness of my heart, and be allmoste ready to give up all.
Nevertheless I still continued praying--I supose seldom less than twelve times in aday--and sometimes think whether the hindrance was because I missed naming myself.
Well, then, I have thought many a time since of my unwillingness to belief, for all I was blessed with so many helps and means.
The prechers, and aboute six or seven people in particular, took me by the hand and was like fathers, mothers, brothers, and sistars, so that I often in the afternoon amongst sume of them dear women and the prechers, drinking tea, &c.; and if I should sit with them more than an half hour without sume of them should ask me something of the state of my mind, I should be so much dejected, and say to myself, "Surely I am beneath the least of their notice; how can I expect the least of their notice?"
and I remember one day went to the hospital to preching.
When the preching was over, the two prechers, Mr. Morld and Mr. Cloude, in their way home, I drew nigh to them; thought to have some conversation with them, and as they used to make so free with me, then only spoke as I thought coldly.
I was so much dejected in my own mind, I thought I was the worst creature that ever was born, and that allmoste all things cryed vengance against me.
Another time I remember I went to the precher's house to inquire after Mr. Cooper, he not being there that presant, and as I went out to one door he came in to the other, I not seeing him.
Mr. Morld said to him, "Brother Carter was here inquiring after you."
I heard him, and was immediately struck with wonder to think a such man as he should be so humble as to call a such poor creature as me, brother.
So these was some of the ways I was tryed.
Some times up, sume times down, sume times in hope and sume times allmoste ready to give up.
Notwithstanding all this I continued still in prayer, and I remember when walked the streets I was like one with his eyes shut, crying for salvation, and likewayse crying to the Lord that there might nothing take my attention or the least of my afection from Him in this world.
I think I was there aboute three or four weeks, when I was asked why I did not go to sacrament.
I answered, "I am unworthy."
The person answered, "You are the very person that is worthy."
So as he could not prevail upon me to go, he told the preachers of it, and after class meeting on the Sabbath morning, as they was going to a friend's house to breakfast, asked me to go with them.
They soon opened their commission, and asked me to come to the sacrement to-day.
I answered, I could not.
They asked my reason.
I said, "Him that eateth and drinketh unworthy, eateth and drinketh his own damnation," and immediately I burst out in a flood of tears, and desired the company to pray for me.
The whole large company kneeled down, and prayed for me with great powar, so that I had not the only wet face by many in the company, and after prayer took me to reason, so I consented to go.
And I went with much fear and trembling.
I feeled nothing particular in the ordinance, but ever after continued to go.
I think it was in the beginning of June I begun to abstain from eating, and as I eate to the full before, I slackoned a little every meal.
I was afraid to fast for fear the family should take notice of me; and aboute this time I sent home for sume money, then thinking to set on a shop in C^{o.}
with Rob^{t.} Snow, then thinking to leave my bones there.
So I still went on sume times thinking I was getting into lukewarm state, other times a little hope of mercy, and sume times allmoste despair of all mercy.
But I remember 19 July I went to preaching as usual, when, as the preacher was pointing out the odiousness of sin, and the hartfeelt sorrow that a true penitent soul feeled for it, he mentoned of a woman that had a cancer cutt out of her breast a few days before, and when she was asked if the pain was not very great, her answer was, "Not so great as when I was under convictions for sin."
I immediately concluded I was out of the way.
I had hardley the least hope left of Christ, Heaven, or happyness.
So in my way home in company with Mr. Cooper, a little before we parted he said, "Capt^{n.}, what is the matter?
You seem to be lowspirited to-night."
I answered, "Yes, and well I may."
He said, "What then is the matter?"
I said "Did you not hear Mr. Morel saying aboute the woman that had the cancer cutt out of her breast, and I am sure I am not in the way, I never feeled such pain at all," etc.
He said, "I am sure you are in the way," and then begun to repeat the promises, etc.
I thought I had heard the same promises repeated hundreds of times before, but never in such manner as at presant.
Hope sprung up that the blessing was very near to me.
I went home to my lodgings, and after prayer opened the Hymbook to-Salvation, oh the joyfull sound, What music to our ears; A sovereign Balm for every wound, A cordial for our fears.
Glory, honour, etc.
etc.
[37] I was allmoste ready to fly away.
I went to bed, but did hardly sleep all the night, praying and praising God.
Never the less in all this I did not believe that my sins was pardoned, but I hope God would do it, and that soon.
In the morning went to the man of God, told him how I feeled, to which he gave me great encouragement.
The next night went to preaching aboute two miles out of town.
I was still very comfartable, but could not believe.
The next day being 21, aboute two or three o'clock in the afternoon, I went to pray that God would show me the hindrance that stood between him and my soul, and that he would show me by that man of God, or by some other means.
After I rose up from my knees I went to the man of God.
He saw me coming, and asked me with a smile, "Well, Captain, how is it with you now?"
I answered, "I have been just now praying that God would show me the hindrance that stands between him and my soul, and take it away from me."
He answered in his usual pleasant way, "Nothing at all, Captain, only unbelief; but I would advise you to spend moste of this afternoon in prayer, that God would show you under the sarmon, or by some other means, before you go to bed," etc.
So I did according to his direction, and in the evning went to preching in great expectation.
And when Mr. Morel delivered his text from the 15 chapter St. John, "Abide in me and I in you," and as he went on a little, I thought, surely this is for me.
Hope sprung up; but after a little further I thought Mr. Cooper had been telling the precher of what I had told him, which set me in doubting.
But after he went on a little further, I said to myself, "Whether he have told him or not, it is for me," and I believed in that moment, so that I rejoiced with joy unspeakable and full of glory.
As soon as the sarvice was ended, lest Satan should get an advantage over me, I told the preacher what the Lord had done for me, and immediately Mr. Cooper, so that we rejoiced greately together, to which the latter told me, "You must go in the morning to such and such a ones" (mentioned six or seven houses), "and tell them what the Lord have done for you, and forget not to sing and pray with them."
So I went according to his order, and told them that I had received the comforter, so that we had a happy morning together.
Well, then, I went on my way rejoicing, no doubts, no fears, nither hardly a temptation, until the end of ten or twelve days.
So then I went on, sume times on the mount with Peter and John, some times in doubts and fears; and if I did not allwayse find my mind in a blaze of prayer unto God, I frequent used to say to myself, "Now I am surely getting into a lukewarm state," and so write bitter things against myself.
Aboute this time I begun to fast once a week, until aboute four o'clock in the afternoon, and abstain to nearly half my fill.
I think it was in the later end of Augst when I received a letter from my mother-in-law consarning my wife's death.
I soon begun to reason if she was gone happy or not, so that in the course of a few days after I used to go out by night, and looking up towards heaven, wishing and praying to see her vision, or to know by some means whether she was gone happy or not.
And one night, before I went to bed, I prayed earnestely to the Lord if he would show me by dream or by vision.
So that night I dreamed I was amongst serpents and vipars, and the worst of venemest beasts, that I had the hardest struggels to get clear of them, so when I awaked I was in a lake of sweat from head to foot.
Then I thought I had not done according to the will of God.
I continued in that state, with my harp hanged upon the willows, could not sing one note for a thousand worlds for all so much delight I took in it in times past, keep it all this time to myself, so that I got myself into such wilderness state that I could hardly tell if I was in the favour of God or not.
But I think it was to the end aboute fourteen days I opened my mind to Mrs.
Snow, who said, "By your own account your wife had good morals, and she _had_ also the preachers and people to pray and instruct her; I have a good hope she is gone happy.
Nevertheless, whether or not, you must leave that to God, it is a business you must have nothing at all to do with; and if you continue to go on in this way, I am in doubt as you are in danger to lose all your Religion."
So we kneeled down and she prayed for me, and immediately I went to a prayer meeting.
The first hymn was, My God, the spring of all my joy, The life of my delights, etc.
I sung with a loud voice but with a wet face, so that the temptation left me.
Glory be to God for dear friends, etc.
So I went on as before, some times happy and other times in doubts and fears, but still getting a little strength.
I think it was aboute this time that I left of drinking water, and I think it was in the beginning of September I concluded in my mind to quit the town and go to Baltimore; and as there was a ship bound there I spoke for a passage, and got most things ready for the voyage.
But oh!
what a tryal it was to me to think of leaving of my New York friends, where the Lord had helped me in such abundant manner, and then to go 700 miles from there to a place and people I knew nothing of.
I begun to reason as before with the enemy of my soul, "Surely at last I shall become a castaway, surely I shall be stripped of all my Religion!"
I suppose no man can conceive the misery I feeled in my own mind for the course of aboute ten or twelve days; I have thought since that I never had a greater tryal.
But to the end of this time one night I went to preching, where Mr. Asbery,[38] with his great loud voice, gave out this hymn-Tho' troubles assail and dangers afright, If friends all should fail and foes all unite, Yet one thing assures us, what ever betide, I trust in all dangers the Lord will provide, etc., etc.
[39] I never heard that hymn before, and as he went on I was filled with such faith and love I could trust and not be afraid; it mattered nothing to me where I went, as I believed that God would be with me.
I never opened my mind to no person in the course of all this time, but I was thinking to the same day I sailed, or the day before, and that only to desire one of my friends when my money came from England to remitt it unto me.
But at that time, as I was so happy in God, and could trust him with both soul and body, I thought I could trust his servant allso.
So I begun and opened all my mind to my Father Cooper, told him who and what I was, and how I came there, and all my reason I had to quit the town, which was, as my right name was H. Carter, and as I hailed as H. Harry, I thought if I entered into business I must at times have business upon the wharves,[40] amongst the shipping; and if I ever meet any person that know me I should be branded as a hypocrite, and hurt my partner and sadly wound the cause of God.
He answered and said, "Capt^{n.}, as that is the cause, I think you need not leave the place.
If you think proppar, I'll speak to the prechers and your leader, and appoint to meet to one of your friends' houses one afternoon, where, I think, we shall be able to settle all the business, but you must not be presant."
Accordingly they meet all together, those I was moste particular acquainted with, so he opened the business.
They all joined together, and said, "He did this when in a natural state, not meaning to wrong or defraud any man, for personal safety, and when we hear anyone call him 'Captain Harry' or 'Mr.
Harry,' we must say his surname is Carter, as it is the custom in England where there is two Captains of one family, the one is called after his Christian name."
So my old friend delayed no time, but soon come with this full account to me where I rejoiced in my great deliverer.
I could not then doubt but this was the Lord's doings, and it was marvellous in my eyes, so that the report soon spread aboute the town.
But moste of them, as they begun with "Captain Harry," so continued; and I thought tho' their love was so great to me before, it was increased if possible tenfold more so; so then I concluded in my mind to stay, and thought to live and die there, and went on as before, watching and praying, frequaintely complaining of my littleness of love, weakeness of Faith, etc., until aboute the 19 of December, when I went to class meeting on the Sabbath morning.
Providence sent one there from the County of Durham, in England, whose name was Hodgson.
He lately come to town in company with two excellent men from the same place, and as he being a stranger, the leader desired him to speake to the people.
So he begun, saying how and when he was convinced of sin, when he was converted, and when he was sanctified unto God; and after, exhorted all that believed to only believe and see the salvation of God, and with this language, "all things in Christe is now ready, all the fitness he requires is to feel the need of him."
So he preached a presant and full salvation unto us.
Such language I never heard before with no man.
Now in the course of this time I had been there Religion was not in a very prospras state, few[41] convinsed and very few converted unto God, but the people going on still in a steady state, so that we never heard sanctification preached, or seldom prayed for, in publick, and amongst the whole of the methodists that was there at that time, aboute, as well as I can remember, 260 in all, and only two persons out of the whole number that did perfess and enjoy the blessing of sanctification--my Father Cooper was one, and an old woman the other.
So that I thought if I could receive that blessing to the end of three or four years, I thought it would be a blessing indeed, etc.
So then, after the meeting was ended, as Mr. Hodgson and me lodged in the same part of the town, went in company together.
He begun to ask me who I was, etc., so that I gave him a true description of how long I had been in town, and what the Lord had done for me since I had been there.
When I had done speaking, he said, "Well, my brother, be thankfull for what the Lord have done for you, and ask for more"; and some thing in this way, "Go on to perfection, it is the will of God, even your sanctification.
Do you believe these things?"
I answered, "I believe in the doctrine of sanctification, but I cannot believe the promise is to me."
He asked for what reason, I said, "I am a poor egnarant person, and it is not more than five months since I am justified, and there is a great number of excellent men and women in this town that is usefull to their fellow creatures in praying in publick, visiting the sick, instructing the ignorant, etc., they do not perfess this blessing at all, and how can I expect it, who am good for nothing, and so unworthy and unfit for it."
He answered, "All the fitness he requires is to feel the need of him.
The promise is for you; only believe, and see the salvation of God," etc.
So the discourse I had with him set my soul all of a flame, the blessing seemed to be nigh me.
I went home and fell to my knees in prayer.
I thought I was just ready to laye hold of it, but unbelief hindered me; but the hope of the blessing being so very nigh, made me rejoice in abundant manner.
I was very happy all that day and the next day allso, still in earnest expectation to receive the blessing.
But the day following went to a prayer meeting, being on 21 December, where I meet Mr. Hodgson providentely, and after the meeting he asked me to go home to his house with him.
I gladly embraced the opportunity, and after a little conversation by his fireside the Lord enabled me to believe in him for full salvation.
I immediately told him, saying, "Glory be to God, I do believe."
So after we sung and prayed, he said, "You must go in the morning and tell your friends of what the Lord have done for you; this blessing may not be given for your sake only, but for others also."
So I parted with him, and went home, jumping,[42] and leaping, and praising of God.
And the next morning, according to his order, I went from house to house, and told the six or seven familes that I was moste particular acquainted with what the Lord had done for my soul, so that we rejoiced greately together, they farmely believed the report.
And I have thought many times since, as if I hard them say, "Now we see God have no respect of persons.
This poor ignorant Englishman have been here with us only a few months, have been justified and sanctified, and surely if this blessing is to be attained too, we will never rest until we receive it."
So that the preachers and people were all in alarm.
In the course of a few days there were new prayer meetings set up upon allmoste every quarter of the town, so that in a very little time the Chapel would scarcely hold half of the people, and the Lord begun to pour a lot of his spirit upon the people in a wonderful manner--some crying for mercy, others standing up rejoicing and praising of God that they know their sins was forgiven them; likewayse others rejoicing, saying that God spake the second time, "Be clean," and cast out all their inbred sin; and oh, what a glorious work was there.
I know one of my friends going home from a prayer meeting one night, aboute two or three o'clock in the morning, called to another friend's house, knocked him out of bed, and told him that God cleansed him from all unrighteousness.
They both joined in prayer, and they wrasled with God until the other experienced the same blessing allso.
So that with the noise and brusel[43] of the people the world seemed as it were turned upside down.
The Calvinests, Baptists, Universalists, Quakers, with the people of the Establish Church, all seemed to rise up in arms against it.
Sume said the devel was amongst the methodists, sume one thing, sume another; but the work continued to go on in a glorious manner, so that in the course of aboute two or three months the society increased from aboute 260 to more than 500.
It was then good times indeed, praise be to God.
I have had the pleasure to see many revivals since, but I think I never saw greater heroes for the work then my dear friends in New York; and I think the people there then was sumething like the primitive Christians, going from house to house in fellowship one with another, declaring the wonderfull works of God.
Well, then, I am now going to return to myself.
I think it was in the beginning of January, in 1790, when there was a meeting set up caled the "Select Bands," meant for those that was sanctified, and those believers that was pressing hard after it might join if they pleased.
So I think there was aboute twenty that perfess sanctification joined, and aboute ten more that was crying after it.
I think that was a scool indeed, to hear so many sensible men and women to stand up to tell of their experience from the beginning to the presant, and I never was a greater wonder to myself than to be permitted amongst such people, as I was the youngest in the way and the moste ignorant of them all.
So I still continued in all the ordinesses,[44] using not less secreat prayer than when I begun to seek the Lord, my soul moste times in a blaze of prayer.
I think it was in aboute the middle of Jan^{y.}
when I went one morning to the preachar's house in C^{o.}
with Mr. Coopar, where there was sevrall of the leaders, consulting where they should hold prayer meetings, and how they should car[45] them on.
I went home to my lodgings, and seating by the fire I begun first to reason, saying, "Everyone is imployed, all have sume thing to do exepting me, and I am good for nothing, no use to society, but as a dead dog in the way."
Well, then, as I was a long time in expectation to have remittance from home, my money being done, and being in debt about 38 shillings for my board, I said to my creditor, "I have gave up all hope of having any money from home, I muste begin to work aboute sumething, but what or where I know not.
If I work in town the people will brand me for a decever, as I have said I have sume property and sent home for sume, so I fear it would much hurt the cause of Christ.
I should be glad to have your advice in the case."
He answered, "What you owes me is but a trifal, you need not go anywhere to work on my account.
You are welcome to stay a month or two longer, perhaps your money will come; and if not, do not make yourself uneasy aboute it."
But, however, my friend Hodgson aboute that time went upon Long Island to live, so that I spoke to him for lodgings and went with him, thinking I should be out of the way of censure.
So the 12 of June I car'd my little sea bed there, and laid it in one corner of his room as he had nither steed[46] for me; so the next morning, being 13, went to work to a farmer aboute a mile and a half from the little town where I lived, and was sent to the field to hoe Indian corn in company with a negro.
The work was very strange unto me, but soon after begun fell into discourse with him, and I rejoiced to hear he belonged to New York society.
We worked the forenoon in the field together, where I was pleased and profited with his conversation; the afternoon being hard rain, we worked shifting of straw, etc., in the barn, when come the farmer, as I could not mow hay, etc., paid me my wages, and directed me in my way home to a cousin of his, whom I caled upon, and he told me to come the next morning.
Accordingly I did so, who sent me in a field to do the same work, when aboute seven or eight o'clock I was joined with a man to work with me, who was part owner of the field.
I worked until breakfast time, when I was caled in to breakfast.
I could eate nothing, but drink a little milk, the same to dinner.
The man that worked with me, as he could do much more work than me, desired me not to work to hard, but by three or four o'clock the blood was running between my fingers, and my body so weak, all moste ready to drop down.
The man that was with me asked me no questions consarning who or what was, but a little before we left work went to a publick house and brought me a little rum and water, and desired me to drink again and again.
I gladly took a very little of it, and should have taken more, but I thought, as he know me to be a methodist, he did it in order to trap me; but I saw after the man had no such desire, so I gladly received it with thankfullness both to God and him.
So I went home rambling, with a tired body, as one that was much intoxicated.
The next morning went to the same place again, but wore gloves to hide my bleeding hands; and as their hours was from aboute sun rising, and stop a little to breakfast and dinner, and work until sun set, and as my body was wasted and weakened before with much fasting and abstinence, and had hardly dirted my finger scarcely for nearley twenty years before, my body was allmoste ready to crush under the burden.
Oh, what a change was this indeed!
And as I used before to pray not less than twelve times in a day in secreat, I had no opertunity at that time but a few minuts before I went to work, and find a little house or sume bye corner to breackfast and dinner; and when I got home in the evning, where the family was allmoste ready to go to bed.
But I can realy say, to the glory of God, I never was so happy in all my life as I was at that _time_.
So I staid there two or three days to finish that _job_, and after put in a field to work to myself some _distance_ from the house, and furder[47] from my home, where my employer told me, "You may lodge here if you will."
I gladly accepted the offer, and the first night I was took into a room in one end of the farm house and showed my bed, where there was an old negro woman, and a little black boy with her.
I looked at my bed, the room, and my company, and I think I never saw a meaner bed in all the course of my life.
Stripped of my clothes and turned in, in full expectation that they was going to sleep with me, as I saw no other bed or place else for them.
But whilst I was thinking of this, I saw there in one cornar of the room a little ladder, where they both went up together.
I was there, I think, three or four days in that field to myself, and I think it was the second day, aboute eleven o'clock, I stood in the field and leaned upon my hoe, and could not tell whether I should drop down under my burthen or stand any longer, the sun allmoste over my head, the wind very little, and took hardely anything to sustain nature.
And I worked harder than perhaps I was required to, and that for two reasons--the one for fear that they should know I was a broken _gen_telman, and if known, I should not have work to _do_.
_The_ other, I must do justice unto my employer.
Wilst I was thus at a stand, calling to the L_ord_ for help, I saw a light shone brighter then the light of the sun, that filled me with such faith and love, I went on again like a giant refreshed with new wine, praising and blessing of God.
Oh, what happy times I had every moment.
After I had done the field, he had no work more for me, so I returned home and got work a day or two in a place.
I keept all what I feeled to myself, no murmuring, no complaining; but when my dear friends in New York come to hear of it, they agreed together to contribute to my maintenance, and take me off from there, and sent me word to be home one day, as they were coming to see me.
Accordingly the day came, when six or seven women come according to promise, and after sume conversation opened their business, but in a very feeling manner.
I thanked them, and said "I surely am not too good to work; I have read of sume that have worked for their own bread that I am unworthy to wipe their shoes or snuff their candle."
So we passed the afternoon together in singing and praying.
I saw them to the boate, where they made me promise not to fail to come to see them every Sunday, and, if possible, Saturday night.
After three or four days, working a day in a place, I went to work with a farmer near the place I worked before, where I went to hoe Indian corn with five or six negero slaves.
They behaved unto me very civil indeed, desired me not to work too hard; and as the poorest workman amongst them could far out do me and do my best, but one or other allwayse helped me on, so that I kept _close_ up with them.
I was, as well as I can remem_ber_, with them six or seven days, and that time sleeped in a hay loft.
[48] My suffering was not all over, as yet; I could eate very little, and in the morning, when I went to work, allmoste so sore and so tired as in the evning; and I could hardly say I could sleep at all, at times just forget myself only.
All this time nither master nor any man ever asked me who or what I was, they only know I was an English man.
They all treated me very civily, and when they had done with me they would ask me my demands.
My answer was, "What you please"; so they allwayse gave me the same as another common labourer.
Aboute this time I was asked to go with a mason to repair a mill dam; it was to be repaired with turf, and I had a small flatt bottam boat to carry the turf across the pool.
So I went with him upon this conditions, if I could do the work, to give me what he pleased.
I expected at first he was to be allwayse with me, but just showed me my work and left me to myself, only sume times come to see me, once in the course of two or three days.
I then lodged and boarded myself to freind Hodgson's.
The place was in a bottam,[49] in mirey ground, and the weather very hot, that the sweat would run over me in large drops, as if any person was heaving water upon me.
I think I went to work about sun rising in the morning, I supose aboute five o'clock, stop aboute half hour to breakfast, _only_ an hour to dinner, and then work until sun set, I supose aboute seven.
My breakfast and dinner was a piece of bread I card with me, and I went to a farm house for a little milk.
When my employer come to see me, he would moste times bring with him a little rum and a cup, and as there was a will[50] close by, "Come," said he, "rest yourself a little; let us go and have a drink together."
What a change indeed was workd upon me; before time, when I was, as it were, a gentelman, I could not tuch a dram before dinner upon any account.
But then how glad and how thankfull I was to receive it.
But after the first fortnight or three weeks my bones was become a little more hardened, my sufferings was not alltogether so much, and I have thought many a times when my sufferings was to the greatest, that if it was the will of Providence I would gladly continue in the same all the days of my life.
So every Sabbath day I went to New York to see my friends in the morning and return back again in the evning.
I think it was in the later end of July when Mr. Dawson, one of them English men I before mentioned that came from the County of Durham, came over to inform me that if I would go home there was a vessel that would be ready in the course _of_ a week's time, and he was going to England.
I th_anked_ him and went to New York, and asked the advice of my friends.
They all, as the voice of one man, said, "Surely this is the Lord's doing; go, the Lord will be with you.
We believe that it will not be in the power of man to hurt you, but you must not think it strange if you receive strong tryals from the Captain."
The Captain was an English man that come there from the West Indies, and had been in town for, I suppose, six or seven weeks; a man that did profess Religion, and did at times stand up in publick as a preacher, but of Calvinist principles.
And as I know him before, I went and asked him for a passage, then fully believing it was my duty, and I thought I could trust the Lord with my both soul and body.
So he was quite agreeable, and then, as I was not acquainted with the man, opened all my mind unto him, notwithstanding for all the hints I had concarning him before.
So he asked me if I was a navigator, and if I could work, etc.
I answered I had my quadrant and books with me.
So I agreed with him to be landed in Mounts Bay, or close to the East of the Lizard Point, and then returned back to Long Island, and told my employer I was going at home.
He desired me to stay a few days longer with him to finish the job, to which I consented.
And I think aboute the 3 or 4 of august, when we settled our accounts, he paid me very handsomely.
I returned to New York.
I paid off all my debts and bought myself sevrall little _seafar_ing clothes for the voyage, and I think I had four pence in _coppe_rs left.
Well, then, here was a change in deed--from _such_ hard labour to ease again.
So I staid there with my dear friends, going from house to house as before.
I think I was allwayse rejoicing and praysing of God, and still using the same self-denial by abstaining from food as before time, and not only then, but allso when I was to my hardest labour.
I staid there until the 13 August, when took breakfast with my old and first friend the glasar, and after breakfast he took a dollar out of his pocket and said, "I insist on you to accept of it."
I thanked him, and I took it, so went on board, and that day got to an anchor in Sandyhook, and the next morn sailed for England with a fair wind and fair weather.
The vessel was a small sloop aboute 40 tons,[51] bought by the Captain then in New York, but the papars draw'd in the mate's name, under cover him being an American.
The cargo was coopers' timber, and the whole crew was the Captain, mate, two boys, Mr. Dawson, and myself.
I keept one watch with the biggest boy, I suppose aboute 16 or 17 years old; and the mate keept the other watch with the other boy, I suppose aboute 13 or 14 year old.
We was not more then a day or two at sea until Satan begun to rage and roar.
The Captain set his face against me.
Try my best I could do nothing to please him.
He pretended to know all things, but did hardly know anything of the sea or business.
Then I thought of what I was told by my friends in New York, so that I was not the leaste disappointed.
I acted in the capacity of steward and as cabin boy, to bring all things to his hand as a gentelman, and if there were anything short I stayed without it; so that I had plenty to do to try to please him, besides keep my regular watch on deck night and day.
We had a fair wind until we came upon the banks of Newfoundland.
Then the wind took us ahead and blow fresh; for a little time the vessel made some water upon one tack.
He said, "We will bear up for Boston."
I think, for all he was a professor of Religion, I never saw a man more afraid of his life in all my life.
I thought that if we put in to Boston I never should fetch home in that vessel.
I opposed him, and said, "There is no danger, I will engage to keep the pump in my watch."
Mr. Dawson said, "I will keep it in the other," tho' he know nothing of the sea.
The mate then joined us, and amongst us all gained our point, so that soon after we had a fair wind again.
We had moste times publick prayers in the morning, sume times Mr. Dawson and sume times him, but still continued with his face set against me, and poor Mr. Dawson dare not speak one word in my favour, as he was full so much afraid of him as I was.
And the two poor boys, I think in the hardness of my times it never was in my power to treat two dogs as he treated them.
So one day, after we come into soundings, I said, "The Land's End bears so and so, it is time for you to alter your course if you land me there."
So as he pretended to keep a reckning he said to the contrary, but never let us see his journal, the mate and me, within two or three miles of each other,[52] so that I thought he had no mind to land me in the Mounts Bay, according to promise, the weather being fair.
Saw a sail, and as it was not the first time by many, said to me, as I had the helm, "Bear down to speak with him."
I did so.
He said, "Keep her so and so."
I said, "Sir, if you keep her so, you never will speak with him."
He begun to belch out, "What is that to thee?
I say keep her so."
So as I had given up all hope of being landed there, I thought it was time to take a little courage.
I left go the helm, and said, "Keep her so your self, if you please," and I immediately went below and turned in in my cabin.
In the course of a little time he came down and said sume thing to me in a very surly manner.
I answered, "Sir, you have not behaved unto me as a man since I have been with you.
I have answered every end I engaged with you for, and much more so, and now I see you are entirely off your word with me, as you know you was to land me in the Mounts Bay, or a little to the East of the Lizard."
He begun to bale out, "Thou doste profess the spirit of Christe, but thou haste the spirit of the devil," and so on in a great rage, my poor friend Dawson presant fearing and trembling but dare not speak one word; and I have thought that good man suffered during the voyage much more on my account than I did myself.
So I did not render railing for railing, said nothing, or very little more.
This was in the evning, and in the course of aboute half hour after, when he come to himself, he came to me and said in a very good humour, "I should be glad if you would turn out and come on deck, I wants to speak with you."
So he took me forward on the bow out of the sight and hearing of any person, and said sumething to this purpose: "I hope you'll think nothing of all that is past, and I am going to tell you why I cannot be to my word with you to land you in the Mounts Bay.
I sarved my time to a hatter in London, and as there was a brig there loaden with hats and other goods, I took her away under the pretence of being supercargo, etc., unknown to the owners.
I sold the vessel and cargo in the West Indies, bought the sloop you see me come to New York in, sold that sloop there, and bought what we are in at present.
I told you and others I was bound to London, but I meant to go to Dunkerk and send for my wife to London.
I mean to sell my cargo and then to return to New York again, for if I am known in any part of England I shall be apprehended and hanged.
So now lett me beg you to keep it a secret.
And I have the favour likewayse, as you know there is no draft for the Channel on board, I knows nothing of the Channel, and the mate quite unacquainted, let me beg you to do your best to car the vessel to Dunkerk."
I answered, "I will do everything in my powar," etc.
These was the tener of our discourse, etc.
So that when he had finished, I thought I was allmoste lost in wonder and astonishement.
I thought my case was bad, but his tenthousands times worse.
So I turned to work again with a willing mind, knowing nothing should happen unto me against the knowledge of God, nither without his permision, and I believed all things should work together for my good, and so went on my way, rejoicing and praising of God.
The weather still very fair and a fair wind.
The next morning saw the Start Point, and so made the best of our way up Channel.
When came a little to the west of Folston,[53] Mr. Dawson was put onshore, to go to London in order to fetch the Capt^{ns.}
wife to him to Dunkerk, and soon after fell in with a fleet of West Indiamen, with sevral cutters and frigats, with their boats out, bring them to to press their men, as at that time there was a little quarrel between the Spanyards and English.
We passed through them all with our American coulers set, expecting to be brought to every moment; and as I was the only Englishman onboard, the Capt^{n.} advised me to hide myself in the bread locker.
But I thought, if they had come on board and found me, I must be gone; so I thought if it was the will of Providence that I should be pressed, let his will be done; and I thought if they should come on board and ask me if I was an Englishman, I should say nothing to the contrary.
That if I was stationed on the tops, or anywhere else, God would be with me, and all things should work together for my good.
The same day, aboute three or four o'clock, got close in to Calais, where we took a pilot for Dunkerk the same evning, on the 16 September in '90.
And as we went up the harbar I saw in a brig's starn, I think, the "Bettsey, Truro."
I thought if there was any place caled by that name out of Cornwal, but the next day, as the Capt^{n.} and I was so great he could then not go onshore without me, neither eate nor drink without me, I was then with him as it were all and in all.
It was a great chainge indeed, whether through fear or love I know not.
So the next day I, as a complement, asked him to go on board with me to see what the brig was.
So it proved to be from Truro, from Petersborg, loaden with hemp and iron, there wind bound, and bound to Daniel's Point[54] the first fair wind; and as I did not want to make myself known unto him as an Englishman, I thought I would lett him know that I know some jentelmen at Falmouth, and after a little discourse sume in Penzance; so after a while, he naming of one and another until he come home to our family, and added, "Poor felows, they have had a great many and very great misfortings of late years.
Harry, poor felow, lost a valuable lugger, with a valuable cargo, and was obliged to leave his Country, being taken with sume manawar's boat.
I saw him in Leghorn, dined and supped with him, and from there he went to America.
I have not heard anything concarning him since; whether he is dead or alive, I know not, poor felow."
So at laste I said, "I am the man, and I desire the favour of you to give me a passage home."
He stared like a man frightened, and said, "I never saw such chainge on any man in my life, and I had no more knoledge of you no more then if I never saw you.
Anything in my powar I will gladly do for you.
Do you want money, or anything else?
You'l make free with me.
I am sorry I cannot take you to sleep with me, as the cabin is full of hemp, etc.
Be not afraid of being pressed, as all my men is protected, but you shall not be pressed unless they press me also."
Here I was loste in wonder, love, and praise, seeing how I was presarved the day before from a manofwar, and I looked upon this as if the Lord had worked a merical to send the brig there as if it was on purpose for me.
The Capt^{n.} used that trade for sume time, but never put into any harbour in France before, but now struck upon a sand bank, and put in there to be repeared, as he had receved sume damage, etc.
Well, then I could but only wonder and adore the goodness of God, shorley his paths is in the deep and his ways past finding out.
So then I returned again to my little sloop.
I staid in Dunkerk eleven days, then sailed for England, arrived at Daniel's Point the 1 Oct^{r.} The same night, aboute nine o'clock, arrived home to Kenneggy,[55] to B^{r.} Charles's.
So I was received as one rison from the dead, as they know nothing of my coming home, nither had heard from me for aboute twelve months.
So after a little I related what cause I had to come, and after I had settled my business I was minding[56] to return to New York again.
He said, "I will send for our brothers in the morning, and praps we may find sumething other wayse."
So earley in the morning they come, and said, "If you go to America again we shall never see you more; we think you may stay at home in safety, there is no person will meddle with you, but we advise you first to go aboute this neighberhood as publick as you please, where you are well known, but shun the towns, and after a few days there will no person take notice of you."
I very gladly consented to what they said, this being on saturday.
First went to the King's Cove to see the Cove boys, and for all I was not more than aboute two years from them, not one of them know me until they heard me speak.
The next morning being the sabbath, went to Trevean[57] to preaching, where I had a blessed time indeed.
After preching I was surounded with allmoste all the congregation.
Every one glad to see me, but in particular the methodists, as they heard before that there was a chainge of mind passed upon me.
This made me to wonder and adore the goodness of God unto me, as I did not expect to see any person when I came home but only my own family.
This was a wonder indeed to think I was once more returned to my native country, amongse my own family, friends, and the people of God.
Well, then, after atending the preaching and meetings a few times was desired to give out a hymn and speak in prayer, but at first I refused, as I did not exercise in that way before I come home, only at times I was sent to visit the sick with Father Cooper when he could not attend himself.
So I refused, but after suffered great pain of mind, so that at laste I took up the cross with much fear and trembling, and immediately went aboute like a town crier, telling the people what the Lord had done for my soul.
See what a chainge was here taken place; a little while before labouring in the fields with the poor negroes, and used like a slave, and looked upon with contempt on the greatest part of my passage home; so now I had nothing to do with the world, all things was provided for me, so that in a little time the congregation begin to increase greately, and prayer meetings set on in many defrant places; so, as far as I can remember, in the course of eight or nine weeks there was a great number of men, women, and children converted.
Our meeting seem to be all in confusion, sume praying, sume singing, sume crying, sume praising and blessing of God.
We have staid in the house sume times from twelve until three o'clock in the morning.
My heart at that time, with every powar of my soul, was fully engaged in the work; one time in particular, I trust I shall never for get it, in prayer in the after meeting, I think Mr. Wacktings was the preacher, whether in the body or out of the body I could harely tell.
It was just the same as it was in New York, and car'd on in the same manner.
At the first sume of the old members would not owned it to be of God, as it was so much out of the comman way, wilst many others put their shoulders to the work, and, praise be to God, aboute this time I do remember my soul through mercy was got just in the same tune as it was in New York.
I declard at that time to sevral old members consarning my thoughts.
Sume would give me great incoregement, wilst other would try to drive me back.
I mentioned this, if ever this should be published, which in all probability it will not, for thou, my young Reader, to take care who to declare thy mind to, for it is not evry old prefessor that knoweth moste of the things of God, but in the genral him who's soul is most alive to God.
So as I was but as a babe in the way, I still wanted to be teached in the ways of God, and I fell in company with John Bettens, to whom I opened my mind freely.
I have thought many times since I never found such faith, no, not in all the men I ever talked with.
Well, then, I was not confined to Trevean house only, but I went aboute all through the country.
But no place where I was asked where the housen was not full of people, and sume would not contain all the people.
Shorley I was a wonder to myself, and in genral I found great freedom to speak to the people in my simple way.
I remember once I went about eight or nine miles from home, and as I came to the door where I was expected, a young man came out and said, "Are you Captain Harry Carter?"
I answered, "My name is Henry Carter."
He said, "We have been expecting of you, for it is given out for you to preach to-night."
When I heard of the name preach, I was struck with such fear and trembling, I could not tel whether it was best to return home again or stay there.
So I went in, and the good man received me very kindly, and when the time came took me to the chaple, where it was so full the people could harley stand.
Sume that know nothing of preaching caled it preaching, but I never presumed to take a text, but laid a little foundation as a text in disguise, so that I had room to ramble.
But it was not for what I could say only that the housen was so full of people, but it was like the Jews of old, came not to see Jesus only, but Lazreth[58] also.
Where I was not known before, they heard of me, and they believed that there was a great chainge upon me.
I think the people believed I was really what I professed to be, but many times after I had been speaking, so dejected in my own mind, wishing that I may stand up no more, for it was seldam a day passed but what I had doubts whether I was cal'd or not, and I was much afraid to run before I was sent.
And likewayse the cross was so great, I have often[59] thought if the people knew what I suffered, they never would ask me to exercise in that way at all.
Oh, how I did tremble and sweat just as the time were come.
Well, then, still the work of God continued to go on in Trevean society, and lively meetings all through this neighberhood.
I think it was in Febury, in 1791, or a little before, when the work in Trevean begun in sume degree to sease, but still blessed times; and I think it was in the later end of March or the begining of April I was sent for by a great man of this neighberhood, he wanted to speak with me.
Accordingly I went, and the business was as follows--saying, "I was in Helston a such a day in company with three jentelmen" (mentioned their names); "they all ware black coats.
Looking out through the window, a methodist preacher went up street.
One said, 'There is a methodist prechar.'
Another answerd, 'I wonder how Harry Carter goes aboute so publick apreching and Law[60] against him; I wonder how he is not aprended and taken.'
So I sent for you, as I fear they are brewing of mischief against you."
"Well, sir," said I, "what do you think I am best to do?"
He said, "I know they cannot hurt you no further then if you are taken you may suffer a long time in prison, and it may cost you a good deal of money, etc.
I think you are better, to prevent danger, to return to America again."
This was the tenar of his advice, and added, "If you go there I will give you, as I _think_ he called it, a lett of recomedation from Lord ----, which, I think, may be very usefull to you, or anything else in my powar shall not be wanting."
And as the jent was well acquainted with our family, I dined with him, and he brought me aboute a mile in my way home, so I parted with him, fully determning in my own mind to soon see my dear friends in New York again.
So I told my brothers what the news was, and that I was meaning to take the jent's advice.
They answered, "If you go to America we never shall see you no more.
We are meaning to car on a little trade in Roscoff in the brandy and gin way, and if you will go there you'l be as safe there as in America; likewayse, we shall pay you for your comision, and you car on a little business for your self, if you please."
So that with prayer and supplication I made my request known unto God.
I still continued to walk in the same rigrous self _denial as before_, abstaining _fro_m food, etc.
Well, then, with much fear and trembling I concluded to go.
The greatest tryal I had aboute going, I know there was no religious people there, and sume times in fears I should be lead away into the world again.
I know I was going un slepry ground, but, glory be to God, I know his grace was sufficient for me.
So at the 19 of April, in '91, I saild in an open boat from the King's Cove, in company with a merchant that had business there, so that after fifteen hours' passage arived there very safe, still in the same frame of mind.
I lodged at a publick house, I think, two days, and as the merchant had business to Morlaix, desired me to go with him, where I staid there aboute ten or twelve days, and returned again back to Roscoff.
I keept myself to myself as much as posable.
Well, then, I went to privat lodgings and eate and drunk to myself; and as I had no business to do, I was allmoste all the time to myself day and night, still walking in the same _self deni_al as first.
I _would not_ allow myself but four hours in bed, so continued, as well as I think, for six or seven days, but I found I had not sleep enough, as aboute noon I have fallen asleep upon the book, so I added a little longer time.
I have often times since thought how dead I was then to all below.
There was a house burned under the same roof where I lodged little before, and I had to go in and out right before the same house; and after I was there aboute a furtnight I hard sume people talking aboute the dredfull fire, and what great loste sume had sustained.
I asked, "What fire?"
They said, "Next door."
I made no other answer, for I was really ashamed; what they thought of me I know not.
So after I looked, and saw moste of the walls standin, but without windows and door, and the walls smoked quite black.
Well, then, I did not pray in secret less than I did before, I suppose never less than ten times in a day, and in fore and afternoon walked a little out of town in so solitary place as I could find, out of sight of all men.
In genral I went on the cleavs,[61] wher no eye saw me, and there sing, that I may be heard for I supose a mile distance, and pass, I think, aboute two hours and half fore noon and after noon in reading, praying, singing, and then return home.
Aboute this time I made a linen girdle to go aboute my loins inside my shirt.
_Tied it_ tite--I thought I might be able to live upon _less food_ and my sp_irit_ would be more vigorous in the wayse of good.
I continued on for, as I think, aboute two days, found it quite disagrable, and so left it off.
I passed allmoste all my time to myself; in my going out and coming in I went the byest roads, because I wanted to see no person; and if I meet any person in the way, it was a great cross to me to enter in to any conversation more than just the time of the day, for fear to obstroct my communan with God.
I think then I watched over all my thoughts as well as words and acktens.
[62] I think there did not the least thought pass my mind unperseved; my mind then was like a fisherman's net, I sav'd the good but heaved away the bad.
Well, then, I went on still in this way until I think aboute the beginning of August, when I went on with a little business in the shop way, and aboute the same time Captain B. came there, an old acquaintance of mine, being the first Captain I sailed with, a man of what we calls good morels.
I meet him one Sabbath morning as I was walking out, and after a little conversation I said, "This is a poor place for the publick worship of God; if I was at home now I should be at Trevean preaching."
He answered, "Why don't you stand up here and say something to the people?"
So as I thought he was making game of me, I answered, "Who will hear me?"
He said, "I will hear you, and I suppose most of the English men in town."
So the next Sabbath morning meet with him again on nearly the same ground.
He repeated unto me nearley the same thing again, saying, "All the English in town will gladly hear you," or to that purpose.
So then I thought he was in earnest, and I left him with much fear and trembling, and immediately went to ask counsel from the mouth of the Lord, so that spent the remainder of that fore noon in pray and supplication, and for fear I should run before I was sent, I set this as a mark, that after diner I would go on the pier, and if I meet first a such a man, who was master of one of the vessels that was there, I should perpose the matter unto him, and if agreable, I should shorly think it to be the will of God consarning me.
So aboute one o'clock I roase up from my knees and went on the pier, and the first man I meet with was the very same man, so with much fear and trembling I opened the business unto him of what Captain B. and I was talking of.
He readily replyed, "I'll come, and I will tell all the people of it, I suppose they will all come."
So him and me perposed the time of meeting, I think it was four o'clock.
So he, like a town cryar, beat the alarm, and after I left him, oh, how my poor _head was_ destracted, a s_uch_ p_o_or i_gnorant_ _sou_l as I was to take such a thing upon me; shorley I shall be a by word and reproach with the French, and a mocking and lafing stock to all the English.
And another was, what can I say to the people?
as when I was at home there was mornars to comfart, weak belevers to build up, sanctification to impress upon the people's minds, and now only _sinners_, etc., to talk to.
So that my poor mind was so full of distraction I could harly tell what to do; but as I had gone so far as to perpose it, I could not go from it.
Well, then, according to the time perposed, the same afternoon, in came Captain B. with I suppose about twenty or thirty, I suppose nearly all the Inglish men in the town, took off their hats, and seat themselves down, so that I begun to tremble and sweat, I could scarcely hold the hymn book in both hands.
Gave out a verse, and begun to sing myself, and praise be to God, before I sung the second verse I found life coming, and before I went to prayer the cross was all gone, so that I found very great liberty in prayer; so that when I roase from my knees I was surprised to see so many hard harts to their knees, so that I found much curage to go on in my poor simple way.
I found uncoman degree of liberty, and the people all listoned with the greatest attention, and after I dismised the people with singing and prayer.
So after they were gone, I was still jealous that they would turn what I said into ridicule, and as I had a back window that I could see the greatest part of the pier, watched them, and they all went on board as quiat as Christians of the first magnitude might be expected.
The Lord doth only know if there was any good done or not.
So I continued for eight or nine months every night when there was Englishmen there.
I think it was in the beginning of the month of may '92, when three of my brother's children come to life with me, Fra^{s.}, Henry, and Joanna Carter, and staid with me until the beginning of Sept^{r.}, when I was like a hermit to myself as before.
I think it was in the beginning of Oct^{r.} when three large cuttars, Captain Scott one of them, came in here wind bound from Guarnsey; and as I went into the house on sume buisiness where they put up to, saw one of their sailors that did formely sail with me.
I asked him to come to my house, sayin I could treate him with a glass of grogg, and if them three or four men that was presant would come with him, I should be glad to see them also.
That was in the evning.
I was not home as I think more than fifteen or twenty minits until he came in with four or five with him, and in a few minits after allmoste the house full with their three Captains.
Then I thought what they come for, and as they took me in surprise, as I had not the least thoughts to say anything, I begun to tremble and run upstairs to call for help from the Lord.
I suppose I might have been there eight or ten minits, and as I was coming down I meet one in the stairs, saying, "If you don't come down the people will all be gone."
So with much trembling and sweating I took the Hymn Book and begun to sing to myself, as I did the first time.
I found great liberty in prayer, and after thundred out the tretnings, cryed aloude, spar'd not.
They all behaved very well, seemed to listen with great atention.
So after we concluded the meeting, I asked the Captains and sume of the men to seat down, so they stayed with sume more of their people, I suppose more than an hour, all very seryous, no laffing, no trifling conversation.
They took sume thing to drink, shook hands, and wished good night.
Prayse be to God, I was shorly a wonder to myself in deed.
So the next morning him that had sailed with me before come in laffing, saying one of his shepmates told him that how could that ould man know his thoughts, for he told him allmoste all that ever he did in his life.
I think they sailed the next day, and two of them being in company in a gale of wind, one of them disapeared, and have never been heard of since.
Captain Scott showed me great kindness ever after; he sent a luggar there after to be laid up, with, I think, six or eight men on board, who ordered them to take all what they wanted of me, and likewayse recemended all his friends unto me for what they wanted.
Well, then, aboute the later end of Nov^{r.} I got a passage to come home not only to see my family friends, but my spiritual friends also.
I can still see, glory be to God, I was still hungring and thirsting after him.
I thought before I come home, if I could be permitted to come into preaching housen dors, I should be very happy, but praise be to God, I had rather the right hand of felowship given me, the preaching houses full of people where I was expected, as before.
I staid at home until 24 Dec^{r.}, and as the war seemed to be near at hand between the Franch and Inglish, inbarked at Coverack, on board Captain R. John's.
I had a blessed time in company with my dear freinds there, two or three day wind bound.
Arived at Roscoff, Christmas day in the morning, 1 Jan^{y.}
1793, oh, how short I comes in all things of what I would wish or ought[63] to have been.
There was no talk of war when I arived there, all was quiat as when I left the place.
I found my house, etc., just as I left it.
I was then to myself as before, I went home like a hermat or a king blessing and praising of God.
I continued to walk in the same self-denial.
I sent off moste of my goods to Gurnsey, sold sume there, and keept sume, what the law would alow me to bring home, as I was promised that a vessel should be sent to bring me home.
So I think Feb^{y.}
2[64] there was an embargo lade on all English vessels, and war declard between the boath Kingdoms.
I think it was in the latter end of March when I was sent to Morlaix as a prisnor, not close confined, but to apear every morning to the town house to sine my name.
I was there nine or ten days, when I was ordered back to Roscoff again.
Things at that time looked very gloomey, but glory be to God, I was not the lease afraid of all the lyons in France.
I could trust boath soul and body in the hands of my Redemer, no mormring, no complaining, the language of my heart was continualy, "Good is the will of the Lord, may thy will be done."
I staid in Roscoff nine or ten days, when I was ordered again to Morlaix in company with Mr. and Mrs. _McCullock_ and Mr. _Clansie_.
I think in the beginning of May was sent back again to Roscoff, Mr. M. and Mr. C. in Roscoff the same time, where we was all obliged to go to the town house every day to sine our names.
So continued untel the beginning of August, when we got a passport in order to come home.
In the course of this time, wilst in Morlaix, the same as at Roscoff, went to privat lodgings.
Walking still in the same rigrous selfdenial, etc.
So as there was no other way for us to come home, M. Macculloh bought a small vessel, aboute 40 tons, and boute the seven or eight hauled the vessel out in the Sadie Rock Road, and got all things on board ready for sea, when there was orders from the town house with a corvet's armed boat, ordered us in to the pier again.
And this was Provedence indeed.
Our whole crew consist as follows: Mr. Macculloh was a jentleman marchant, lived in that town many years before, a man of good property, etc.
; Mrs. Macculloh, two sons, one a man, the other aboute twelve years old, one daughter, a young lady aboute eighteen or twenty years old, one sarvant man, two sarvant maidens, Mr. Clansice, and myself, ten in number in all.
And we concluded before, that the old jentlman and me was all the sailors, there was not one of the other eight that in no case could help themselves.
The four females was sent onshore to Mr. M.'s house, all the rest of us keept on board with a gard of soldars for three days and three nights, the wind blowing very hard tho' fair.
This vessel was condemed for sea for sume time before, so that in the cource of three days we had time to overhaul her, and I think I may safely say that there was scores of graving pieces in her not bigger then a man's hand; sume of the timbrs so rotton, that one might pick them off with one's fingers, the sails, masts, etc., in the like state.
We had hard rain sume part of that three days, where we was so wett below nearley as upon deck.
The old jentleman have told me many times since, saying it was Providence prevented us from sailing, had we sailed then we should all be no more.
You may be ready to ask, Why did we expose ourselves to so much dainger?
I answer, "This was the third pasport, and all conterdicted, and glad to git out of the mouths of the lyons, as there was no other way."
So we was all sent on shore to Mr. M.'s house with a gard of soldars to be keept at the dore, and the 15 of August, 1793, all march'd to St. Paul's with a gard of soldars.
I lodged and boarded in the house with Mr. and Mrs. M., where I had a good room and bed to sleep in, and a large garden to walk in.
Now, I am going to inform you of sume of the devices of Satan.
One evning, whilst at suppar, seating by the side of Mr. M., when it was sugested to my mind the same as if _one_ was to speak to my outward ear blasfamys thoughts against my dear friend Mr. M. At first it struck me all of alarm.
Upon reflection I was shore they were not my thoughts, for at that time, and before then, I know I never loved my own father bettar, and after, when the gulenteen[65] begun to work, I have thought many a times, should him be condemned, I would gladely die in his steed.
So after suppar took a walk in the gardon as usual, where I begun to reason, saying, "Shorley if I was saved from inbred sin, I should not feel such ugley thoughts as these and then begin to doubt."
But praise be unto God, he did not leve me to doubt for harley a moment, but sent me down the Comfartar, so that all doubts vanished away in a moment.
So I went to seat in the summar house, and begun to sing, that I suppose that I might be heard all over the town.
I suppose I shall never forgett that evning wilst in time, how my poor _sou_l was delighted in God my Savour.
Still went on in the same rigrous selfdenial, but I could not fast then for fear to be taken notice of with the family.
I staid there until the 12 or 13 September, 1793, when sume officers came, sent by the town house; so after they examined us for money and papars, took us to the Town House, and after they measured our height, and asked us many foolish questions, took us to a prison caled the "Retreat," in the same town.
We arived there a little after night, were all of us showed our apartment to lodge in.
I had a nice little room to myself like a king.
Here was another chainge, but a happy one, the language of my heart was, "Good is the will of the Lord, may Thy will be done."
Nor could I help singing that night alowd when I went into bed.
We all had our pervision sent from the House we lodged before, and after four or five days past, we was joined by sevral French gent.
and lades, and in aboute fourteen or fifteen days there was two armed horsemen sent in the preson to take Mr. and Mrs. M. from us, no person knowing where they were to be sent, but supposed they were to be sent to a small uninhabited island, a little off Brest harbar, and there to be starved to death.
Oh, what tears and cries was there with their little famely and many others.
It was seldom I could shed tears, th_en I_ did plenty, and after dried up my tears and cheard myself up, and then went in to his room, where I found him alone packing up his clothes, etc.
I sat myself down in silance I supose for aboute ten minutes without one word; whether him or me spoak first, I know not, but he said in his usual plesant way to this purpas, "I fear not what man can do unto me.
I can trust in Providence and not be afraid," which set my heart all on fire with love; I could give them both up unto God, shorley beleving I should see them again.
The remainder of the day was a solam day unto me in deed, but a day of mourning through the whole house; after this there did seldam a day pass but what sume Jentmen and Ladis was brought to join us, and in the beginning of Nov. 1793 the lady I boarded with and sume of her famely was brought to us.
I used sett times for reading, praying, walking, and thinking, as I did before when I was at liberty, and keept allmoste all the time to myself, I went to bed aboute ten or half past, and got up as soon as I could see daylight in the morning; and as the weather begun to alter, juste to run in the garden aboute half hour in the fore noon, and the same in the after noon.
At first the people thought I was ither a natural fool or else mad, but my friend Clansie gave them an account of what kind of being I was.
Aboute this time I had word brought me, that all my goods _I left_ in Roscoff was condemed and sold, I suppose they might have been to the amount of £40.
I rejoiced with great joy when I heard of it, saying the Lord's will be done, knowing all things should work twogether for good.
It apears clearley to me since that my will was wholy swallowed up in the will of God; I think I was then shorley so dead to this world as ever I shall be.
Well, then, as the people begin to increase more and more evry day, Mr. Clansice came with me in my little room.
At first it was a great cross to me, but soon after, the oftener I saw him the better, far bettar I likt him, he ackted like a father, a brother, my tuter, my sarvant.
Glory be to God for such dear frends.
He was a young jentelman merchant, a man of great natural abilities, and I suppose brought up in the first scools in Christendom.
I knew his father and him from a child before, but was little acquainted with him before we became prisonars together, and I have thought many times since that there was not in the whole world two such men as Mr. M. and he.
About the 3 or 4 of Dec^{r.} 1793 a gard of soldars came into the prison and took with them my dear friend C., Mr. T. Maccull, with a great number of French gintelemen and ladis, so there was none of my family left, but Miss M. her dear little brother, and the two sarvant maidens.
I think such a scene as that I never saw in all my life.
I suppose there was not one dry face in all the house, _either_ with men or whimin.
There was not one _person_ that know where they were to be sent to, but supposed they were all to be sent upon the same Island with Mr. and Mrs. M., and there to be starved to death.
This was a day of mourning and lamentation indeed.
I do not know that I shed one tear, tho' it was a solamn day with me, still the language of my heart was, "Good is the will of the Lord, may the Lord's will be done."
But the tryal was so great, the same as tearing the flesh from the bones.
Aboute the 6 Dec^{r.} 1793, when a gard of soldars came to the preson, and took away I suppose between thirty and forty prisnors, and me one of them, where to go we knew not; but Provedence enterfered, and worked upon a French jintelman's mind, so that he took Miss Maccu^{h.} and her little brother, with the two maidens, to his own house, so that they had all liberty to walk the town when they pleased.
This was the cause of great joy and gladness unto me.
There was a few horses brought for the old and infarm to ride--two, which one was put in my hands, and ordered to ride it, with a charge to keep it to myself.
We had aboute twelve French miles to go, so we arived to Morlaex just after night, where, to my agreable surprise, found dear C., Mr. T. M., and sume jint^{n.} of Roscow, whome I know before.
We rejoiced greately together, and then they g_ave_ an account of Mr. and Mrs. Maccu^{h.}; they was put _from_ St. Paul's to a town caled Landernau, aboute twenty miles from S^{t.} Paul's, in to a crimnal gaol, where the first night had nothing to lye on but a little short dirty straw, and without one farding[66] of money with them, and not one person in the town that they were acquainted with, but in the morning was visited with sume jint^{n.} and lades, who suplyed them with a bed, and brought them pervisian.
So we rejoiced greately together in telling and hearing.
Here was a blessed chainge again to me, to once more to be with my dear family at home again.
This place we was now in was a jentleman's house, all the family thrust out and put into other prisons, and this house made a prison of.
The house was not large, but it was full of people below and aloft.
I sleept in one room, where there was fourteen beds, and there could not find the least cornar to retire to myself but a little house.
At that time it was very cold, but I did not mind that.
I could not stay there long to a time, distorbed with one or other, as there was sixty or seventy presoners there.
I had not one farding of money, nor nither of our family, but the law or rule was, by the order of the Convention, for the rich to maintain the poor.
So I think I was maintained by the publick for two days, when my friend C. got credit for himself and me, from a tavarn close by.
What a great chainge this was again, all the day long in nothing but a discord and noise.
What a mercy it was I was not d_raw_ed away by the multitude to do evil.
I can see now at this moment how I improved my time, how prechas every moment was, I had allwayse my book in my pocket ready to hand if I could find any place to seat, and sume times, when I could find no place to seat, stand to read.
All the people very civil to me, and in the beginning many of them introduced their conversation; but I did not find it profatable, it sarved to block the mind from prayer.
Tho' I could understand and speak French on moste common subjects, I soon gave them to think I know little or nothing, so by that means I saved myself from a great deal of empty chatchat, so by that means pass allmoste whole days, sume times without speaking very little.
I have often heard sume of the French gentlemen speaking very high thing in my favour one to another, not knowing I could understand them, and I think it had allwayse this efect to humble me as in to the dust before God and before man.
I was still watching over all my thoughts with all my words and actions.
I do realy now beleve that there did not one thought pass through my mind unperseved in all my waking moments, still living as under the immediate eye of God, walking in the broad light of his countanance from moment to moment.
I had left of drinking of water from the year of '89 in America, but there was a well close by the backdoor.
I had _a_ tumblar glass where I went sume times, and _filled a_ glass with water, and look at it again and again.
Oh, how my heart would burn with love and thankfulness to God.
Aboute a week after I was there, I had a book given me by a French gent that spoak English, caled "The Sinner's Guide," pen'd by a Spanyard, but translated in English.
The name of the gen^{t.} that gave it me was Mr. Lereu, which proved a great blessing to me indeed.
25 Dec^{r.}, or Christmas day, 1793, Mr. T. M. and Mr. S. was taken from us, and put to a town caled Carhay,[67] aboute thirty miles from Morlaix, and there they joined Mr. and Mrs. Maccu^{h.}; all the rest of us was moved to another Jen^{t.} house, a few dors off, where we had more room, etc., Mr. C. and me still left together.
The first thing I allwayse lookt for first was a place to go in secret, and my friend C. would allwayse look out for a place for himself and me to sleep in.
I found a nice _little_ place in the garat, with sume old mats and other things I so inclosed, that it would just hold me to my knees, with my feet out of sight, where I might stay so long as I pleased, and no person distorb me.
This was a blessed chainge again.
I sleept in a room with ten or twelve gent^{m.}, went to bed at ten o'clock, got up in the morning at five, _spent an_ hour to myself, and at six went down stairs, _and sat by_ the fire with the old men that garded _the house_.
To read, etc., until about half past seven or eight, when I should retire to my little garat until nine, when I should come down, make my bed, and run or walk in a large room until ten, and then retire again to my garat until one o'clock, when I was caled to dinnar.
After dinnar, aboute two, I retired to my garat and stay there until half past three, come down and run in the room until four, then retire, and stay there until aboute seven or eight, stay down aboute half hour, and then pass in the garat until ten, bed time.
There was a small window in the garat aboute a foot square, without glass, but a leef to shut and open, so that in the daytime could see to read by it, but at night I seat without any light, the days nearley the same length as they are in England.
At that time I begun to, what I call, to examen myself, which time was from half past six until aboute nearley eight in the evning--about the same time that the many thousands of methodists offered up their evning sacrifise in England--and begin first to see the many wonderfull delivrances the Lord had wrought for me--how I have been presarved so many times from drowning and other dangars, then how I was convinced of sin, how I cal'd for mercy, what tryals and temptations when I was seeking the Lord, how and when I receved the Comfarter, what tryals, temptations, when I was in a justified state, what [...], what fears, what joys and delights in all plases I have [...] since I know the goodness of God; how many times I prayed in secret in evry place, what self denial I walked in, and to conclude, sume up the whole, saying, Lord, how is it with me now; am I growing in grace or loosing of ground?
This garat was very cold indeed to the body, so that my hands was swollen very large with chilblins, sitting so many hours in the cold without fire.
Jan^{y.}
1794, aboute the beginning of the year, Mr. C. got me to sleep with him in his little room and one French jen^{t.} This was again a comfartable chainge; there we was together again, like to great k_ings_.
Aboute the latar end of this month, I was desired by C. to speak to aboute twenty whemen caled nuns, being presnars in the same house.
I went with fear and trembling.
They received me in a very _pleasant_ manner, drew a chear,[68] asked me to seat down.
_One of them, an_ old Lady, the mother Confessor, asked _me, was_ I ever baptised.
I answerd, "Yes."
"In what manner?"
I answerd, "I was marked with the sign of the Cross in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Gost."
I saw sume thing very plasant upon all their countnance, as it was the same way they themselvs was baptised.
They asked me a number of many fullish questions, that I was obliged to mustar all the little French I could rise, as I could understand and speak any thing aboute the coman things of this life far better than the spiritual things, having no person to converce with aboute spiritual things.
However, they keept me with them I suppose aboute half hour, still asking me questions, but at laste asked me to kiss the Cross.
I refused.
They tried me again and again.
I told them I could not, I dare not do it.
So at laste took my leave of them, and so came off rejoicing like a king.
They are a loving people, and the nicest whemen I ever saw in France.
I doubt not but many of them lives according to the light that is given them.
They petted me very much, and told my friend afterward that if he could prevail upon me to turn to their Religion, I should be a good man.
They thought I was earnestly crying for mercy, but was an entire strainger to the way of mercy.
They allwayse looked upon me afterward with the love of pity, _and some_ of them was fond to converse with me, [...] found it profitable, they after caled [...] the soletude, I spent so much time to myself.
I think it was the 11 or 12 of Feb^{y.}
'94, I seat apart to prayer and fasting on a particular occasion for thirty hours without eating or drinking.
At the 19 and 20 of the same month, I seat apart in prayer and fasting to ask of the Lord sevral favours for self and friends, with thanks for past mercys, forty-eight hours without eating or drinkin.
Oh, what a blessed time I had.
The 19 and 20 of April, 1794, I seat apart in prayer and fasting for forty-eight hours without eating or drinking.
I trust I shall ever remember these times wilst I am in time.
Oh, how my poor soul was delighted in God my Saviour.
To the end of this time I went to run in the room as usual, willing to know whether I was weaker or not, so that I found I could run strong as ever I could; and it was shorley to me _a great_ wonder, as I took no breakfast for aboute six months _before_ then, and I took suppar sume times two, and sume times _three times_ a week, and my suppar I supose did not exceed two ounces of bread, without tea, water, or anything to drink, and my dinnar very little.
I was still suplied with dinnar from the tavern.
Mr. C., and aboute six or eight French gen^{t.}, dined together.
I could not keep all this a secret from my friend, so he took me to reason sevral times, saying, "You'l destroy the body," and would intice me like a child to eate, and allways took the pains to call me to dinnar.
So _I thought_ it was reason what he said, and I thought I was _going to_ too great extremes, so I thought for the time to _come I would_ go without breakfast and suppar as usual, _and fast_ for thirty hours once month, for the time to come.
I did not know then at that time I was thankfull or humble, but even now, I know I was as less then nothing in the sight of God and all men.
I know I was unworthy of the floor I walked on, and vilest of the vile in my own eyes.
I never saw my short comings more clearer than I did in them days.
Oh, how often I was crying out against my dryness and lasiness of soul, my littleness of love, etc.
Sume times, when I heard the clock strike, I uste to rejoice, saying, "Lord, one hour nearer to Eternety," the same time mourn before God I did not spend it more to his glory.
I think every moment of time was far more preshas then fine gold.
Aboute this time there was numbers of gen^{t.} and lades _taken_ away to Brest that I parsnally know, and their _heads_ chopt off with the gulenteen[69] with a very little notice.
I don't know I ever had a doubt of my own life, but I have had many of Mr. M., and thought many times, should he be condemed to die, I would gladly die in his steed if Providence would have it.
I knew he had much enimies, and why, because he was a libral man and a man of powar, and did do much good, and them he did do most good to was his greatest enimyes, and it was _such men_ as him in genral sufferd moste.
Ag_ain_ [...] if he was spared, he was worth his _place in_ creation, be helpful to others as well as his own famely.
As for me, I thought I should never be found wanting with any person in the world.
I know my child at home would be taken care of, so it was a mattar of very little defrance to me where the body was left, knowing I had a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heavens.
I staid there until the 15 June, 1794, when the house was cleared of all the presnors, and then put to a convent a little out of Town, that was made a prison, caled the Calemaleets,[70] where there was aboute 270 men and whimen, the house very full of people.
We arived there aboute nine in the morning, and as Mr. C. and me was shifting aboute the house seeing for a place, standing in the _room_ talking together, he was taken with a fit and fell _as_ dead in my arms.
Soon others came to my assistance, _and took_ him out in the yard as dead.
It was very seldem _that I_ shed tears, but then I did plentefully, as I was in m_ind_ he was no more; but the language of my heart was _still_ [...] _may_ thy will be done, come life or death, take life _and all_ away, good is the will of the Lord.
But praised _be the Lord for_ ever, in the course of an hour he revived, and _was put to_ bed, so that in the course of sume time after _he recovered_.
In the garden I seat myself under a tree and _thought of H_agar's words, "Thou, God, seest me."
I had a sweet time there until _I was disturbed_ by two young _men_ that came to seat by _me_ [...] with a great m_errime_nt and ladies, and _soon after_ the Lord provided a place for me under the stairs.
It was a large stone stairs going down to a under-ground seller.
In the daytime I could see a small glimring light, but never so light as to see to read.
This was a blessed place again, indeed, where I was out of sight and hearing of all men.
Mr. C. got part of a room in the garat, with a young jen^{t.}, whose name was Morrow.
The first night I made my bed in the passage close by his door.
Friend C. could not bear to see me there.
The next morning him, with sume young jen^{t.}, got carpentar's tools and timber, turned to and divided the room in two, so took me in with him again, and there we was again together like two great kings.
We could no longer have our food from the tavarn, the distance being too far [...] The good lady that I lodged and boarded with in St. _Paul's_ was brought to the same preson, and a young _gentleman_ with her, her brother son, to which she _had_ d^{r.} C. and me with her to eate.
She had her per_vision_ sent from her own house.
Blessed be God [...] for such dear Friends.
In the course of two _or three_ days I found my strength much failed me.
_I had_ more room to walk in than I had before, _and_ long _stairs_ to go up and down over.
Mr. C. _discovered_ it, and took me again to reason, saying, "_You are_ of the earth, and the body must be _helped with things_ of the earth; if you continue so, you'll _hurt yourself_, and if you do not _feel_ any ill efects _now_ [...] _you_ shorley will if _you_ lives untel you are old."
I thought it was quite reason that he preached to me.
I thought I was going too far with it, and that Satan had some hand in it; so after he watched me like a child, and if I was not presant at the time of meals, he would come and fetch me, and I must go with him, he would not be denied.
Praise be to God that I ever saw his face, he was allwayse more mindfull of me than he was of himself; so I continued to take breakfast for eight or nine days and then left it off again, and I unely staid without suppar twice a week.
This place was again a blessed chainge indeed.
We had a large garden to walk in, from six in the morning untel seven in the evning, I suppose not less than three acres of ground, with fine gravel walks in it and sume apple trees, etc., so I was like a bird left out of a cage.
I suppose I had not sung aloud to be heard with[71] man for many months before.
I _was_ allways surounded with[71] man, but then I _used to go_ out with my book in my pocket, seat mys_elf under_ a tree, and if I could not see any person, sing _so loud_, I suppose I might be heard for a mile off.
Oh, _how my_ soul would be delighted in the God of my sa_lvation_.
I remember one day, as I was seating under _a tree_, three or four ladies came to me, and asked me _to sing.
I begged_ to be excused.
They asked me again and again, so _as I was afraid_ to give an ofence I sung two or three versis [...] _with_ a loud voice.
They thanked me in a very p_leasant manner_, and went away quite pleased.
I think I spent my time _to myself much_ the same as I did in Roscoff, before _I was taken_ as a presonar.
_I was_ allwayse mindfull of my little cornar under the stears.
I went to bed at ten o'clock, and got up in the morning at four.
All the people still full of friendship to me; but I keept myself still to myself as much as posable, without giving an ofence.
There was there amongst the whole number aboute sixty nuns, one of whom I conversed with more then all the rest; seldom miss a day, if she saw me, but what she would have sume thing to say unto me.
But I had not French enough to enter into any depth of Religion, but I never heard one sound of persuasion from her to turn to her Religion.
Once I remembered she asked me, saying, "Carter, did not you feel your self very sorry when you was first convinced of sin?"
or sume thing to the same purpas.
I was struck with wondar where she got that from.
I think I may safely say she was a burning and a shining light.
She had small suplys often from _her_ [...] _fat_her's house, and well she had it often as it was _possible.
It was al_wayse in her powar to govern her own mind.
_Every day_ she would give allmoste all she had to the poor, _or to any_ person she thought that wanted; lived allmoste _entirely on_ bread and water herself.
She have often told friend _C._, "Do not leave Carter want any thing, but speak _to me_."
I have often thought that she would allmoste _tear ou_t her eyes to do me good, and I have often thought _that she ha_d not the least doubt but what I was built _for a Catholi_ck.
I have thought then, the same as I think _now, that if I_ am faithfull untel death, and she cont_inued in the sa_me way, that she and me, with many _more that_ I saw there, shall meet at God's right hand, where we shall sing louder and sweeter that ever I sung in that gardon.
May the Lord grant it.
She was so nice, butifull a young lady as I think the sun could shine on; I suppose aboute 26 or 27 years old.
Her father was a nobleman of a large income, her mother, a sistar to the great, rich Bishop of St. Paul's, and him, as I have heard, for all his incom, could scarsely keep a goode sute of clothes aboute him--it was busy all[72] for the poor.
I think she was the pictar of humility in all her deportment.
I could not help to admire her, as I was in the same house, or housas, for, as I think, nearly six months.
Well, then, I continued to go on in the same manner as did before, minding the same things, and using the same language as I did in every chainge or place; this is the right place that God _would_ have me be in, without one mormoring _thought_, or the leaste desire to be anywhere else, _good_ is the will of the Lord, happy still from _moment_ to moment.
It was aboute the later end [...] it was imprest upon my mind to make [...], as there was sume country men there tha_t was doing_ it, and after, with prayer and suplication, _I made my_ request known unto God, I begun to wo_rk.
I went_ to bed still at ten, roase at three in the m_orning, at_ four went to work until nine, pass a h_our in prayer under_ the stairs, work until half past eleven, _and then dinner_; after dinner pass a half hour u_nder the stairs_, and work untel four, pass a half h_our again in prayer_, work until half past six; at seven _we had supper_.
The remainder of the evning spend in praying, walking, reading, thinking, &c. So as the days shortend I could read but very little, nither walk in the garden, but only on the Lord's day.
But praise be unto God, he was ever with me in a powarfull manner, sume times when the walks was allmoste full of jent and lades, pass through them all, as if allmoste there was no soul there but God and me only.
That gardon was as the gardon of Edon to my soul.
Then, in the morning, I spent nearely one hour to my self, and gitt at work as soon as I could see, minding [...] the same stops under the stairs, and work as _long as_ I could see in the evning.
So as the weather _got_ coulder, I got myself to work in a large _Room_, I suppose not less than 50 feet one way, and _I supos_e aboute 30 the other; it was not finished, _neither p_lastard nor floored; what was under foot was _the ground_, the top of the window just to the level of _the roof_; and after suppar, evry evning, I passed my _time there_ until bed time.
I had a stool to seat un at _meals_, and in the evnings seat on my stool, then _to_ pray, &c.; sume times, without[73] it was _moonlight, stu_mble up again[74] the walls, as I had _no light; but_ praise be to God for ever, for all it was so cold, a solatry place, it was a paradice to my soul, it was sume thing like a hermitage indeed.
I was out of sight and hearing of all men and things.
So just aboute that the clock struck ten, my dear friend C. and me used to meet just at the same time in our little, dark cornar of our lodging room as cheerfull as two kings.
I think it was in the medle of Dec^{r.} 1794, the good ladey and her brother's son was removed from us and put to St. Paul's, into the prison that I was first put in.
It was a day of mourning and lamentation with her, indeed, to leave her two children behind her, and it was a time of tryal to me likewayse, as she was nearly so natural as a mother.
But still the language of my heart was as usual--good is the will of the Lord.
She t_ook_ care to send us our provisan from her _own_ house, so still dear C. and me was together li_ke_ [...].
Aboute this time I had an account that Mr. and Mrs. _Maccullock_ was labrated out of preson,[75] and they and all their _family were_ then at Mr. Diott's, in Morlaix.
It was a day of rejoicing _to_ me, indeed, to think that the Lord was so graicous _to bring_ us so near together again.
And in the course _of a few_ weeks they had liberty to come to see dear C. and _me in prison.
We_ shorley had a happy meeting together, as w_e had not seen_ each other for aboute fifteen months, they receved _me as their_ own child, and I them as my father and mother.
_Praise God_ for so many dear friends.
Aboute the 10 _Jan_^{y.}
1795, Mr. Diott _sent for_ me to come to dine with him.
I went with much fear and trembling, as it was ever a great cross to me to be with my great superiers, and so in every place I moved at a solam awe of the presance of God resting upon me with a fear to ofend him.
There I meet with Mr. and Mrs. M., with all their loving famely, and through the tender mercy of God, after all our tryals and sufferings, being separated to nearley sixteen months from each other, escaped, through mercy, all the lyons in France, not one hair of our heads diminished.
We staid there until evning, when Mr. Diot said, "I will in the course of a few days gitt you out of preson and you shall boath come to live at my house."
We thanked him, wished good night, and arived at home with our gard aboute seven.
So the 23 Jany.
1795, in the morning, we was boath librated.
I went to Mr. Diot's, Mr. C. went with Mr. Morrow in the same town.
Still pervision at that time _ver_y scarce to be had, the inhabitants of the town had all their _provisions_ sarved out every day according to their famely.
_Without_ we had money we should not be able to gett board _on any_ account.
I was received _into t_hat famely as a king, treated as if I had been a noble_man, and_ being the laste strainger was placed at the head of _the table_, where I begged to be excused again and again, but _could not_ prevail.
But to the end of six or seven days I shifted _to the other_ end, where I thought I was more in my place.
_I thought_ it then, as I have many times since, a piece of _bread be_hind the kitchen door was more suitable for me.
_Praise be_ to God, here was a chainge again indeed.
_From_ a stable to a parlar, and from a parlar to a [...].
_I eat_ mostimes my three meals, _the_n for fear to be not_iced, I always eat_ sparingly.
I think I can say I allwayse _rose up with a_ sharper apetite then I had when I sat down.
I lodged in a large house to myself next dore to Mr. Diot's, where I had no person to desturb me day nor night.
This was a blessed chainge again, it was just the place I would wish to be in.
I was there aboute two or three weeks, when I saw sume things wanting to be done aboute two vessels that was laid up before my door, belonging to Mr. Diot.
I spoak of it to Mr. Peter Diot, and went to work, and when the season sarved, I washed the decks morning and evening; and as I had a chest of carpentar's tools in the same room with me, made boats' oars, ruddars, painted names in the starn of the small boats, etc.
; that I was mostly imployed all the week.
But my wark not hard, as I was my own master, and I did it all volentary.
And on the Sabbath day I went out of town evry morning and afternoon when the weather was _fair_ in sume solatry place to read, pray, sing, and _think_, as I did in other places.
I think it was aboute _the_ midle of March 1795, Mr. M. was taken sick with _fever_ and agas, and in the beginning of May 1795 went _away_ with all his famely, leaving only the two ma_idens and_ me behind him.
It was the 10 or 12 of Ju_ne that_ I went to S^{t.} Paul's and Roscoff to see my old f_riends, where_ I was received like a king, and with[76] sum_e people_ I never had but very little acquaintance _with.
I had_ my time to my self as usual, only at [...] meals.
I found the same solatry place _as before_, where I was brought to examine _myself_ whether I was growing in grace or _not_ [...] so I had a bl_essed_ t_ime_.
I returned back again to Morlaix aboute the 26 or 27 June, 1795, like a jiant refreshed with new wine.
There I was received again with that loving family with the greatest afection.
Praise be unto God for so many dear friends.
It was nearley aboute this time I went with aboute a half a score men to put a boat of Mr. Diot's in a large building that was before a tobacko manefactry in the shade, and after I had got the boat to the place I wanted, I went from the people to gett a cornar to myself to pray, and looking aboute I saw a large scales and weights close by me.
I thought as no person saw me I would way myself, and all the weight my weight was 6 score and 15 pound.
[77] I was set to _won_der where all my weight was gone, as I did for _many_ years before way 10 score, and when I came _home_ I tried un a waistcoat that I had not worn for _several_ years before, and I found it too big for me, _may_ be upon the round nine inches, and I never know in all these years no not _one single day_ of sickness.
I think it was the 10 July, 1795, Capt^{n.} [...] _the_ Capt^{n.} of a frigat that was taken, and Mr. Moress [...] _of_ the "Elazander" man-of-mar, came _to Morlaix in_ order to gett a passage to England in a _vessel_, who dined and supped at Mr. Diot's.
_They_ made very free with me all _the same as if I_ was their equal, and one day, by a friend, desired me to call at their lodging, they wanted to speak with me.
I went with fear and trembling, and the business was as follows.
They said, "Mr. C., we have been talking about you, as you have been here so long a prisnor, wearing your old clothes out, your time passing away, earning nothing.
We think you may go with us in safety.
Put your clothes on board the evning before we sail, gett on board in the night, you'l never be inquired after, nither found wanting."
I answerd to this purpas: "Jen^{t.}, I thank you kindly, but first you'l give me leave to inform you I was brought out of prison upon Mr. Diot's interest, tho' he never sined any paper, nither gave his word that I should continue in the country.
Notwithstanding that, in these critical times, if I was to go without his leave, he might be caled to an account for it after ward.
If you will be so good as to ask Mr. Diot, and with his leave, I will gladly go with you."
They commended me very much, and said _the_ first opertunity they would ask him, and I should know of them again.
In the course of two or three days _I_ waited on them again.
Mr. Morress said to me, "_Well_, Mr. C., we have opend your case to Mr. Diot.
Mrs. [...], him long with you; he is a great fool to sto_p here_ so long as he have, I wounder how he have _not gone_ long before now.
But Mr. D. said you was _best to_ stay a little longer," and added, "Mr. C., proveden_ce has_ presarved and provided for you in a mer_ciful manner_, so I would advise you to wait with p_atience, and you_ will be deliverd in God's due time."
I th_anked them and_ took my l_eave of_ them, wondring w_here that_ should come from, for it was the _words of a spir_itual man.
I went in one of my solatry cornars and there sung, and blessed and praised God.
I can almoste feel at this moment how happy and thankfull I was, so well and contented equaly to stay as to go; and if it was the will of God, I should stay there all my lifetime, still, good is the will of the Lord, may His will be done.
So I continued to my work aboute the boats and vessels as before, walking in the same self-denial, until the 6 or 7 of Augst, 1795, when, unexpected, on Saturday received a letter from Mr. M----h to meet him at St. Paul's next monday, that he had obtained a pasport for himself, famely, and me to go to England, and Mr. Clansee was then at Brest, who had then got a nutral ship to take us home.
Well, then, _this_ was a great as well as unexpected news, and many _times_ before then thought that I should be very glad and thank_ful_ if I ever lived to see such chainge.
But it answered the same efect as every other change I passed through, a fear I should meet with anything that should obstruct my communan with the Lord, and this is my mening when you read of any case before, when I said I went in fear and trembling.
So that on Munday morn_ing I set out_ for S^{t.} Paul's _in_ C^{o.}
with Mrs. Diot and her two little _children and t_wo sarvants riding in a coach, and me on horseback, where we arrived at S^{t.} Paul's at ten in the morning, and there joind Mr. and Mrs. M. and their loving famely.
Staid there untel Tuesday morning with my dear old friend and Mother, Madam Esel le Pleary, and set out for Landernau in C^{o.}
with the two maidens.
We arrived at Landernau aboute three in the after noon.
Wensday morning breakfast with my two old friends, Mr. and Mad^{m.} Elel Renard, and old jen^{t.} and young lady, who was his daughter.
We was many months prisonars togither, but then all librated, and they in their own house.
Same morning took a boat, and at four in the afternoon arrived on board the ship _in_ Brest harbar, where we met all the fam_ily_ together, the same ten of us that was stop_ped to_gether through a merical of mercy in d_eed, and_ not one hair of our heads diminished.
_Praise be_ to God, here was another chainge.
This ship was form_erly an Engl_ish frigate, then under Danish coulars, _and_ the Capt^{n.} an English man.
The _first night_ I sleept on the cabin flooar covered _with a_ great coat, then got a hammack [...] amongst the sailors.
And when more _people came_ on board, I went between decks, being [...] more quiat.
I supose the whole numbar of pasengars was aboute fifty offesars in the army and navy, where I never was in such hurry and noise yet, in all the course of my life, nither to sea nor land.
I was allwayse imploid in reading, in cooking, tending my famely to the table, etc.
And there was a black boy, the sarvant to one of the officers, very ill moste of the time, and no person to do the leaste thing for him but myself onely.
I had a quiat place between decks to lodge in and pray, so that no person desturbed me.
I used the same self-denial as before.
I have been often led to wonder many times since of the goodness of God, for all they _were_ such wild, distracted, disapated souls, I never _had the_ least tryal from one of them, nither one _of the_ ship's company during the whole time.
I could _always_ bring any dish of meat from the cook to the _cabin to_ my famely, and no person set the least hand _on me; or_ if one of the others did, they was ready allmoste _to kill_ one the other; and the Captain would trust me _with the_ tea and shugar canestar, but not one person _else_ on board.
I have thought many times _since abou_te it, more than at that time through [...] d favour with God and man.
_We lay in Brest_ Roade nine days _wind_ bound, and then _got a fair_ wind to the Nor_thwa_rd and westward [...] etc., arived at Falmouth 22 August, 1795.
Arived onshore aboute three o'clock in the afternoon with much fear and trembling, where I meet with my dear little Bettsy, there staying with her aunt, Mrs. Smythe, then between 8 and 9 years old.
In the evning went to prayer meeting in the great Chaple.
I said sumething to the people, but found but little liberty.
I thought the cause might have been after aboute three weeks exposed to so much noise and company, and for want of composure of mind, and likewayse so long a time out of the habit of exercising in that way.
I have thought many times since, if I was ever dead to the world and to myself, I was then in them days.
It matterd but little where my lott was cast, whether in prosperity or adversity, whether sickness or health, take life or all my friends away, I could trust boath soul and body, with every thing _that_ I had, in to the hands of my great Creator with_out the_ leaste resarve.
I have thought many times since _in them_ days, tho' I did not know it then, that I had no will, or rather, of my own, but my will w_as_ loste in the will of God.
It is now brought _into my_ remembrance as the ship lyed to of _Falmouth_ harbar, there was not boats enuf to c_arry all the_ pasangers and bagage at once, and I _waited to_ the laste with two more, staid untel _another_ boat should come, the wind blowing _fresh from_ the westward.
The Captain grew v_ery impatient, looking_ out for a boat, and at laste said, "_I shall not wait_ only a few minuts longer, and ta_ke you with me_."
One of these p_as_a_ngers was ma_king _such a_ noise, allmoste ready to jump overboard, for fear to be card up Channel.
I said to him, "Have a little patience, we shall have a boat in a little time now."
He turned unto me in a very sulky manner, and said, "Who is like you, you are allwayse at home, you don't care where you are car'd."
I smiled, said nothing, but rejoiced within, and said to myself, "You are saying the truth."
And I thought if it was the will of the Lord that I should be car'd to Copenhagen, that good is the will of the Lord.
So in the course of a few minits after saw a boate coming, and so all was well again.
I have thought since them days, I mean, since the day that my soul was sanctified, that there did harley one thought pass through me unperseeved in all my waking moments when I was in company talking aboute the things of the world, or the things of God, when in private by myself, or acting of business, my _spirit_, as it were, was in a continual blaze of inward prayer.
Well, then, I staid that night at Falmouth, the next morning went to Penryn with my dear little Bettsey in my hand, to see Mr. M----h and his loving family, who was then at Mrs. Scot.
The next morning, on Sunday, took a horse and arived at Breage Church town[78] aboute eleven o'clock, where I meet my dear brother Frank, then in his way to Church.
As I first took him in surprise, at first I could harley make him sensable I was his brother, being nearley two years without hearing whether I was dead or alife.
But when he come to himself as it were, we rejoiced together with exceeding great joy indeed.
We went to his house in Rinsey, and after dinner went to see brother John.
[79] We sent him word before I was coming.
But he could harley believe it, with the voice of, "How can these things be?"
But f_irst_ looking out with his glass saw me yet a long way off.
Ran to meet me, fell upon my neck, and said in language like this, "This is my brother that was dead, but is alive again; he was loste, but is found."
We passed the afternoon with him, and in the evning went to Keneggy to see brother Charles, wh_ere we_ meet with many tears of joy, _and afterwards_ returned again to Rinsey in _the evening_, where we had all our conversation _about_ Hevenly things, _which_ was a treat indeed, _after being_ so long _silent_ on the subject.
WILLIAM BYLES AND SONS, PRINTERS, 129 FLEET STREET, LONDON, AND BRADFORD.
FOOTNOTES: [1] It is said that this name is derived from the fact that John Carter, a brother of Harry Carter, and the most famous of the smugglers, lived there.
He was nicknamed the "King of Prussia," and the house in which he lived is still known as the "King of Prussia's House."
The origin of this nickname is explained by a story that when they were all boys together, they used to play at soldiers, and John would always claim to be the King of Prussia.
Clearly an echo of the fame of Frederick the Great had reached these boys about the time of the Seven Years' War.
[2] 17 Geo.
III.
c. 7.
[3] See Lecky.
_History of Eighteenth Century_, vol.
iv.
ch.
xiv.
[4] Carlyle.
_French Revolution_, bk.
iii.
ch.
iv.
[5] Spelt "yest" in the manuscript throughout.
[6] "Called."
The spelling is the dialect pronunciation.
[7] A small village about half a mile from Prussia Cove.
[8] Spelt "fever" in the manuscript.
The Cornish people do not distinguish "v" and "w." [9] "Bal" is a mine, tin or copper.
[10] This name is now lost.
[11] ?
Folkestone, see p. 80.
[12] The sizes of all his vessels are given in old measurement.
Before 1835 ships were measured by the following elaborate rule.
Subtract three-fifths of the greatest breadth from the length of the keel, multiply this by the breadth, and the result by half of the breadth; divide the result so obtained by 94, and the answer is the size of the ship in tons (see 13 Geo.
III.
c. 26, § 74).
They are now measured by the cubical contents.
It is difficult to render these figures in modern measurement, but this sloop was probably about the size which would be now called 10 tons.
[13] About 18 tons in modern measurement.
[14] About 30 tons in modern measurement.
[15] Spelt "oughten" in the manuscript.
Daughter is still pronounced "dafter" in West Cornwall.
[16] Conscience.
[17] "Felt," dialect pronunciation.
[18] "Carried," dialect pronunciation.
[19] About 60 tons in modern measurement.
[20] The treaty between France and the Americans was made on February 6, 1778.
[21] "Kept," dialect pronunciation.
[22] The "King of Prussia."
[23] Cf.
note 12.
[24] About 50 tons in modern measurement.
[25] Newlyn, near Penzance.
[26] The collector of the Customs, presumably at Penzance.
[27] Spelt "feve" in the manuscript.
Cf.
note 8.
[28] About 45 tons in modern measurement.
[29] ?
Cawsand near Plymouth.
[30] Burtons, a small tackle of two pulleys to be fastened anywhere at pleasure (Phillips' _Dictionary_, 1706).
Now obsolete.
[31] Near Cuddan Point.
It was built about 1775 by Mr. John Stackhouse, of Pendarves.
[32] It is said that the doctor who attended him at this time was always met on the road about a mile away by two men, who blindfolded him; and in this way he was brought to the Castle, and so led back to the road again.
A precaution to prevent him from giving information as to Harry Carter's hiding place.
[33] Spelt "oughten" in the manuscript.
See note 15.
[34] Glazier.
[35] Thomas Coke, LL.D.
; he was ordained Bishop or Superintendent of the American Methodist Societies by John Wesley in 1784.
[36] This expression, which occurs several times in the following pages, is common in West Cornwall in the sense of "although."
[37] This is one of Dr. Watts' hymns.
It was not included by John Wesley in the Hymn-book which he published in 1790.
[38] Francis Asbury.
He was sent to America by John Wesley in 1771, and was elected Joint Superintendent with Dr. Coke at the Conference held at Baltimore in 1784.
He was the only English preacher who remained in America during the War of Independence.
[39] This is one of the "Olney" hymns by Cowper and Newton.
[40] Spelt "worps" in the manuscript, which is dialect pronunciation.
Cf.
"sharps" for "shafts" (of a cart), and "vycicle" for "bycicle," which are both common.
[41] Spelt "feve" in the manuscript.
Cf.
note 8.
[42] Spelt "youmping" in the manuscript.
Cf.
"yest" for "just," note 5.
[43] ?
"Bustle."
[44] Ordinances.
[45] "Carry"; dialect.
[46] 'Bedstead.'
'Stead' would be pronounced 'steed' in West Cornish dialect.
[47] "Further"; dialect.
[48] Spelt "laght" in the manuscript.
Cf.
note 8.
[49] The ordinary word for "a valley" in West Cornwall.
[50] A well; dialect pronunciation.
[51] Old measurement.
[52] _I.e._, in their reckoning as to the position of the vessel.
[53] ?
Folkestone (see p. 4).
[54] On the Fal.
[55] Near Prussia Cove.
[56] Intending; dialect.
[57] A small village about a mile from Prussia Cove.
[58] Lazarus.
[59] Spelt 'oughten' in the manuscript.
See note 15.
[60] Referring to the Government reward for his capture.
[61] Cliffs; dialect.
[62] Actions.
[63] Spelt "oft" in the manuscript.
See note 15.
[64] War was declared on the 1st February, 1793.
[65] Guillotine.
[66] Farthing; dialect.
[67] Carhaix.
[68] "Chair"; dialect.
[69] Guillotine.
[70] ?
Carmelites.
[71] Meaning "by"; dialect.
[72] A common expression in West Cornwall.
It is a forcible way of saying that his means were fully occupied.
[73] Meaning "unless"; dialect.
[74] Meaning "against"; dialect.
[75] Robespierre was executed on 28th July, 1794.
Soon after his death the Convention decreed that "Prisoners and other persons under accusation should have a right to demand some 'Writ of accusation' and see clearly what they were accused of."
--Carlyle: _French Revolution_, Book vii.
ch.
i.
This decree was followed by the release of great numbers of "Suspect" and other prisoners.
[76] Meaning "by"; dialect.
[77] The Cornish people always measure weight in scores (20 lbs).
The stone (14 lbs) is unknown.
[78] In West Cornwall every collection of houses is called a town.
The village in which the parish church stands is called "Church town."
[79] He lived at Prussia Cove.
Transcriber's notes: The following is a list of changes made to the original.
The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.
"from this it is evident," says Dr, "from this it is evident," says Dr. 19, 1829, The last thirty years of his life 19, 1829.
The last thirty years of his life may prizes, manned and commanded chiefly many prizes, manned and commanded chiefly same part of the the town, went in company same part of the town, went in company so happy in all my life as I was at that _time_, so happy in all my life as I was at that _time_.
in God my Saviour, To the end of this in God my Saviour.
To the end of this must go with him, he would not be denied, must go with him, he would not be denied.
CHRISTMAS STORIES.
CONTAINING JOHN WILDGOOSE THE POACHER, THE SMUGGLER, AND GOOD-NATURE, OR PARISH MATTERS.
OXFORD, _PRINTED BY W. BAXTER_, FOR J. PARKER; AND F. C. AND J. RIVINGTON, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH YARD, AND WATERLOO PLACE, LONDON.
1823.
THE HISTORY OF JOHN WILDGOOSE.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The Author of the following Tale has, for some time, wished to put together a little Tract on the evil and danger of _poaching_; an offence which so often leads on to the most immoral habits, and the most heinous crimes.
It seemed that his object might be answered by the aid of narrative and dialogue, more effectually than by a regular and continued discourse.
If it should be thought, in any degree, worthy of standing on the same shelf with "Trimmer's Instructive Tales," and the "Cheap Repository Tracts," the ambition of the Author will be gratified.
_Jan._ 27, 1821.
[Illustration] THE HISTORY OF JOHN WILDGOOSE.
Thomas Wildgoose was an honest and hard-working man, in one of the midland counties.
He had long been attached to Susan Jenkins, a well-behaved young woman of the same village; but from prudence and a proper independence of mind, he determined not to take a wife until he had a house to bring her to, as well as some prospect of providing for a family without being a burthen to the farmers, who were already complaining of the pressure of the poor-rates.
In consequence of his good character he was never out of work; and though his wages were not high, yet he almost every week contrived to put by something, which he deposited in a bank for savings, lately established in the neighbouring market town.
His weekly deposits were not very large sums, yet "many a little makes a mickle."
This was helped out by a legacy of thirty pounds from an uncle; so that in a few years he was enabled to purchase a cottage with a small garden, and had still something over for a few articles of furniture.
Susan, meanwhile, had gone on steadily in service, always making a point of putting by some part of her wages; so that when they married, they were comparatively rich.
For some time after his marriage Wildgoose continued to work for his old master; and Susan, by field work in the hay-making and harvest, and by taking in sewing at other times of the year, was able to earn a good deal towards maintaining their children.
The wants of an increasing family, however, led him to consider how he might enlarge his means of subsistence; and the success of an old acquaintance in the adjoining village, determined him to endeavour to purchase a horse and cart, and commence business as a higler.
A higler's business is liable to so many chances, and takes a man so much from home, that perhaps he would have acted more wisely if he had stuck to work.
We cannot however blame him for endeavouring to better his circumstances in an honest way.
Though he occasionally met with some losses from bad debts, yet upon the whole he did pretty well.
One day in November, as he was returning home from market rather late in the evening, and was walking quietly by the side of the cart, he was suddenly startled by a rattling noise behind him; and turning round, saw the True Blue stage driving furiously along the road, and the Opposition coach a short distance behind.
Wildgoose immediately went to his horse's head, and drew his cart as close as he could to the hedge; but just at that moment the Opposition coach had got up with the other, and in endeavouring to pass it, one of the leaders knocked poor Wildgoose down, and the wheels went over him.
The unfeeling coachmen were too eager in the race to attend to the mischief which they had occasioned; and the poor man was left lying in the road, until two neighbouring farmers, returning from market, found him, and brought him home, more dead than alive, in his own cart.
At first some faint expectations were entertained of his recovery; but soon it was found that the injury which he had sustained was too serious to admit of hope.
Mr. Hooker, the clergyman of the parish, came to visit him frequently, for the purpose both of assisting his devotions, and of comforting his poor wife: and on one of these occasions he took an opportunity of asking him, in as kind a manner as possible, whether he had settled his worldly affairs.
This certainly had not occurred to Wildgoose: when, however, Mr. Hooker explained to him, that if he died without a will, his house and garden would all go to his eldest son, subject to dower to his wife; and that in strictness of law his household furniture, shop-goods, and cart and horse, would be to be divided in three parts, one to his wife, and two between his children; he saw the propriety of arranging these matters while he was able.
Mr. Smith the attorney was accordingly sent for.
Poor Wildgoose, who had reason to have full confidence in the good sense and judgment of his wife, and in her impartial affection to her children, felt that he could not do better than leave every thing to her, at the same time constituting her sole executrix.
He knew that she would consider herself as a trustee for the children, felt sure that she would not marry again, and thought it best not to fetter her by any minute directions.
Mr. Smith prepared the will accordingly; and as three witnesses are necessary to a will bequeathing a freehold, their good neighbour Simpson the tailor was called in, who together with Mr. Hooker and Mr. Smith attested Wildgoose's execution of the will.
When this was done, the poor man felt his mind relieved: and endeavoured more and more to detach his thoughts from all earthly cares, and to fix them on subjects connected with those unseen things which are eternal.
The next day he received the sacrament, which he had been in the habit of receiving frequently during his life; and before the end of the week he died.
Poor Susan had been for some time preparing for this sad event; but still when it actually happened, it seemed to come upon her by surprise.
She felt quite stunned by the blow.
At first, she could attend to, could think of, nothing but her own loss, her own sad and desolate condition.
She was however soon enabled to turn for support to that Being, who bids the widow to trust in him, and who promises to protect the fatherless children.
Her mind found a comfort in prayer; and the sort of strain and oppression which she felt through her whole frame was soon relieved by a flood of tears.
The necessity of acting forced her to rouse and exert herself.
Her husband had desired to be buried in as plain and simple a manner as possible; and she felt that she shewed him more real respect by complying with this direction, than by spending in useless shew that money which was wanted to provide necessaries for the children.
Thomas had been one of the singers.
The band accordingly met, and shewed their respect to his memory by singing the funeral psalm, after the conclusion of the beautiful and impressive lesson in the burial service.
Poor Susan, who was naturally a strong-minded woman, had been able so far to exert herself as to attend the last sad ceremony, but had nearly sunk while the psalm was singing.
She felt, however, the ground of consolation suggested to her by the service.
When the clergyman read, "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord," and again, when he spoke of "the souls of the faithful after they are delivered from the burden of the flesh being in joy and felicity with the Lord," she felt an humble trust that these words were applicable to her dear departed husband.
Deep therefore and acute as her sorrow was, she endeavoured to comply with the admonition of the holy apostle St. Paul, "not to be sorry as one without hope."
She had little time, however, for the indulgence of grief.
The circumstances of her family made it absolutely necessary for her to consider by what means she should provide for them.
One of her first cares was to administer to the will.
Mr. Hooker told her that she was liable to a heavy penalty if she neglected this; and that though the penalty was seldom levied, she was hardly complete executrix until it was done.
The next thing to be considered was, how she could get a living without being a burden to the parish.
Once she had some thoughts of carrying on the higling business herself; but the being taken so much from her home and children, and several other circumstances, convinced her that this plan was not advisable.
She therefore determined to sell the horse and cart, and set up a shop, for which there was a fair opening in the village, without doing injury to any of her neighbours.
It went to her heart to part with the horse, which had been her dear husband's fellow-traveller in so many journeys, and of which he had taken such good care; but prudence forbad her to give way to feelings of this nature.
She therefore endeavoured to find for him a kind master, and got quite as good a price as she could expect.
The cart too sold for as much as it was worth; and with the money which was thus produced, she was enabled to open her shop with a good supply of articles purchased at the ready money price.
One plan, which she very early adopted, may be worth the attention of those who are engaged in the same business.
She soon contrived to learn, what was the usual rate of profit, which the shops in the neighbourhood made upon the articles which they sold.
They all sold upon credit, and of course lost a good deal by bad debts.
Mrs. Wildgoose would gladly have sold nothing but for ready money; but as she soon found that this was out of the question, partly because some of the poor were irregularly paid by their employers, and partly from other causes, she adopted the following plan.
In general she gave the same credit as the other shops, and thought it fair to make the same profit, but always gladly gave up half the profit to a ready money customer.
Three of her children were able to make themselves of use.
John, the eldest, who was now eleven years old, was employed by a farmer at seven-pence per day.
Mary, the next, assisted in washing and mending, and in taking care of little Sarah while her mother was in the shop; and Sam could earn two shillings a week, sometimes by pig-keeping, and sometimes by jingling a sheep-bell, to keep the birds from the corn.
And here I must just mention by the bye a scrape that little Sam once got into.
He was sitting on the watch, under a hedge close to the public road, when a flight of pigeons settled on the wheat.
Up jumped Sam, and, all at once, began hallooing as loud as his lungs would let him, and making the most alarming noise with his bell.
He succeeded in driving off the plunderers but, unluckily, the suddenness of the noise close by the road so frightened the horse of a gentleman who was riding by, that he turned short round, and threw his rider into the dirt.
The gentleman was not much hurt, but a good deal out of temper; and vented his anger by giving a few cuts with his whip to the boy, who caused his disaster.
Poor Sam meant no harm; but perhaps he deserved some punishment, as his thoughtlessness in making a sudden noise so near the public road, might have been the occasion of a broken limb, or even a more serious accident.
Notwithstanding a few occasional rubs and grievances, the family for some time got on pretty well; but there was something in the character of her eldest son, which gave Mrs. Wildgoose much uneasiness.
He had, I am afraid, been rather spoilt from his infancy.
Both father and mother were so fond of their first child, that they humoured him in every thing.
Whatever he cried for he was almost sure to have, and this mistaken indulgence made him, from very early years, selfish, and wilful.
Care and diligence afterwards, prospered by the grace of God, may certainly correct the effects of early spoiling; but, though they had so many other good qualities, the parents of John Wildgoose had not been sufficiently aware of the necessity of paying attention to the forming of his temper and principles.
For a few years he was sent to the day school, and learnt to read tolerably well; but when he was between eight and nine years old, he was taken to work; and employed, sometimes by the farmers, sometimes to go on errands for his father.
He felt his father's death a good deal, and for some time seemed anxious to do what he could to assist his mother.
He stuck to his work, and regularly brought his earnings home; and was kind to his brother and sisters.
Soon, however, the wilfulness of his character began again to shew itself, and gained strength by being no longer checked by the authority of a father.
His mother was grieved to find that he would often go his own way instead of complying with her wishes.
One of his principal faults at this time was a neglect of the Lord's day.
He seldom came to church; and when he did happen to come, was inattentive to every part of the service.
Mr. Hooker several times endeavoured to persuade him to come to the Sunday school; he told him that one principal use of such schools was the enabling those boys, who were engaged in labour during the week, to keep up and to improve the learning which they had acquired at the day school before they went to work; but he would not be persuaded.
In spring he was bird's nesting; in summer he was lying on the grass, or bathing in the river; in autumn he was nutting, and, I am sorry to say, was sometimes guilty of making an inroad on a neighbour's orchard; and in winter he was engaged in sliding on the ice, hunting squirrels, or some other diversion.
Both his mother and Mr. Hooker lamented this, and in the kindest manner endeavoured to make him sensible of the folly of his conduct.
He received their admonitions in sullen silence; and instead of feeling, as he ought to have felt, that their advice proceeded from a regard for his welfare, seemed to think that it was meant to answer some object of their own.
When he was just past seventeen, he unluckily struck up a close intimacy with a young man in the village, a few years older than himself.
His name was William Atkins, but he was usually called Black Will.
Atkins was a lively fellow, with a good deal of coarse humour.
He was one of those men who neither fear God nor regard man, and who take pleasure in turning religion and every thing serious into ridicule.
With him young Wildgoose passed many of his leisure hours; and sometimes on a Sunday evening they used to join a party of idlers at the Fighting Cocks, a lone public house, about a quarter of a mile from the village.
Mrs. Wildgoose saw the intimacy which her son had formed with great pain, and repeatedly cautioned him against it.
"Jack," she one day said to him, "I do wish from my heart that you would not keep company with that Will Atkins.
I am sure no good can come of it."
"Why, mother," answered Jack, "what harm is there in poor Will?
He is a good-humoured fellow, that loves a joke; and, I'm sure, he's always very kind and friendly to me."
"As pleasant as you may find him," replied his mother, "you know that he bears but a middling character."
"Yes," said the son, "but I shall take care not to be hurt by that."
"Don't be too sure," rejoined she; "the _Good Book_ tells us, that _evil communications corrupt good manners, that he that toucheth pitch shall be defiled therewith_, and that _the companion of fools shall be destroyed_."
Jack never liked any thing approaching to a lecture; and sulkily saying, "I think, mother, I'm old enough now to judge for myself," left the house.
Black Will, among other qualifications, possessed that of being an experienced poacher; and it was not long before he let John Wildgoose into the art and mystery of this species of marauding.
He used to tell him stories of his dexterity in eluding the keepers, of his skill in entrapping the game, of the fine sums of money he made by it, and of the jolly parties which that money enabled them to have at the Fighting Cocks.
Jack was amused with his stories, and began very soon to think that he should like to have a share in these adventures.
As a boy he was always fond of bird's nesting, and bat fowling, and was eager to try his hand upon game of a higher description.
Will was ready enough to lead him on.
The next autumn he gave him a few wires, taught him how to set them in the most likely places, and how to make more.
Young Wildgoose was at this time employed in keeping sheep, and was with them early and late.
His friend instructed him to set his wires in the evening, and when he returned to his flock in the morning, to go round and see how they had succeeded.
When he found a hare, he directly hid it in a ditch, or some snug place, till dark, and then carried it to Atkins, who used to meet him for this purpose near the Fighting Cocks.
Secretly as he managed this, he did not escape the vigilant eye of Sir John's keeper; but besides that he felt for the young man's mother, and therefore was unwilling to expose him, he thought that he should do his master and the public more service by discovering the receiver of the hares, than by proceeding against the catcher of them.
He had seen the direction which young Wildgoose usually took when he left his sheep, and contrived one night to station himself so, that he witnessed his meeting with Atkins, and saw the latter directly carry the booty into the public house.
Stephen Tomkins the landlord was a keen, knowing kind of person.
Though he sold a good deal of beer, yet he chose to say that he could not get his bread by keeping to his regular business, and had many other ways of earning a few shillings.
Among the rest, he kept a horse and cart, with which he travelled every week as a higler, either to the county town, or wherever else suited his purpose.
The game-keeper had long suspected him of carrying game, but had never been able actually to catch him.
What he now saw, added to some private information which he had received, satisfied him that his suspicions were just.
Early next morning therefore he applied for a warrant to search for game, and waited with the constable and two other men at the turn of the road, before you come to the turnpike at the entrance of the town.
About the hour they reckoned upon, Tomkins's cart made its appearance, and they sallied out from the hovel where they had concealed themselves.
Tomkins, upon being desired to stop, at first looked a little frightened, but soon contrived to put a good face upon the business.
When they shewed him their warrant, he pretended to be surprised, and affronted that they should suspect such a man as him of any thing improper; at the same time asserting with many oaths, that he had nothing in his cart but a few fowls and the butter which he had collected from the dairymen.
The keepers, however, insisted upon searching; and were so long before they succeeded, that they almost thought that he had got some hint of their intentions.
At last, however, quite at the bottom of the cart, under butter baskets, fowls, and other commodities of the same nature, they discovered first one hare, then a second, then a third.
As it was market day, the magistrates were holding their usual petty sessions.
The keepers immediately carried Stephen Tomkins and the hares into the justice room.
The regular steps having been gone through, and the witnesses sworn and examined, Tomkins had not a word to say in his defence.
Mr. Hale, therefore, who acted as chairman of the bench, proceeded to conviction, and addressed him in the following words.
"Stephen Tomkins, you have been convicted upon the clearest evidence of having game in your possession in your higler's cart, by which offence you have incurred the penalty of 15[English Pound]; that is, 5[English Pound] for each head of game, half to the informer and half to the poor of the parish[a].
The law does not give us the power of mitigating this penalty; and even if it did, we probably should not feel that there was any cause for mitigation.
The offence of which you are convicted is one, the effects of which are very mischievous.
It has been said, that if there were no receivers of stolen goods there would be no thieves: and it may be said, with equal truth, that there would be few poachers if there were no clandestine receivers of game.
Such men as you encourage thoughtless young men in this manner to break the laws of their country, and to take to a course of life which often brings them to an untimely end.
We hope that this conviction will be a warning to you, and will induce you to desist from such practices."
[Footnote a: See Note [A.]]
Tomkins said, that it was very hard that he should have to pay so heavy a fine, only for having a few hares in his cart; and did not see how he was more to blame than the poulterer, to whom he was going to send them, or than the gentlemen who bought them of the poulterers.
Mr. Hale replied, that he and his brother justices sat there to execute the laws, and had not time to discuss the propriety of them, or the cases of other offenders who were not before them.
"As for you, Mr. Tomkins," he continued, "for the reasons which I have given, I do not think your punishment at all too severe: at all events, it is the punishment prescribed by law, which we are bound to inflict.
As for those other persons to whom you allude, a poulterer exposing game for sale, and a gentleman or other person _buying it_[b], are liable to the same penalty, and if they should be brought before us with sufficient evidence against them, it would be our duty to convict them.
Perhaps I might also feel it right to give them the same admonition that I have given you.
I might feel it right to hint to them, as I have done to you, that they are encouraging poor men to break the laws by poaching, and that they are in one point of view more to blame than the poachers themselves.
A poacher often pleads distress and poverty.
This is no excuse for him, but can certainly often be pleaded with truth.
Now, certainly, a poor, uneducated man, who breaks the laws through distress--though mind, I again say, that that is no excuse for him--must in one point of view at least, be considered as less blameable than he who knowingly breaks them for the purpose of mere gain, or, than he who violates them for the sake of gratifying his appetite or his vanity, by seeing game upon his table."
[Footnote b: See Note [B.]]
Tomkins had nothing more to say, excepting that he had not the money by him, and wanted a little time to raise it.
The justices therefore allowed him to defer the payment till that day fortnight.
When the culprit returned into the market-place, he pretended to make light of the affair; and calling at the Red Lion for a pot of ale with some gin in it, drank "good luck to poaching," and affected to laugh at the magistrates.
Fifteen pounds, however, was really a heavy pull upon Tomkins's purse, and whatever he might pretend, it weighed upon his mind a good deal.
When he got back to his own house, he was loud in expressing his ill humour against Mr. Hale, and the whole bench of justices: and uttered against them the most dreadful curses.
"Come, come, Stephen," said old Truman, his father-in-law, who was quietly sitting in the chimney-corner, "come, come, you are going a little too far; I am sorry for many reasons that you have got into this scrape, and don't wonder at your being vexed; but what right have you to cry out so against Mr.
Hale?"--"Right!"
said Tomkins, "right enough, I think.
Why, has'nt he fined me fifteen pounds?"
--"Yes; but could he do otherwise?
Every magistrate, you know, is sworn to execute the laws to the best of his judgment.
If, after such clear evidence, he had let you off, he would have broken his oath, and have acted ill towards the public at large, and unjustly towards those who are entitled to receive the money.
Besides, Stephen, you don't suppose, because a magistrate punishes you as an _offender_, that he bears any ill will to you as a _man_.
Excepting on licensing-day, he probably never saw you before, and never thought about you one way or the other."
--"Well then," said Tomkins, "I hate him for being a magistrate at all."
--"Now there you're wrong again," said the old man; "I'm sure we all ought to be very thankful to those gentlemen, who will undertake such a troublesome office, especially as they get nothing by it.
There are few people in these days that will work without pay.
The judges get some thousands a year, and a pension when they are too old for service.
I do not wish them one farthing less, for they deserve richly all they get, and are, generally speaking, an honour to the country.
The attorneys too, if you have any dealings with them, come pretty quick upon you with their three-and-fourpences, and their six-and-eightpences; and the counsellors seldom open their mouths under a guinea or two.
Tho' here again I must say, that I don't think either of these sorts of lawyers over-paid, when you consider how many years most of them work before they get any thing, (many, I believe, never get any thing at all.)
The gentlemen, however, who act as justices, give their time and attention for nothing, and run the risk of giving offence to many of their neighbours into the bargain.
No one, I'm sure, will undertake the office, who values his own ease, and quiet, and comfort, at a higher rate than the being of use to his neighbours and the public."
--"I wish," said Tomkins peevishly, "there were no such things as laws or magistrates in the world."
--"Like enough, like enough," replied Truman, "men are apt to quarrel with the laws when the laws are too hard for 'em.
You don't often look into the Bible, Stephen, but that would tell you, that the magistrate _beareth not the sword in vain, but is an avenger to execute wrath upon every soul that doeth evil_.
It is, therefore, natural for a man, who has done evil, or who means to do evil, to wish that there was no such check upon him.
But those who, instead of doing evil, wish to lead quiet and peaceable lives in an honest way, are glad to have the laws to protect them from evil doers, and are thankful to those who duly execute them."
Tomkins did not much like Truman's lecture, and instead of being benefited by it, retained in his heart all his ill-will against Mr. Hale.
In this he was not only very wrong, but, I am disposed to think, more unreasonable than the generality of men who may be in the same unlucky circumstances with himself.
For men, who are convicted upon sufficient evidence, have generally the sense to see that the magistrate who convicts them, merely does his bounden duty.
Tomkins put common sense and reason out of the question, and determined to do something by way of revenge.
Mr. Hale's house was situated about seven miles off.
It stood at the extremity of a rather extensive paddock, at the other end of which was a large fish pond, well stored with jack and perch.
Tomkins knew the pond well, and took it into his head, that he would make it refund part of his fifteen pounds.
He communicated his plan to Will Atkins, young Wildgoose, and Mike Simmons, who readily entered into it.
They heard that Mr. Hale was from home for a few days, and determined to execute their plan without delay.
They accordingly furnished themselves with a large net, and in the dusk of the evening proceeded to a barn, at a little distance from Mr. Hale's grounds.
Here they concealed themselves till towards twelve o'clock at night.
They then got over the pales, and were just beginning to open their net, when they were alarmed by the sound of horses coming swiftly along the road.
They thought themselves safe from the owner of the pond, but were of course afraid of being seen at that time of night by any one else, and crouched down to avoid observation.
In this they did not succeed.
It was a cloudy night, but still the moon gave some light, and the horsemen, who proved to be Mr. Hale, (who had been unexpectedly called home,) his brother the Captain, and a servant, caught a glimpse of them.
The gentlemen directly gave their horses to the servant, and jumping over the pales hastened towards the pond.
The plunderers immediately ran off, and three of them were soon lost in the plantations.
Wildgoose, however, in the hurry set his foot in a drain, threw himself down, and was taken.
When told his name and place of abode, Mr. Hale said, that "he remembered his father as an honest and industrious man:" indeed the sad accident by which he lost his life, had made his name known throughout the neighbourhood.
And then addressing himself to his prisoner, "Young man," said he, "I respected your father, and have heard that your mother bears an excellent character; I am therefore, heartily sorry to find that their son has taken to such bad practices.
It is well for you that I did not come up a little later, after you had carried your scheme into execution.
Had that been the case, you might have been transported."
"Transported!"
said Wildgoose in astonishment, "what, transported for taking a few fish!"
"Yes, transported," replied the magistrate; "if a man steals fish from a pond in any inclosed ground, he is, upon conviction before one Justice, to be sentenced to pay five pounds: but if he enters into any park, or paddock, or garden adjoining to a house, and steals fish from any river, or pond in it, he is liable to be indicted at the Assizes, and transported for seven years[c].
The law often finds it necessary to protect, by a severe penalty, property that is much exposed; and when a man is daring enough to carry on his depredations in the very homestead of his neighbour, he requires a severe punishment.
In the present case, though your intention is sufficiently clear, I have no wish, and do not feel bound, to prosecute you.
Nor shall I (as I might do) sue you for the trespass.
Go home to your mother, and never again allow yourself to be led by bad advisers into the like crime."
[Footnote c: See Note [C.]] Jack had told his mother that he was going to a friend at a distance, and should not return home that night.
This made her sadly anxious; but she knew by experience that persuasion was lost upon him.
When he returned home in the morning, she was confirmed in the suspicion that something was wrong.
From his intimacy with Will Atkins she concluded he had been upon some poaching scheme; and determined, as she could do nothing herself, to try what effect Mr. Hooker could produce upon her son.
It was not long before a good opportunity offered.
Just as Jack left Mr. Hale's paddock, a heavy rain had come on, which soon soaked his clothes.
Wet as he was, he got into a shed, partly for shelter, and partly to fill up the time, till his mother was up in the morning to let him in.
The consequence was, that he caught a severe cold, attended with so much fever and head-ache, that he was unfit to go to work.
Mr. Hooker called, and having kindly enquired after his health, began giving some hints on the subject of poaching.
Jack sulkily answered, that "no one had a right to consider him as a poacher, until he was caught."
Mr. Hooker, however, who had had some communication with Sir John's keeper, soon let him know that he had good ground for what he said; and endeavoured to make him sensible of the criminality and danger of his conduct.
Jack would not acknowledge that poaching was wrong.
Stealing he knew was disgraceful and sinful.
To carry off a sheep, or to rob a henroost, deserved, he allowed, to be severely punished; "but," said he, "I cannot see the harm of _poaching_: animals that run wild by nature belong to nobody, and any body that can has a right to catch them.
I don't know why it is more wrong to kill a partridge than it is to kill a crow or a sparrow; or why catching a hare is worse than knocking down a squirrel."
"The laws of the land," said Mr. Hooker, "have made a difference between those animals, and it is the duty of every man to obey the laws of the country in which he lives."
"Not," answered Jack, "if the laws are hard or unfair."
"Our duty," replied Mr. Hooker, "is to obey the laws as we find them.
If every one were at liberty to reject such laws as he disliked, we might almost as well have no laws at all.
The thief would cast off the laws against stealing; the drunkard those against drunkenness; and of course the poacher would have no laws against poaching.
The Scriptures teach us _to submit ourselves to every ordinance of man_; why?
_for the Lord's sake_:--as a matter of religious duty.
They bid us to be subject not only for wrath, for fear of punishment, but _for conscience sake_.
They teach us _to obey magistrates_: to be dutiful _to the king as supreme, and to magistrates as to them that are sent by him for the punishment of evil doers, and the praise of them that do well_.
Remember, therefore, that quiet obedience to the laws of the land is a Christian duty.
We are to obey the laws, whether we approve of them or not: but perhaps, after all, the laws against poaching are not so unreasonable as you take them to be.
Upon what do the hares, and pheasants, and partridges feed?"
"Why, upon a number of things; chiefly upon the grass and corn, and such like; and a deal of mischief they do."
"Well then, being supported by the produce of the land, they ought in some way to belong to the land; but as from their wildness they move about from place to place, it is for the law to say in what manner they shall belong to it; and the law does this by making a certain property in land the principal qualification for killing game.
Perhaps I may think that some alteration in the qualification might be an advantage; but I am not a lawgiver, Jack, any more than you; and as I said before, we are to obey the laws as we find them."
"It's very well," said Jack, sulkily, "for a gentleman like you to talk about obedience to the laws, but I don't know what good the laws do to such a poor fellow as I am."
Mr. Hooker did not immediately notice this, but, seeming to change the conversation, said, "By the bye, John, I was sorry to hear of your quarrel with Tom Nutman, the blacksmith at Ratton.
I'm told that he threatens to break every bone in your skin.
Are you not afraid of meeting him?"
"Afraid," said Jack, "let him touch me if he dare."
"Why, do you think that he is prevented by any sense of religion from putting his threat in execution?"
"Religion!
he has no more religion than a dog."
"Oh!
then you think that he is afraid of you, and that you are more than a match for him?"
"Why no, I can't say that:--he's much the strongest man of the two, and is a noted prize fighter."
"Then why should he not dare to touch you?"
"Because he knows, that if he should strike me, I should get a warrant against him, and have him off to prison before he was a day older."
"Oh!
that is what you mean, is it?
it seems then that the law is of some use to you, poor as you are.
And as you say that he is not influenced by the fear of God, what is there that prevents his coming to-morrow, with half a dozen of the Ratton men, carrying off every thing in your mother's shop, and breaking your head if you said a word against it?--The laws of the land certainly, which he knows would severely punish his wrong doing."
John was forced to acknowledge, that even the poor had an interest in the protection afforded by the law to persons and property.
"But," continued Mr. Hooker, "poaching is positively wrong, not only as it is a breach of the laws, but on many other accounts.
It is plainly contrary to the great rule of doing as you would be done by.
You would not like, if the law gave you a right to any particular thing, to have any man come and take that thing from you: and so, when the proprietor of an estate and manor, like Sir John, is at much expence and trouble in order to preserve the game, which the law gives him a right to preserve, it is clearly wrong, and in opposition to the great rule which I have mentioned, for any man to invade that right.
Besides, poaching is apt to bring a man into bad company, which is always most dangerous.
The habit of being out at nights makes him familiar with deeds which shun the light; and too often, if he is disappointed of his game, the poacher makes up for it by taking poultry, or any thing else he can lay his hands on.
We hear too every day, how poaching leads on to deeds of violence, and even of bloodshed, in the conflicts which it occasions with the men, whose duty it is to protect the game.
In short, John, poaching is wrong in itself; it leads a man into a lawless way of life, and frequently is the beginning of all kinds of wickedness."
Young Wildgoose felt that there was much truth in what Mr. Hooker said; and though the pride, or stubbornness of his character would not allow him to acknowledge it at the time, yet when he came to reflect on it after the clergyman was gone, he pretty much determined within himself that he would give up the sinful and dangerous practice into which he had been drawn.
Perhaps some private reason came in aid of his good resolution.
He stuck to his work; kept away from the Fighting Cocks; and avoided the company of Will Atkins and his old associates.
His mother observed the alteration in his conduct with heartfelt pleasure.
From the odd temper of her son, she thought it might be prudent not to say much about it: but she was particularly kind in her manner to him, and did all that she could to make his home comfortable.
Young Wildgoose felt this as he ought, and for some time every thing went on well.
Unhappily one evening in November, as John was returning from his work, he accidentally fell in with his old companion Atkins: "Why, Jack," cried he, "what have you been doing with yourself?
We never see thee among us now; and many a merry night have we had.
What has made thee so shy of late?"
Wildgoose told him that he was going to turn over a new leaf, and had given up poaching.
"Well now, I'm sorry for that; but still that's no reason why you should'nt now and then join a friend or two over a pot of beer; so come along with me to Tomkins's.
He'll be quite glad to see thee again."
John refused with some steadiness, but Atkins said so much, with a sort of good-humoured raillery, that at last he gave way.
In one pot of ale he thought there could be no harm.
At the Fighting Cocks they found four or five of Will Atkins's particular friends sitting round the fire.
They had not been drinking much, seemed sociable and friendly, and talked about any thing that came uppermost.
Wildgoose soon went beyond the quantity, to which he had stinted himself; when all at once Atkins called out, "Come now, Jack, do tell us what could possess you to give up sporting.
You used to take as much pleasure in it as any gentleman in the land."
John was taken by surprise, and did not well know what to answer.
At length he fairly acknowledged that he gave it up in consequence of what Mr. Hooker had said to him.
"Well now, that is too bad," said Will, "I thought that you had been a lad of too much spirit to be talked over by a parson.
I concluded that you had some real good reason, and never should have guessed that you had nothing more to say for yourself than that."
John replied, that Mr. Hooker spoke very kindly to him; and that in what he said, he seemed to have both sense and Scripture on his side.
"Scripture!"
exclaimed Bob Fowler, "why sure enough Jack Wildgoose is turned methodist."
They all laughed heartily at the joke, and went on for some time bantering Wildgoose upon his being so straight-laced.
Jack never could stand being laughed at.
He had not resolution enough to hold fast his integrity, when his integrity exposed him to ridicule.
He did not remember the words of the prophet, _Fear ye not the reproach of men, neither be afraid of their revilings_: nor those of our Saviour, _Whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words_--that is, ashamed of being religious, of being a Christian--_in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him shall the Son of Man be ashamed when he cometh in his glory with his holy angels_.
In short, Atkins and his comrades plied Jack Wildgoose so successfully with ale and bantering, that he gave up his good resolutions, and agreed to accompany them on a scheme which they had already planned for making an attack upon Sir John's preserve.
They sat drinking till past twelve o'clock at night, and then repaired by different roads to the scene of action.
It so happened, that the keepers had received some information, which had carried them to the opposite side of the manor.
The gang, therefore, carried on their operations for some time without interruption; and when their firing had drawn the keepers towards them, one of the party, who had been posted on the look-out, contrived to give them a signal, so that they got away without difficulty.
They returned to their rendezvous loaded with pheasants, for which Tomkins paid them a good price, with some gin into the bargain.
They gave Wildgoose more than his fair share of the money by way of encouragement; and agreed to meet again on the following Thursday.
On that day they determined to try their luck in the wood which covers the north side of the hill, just at the outside of Sir John's park.
The party consisted of Black Will, Bob Fowler, John Wildgoose, Tom Cade, and one more.
Will and Bob were provided with guns; the rest had bludgeons, in order to assist them, in case of any interruption from the keepers.
Atkins and Cade entered the wood from the park, and the three others a little lower down.
Atkins had just fired at a pheasant, when one of the under keepers jumped up out of the ditch, and calling out, "Holloa!
what are you at there?"
ran to Atkins, and collared him.
Tom, who was at a small distance behind a tree, immediately came to his friend's assistance, and a well aimed blow of his bludgeon laid the assailant at their feet.
At this moment the head keeper and several of Sir John's men came up, and secured Tom.
The other poachers were brought by the noise to the field of battle, and attempted to rescue their comrade; but as Fowler was aiming a blow at the man who had hold of him, one of Sir John's garden men struck him on the right arm, just above the elbow, with such tremendous force, that the bone was broken.
The poachers, who before had begun to find that the keepers were too many for them, immediately ran, leaving Bob wounded, and Tom a prisoner.
The former, in consequence of the hurt which he had received, was allowed to return to his family; but Tom was carried off to a magistrate, and then to gaol, in order to take his trial at the ensuing Quarter Sessions.
The other three, when they found themselves safe from pursuit, slackened their pace.
Will first broke silence, by exclaiming, "A pretty business we have made of it to-night.
Well, we can't always manage as we did last week; but I hate to go home empty-handed."
They were now passing through the orchard at the back of Farmer Dobson's house, when Will spied some turkeys, which had imprudently chosen to roost in the trees, instead of going into the poultry house.
The opportunity was tempting; and for want of other game, Will twitched two of them from their branch, and carried them off so quietly, that the farmer's dog did not utter a single bark.
Wildgoose was a good deal shocked at this.
In the pursuit of game, though illegal, he thought there was something spirited and manly; but revolted at the idea of _stealing_.
What Mr. Hooker had said on the tendency of poaching to lead on to other crimes occurred to him.
He ventured to remonstrate; but Will answered, "Why, what's the harm?
The old fellow is rich enough, and can well spare a turkey or two.
If I had left them, they would only have bought a little more finery for his daughters."
John still persisted that stealing was dishonourable, but his comrade replied, "Come, come, let's have no more preaching; in our way of life a man must not mind trifles.
To tell you the truth, I have done as much by a sheep before now;--only then, to be sure, I had a little bit of a grudge against the farmer, and I knew he could easily afford it."
Wildgoose was more and more staggered.
He saw how easily a man, who was in the habit of breaking the laws in one instance, could go on to break them in another, but gave up arguing the point with his companion.
Fowler contrived to get home with his broken arm before the morning.
When the surgeon arrived, he found that the fracture was a bad one; and the worse from the severe bruise with which it was accompanied.
On the Saturday morning, his wife, who had four small children, went to the overseer for relief.
"And so you think," said he, "Nanny, that because your husband has thrown himself out of work, by his own misconduct, he is to be supported out of the pockets of the farmers?
We have enough to do to pay rents and taxes, and provide for our own families, without having to provide for the families of poachers.
If your husband had met with an accident in an honest way, I'm sure, I for one should have been for giving him all possible assistance; and no farmer in the parish would have said a word against it: but it is very hard that we should be expected to pay for his bad deeds."
Nanny Fowler felt the truth of what he said, but replied, "that still they must not starve."
"It is true," answered the overseer, "the law does say that nobody shall starve; but you must not expect much more from me than is just necessary to keep you from starving.
I'm sorry, Nanny, for you and your children, but when the father of a family breaks the laws, he must expect his family to suffer for it as well as himself.
It is in the nature of things that it should be so.
You shall have from the parish just what is necessary; but even that you shall receive by way of loan[d], and if your husband recovers the use of his arm, we shall compel him to repay it in the summer.
If his arm never gets well again, which I fear may possibly be the case, we can't expect to get the money back; but we shall not maintain him in idleness.
We shall set him to do what he can; and if he earns but a little, and is kept but just from starving, he will have no one to blame but himself."
[Footnote d: See Note [D.]] The bad success of the last expedition, and the loss of strength which they had sustained, kept the gang of plunderers comparatively quiet.
Jack Wildgoose, however, and Black Will, again took to their old practice of wiring hares[e]; and contrived to dispose of a considerable number.
The keepers were aware of it, but somehow could never manage to come upon them exactly at the right time.
One Sunday morning, when Jack had gone round to examine into the state of his snares, and had just taken up a hare with the wire round its neck, Stokes the under-keeper, who had been concealed on the other side of the hedge, suddenly started up, and caught him in the fact.
An information against him was immediately laid by one of Stokes's fellow-servants; a summons was procured; and John Wildgoose appeared at the Justice meeting, which took place next day.
[Footnote e: See Note [E.]] The information having been read, and Wildgoose having pleaded not guilty, the keeper was sworn, and began to give his evidence.
Being asked at what hour in the morning the transaction took place, he replied, "A little after seven: for I had heard the great clock at Sir John's strike a few minutes before."
"That's false, however," said a voice from the crowd, which was assembled in the Justice room.
"Come forward there," said one of the Justices; when who should make his appearance but Black Will.
The magistrate told him not to interrupt the witness, but that if he had any thing to say, he should state it upon oath when the keeper's evidence had been gone through.
This was soon done; and then Atkins being sworn, and desired to state what he knew of the business, replied, "I know but little about it; but this I _can_ say, before seven on Sunday morning Jack Wildgoose and I started together to see a friend at Hollybourn, which your Worship may perhaps know is about six miles off.
We went to church there, and did not get back till the afternoon.
So how Jack can have been wiring hares after seven I don't very well know."
The Justices looked surprised, as the under-keeper had the character of being an honest, truth-telling man.
Wildgoose himself said nothing.
Mr. Hale, who acted as chairman, was beginning to put some questions to Stokes, in the hope of finding something either to confirm or to weaken his testimony, when an elderly man in a smock frock came to the bar, and said, "I should be as glad as any one to have the young man got off, both for his own sake, and for the sake of his good mother; but I cannot stand by in silence, and hear a man take such an audacious false oath as that sworn by Will Atkins.
Why you know, Will," continued he, "that you skulked by the Fighting Cocks soon after seven; I was afraid that you were about no good, and if the gentlemen won't believe me, I can name another who saw you as well as I."
This was old Truman, who had got a lift in Tomkins's cart for the sake of hearing the proceedings, but without the most distant thought of taking any part in them himself.
His high respect for the name of God, and his general love of truth, compelled him to speak against his own wishes.
The fact was this.
Atkins, who had gone to meet Wildgoose on the Sunday morning, in order to receive from him the hares which he had snared, heard that he had been detected, and almost immediately determined to try the chance of setting up an _alibi_.
For himself, as he had not the fear of God before his eyes, he cared not whether what he swore was false or true, so that it answered his purpose.
He therefore had directed Wildgoose, though without telling him his intention, to keep close at home, and let no one see him; and had hastened himself to get out of the village, unobserved as he thought by any one.
When Truman spoke, Black Will turned pale with vexation and rage, and darted at the old man a look, which said that he longed to strike him to the earth.
When Truman, however, had repeated his statement upon oath, Atkins endeavoured to get out of the scrape as well as he could, and stammered out something about mistaking the hour.
Mr. Hale the chairman gave him a most serious reprimand.
He told him, that "the deliberately calling upon the God of truth to bear witness to a falsehood, was daring the Almighty to his face.
That, as the property, the good name, and even the lives of men depended in great measure upon preserving the proper respect for an oath, the man who wilfully took a false oath deserved to be banished out of all civilized society; he added, that he hoped Sir John would indict him for perjury."
He then proceeded to convict Wildgoose.
"The penalty," said he, "for using engines for the destruction of game, on other days, is, as you know well enough, five pounds.
But as your offence was committed on the Lord's Day, the penalty is any sum that we think fit, provided it is not more than 20 [English Pound] nor less than 10 [English Pound].
In compassion to your mother we will fix the lower sum.
This it is our duty to sentence you to pay.
If you cannot pay it, and have not goods which we can distrain, you must go to prison."
Wildgoose answered that as for the penalty, he neither could nor would pay it: that he had no goods, as he was only a sort of a lodger in his mother's house, and that he had as soon go to prison as not.
He knew that there he should have plenty to eat and little to do.
In this last supposition he was mistaken, as the magistrates had, though with some difficulty, contrived to find work enough to keep the prisoners continually employed.
The parish constable, under whose care Wildgoose was, said, that of his own certain knowledge he was able to confirm the truth of his statement as to his having no goods to distrain.
The commitment therefore was made out, and Jack was sent off to the county gaol.
Lightly as he had talked of going to prison, yet he felt a good deal when actually on his way thither; and when he saw the high walls, the grated windows, the narrow cells,--still more when he heard the clank of the fetters of some of his fellow prisoners, who were confined for heinous offences, his soul sank within him.
He was shocked too and mortified at being required to put on that token of disgrace, a prison dress.
He did not, however, remain there long.
His poor mother was thunderstruck at hearing that her son was really sent to prison, and lost no time in endeavouring to get money enough to pay the fine in order to procure his freedom.
She had hardly any money in the house; but her neighbours were ready to lend her what they had by them; and four pounds, being the whole of her savings in service, were eagerly and freely given by Lucy Wilmot, a well-behaved young woman, to whom Jack Wildgoose had for some time been attached.
Mrs. Wildgoose could not bear to be in debt; and as she never was able to do much more than just maintain her family, she knew that she must deny herself and her children every little indulgence in order to repay her kind neighbours.
But she thought that any thing was better than suffering her son to remain in prison, in the society, it might be, of depraved and abandoned characters.
The penalty having been paid, Jack was immediately set at liberty.
He felt a little abashed at first coming home; but the kind manner of his mother, who, though her heart was full of grief, would not utter the least reproach, relieved him.
Jack soon observed in a variety of little things a change in his mother's manner of living.
She had been accustomed, for instance, to give her children a bit of meat baked with a pudding on Sundays.
When, instead of this, nothing made its appearance but some potatoes and dripping, with bread and cheese, the girls looked disconcerted, and Sam cried out, "Why, mother, what's become of the meat and pudding?
This is no better than a working-day's dinner."
Mrs. Wildgoose told them, that she could not at present afford to give them a better, and they should be thankful for what they had.
John knew well enough the meaning of this, and, to do him justice, felt a good deal.
Often did he now wish that he had in his pocket again those many shillings and sixpences, which he had uselessly spent at the Fighting Cocks.
His mother, who had always been pleased with his attachment to Lucy Wilmot, thought it but fair to tell him one day how generously she had contributed to his enlargement.
John was much overcome, and took the first opportunity of warmly thanking Lucy for her kindness to him.
Lucy was vexed at his knowing it, and was a good deal confused; but there was something in her manner, which encouraged him to express his hopes of being some day united to her.
Lucy was a frank, ingenuous, open-hearted girl, and did not pretend to deny the regard that she felt for him; "but, John," said she, "I can never consent to marry a poacher; I should not think it right to unite myself to a man who lives in the habit of breaking the laws.
I could not bear to have for a husband, the companion of nightly plunderers, drunkards, and sabbath-breakers.
Besides, I should never have a moment's peace.
The thoughts of fines, and imprisonments, and fightings with game-keepers, and all sorts of terrible things, would never be out of my head.
Instead of your coming home to me at night, I should expect to hear of your being taken up, or wounded, or being forced to fly the country.
No, John; I don't pretend to deny the kindness I feel for you.
We were play-fellows when children; were always good friends as we were growing up; and--perhaps--I might now use a stronger term of regard; but I never will--I never can--marry a poacher."
Wildgoose promised again and again, that he would give it up.
"So you said before, John.
Nobody could promise fairer than you did; and for a little while I hoped you would keep your promise.
But you know how little came of it after all."
John promised that this time he would be more steady.
Lucy replied, "As yet, John, we are both much too young to think of settling.
If I know my own heart, I think that I shall never love any man but you: but I will never become your wife, until you have shewn, by the experience of a year or two, that you have firmness enough to keep to your present resolution."
Wildgoose's spirit was a little _up_ at Lucy's not choosing to _trust_ him at once.
He was deeply gratified by her acknowledgment that she was attached to him; but at the same time felt something like pique and ill-humour, at what he called her want of confidence in him.
He was doubly resolved, however, to prove by his conduct that she had no reason to doubt his steadiness.
Every thing now seemed going on well.
John passed his days in honest labour, and spent his evenings at home.
He saw Lucy frequently; but soon after Christmas she was obliged to return to her place, which was in the family of a respectable gentleman, at some distance.
Towards the latter end of the second week in January, Wildgoose happened to be passing the public house, when Atkins and two or three others came running out, and eagerly asked him whether he had heard the news.
"News!"
said John, "what news do you mean?"
"News in which you are very nearly concerned," said Mike Simmons; "but we can't tell you here; come in with us into the house."
To enter the door of the Fighting Cocks was rather contrary to Wildgoose's resolution; but his desire to hear news, in which he was so greatly interested, got the better of his scruples.
He therefore went in, and found two or three other men, of no very good character, sitting round the fire, with their beer on the table.
Jack felt bound to call for some too, and asked to hear their news.
"And sad news it is," said Will; "the Quarter Sessions are just over; and--would you believe it!--they have sentenced poor Tom Cade to transportation."
Wildgoose did not happen to have heard of the law, by which such nightly depredators, if armed in any way, are made liable to that punishment[f], and expressed some surprise.
"Yes, they have condemned him to transportation," exclaimed the whole party; "transportation!
only for trying to shoot a pheasant or two."
"Now there you mistake the matter," said old Truman, (who, as he lodged with his son-in-law, was present at more of these conversations than he wished,) "you mistake the matter altogether.
The law does not transport a man merely for killing a pheasant, but for going out at night _armed_, and prepared for deeds of violence against those whose duty it is to protect the game.
The law gives every man a right to take care of his property.
It gives the owner of a manor and land a sort of property in the game on his manor and land, and a right to appoint persons to preserve it.
If lawless men choose to go, where they have no right to be at all, prepared to beat, wound, and perhaps to kill, the men, whose duty it is to protect the game, they deserve to be trounced pretty tightly.
Besides, you must remember, when a man is taken to in this way, he can't be punished at all without a fair trial by a jury; while in common game cases the justice is both judge and jury too.
To be sure," added he, "if a man thinks himself wronged by a justice's judgment, he has always a right to appeal against it."
Having said this, old Truman, who did not much like the company, and had no hopes of reforming them, went to bed.
[Footnote f: See Note [F.]] "For all the old man's fine talking," cried Atkins, "I say it is very hard and cruel usage of poor Tom: and I never suffer a friend to be wronged without being revenged.
Sir John's pheasants, at all rates, shall pay for it, and I would advise the keepers not to put themselves in harm's way."
"Let's go to-night," said Tim Nesbit, "there will be a fine moon; and besides, I understand Sir John comes home to-morrow from Wales, and then we shan't have so good a chance."
This was agreed upon, and Tim began singing the poacher's song; Oh!
'tis a merry moony night; To catch the little hares O!
They sat on drinking, though not so as to get intoxicated, till they thought the time suited their purpose.
When preparing to start, Atkins said to Wildgoose, who had taken a good deal more beer than of late he had been accustomed to, "You'll go with us, Jack?"
Wildgoose replied, that he had given up poaching for good and all, and should go quietly home.
"Now don't ye be shy," said Maurice Croft, "come along, like a hearty fellow as you used to be."
John still continued firm, and said that he should go back to his mother.
"Aye, let Johnny go and be tied to his mother's apron string; that's a good Johnny," cried Tim Nesbit, "I always thought him a chicken-hearted fellow.
Why, did'nt Bob tell you that he was turned methodist?
You can't expect a fellow like that to be true to his friends, or to have any spirit about him."
"When a man has, as you may say, lost a limb in the service," said Bob Fowler, who was sitting by the fire with his arm in a sling, "it's all fair that he should be a little backward, but I can't bear that a stout young fellow like that should turn coward."
Wildgoose felt mortified, and vexed, and angered; and his anger was upon the point of so far getting the better, as to make him still more determined upon avoiding their company; when Atkins, who had not joined in the cry against him, pretended to take his part.
"Jack's as stout-hearted a fellow as any of you," said he, "and he'll shew it to-night.
I know he'll go with us, if it's only to pleasure me, that have always been his friend, and run the risk of the pillory to get him off; and just to prove to you once for all that he's no coward."
"Come, Jack, I know you'll come with us this once, and we won't plague you again about it.
What has been said now, was all said in joke, so you mus'nt be angry.
You know you need'nt carry a gun if you do'nt like it, but you _shall_ just come and see the sport.
No harm _can_ come of it: as we shall be five of us, you may be sure the keepers will be wise enough to keep their distance."
Wildgoose, at last, suffered himself to be persuaded.
He thought that Lucy would not hear of it; and that at all events it should be the last time.
Away they went, and were soon at the outside of Sir John's preserve.
It was a still serene night.
The moon shone brightly, and the hoar frost sparkled like diamonds on the twigs and few dead leaves.
Atkins, who on these occasions always took a sort of lead, turned to his companions, and said, "Now, remember, my boys, we don't come here to be taken, and sent out of the country like poor Tom.
For my part I don't think the keepers will come near us; but if they do, we must stand true to each other, and send them home again as wise as they came."
They entered the wood, and dispersing themselves so as to be at no great distance from each other, began their attack upon the sleeping pheasants.
They had not fired many shots before the game-keeper, who was going his rounds, was brought to the spot.
As he was getting over the hedge, one of the stakes of which he had taken hold broke short off, and let him fall back into the ditch.
The noise gave the alarm to the poachers, and they most of them concealed themselves behind large trees, or the inequalities of ground in an old gravel pit.
Michael Simmons was not so quick as the rest.
The keeper got sight of, and soon contrived to seize him, exclaiming, "So ho!
my lad!
you must go along with me."
He hardly uttered the words, when Maurice Croft came to the rescue of his comrade.
The keeper, who was a powerful man, still kept hold of him, and warded off a blow or two which Maurice aimed, as well as he could, when he found himself suddenly seized by two men from behind, and borne to the ground.
"Blind his eyes, that he may'nt see too much of us," said Black Will; "tie his hands behind him, and make him fast to this young oak tree; he shall then have the amusement of hearing what pretty work we make among his pheasants."
These orders were immediately obeyed.
His gun was given to Wildgoose, who was growing more and more eager in the sport.
A handkerchief was placed over his eyes, and he was bound to the tree so tightly, as to occasion a considerable degree of pain.
The gang went gaily to work again, and the keeper had the mortification of hearing the pheasants fall on all sides of him.
His trusty fellow-servant, Stokes, however, was not idle.
He inhabited a cottage in the park.
The first shot that was fired had made him rub his eyes and raise his head from the pillow: and the second made him jump out of bed.
From the number of shots he judged that the poachers were in force; and accordingly called up the two garden-men, the stable servants, and a labourer or two, who were kept in pay for such occasions.
They hastened altogether to the scene of action, armed, some with guns, and the rest with stout bludgeons.
The marauders soon got together, and appeared disposed to face them: but when a few blows had been struck, they found themselves so decidedly outnumbered, that they turned about and ran off in different directions.
Some of Sir John's men hastened to unbind the game-keeper, while others went in pursuit.
Stokes, as it happened, followed Wildgoose, and having nearly come up with him, called upon him to surrender.
Wildgoose turned short round, presented his gun, and bad him keep off, or he would fire.
He was determined not to be taken: and upon recognizing Stokes, he saw in him the occasion of his imprisonment, and of the difficulties which the payment of the fine had occasioned to his mother.
He ought rather to have felt that he himself was the only cause of these evils, and that Stokes had merely done his duty.
He had no time for reflection however; and his angry feelings of hostility, together with the desire to escape, so got the better of him, that upon Stokes's advancing to take hold of him, he fired.
Stokes uttered a cry--exclaimed, "I'm a dead man"--and fell lifeless upon the ground.
Upon hearing the report of the gun, the keeper and his men quitted the pursuit of the other poachers, and hurried to the spot.
For a moment or two Wildgoose stood motionless with horror at what he had done; but when he saw the men coming towards him, he endeavoured to provide for his safety by flight.
Some difficulty which he found in clearing a hedge, enabled three of them to get up with him.
He defended himself for a short time with the butt end of the fowling piece, but was at length overpowered and taken.
During the remainder of the night he was guarded at the keeper's house; and next morning was carried before a magistrate, who having taken the evidence of Sir John's men, committed him to the county gaol in order to take his trial at the Assizes.
Every body was sorry for poor Stokes, who was as honest and civil a fellow as any in the neighbourhood.
All too felt for his widow, who with three small children were thus suddenly deprived of a kind husband, on whose industry and good character she depended for subsistence.
When the dreadful intelligence reached Wildgoose's mother, she stood like a statue.
She shed no tears; she uttered no lamentations; she stirred neither hand nor foot.
At last, uttering a faint scream, she dropped senseless on the floor.
Her eldest daughter, and a neighbour who had been called in, got her to bed, and it was long before she came to herself.
At first she had but an indistinct recollection of what had happened, and felt as if awaking from a horrible dream.
In proportion as her senses returned, she felt that it was no dream, but a sad reality.
Her first impulse was to go to her son; but when she attempted to get up, she was unable to stand, and fell back upon the bed.
A violent fever came on, attended with almost constant delirium, and the doctor had great apprehensions for her life.
The country house of the gentleman, in whose family Lucy Wilmot lived as house-maid, was at a considerable distance; and she had now accompanied her master and mistress to London.
It so happened that the sad news did not reach her till a few days before the Assizes.
When she had a little recovered from the first dreadful shock, she immediately determined to hasten to poor Wildgoose, in order to give him whatever comfort or assistance his awful situation would admit of.
She requested therefore her mistress to allow her a short leave of absence; borrowed a few pounds of the house-keeper, placed herself on the top of a stage, and next morning reached the county town.
With an aching heart, and trembling steps, she hurried to the gaol.
The gaoler, who, like most of his brethren of the present day, was a kind and humane man, having asked her a few questions, conducted her into his own parlour, and promised to bring Wildgoose to her: adding, that though his duty did not permit him to leave them alone together, yet that they might depend upon his not repeating any thing of what might pass between them.
Poor Lucy's heart sickened at the heavy creaking of the door which led to the prisoners' day room; and she was nearly fainting when she heard footsteps approaching the little parlour where she was sitting.
When Wildgoose entered, she started up, and without speaking, eagerly tried to take his hand.
He, however, uttering a deep groan, clasped both his hands to his face, and turning his head away, burst into a convulsive fit of sobbing.
Lucy still held her hand stretched towards him, when he at last said in a smothered voice, "Oh!
Lucy, don't try to shake hands with me; the hand of such a good girl as you are must not be touched by the hand of a murderer."
He then sank on a bench, and in spite of all his efforts to command himself, gave way to an agony of grief.
Lucy could hardly stand; she had, however, been internally seeking strength from Him, who alone can give it, and by his aid was supported.
Her ardent wish too, to be of use, led her to exert herself to the utmost.
When, after some minutes, Wildgoose became a little more composed, she spoke to him of taking steps for his defence at his trial; and said that she was provided with money in order to secure the assistance of a lawyer.
At first he would not hear of it.
He said that it would be of no use, and that he deserved to suffer.
Lucy herself, from what she had heard, hardly indulged any hope of his acquittal; but still urged him to make use of what assistance he could, both that he might have longer space for repentance, and also for the sake of his mother.
"Oh, my mother!
my dear, dear mother!"
exclaimed Wildgoose, striking his hand to his forehead, and giving way to the expression of the most piercing anguish.
Several minutes passed before he could at all compose himself, but when he was a little calmed, he at last consented that Lucy should take whatever steps she thought expedient.
With a voice almost stifled with emotion, Wildgoose then asked Lucy if she had heard any thing of the poor woman who had been deprived by his rashness of a tender husband.
Lucy replied that she had not.
"Alas!"
said he, "what is done cannot be undone, nothing can make up to her for her loss; but if my life should be spared, how gladly would I work night and day, to keep her and her poor children from want."
The gaoler now hinted to them that his duty required his attendance in another part of the gaol.
The prisoner was therefore reconducted to his ward; and Lucy was just leaving the parlour, when a gentleman entered.
From his dress and appearance she guessed him to be the chaplain of the gaol; and having ascertained by a timid and respectful enquiry that her conjecture was well founded, she implored him in the most earnest and pathetic manner to use his best offices in preparing Wildgoose for whatever might be the event of his trial.
The chaplain answered, that he had already had many very serious conversations with the prisoner, about whom she seemed to be so much interested, and that he trusted that he was properly affected by his awful situation; "He appears," said he, "never to have been entirely without some impressions of religion, though his conduct was not sufficiently governed by it; and dreadful as is the crime with which he is charged, yet it has not the additional guilt of premeditation.
I never dare to build much upon a profession of repentance occasioned by the near prospect of death; but as far as I can judge, his repentance is deep and sincere.
He is full of shame and sorrow for having lived in such neglect of God and his laws, and for having paid no better attention to serious religion.
The anguish which he feels from this last fatal deed is heart-breaking; and it becomes doubly acute, when he thinks of the desolate condition of her whom his hand has made a widow.
His only hope of forgiveness is founded on God's mercy in Christ."
"May I understand then, Sir," said Lucy, in an eager though tremulous voice, "that you think that if--if--if he should suffer for the crime, his eternal interests are safe?"
"I dare not say so; it is not for one sinful and erring mortal to pronounce confidently on the final state of another.
The mercy of God is extended to all truly penitent sinners, through the atonement of Christ.
I hope that the faith and the repentance of your friend are sincere; but, generally speaking, repentance under such circumstances must be attended with much of fear and doubt[g].
As I said before, I hope that the penitence of this poor young man is such, that it would, if his life should be spared, shew itself to have been real, by producing the fruits of a holy life; but I presume not to speak with confidence.
Let us both pray to God to perfect his repentance, and to increase and strengthen his faith."
Many aspirations to this effect had already been fervently offered up by Lucy, and she renewed them with redoubled earnestness.
[Footnote g: See Note [G.] To which I particularly request attention.]
Lucy was allowed to see Wildgoose frequently.
When the anxious time of trial came, she secured him the assistance of an able lawyer, who exerted himself in his defence.
It was however all in vain.
The facts of the case were so clear, and the evidence so strong, that the jury without hesitation returned a verdict of guilty.
The Judge, after a short preface, in which he emphatically introduced the words of Scripture, _whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed_, proceeded to pronounce the awful sentence of the law.
He did this in the most feeling and impressive manner, and many of the audience were in tears.
When he concluded in the solemn words, "The Lord have mercy on your soul," the prisoner, who during the trial had maintained a steady but melancholy composure, seemed torn and agitated by conflicting emotions.
After half uttering a deep and smothered groan, however, he in some measure recovered himself, and was removed from the bar.
Lucy, it may easily be imagined, could not bear to be present at the trial, but waited in painful and breathless suspense at her lodgings.
She thought that she was prepared for the worst, and had in fact never allowed herself to encourage any hope; but when the tidings of the sentence reached her, she felt a sudden mist before her eyes, and fell lifeless on the ground.
The woman of the house kindly gave her every assistance; but it was long before she came to herself.
At length she opened her eyes, and wildly looking round her, exclaimed, "Where is he?
where is he?
they have not torn him from me?"
Again her eyes closed; and she lost the sense of her misery in another swoon.
When she was a little recovered, the people with whom she lodged endeavoured to prevail on her to go to bed.
She was, however, steady in her refusal; and as soon as her limbs were able to support her, hastened to the prison.
She now found Wildgoose heavily ironed, and additional measures taken for securing him.
They grasped each other's hand in silent agony, and were long unable to speak.
At length Wildgoose exerted himself so far as to give her a message to his mother and family, and Lucy employed the little time she was allowed to remain with him, in suggesting such religious consolation as seemed most adapted to his situation.
The next day, which was Sunday, she received the Sacrament with him.
Wildgoose was calm beyond her expectations; and behaved throughout with a seriousness and fervour of devotion, which gave her more comfort than she had yet experienced.
I must spare both myself and the reader the pain of speaking of the awful scene of the day following.
It is distressing even to think, or to speak of an execution.
How is it possible that such numbers--sometimes, I fear, even women--can seem to take pleasure in going to witness the last pangs of a fellow-creature, who is condemned to forfeit his life to the offended laws of his country!
I would have every one pray for, and feel for, the criminal, but on no account seek to gratify curiosity, by actually witnessing his death.
The following paper was handed about, as the last dying speech of John Wildgoose.
"I acknowledge the justice of the sentence by which I suffer; and would have all young men take warning from my example.
I attribute my crime and punishment, in the first place, to my neglect of the Lord's Day; and in the second, to my keeping bad company.
Had I been regular in going to church, and attentive to my religious duties, I should, under the blessing of God, have preserved and increased the good impressions, which I had received from my parents.
These impressions, however, I suffered to wither away.
By keeping bad company I was led into _poaching_, in which I at first thought there was not much harm.
When by a kind friend I was convinced that it was wrong, the want of firmness in religion prevented me from giving it up.
Poaching made me the companion of sabbath-breakers, swearers, drunkards, and thieves; and at last led me on to the dreadful crime of murder.
May God support and comfort the poor woman whom my hand has robbed of a husband, and the dear and excellent parent, whom the same rash action has deprived of a son; may He make my sad fate productive of good to all who hear of it; and may He have mercy on my own soul through Jesus Christ!"
As soon as Lucy had recovered her strength sufficiently to enable her to travel, she went to her native village, where she found that Mrs. Wildgoose had passed the crisis of her disorder, and was beginning to recover.
Her two daughters were most attentive to her; but Lucy obtained permission to assist them in nursing, and to take her turn in sitting up by her bed-side during the night.
When the poor woman's health was in some degree re-established, Lucy felt it right to return to her kind mistress; but her cheerfulness and good spirits had entirely forsaken her, and a settled melancholy seemed to have taken possession of her soul.
Her only comfort is in prayer, and the consolations of religion.
After a confinement to her bed of several weeks, Susan Wildgoose was at length able to move about her house; and the wants of herself and family forced her to return to her former occupations: but she hardly spoke to any one; she served her customers in silence; and it is evident that the deep affliction under which she continually labours, will shortly bring her to the grave.
Her daughters and surviving son have youth and health on their side; but their behaviour and appearance are totally changed: and instead of being merry and light-hearted, they have become pensive and serious.
Time will wear away much of the acuteness of their grief, but it is probable that, as long as they live, they will never be free from the most painful and distressing recollection, that they have had a brother who was executed as a murderer.
_N.B.
This Tale is sold as a Tract, price 9 d._ NOTES.
_The following Extracts from Acts of Parliament are much abridged._ [Footnote A.: If any higler, carrier, inn-keeper, &c. shall have in his possession, or shall buy, sell, or offer for sale, any hare, pheasant, partridge, or grouse, every such higler, &c. unless such game be sent by some person qualified, shall forfeit for every hare, pheasant, &c. the sum of five pounds, half to the informer, and half to the poor.
5 Ann.
c. 14. s.
2.]
[Footnote B.: If any person whatsoever, _whether qualified or not qualified to kill game_, shall buy any hare, pheasant, partridge, or grouse, he shall, on conviction before one justice, forfeit 5_l._ half to the informer and half to the poor.
58 G. III.
c. 75. s. 1.
Any person may recover the said penalty by information, or may sue for and recover the _whole for his own use_, in any court of record, wherein the plaintiff if he recovers shall have double costs.
Sect.
3.]
[Footnote C.: If any person shall enter any park or paddock, fenced in and inclosed, or into any garden, orchard, or yard, adjoining or belonging to any dwelling house, and shall steal any fish kept in any water therein; or shall be assisting therein; or shall receive or buy any such fish, knowing the same to be stolen; and at the Assizes be convicted of such offence, he shall be transported for seven years.
5 G. III.
c. 14. s. 1, 2.
And if any person shall take or destroy, or attempt to take or destroy, any fish, in any other inclosed ground, being private property, without the consent of the owner, he shall upon conviction by one justice forfeit 5_l._ to the owner of the pond or fishery, and, in default of payment, shall be committed to the house of correction for any time not exceeding six months.
Sect.
3, 4.]
[Footnote D.: Whenever it shall appear to the justices, or to the overseers, to whom application shall be made for relief of any poor person, that he might, but for his _extravagance_, _neglect_, or _wilful misconduct_, have been able to maintain himself, or to support his family, it shall be lawful for the overseers (by the direction of the justices, &c.) to advance money to the person applying, by way of _loan_ only, and take his receipt for, and engagement to repay, (without stamp;) upon default of payment, two justices may commit him for not exceeding three calendar months.
59 G. III.
cap.
12. sect.
29.]
[Footnote E.: If any person shall knowingly and wilfully kill, take, or destroy any hare, or use any gun, dog, snare, net, or other engine, with intent to kill, take, or destroy any hare in the night, (or in the day time, upon a Sunday or Christmas-day,) he shall on conviction, on oath of one witness, before one justice, forfeit for the first offence not exceeding 20_l._ nor less than 10_l._; and for the second not exceeding 30_l._ nor less than 20_l._] [Footnote F.: If any person or persons, having entered into any park, wood, plantation, or other open or inclosed ground, with intent illegally to take, or kill, game, or rabbits, or to aid and assist in so doing, shall be found at night armed with any gun, fire arms, bludgeon, or any other offensive weapon, such person being lawfully convicted, shall be adjudged guilty of a misdemeanour, and shall be sentenced to transportation for seven years, or such other punishment as may be inflicted on persons guilty of misdemeanour; and if any such offender shall return before the expiration of such term, he shall be sentenced to transportation for life.
57 G. III.
cap.
90. sect.
1.]
[Footnote G.: _Extracts from Stonhouse's "Sick Man's Friend," on a Death-bed Repentance._ Bishop Burnet, in his excellent book entitled the Pastoral Care, (page 173, of the fourth edition,) says, "A clergyman ought to give no encouragement to men, who have led a bad course of life, to hope much from a death-bed repentance; yet he is to set them to implore the mercies of God in Christ Jesus, and to do all they can to obtain his favour.
But unless the sickness has been of long continuance, and that the person's repentance, patience, and piety, have been very extraordinary during the course of it, he must be sure to give him no positive ground of hope, but leave him to the mercies of God.
For there cannot be any greater treachery to souls that is more fatal and pernicious than the giving quick and easy hopes, upon so short, so forced, and so imperfect a repentance.
It not only makes those persons perish securely themselves, but it leads all about them to destruction, when they see one, of whose bad life and late repentance they have been the witnesses, put so soon in hopes, nay by some unfaithful guides made sure of salvation.
This must make them go on very secure in their sins, when they see how small a measure of repentance sets all right at last: all the order and justice of a nation would be presently dissolved, should the howlings of criminals and their promises work on juries, judges, and princes.
So the hopes that are given to death-bed penitents must be the most effectual means to root out the sense of religion from the minds of all who see it.
Therefore, though no dying man is to be driven to despair, and left to die obstinate in his sins, yet, if we love the souls of our people, if we set a due value on the blood of Christ, and if we are touched with any sense of the honour or interests of religion, we must not say any thing that may encourage others, who are but too apt of themselves, to put all off to the last hour.
We can give them no hopes from the nature of the Gospel covenant; yet, after all, the best thing a dying man can do is to repent.
If he recover, that may be the seed and beginning of a new life, and a new nature in him: nor do we know the measure of the _riches of God's grace and mercy_."
"When," says Dr. Assheton, page 45 and 46 of his Death-bed Repentance, "you visit sick beds, and hear a poor dying creature lamenting his sins with tears, and most earnestly begging pardon for the sake of Jesus Christ; when you observe how passionately he resolves, that if God will but spare him, he will become a new man, and never be guilty of such extravagance; what do you say or do in such a case?
Nay, what must such a wicked man do, who having lived in sin, shall thus happen to be surprised by death?
Dare you be so uncharitable as to declare that he is past hope, that there is no remedy, but that he will certainly be damned?
I answer, that I dare not presume to limit God, whose mercies are infinite.
In such a case I will not censure him, but admonish and instruct him to the best of my judgment and abilities.
I will exhort the dying sinner to remember his sins, to bewail them, to beg pardon for them, to form firm resolutions of amendment, and (when there is occasion) to make restitution; and having prayed earnestly for him, and recommended him to God's mercy, do I _then_ say such a one will be damned?
No, I _dare_ not.
But do I say he shall be _saved_?
No, I _cannot_.
What then do I resolve?
What do I determine in this matter?
I will be silent, and determine nothing; for as I dare not flatter him into a false and groundless presumption, so neither would I sink him into the horror of despair.
I say, I will determine nothing: I will judge nothing before the time.
However, I must be so faithful to my ministerial office as to admonish this dying sinner, that the Gospel (by the laws of which we are to be judged) expressly declares, that "without holiness no man shall see the Lord," and that Christ is the author of eternal salvation unto them (and to them _only_) who obey him.
_Heb._ v. 9.
When therefore the sick man has been vicious and extravagant all his life long, if God accepts his dying _resolutions_, it is more than he has _promised_, and it is more than he has given his ministers power to _preach_ and _declare_."
Repentance is a change of heart from an evil to a good disposition; no man can justly be called a true penitent, till his heart be thus changed, and whenever that change is made, repentance is certainly complete.
Now there is reason to conclude, God will consider that life as amended, which would have been amended if he had spared it.
Repentance in the sight of man cannot be known but by its fruits.
The only way man can judge is by the rule Christ himself has given us, "by their fruits ye shall know them."
_Matt._ vii.
20.
But God (our great Creator) sees the fruit in the _blossom_ or in the _seed_.
He (and He _only_) knows those resolutions which are _fixed_; those conversions which would be lasting; and will receive such as are qualified by holy desires for works of righteousness, without exacting from them those _outward_ duties, which the shortness of their lives hindered them from performing.
All, therefore, a minister can do, is to recommend a _death-bed_ penitent to the mercies of God.
But it is impossible for _him_ to pronounce what will be his state in another world.]
THE SMUGGLER.
ADVERTISEMENT.
It is possible that in the following little Tale there may be several inaccuracies with regard to the habits and manners both of seamen, and of smugglers.
The residence of the author in an _inland_ county must be his apology.
The similarity in some respects of the offence of smuggling, to the illegal pursuit which forms the subject of the preceding Tale--written two years ago--must be the author's excuse for the recurrence of similar sentiments and expressions.
_Jan.
1823._ [Illustration] THE SMUGGLER.
It was the latter end of the month of November, when Mary Waldron, having carefully put her two children to bed, sat down with an aching head and a heavy heart, to wait for the return of her husband.
He had sailed from Folkestone in a stiff half-decked vessel, in company with eight or ten of his sea-faring companions, and then told his wife that she might expect him back on the day following.
But that day and another had passed away, and he was still absent.
The night was dark and tempestuous.
The wind howled mournfully round the house; the rain beat hard against the windows; and whenever the storm seemed lulled for a moment, the continued roar of the waves, as they broke on the shingly beach, came heavily on her ear.
She tried to occupy herself in mending one of her husband's fishing jackets; but her hands and the jacket were constantly in her lap, and it was with difficulty that from time to time she was able in some degree to rouse herself.
At length, wearied out with watching and anxiety, and her candle having nearly burnt to the socket, she lay down on the bed in her clothes, and was just falling into an unquiet slumber, when she was waked by a knocking at the door.
She hurried down stairs, and let in her husband, who was accompanied by a short stout-built ill-looking man, in a rough seaman's jacket, from one of the pockets of which peeped forth the butt end of a pistol.
Both were wet and tired, and both seemed sullen, and out of temper.
At their first entrance, Mary eagerly cried out, "Oh!
James, I am so glad to have you home again.
I have passed a sad wearisome time since you went."
But Waldron received his wife's greeting coldly, and almost in silence.
He walked up to the fire place, and, stooping over the embers, began drawing them together, at the same time telling his wife to get a bit or two of wood, and then to warm a little beer.
His companion had under his arm a large bundle, tied round with a piece of sail-cloth.
"At least we've got that safe," said James, placing it in one of the chairs: and he then ordered his wife to put it under the bed for the night, and to carry it early in the morning, before it was quite light, to Mrs. Hawker's shop, near the church.
"I," added he, "shall be glad to lie in bed a bit, after being up three nights running."
When they had finished their beer, the stranger withdrew; and Mary, after uttering a fervent prayer for all who are in peril by land or by water, and for the bringing back to the right way of those who have strayed from it, retired to rest.
Early the next morning, Mary, in compliance with her husband's directions, carried the sail-cloth bundle to Mrs. Hawker, who received it with one of her most gracious smiles, while her little black eyes sparkled with satisfaction.
She immediately took it into a back parlour, and then returning to the shop, pressed Mary Waldron to take a glass of something comfortable.
This Mary declined, and immediately hastened home, carrying with her a loaf for her husband's breakfast.
She found him still asleep, and the eldest of the two children trying to keep his little sister quiet, that she might not disturb him.
At length, towards eleven o'clock, he got up, and the refreshment of a night's rest, a comfortable breakfast, and the active though quiet assiduity of his wife, seemed to have restored him to good humour.
"We'd a roughish time of it last night," said he.
"Yes, indeed," replied Mary; "and I wish, my dear James, you did but know a hundredth part of what I have suffered since you took to your present way of life."
"Why should you be more uneasy now," said James, "than when I was nothing but a fisherman?
We were then often out night after night, and sometimes in rough weather too."
"To be sure, I used now and then to be a little anxious," said Mary, "but you were seldom out when it blew hard, and besides"--she hesitated a little--"besides--don't now be angry with me, James, for saying it--I felt then that you were trying to get your living in a lawful and honest way.
Now when you are absent, my thoughts run upon all horrible things.
I do not think so much of the perils of the wind and the waves, though that is bad enough, as of the chance of your being taken as a smuggler, or of your doing some dreadful deed in order to escape.
They tell me, that the preventive-service men keep a sharp look out."
"A pretty deal too sharp," said Waldron, "I can tell you; if it had not been for them, we should have been back to Folkestone the night before last.
We were to have landed our tubs just beyond Dimchurch, and had made a signal for the men to be ready with the horses to meet us.
There was a thickish fog at the time; but still, these fellows somehow got sight of us, and pulled off in their boat, just as we were nearing the land.
Jack Spraggon, the man that was here last night, proposed sinking them; but, though they deserved it, I was not quite bloody-minded enough for that.
We had nothing else to do, therefore, but to put about, and as the wind blew off shore, we soon by the help of the fog gave them the slip.
As it was of no use to think of landing then, we stood right out to sea.
The wind soon after chopped about, and freshened to a gale.
When we were nearly off Folkestone, a Dane merchantman had managed to run aground at some distance from the shore.
The king's men--I must say _that_ for them--are always ready enough to help any ship in distress, and dashed away to take the poor fellows off the wreck.
And while they were busy at this job, two of our boats came out to us, and put us and part of our cargo on shore in East Weare Bay--just under the red and white cliff there, under the signal house.
As ill luck would have it, one of the men on the look out saw us, and gave the alarm.
We soon knocked him down; but the rest of them got together so fast, that we were forced to run for it, leaving our tubs behind.
I kept hold, however, of my bale of silk, and Jack and I scrambled up one of the winding paths in the cliff, and got clear off."
"Oh!
James," said Mary, "how many risks do you run since you've taken to this free-trading, as you call it."
"Nonsense," replied Waldron, "a seaman's wife must never talk of danger."
"I feel," replied Mary, "as if I could almost consent to your braving any danger in a good cause; but the cause that you are now engaged in is not a good one."
"Not a good one!
Why where's the harm, I should like to know, in buying in France a little brandy, or a few silks, or cambric, or laces, or what not, and selling them cheap in England, without going through all the trouble and expense of the custom-house?"
"There _must_ be harm," said Mary, "in constant opposition to the laws of the land; there _must_ be harm in living with such wicked men, as you now keep company with."
"Why, to be sure," replied Waldron, "the consciences of some of our free-traders are not over-scrupulous, but there are indifferent characters in all professions; and as for breaking the laws, I don't see much harm in that--I'm sure the laws do me no good."
"And what else but the laws," said Mary, "protect your house from plunder, and your wife and children from violence, when you are far away?
But I don't pretend to argue the matter, nor is it necessary that I should; you know the word of God."
"Come, come," retorted James, with a good deal of quickness and ill humour, "don't be trying to come over me with your lecturing and cant."
"Oh!
my dear, dear James," said Mary, with much earnestness, "if you love me, do not let me again hear you call the mention of the word of God by the name of cant.
You used formerly to keep your church, and you still sometimes read your Bible; surely the evil men with whom you have associated lately have not taught you to deny the authority of the Scriptures?"
"Why no," said James, "it's not quite so bad as that; but what do the Scriptures say about the laws, or about smuggling?"
"Why, in one place the Scriptures tell us to _submit to the powers that be_, that is, to the laws and constitution of the country, not only from fear of punishment, but _for conscience sake_, and from a sense of the advantage derived from them by society.
In another place they bid us _to submit to every ordinance of man for the Lord's sake_.
And with respect to smuggling, they command us to _render tribute to whom tribute is due, custom to whom custom_.
Therefore, whenever you smuggle goods into the country without paying duty at the custom-house, you directly fly in the face of this injunction of the Scriptures.
And at the same time that the smuggler thus breaks the laws of God and the laws of his country, he also injures the regular trader by underselling him; for, of course, the man, who conscientiously pays duty, cannot sell so cheap as he who pays no duty at all."
"And that puts me in mind," said Waldron, who wished to put an end to the conversation, "that I shall want a couple of pounds before night.
Do, Mary, just step up to Mrs. Hawker's, and ask her to let me have them on account of the silk."
Mary was always ready to comply with the wishes of her husband, and putting on her cloak, went to Mrs. Hawker's house.
She found her in her back parlour, shewing the silks to two smartly dressed young ladies.
The eldest appeared to be about nineteen, the other two or three years younger.
The countenances of both were expressive of good humour and liveliness, without much indication of thought or reflection.
Each had selected a sufficient quantity of silk for a gown, and they were in the act of cheapening their purchases, when Mary came in.
"No, indeed now, Mrs. Hawker, you _must_ take off a shilling a yard.
We really could get it as cheap in London, and, after all, the English silk they make now is quite as good."
"That may be true," said Mrs. Hawker, "but you must consider, my dear young ladies, the difficulty I have in getting it, and the risk the poor fellows run."
"Yes, indeed," said Mary, with a sigh, "it is the blood of men that you are buying."
The young ladies, who had not before seen Mary, as she was waiting near the door, turned round, and were just going to ask her what she meant, when one or two loud authoritative raps were heard at the outer door.
At the same moment the maid servant came running in with every symptom of alarm, saying, in a suppressed voice, "Mistress, Mistress, make haste, the custom-house officers are here."
Mrs. Hawker's countenance changed, but she was too much used to such occurrences to lose her presence of mind.
"There, ladies, pop the silks under your pelisses--there--quick."
The knocking was repeated more loudly than before.
"Who's there," said Mrs. Hawker, in a shrill tone.
A man's voice replied, "Let us in, we must come in directly."
"Coming, sir, coming immediately."
then in the same breath turning to the young ladies, "Stay, that will not do.
If they find you here, they, perhaps, will search you.
There, run into that back pantry, and keep the door tight."
Molly, meanwhile, had run off with the bale of silk to a hiding-place prepared for such occasions, and Mrs. Hawker hastened to the door.
Before the officers had time to express their anger at being kept waiting, she put on one of her best smiles, and addressed them with, "Mr. Scroggins, is it you?
Well now, I'm so sorry that you've had to wait; but the girl was down at the farther end of the garden, and I happened to be busy with my needle up stairs, and did not come down the first moment, as I did not know but that she was in the house.
But pray come in--I'm so sorry that I made you wait."
This speech gave their wrath a little time to cool: but Scroggins answered gravely, "Mrs. Hawker, we are come upon rather an unpleasant piece of business.
We have had information that a suspicious looking parcel was brought to your house this morning."
"What, to my house!"
said Mrs. Hawker; "well!
what will people say next.
I'm sure I should never have thought of such a thing; but pray satisfy yourselves--search wherever you please."
The officers looked about the shop and the back parlour, and went up stairs.
The place where the silk was concealed was, however, so well contrived, as to escape their observation; and Mrs. Hawker put on the appearance of innocence so completely, that the men began to think that they really had been misinformed.
The young ladies trembled with apprehension when they heard them come into the kitchen, and still more, when, as they passed the pantry, one of the men called out, "What door is that?"
"O," said Mrs. Hawker, "that is a sort of out building, but it let in so much cold wind to the kitchen, that we had it nailed up before Michaelmas;--but, I dare say, we can get it open, if you wish to see it;--I'm sure I want no concealment;--run, Molly, run down to Mr. Bellows, the blacksmith--you know where he lives--near the pier."
--"Why, I believe, we need not give you that trouble," said Scroggins; "I must say that you have been very ready to let us search every where: and, to tell you the truth, we are just now rather in a hurry, and it would be some time before Bellows with his lame leg could hobble here."
"Well, as you please," said Mrs. Hawker, "it's all one to me--I only hope that another time, Mr. Scroggins, you will not be quite so ready to believe idle stories that people make against their neighbours."
The officers wished her good day, and walked off.
She watched them to a considerable distance before she ventured to release her prisoners from their confinement.
They had been sadly frightened, but could not help laughing when they got out, though the eldest of them had greased the bottom of her pelisse against a flitch of bacon, which was lying on the bricks under the dresser; and the feathers of her sister were not improved by the intercourse which had taken place between them and a bunch of tallow candles, which were suspended from the low ceiling.
Having directed the silks which they had purchased to be wrapped up in a few yards of Manchester cotton and sent after them, and having put half a dozen pair of French gloves in their reticules, they set out on their return to Sandgate, where their father, Admiral Mowbray, had passed the greatest part of the autumn.
Before descending the hill, they stopped, as in their walks back from Folkestone they generally did, to contemplate the scene before them, which though, perhaps, not remarkably striking, has something of a pleasing character.
Immediately beneath them was Sandgate, sheltered from the east and north by a range of sand hills of no great height, but presenting considerable variety of form.
From the top of this range a nearly level tract of country stretched along to the foot of the chalk ridge, the line of which is here relieved by several singular conical hills, which stand forward as detached outworks of the principal rampart of chalk.
Close under them on the left was the castle, the grey tints and roughnesses of which have been smoothed and polished away by modern trowels, till it has acquired the appearance of a cluster of Martello towers.
Beyond Sandgate were some traces of the unfinished works, once destined to protect the commencement of the military canal, and the sea, now nearly at high water, almost breaking over the road.
The middle distance was formed by the town of Hythe, with its church on the bold rising ground to the north, its lancet-shaped east window peeping through the trees; and far to the left ran the long line of low land terminating in Dunge Ness.
The fishing boats of Hythe and Romney, with a revenue cutter and three or four brigs, gave animation to the near sea view; while, at a considerable distance, a couple of Indiamen were majestically making their way down the channel.
After admiring the prospect, the two sisters were slowly descending the hill, when they heard behind them the footsteps of two persons, who seemed to be rapidly approaching.
Their imaginations were filled with the idea of custom-house officers, and they immediately concluded that they were pursued.
They therefore walked on as fast as they could, being apprehensive that if they _ran_ they should confirm the suspicions of their pursuers.
The same apprehension prevented them from looking back.
The strangers, however, continued to gain upon them, but when almost ready to sink with alarm, the young ladies found that their fears were groundless.
They were overtaken and passed by a remarkably well-made active man, with a stout bludgeon in his hand, in company with a woman of a slight and elegant form, who contrived to keep pace with him, though she had a child in her arms.
They were in earnest conversation; the woman appearing to be using entreaties, to which the man refused to listen.
Just after they had passed them, they heard the man say in a voice, at once expressive of determination and of an agitated state of feeling, "Come--there's no use in trying to persuade me; I've told you that I must be in the marsh to-night.
Do you go home and mind the children, I shall not be absent long, and shall, most likely, get back to you before to-morrow night."
He then seemed to make an effort, disengaged himself from his companion, and went on with a hurried step.
The poor woman gazed after him for some time, and then turned back with an expression of anxiety and woe, which went to the hearts of the two sisters.
Their compassion and benevolence prompted them to endeavour to offer some consolation, but delicacy prevented them from intruding on the sorrows of a perfect stranger.
Upon looking at her more attentively, they recognized the same woman whom they had seen, not long before, at Mrs. Hawker's, and by whose remark upon their smuggling purchases they had been surprised and shocked.
They could not resist bringing it to her recollection, and asking her what she meant.
Poor Mary immediately burst into a flood of tears; the violence of her grief affected and alarmed the young ladies; and while they were trying to soothe both her and her child, the eldest of the young ladies exclaimed, "Surely you are--but no, it is not likely:--you cannot be the Mary Allen, who, about ten years since lived as house-maid with Mrs. Stanwick in Hertfordshire?"
Surprise and a sensation of pleasure checked the current of Mary's sorrow.
"Yes, indeed, I am," said she; "and is it possible that you young ladies are my dear mistress's nieces, who used so often to be staying with her when your father, the Admiral, was at sea?
Oh!
how kind you were to me, and how fond I used to be of you both!
But then you were both little girls, and I could venture to talk to you with freedom."
"And so you may now," said Emily Mowbray; "you seem to be in some affliction.
Before we knew who you were, we longed to comfort you; and now that we find that you are an old acquaintance, we shall have double pleasure in being of any use to you."
The circumstance of having, in early youth, been inmates of the same house, and in habits of frequent and kindly intercourse, leaves generally a lasting impression upon the heart.
This is often felt by schoolfellows, who, when they meet, after having been long separated, have a peculiar frankness and warmth of feeling towards each other, which is seldom produced by an acquaintance contracted in maturer years.
And something of the same warmth and disposition to freedom of communication is occasionally produced in children--children of the gentler sex particularly--towards the tried and valued servants of the families, in which many of their earliest and happiest days have been passed.
This species of feeling now glowed in full vigour in the bosoms of the two sisters, and of Mary Waldron.
Mary had met with sympathizing friends when she most wanted them; and the Miss Mowbrays found the interest, which had been excited by witnessing her grief, increased to a ten-fold degree by this unexpected recognition.
They pressed her to accompany them to their father's lodging house.
The child, however, which she had left at home under the care of a neighbour, made this impossible.
They therefore turned back, and walked slowly with her towards Folkestone, Caroline Mowbray having relieved her, by taking the child out of her arms.
During their walk, Mary told them, that nine years before she had accompanied her mistress to Hastings.
They passed the winter there, and during that time, she became acquainted with James Waldron, who frequently came to the house with fish.
Every body spoke well of him, as a sober, industrious, good-tempered man; and she became his wife when Mrs. Stanwick returned into Hertfordshire.
For about six years they lived happily together at Hastings; they then removed to Folkestone, where a small house had been left to Waldron by a relation.
Here he continued for some time to follow his old occupation, but unhappily became acquainted with some notorious smugglers, and was persuaded occasionally to accompany them in their expeditions to the French coast.
He was led on step by step, till smuggling had become his principal employment.
"From the time that he took to the smuggling line," continued poor Mary, "my happiness has been at an end.
He used to be the kindest of husbands and of fathers.
Now he is seldom at home, and when he is, is generally out of temper.
Now and then he will play with his children a little, but more frequently complains of their being troublesome.
He used to be sobriety itself, but latterly has taken to drinking spirits.
His very countenance is changed; it used to be frank and open, but now is apt to have a downcast anxious look, like that of a man who has some sad burden on his mind.
And oh!
how many fears do I have for him!
Sometimes, I think he will be lost at sea, for they are out in all weathers; and sometimes I tremble lest he should be taken on shore, or that to prevent himself from being taken, he should do some dreadful deed that should bring him to the gallows."
"I now too well understand," said Emily Mowbray, "what you meant by what you said to us at Mrs.
Hawker's."
"I should not have said it," answered Mary, "had I known who I was speaking to--but still it was nothing but the truth.
Little do ladies, who in the lightness of their hearts come to purchase the smuggled silks, and the gloves, and the cambrics, little do they think what a sad business they are encouraging; that they are in fact buying men's blood.
And oh!
my dear, dear young ladies, would to heaven that were all--I tremble to think how not only the lives, but the souls, of these poor fellows--the soul of"--but here her voice failed, she clapped her hands to her face, and burst into an agony of grief.
The two sisters soothed her as well as they could, and when she seemed tolerably composed again, turned their steps towards Sandgate.
The Admiral had been a little uneasy at their long absence.
"Well!
girls," he exclaimed upon seeing them, "where _have_ you been all this time?"
"Why, papa?"
--"Well, you must not stop to tell me now, but make haste to get ready for dinner.
Your cousin Harry Stanwick has promised to dine with us.
We can seldom catch him, you know; but I told him, that coming to us was not being off duty, as he is as handy here as at the castle, in case any of these smuggling fellows should require to be looked after."
The young ladies hurried to their rooms, and when they came down stairs, found their cousin already arrived.
The Admiral was eagerly trying to get from him some of the particulars of his saving the poor shipwrecked Danes.
"We had some difficulty," said Lieutenant Stanwick, "in launching our boat.
The first time, when we had just got her into the water, a heavy wave knocked her clean over.
Upon a second attempt we got her afloat, and were just beginning to use our oars, when she was swamped again, and two of the men were nearly lost in trying to get back to the shore.
My brave fellows, however, would not give it up: they could not bear, they said, to leave fellow-creatures to perish almost within hale of the land.
At the third trial we succeeded.
We got under the lee of the ship, and found her fast a-ground, her main-mast and mizen-mast blown away, and a tremendous sea breaking over her.
Several of the crew had been already washed off the deck.
I never shall forget the joy the poor fellows expressed, when we got them into our boat.
There was a black man particularly, whom they had brought with them from the West Indies, and who seemed quite overpowered with gratitude.
We brought them all safely on shore, and weary and buffeted as they were, the preventive-service men gave them up their beds, and the greatest part of their rations[h]."
[Footnote h: Founded on fact.]
During dinner the Admiral was continually asking for some particulars respecting the shipwreck, and it was with delight, mixed with a sort of trepidation, that the sisters heard the different instances of intrepidity and considerate kindness of these rough seamen.
Emily Mowbray especially, every now and then, could not help betraying, by the animation of her eyes and the glow on her countenance, the deep interest she felt in the display of these qualities in their commander, anxious as he seemed to be in his narrative to keep himself in the back ground.
When the servants had withdrawn, the Admiral turned to his daughters, to enquire what had become of them all the morning.
"Why to tell you the truth, papa," said Emily, "we had a little business in Folkestone."
"Some smuggling transaction, I dare say," replied the Admiral; "but why did that detain you so long?"
The young ladies felt, that in prudence the less they said the better, but still they were so full of their morning's adventure with the custom-house officers, that they could not help telling it.
"And could there, papa, have been _really_ any danger of their searching us?"
"They would not have dared," said Henry eagerly, his dark eyes flashing fire, and his face becoming crimson; but almost immediately both his manner and his countenance changed--"But I don't know--perhaps they would."
"Yes, indeed," said the Admiral; "from what little I have seen or heard of these custom-house officers, they are well enough disposed to be civil where they have no ground of suspicion; but where persons choose to place themselves in suspicious circumstances, they are bound to do their duty.--I own I am quite astonished that any lady, with the slightest sense of propriety or delicacy of feeling, can expose herself to the possibility of being placed in so unpleasant a predicament."
"Why do you speak of ladies only, papa?
I'm sure gentlemen smuggle as much as we do."
"I am afraid that some do," said the Admiral, "but it is generally in your service.
I am quite hurt for the credit of the class of society with which I associate, when I hear of any gentleman or lady taking advantage of the confidence, which is reposed in them as such, for the purpose of evading the laws of their country.
And for what?--for the sake of saving a few pounds; or for the gratification of some foolish vanity.
I have sometimes fallen in with men, who would have shot me through the head if I had barely hinted the possibility of their telling a lie, who would yet be guilty of the most paltry falsehood and equivocation for the sake of deceiving a custom-house officer; who, after all, allowed himself to be deceived, only because he trusted that, being gentlemen, they would not condescend to lie.
No, my dear girls, don't let me hear of your smuggling again."
The two sisters in the course of the morning had received a lesson against smuggling, which had not been lost upon them; but still the spirit of Emily rose at this attack, and she replied, "What, not smuggle at all?
Why it is one of the chief amusements of coming to the sea coast."
"I wonder what pleasure you can find in it," said her father.
"Why, in the first place, the things are so much better and prettier than we can get in England; and then the little difficulties which we have to surmount, and the contrivances and concealment which we have to manage, produce a sort of excitement, somewhat similar to that, which I imagine men to derive from the sports of the field.
And, after all, what is the harm of smuggling?
It is no offence in itself, and is merely made an offence by the arbitrary enactments of human laws."
"And ought you not, my dear Emily, to pay obedience to the laws, under the protection of which you live?
I might take higher ground, and refer you to the express words of Scripture.--You know the passage to which I allude.--The poorest man in the country is protected by the laws, but if he is not sufficiently aware of the benefits which he derives from them, some little allowance may be made for him on the plea of ignorance, want of education, and the many wants and privations which he actually encounters.
No such excuse, however, can be made for you, possessed as you are not only of all the necessaries, but of many of the superfluities, of life.
In the enjoyment of all these comforts and luxuries--in the rank and station which you hold in society--you are protected by the laws of your country, and surely those laws have a just claim to your obedience."
"There is, I acknowledge," replied Emily, "much force in what you say; but I am sure, that you must think the laws against smuggling are much too severe."
"The severity of laws is occasioned by the boldness of those who break them: when more lenient methods are found ineffectual, recourse is had to stronger and harsher measures.
Smuggling, as you know, consists either in evading the payment of the legal duties, or in purchasing articles which are prohibited altogether.--The evading of the payment of duties is clearly the same as robbing the public of so much of its revenue[i].
A poor man, who steals from distress, is punished, and justly punished, for no distress can justify doing wrong; but, I must say, that I think a well-educated person, who is guilty of wilfully plundering the public by smuggling, is a more guilty person than he is."
[Footnote i: "_Worthy._ Pray, Mr. Bragwell, what should you think of a man, who would dip his hand into a bag, and take out a few guineas?
_Bragwell._ Think!
why I think that he should be hanged, to be sure.
_Worthy._ But suppose that bag stood in the king's treasury?
_Bragwell._ In the king's treasury!
worse and worse!
what, rob the king's treasury!
Well, I hope the robber will be taken up and executed, for I suppose we shall all be taxed to pay the damage.
_Worthy._ Very true.
If one man takes money out of the treasury, others must be obliged to pay the more into it; but what think you if the fellow should be found to have stopped some money _in its way_ to the treasury, instead of taking it out of the bag after it got there?
_Bragwell._ Guilty, Mr. Worthy; it is all the same, in my opinion.
If I was a juryman, I should say, Guilty, death.
_Worthy._ Hark ye, Mr. Bragwell, he that deals in smuggled brandy is the man who takes to himself the king's money in its way to the treasury, and he as much robs the government, as if he dipped his hands into a bag of guineas in the treasury-chamber.
It comes to the same thing exactly."
From the Cheap Repository Tract, called "The Two Wealthy Farmers:"--a story, which, while it abounds in most useful moral and religious instruction, displays an insight into human nature, a talent for lively description, and a turn for quiet humour, which have seldom been surpassed.]
"Well; but you can't say that we defraud the revenue, when we buy silks, or gloves, or lace, upon which we _can_ pay no duty, even if we wished it!"
"These articles are absolutely prohibited by law, and you break the laws by purchasing them."
"But if the English can't make these things so well as the French, I don't see why I am obliged to buy inferior articles when I can get better--I am sure that I have heard you say yourself, that all matters of trade and manufacture should be suffered to find their own level, with as few restrictions as possible."
"This doctrine may be generally true; but there are many circumstances of a local or of a temporary nature, which may make restrictions expedient.
However, you and I Emily are not _legislators_.
_Our_ business is to obey the laws of our country, even if they should happen to be not quite consistent with our own notions of political [oe]conomy.--But I must just add one or two observations upon the articles which you ladies are the most fond of smuggling.
The prohibition of French and Italian silks was intended for the encouragement of our home manufacturers; especially the silk weavers in Spitalfields.
You have often heard of the distress and poverty of those poor people.
By buying foreign silk in preference to British, you, to a certain degree, add to that distress, and rob them of the encouragement, which they are entitled to by law.
Of late, I believe, that branch of our manufactures has been in a flourishing state, and that the silk weavers are not only fully employed, but that they manufacture silks quite equal to those from abroad.
If so, the ladies who smuggle them have no inducement but the pleasure of doing what is forbidden.
The French and Italians you know, have advantages in the production of the raw material, which we have not; and it seems reasonable to give our own countrymen some protection to countervail those advantages.--So again with respect to gloves, and lace.
One of the principal difficulties which in these times we have to contend with, is the difficulty of finding employment for our overflowing population.
Glove-making and lace-making furnish employment for our poor women; employment the more desirable, inasmuch as they follow it at their own homes.
If you knew how eagerly multitudes of your own sex catch at any employment, by which they can earn but a few shillings a week, both your patriotism and your benevolence would render you unwilling to deprive them of it.
For you, Emily, with your warm and affectionate heart, are not one of those who would annihilate all distinctions of kindred and country, in a vague idea of universal benevolence.
"But, after all," continued the Admiral, "perhaps my principal objection to your smuggling is the encouragement, which you thereby give to the poor fellows, who follow this dangerous and illegal occupation.
The habit of living in constant opposition to the laws is not only criminal in itself, but has a most injurious effect upon the whole of a man's character.
I have just given you credit for some feelings of patriotism, but you know that these feelings seldom exist in the breast of a smuggler.
We have Buonaparte's testimony, that, during the war, they were constantly employed in traitorously giving intelligence to the enemy; and in assisting the escape of the French prisoners of war.
This is bad enough; but we all know how frequently they are guilty of crimes of a still higher description, of the dreadful crime of murder itself.
And are you lady-smugglers quite sure that you are clear of all participation in this accumulated guilt?
The receiver of stolen goods is deemed by the law the accessary of the thief: and is not the purchaser of smuggled goods in some degree an accessary of the smugglers?
Besides, if you knew the distress and misery which smuggling often occasions to the families of those engaged in it, you could not, I think, encourage it."
The sisters felt the force of this latter argument more deeply than their father was aware of.
They were both silent.
At length Emily said, "Come, cousin Henry, cannot you put in a word to help us?"
"To help you?"
replied he; "no indeed:" and then added gravely, "But I am sure, that my dear cousins will not continue smuggling, while I and my brave fellows are daily hazarding our lives for its prevention."
Emily looked down, while her face and neck became scarlet, and a long pause ensued.
The Admiral felt that enough had been said, and was endeavouring to change the conversation to some other subject, when a servant opened the door, and said to Henry, "You are wanted, if you please, Sir."
He went out, and returning in a few minutes, said to his uncle, "I must be off directly.
A large smuggling lugger has been for some time hovering off the coast, and we have reason to believe, that they mean to land their cargo to-night in Romney Marsh, in spite of us.
One of my brother officers has sent me word, that a number of men from a considerable distance inland are getting together with their led horses, and that he apprehends that they will muster one or two hundred.
We, of course, must join forces to be a match for them; so good night."
He affectionately shook hands with the Admiral and the two sisters, and went out.
The door had hardly closed, when he came back, and a second time, taking Emily's hand, said, "You are not angry with me for what I said?"
"Angry, oh no!"
He pressed her hand in his, and disappeared.
In less than five minutes, he was in his boat.
Two of his men waited on the beach to shove him off, and then jumping in, they pulled stoutly to the westward.
The moon shone brightly, the water sparkled on their oars, and the clean white sides of the boat were reflected brilliantly on the waves.
They had passed Hithe, and were nearly off Dimchurch, when they saw the lugger at some distance from them getting under weigh.
By the assistance of her sweeps, and that of a favourable breeze which had just sprung up, she was soon out of sight.
Five boats had just completed their second trip, and were beginning to land the remainder of her cargo.
The beach presented an animated scene of activity and bustle.
Several horsemen, each with one or more led horses, were gallopping down the beach, making the pebbles fly around them in all directions.
One of their light carts was disappearing behind the mound of earth, which at high water forms a sort of barrier against the sea; a second was labouring up the steep bank of shingles; and two others were just quitting the water's edge.
A considerable number of men on foot, each with a tub slung at his back, were hurrying from the shore.
The men in the boats were clearing them of the remainder of their cargo as fast as possible; while others were loading with tubs the horses which had just reached them.
At some distance to the right, Lieutenant Stanwick, to his surprise and indignation, discovered a pretty strong party of king's men in a state of inaction, and apparently uncertain what to do.
The fact was, that the smugglers had posted behind the sea bank, which served as a breastwork, two strong parties of sixty or seventy men each, one on each side of the passage leading to the sea.
These parties, being well provided with fire-arms, rendered any attempt to approach the carrying party extremely hazardous.
Stanwick made his men pull right for the shore; but the moment the boat touched the ground, they were received with a volley of musketry, discharged by an invisible enemy.
The balls whistled over their heads, but from the lowness of their position not a man was touched.
They immediately leaped on shore, and advanced rapidly towards the spot from which the fire proceeded.
A second volley more destructive than the first arrested their progress.
Three of their number fell; one killed on the spot, and two dangerously wounded.
Stanwick himself received a bullet in his left arm, which shattered the bone a little above the elbow.
The men for a moment hesitated, and seemed almost disposed to retreat.
Their commander, however, having contrived to support his arm in the breast of his jacket, again pressed forward, calling to his men, "Come, my lads, don't let us be beat by a parcel of smugglers!"
At the same moment they were joined by the other party of seamen, and both uniting together, soon came to close quarters with the motley, but resolute, band of men, who were opposed to them.
The vigour of their attack made the smugglers give ground; but as they were almost immediately supported by the party from the other side of the road, the combat was renewed.
The seamen fought with the most determined gallantry, but were so greatly outnumbered, that they were in some danger of being overpowered, when they heard the trampling of horses rapidly approaching, and saw the glittering of arms in the moon-light.
The alarm had been given at the barracks, and a troop of dragoons had been immediately ordered out, who had been directed by the firing to the scene of action.
The smugglers, who, by this time, had nearly secured the whole of their cargo, commenced a hasty retreat, leaving three of their number killed.
For a short distance, they kept the public road; then turning suddenly to the right, crossed a broad ditch by means of a light wooden bridge, or pontoon, which was ready prepared for that purpose; and continued their flight across the marsh.
The cavalry came up in time to make prisoners of two of the gang, who having been slightly wounded, had not kept up with the rest: but they found the bridge removed.
The three foremost of the dragoons, without hesitation, spurred their horses at the ditch.
One of them swerved to the left; another came against the opposite bank and fell back upon his rider, who extricated himself with difficulty from his perilous situation.
The third leaped short, and came into the ditch on his legs: he floundered on for a short way in the mud, the dragoon preserving his seat as steadily as if he had been on parade, until a low place in the bank enabled him to scramble back to his companions.
The moon was now setting, and farther pursuit appeared to be not only useless, but dangerous.
The excitement occasioned by the short but vigorous conflict having ceased, Henry Stanwick found his strength beginning to fail.
Exhausted by pain and fatigue, and faint from the loss of blood, he sunk down on the sea bank.
One of his men, however, quickly contrived to tap one of the kegs, which had been dropped in the confusion, and gave him a small quantity of brandy, by which he was a good deal revived.
As his men were anxiously proffering assistance, "Never mind me," said he, "I am only hurt in the arm, and shall do well enough; but there's a poor fellow there, who stands much more in need of assistance than I do."
At the same time, he pointed to a man in a seaman's jacket, who was lying on the ground at a short distance from him.
His hat was off, he had received a severe gash in the forehead, and a pistol ball had passed through the upper part of his body near the right shoulder.
An old musket which appeared to have been recently discharged, and the stock of which was broken, was lying near him.
When Stanwick's men approached him, he was hardly able to articulate.
They, however, made out, that he wished to be conveyed to Folkestone.
They accordingly carried him carefully down the beach, and placed him in the boat, in the easiest posture they could.
Henry Stanwick was able to get on board without much assistance.
They rowed slowly back to Sandgate, and having landed their Lieutenant, proceeded on to Folkestone.
It was not without difficulty that the wounded man was lifted from the boat; and then, some of his brother townsmen having taken a door off the hinges, and gently laid him on it, set off with slow and heavy steps towards his house.
As Waldron had told his wife not to expect him till the next day, she had gone to bed, and was quietly asleep with her children.
Hannah Reeves, a poor woman who lived near the pier, had kindly gone forward to prepare Mary for what she had to go through, and knocked gently at her door.
She started up in her bed immediately, for the anxious state in which she had been living had accustomed her to awake at the slightest noise.
Having put on a few clothes, and struck a light, she hurried down stairs.
In the countenance and manner of her kind-hearted neighbour, she immediately saw that she had some sad intelligence to communicate; but when she heard that her husband had been brought to Folkestone severely wounded, her eyes grew dizzy, her head swam, and she would have fallen to the ground had not Hannah supported her.
It was no time, however, for giving way to grief, and, by a strong effort, she almost immediately roused herself.
Understanding that there might be some difficulty in getting her husband up the narrow winding staircase, she set to work, with the assistance of Hannah Reeves, to bring the matress on which she slept into a little back room, the floor of which was boarded.
She made it as comfortable as she could, and had hardly completed her preparations, when the heavy tread of a number of men was heard approaching the door.
Mary was unable to speak, but silently assisted in placing her unhappy husband on the bed, that she had got ready for him.
The rough weather-beaten countenances of the men who had brought him, were softened to an expression of mournful sympathy; the eyes of several of them were filled with tears.
As soon as they found they could be of no farther use, they quietly withdrew.
Waldron had hardly shewn any signs of life, excepting by uttering now and then a deep and heavy groan: but when the men were gone, he contrived to raise himself a little in the bed; and taking the hand of his wife, who was hanging over him in speechless agony, said in a voice, almost inarticulate from weakness and emotion, "Oh!
Mary, why did I not listen to your advice!
I might have earned my bread in an honest way, and been happy with you and the children; but I listened to the persuasion of evil men, and now, smuggling has brought me to this."
He would have said more, but the effort which he had made was too much for him--he sank down on the bed, and after one or two deep but feeble groans, expired.
Mary did not immediately perceive what had happened; but when the dreadful reality burst upon her, the shock was too powerful for her frame, exhausted as it was by anxiety and grief.
While there was an immediate call for exertion--while there was any thing to be done for her husband--the exertion had roused and supported her.
That support was now at an end, and she fell senseless on the floor.
Hannah Reeves was up stairs with the children, one of them having begun to cry, and she had succeeded in quieting and lulling it asleep.
Upon returning to the back room, she found Mary Waldron extended motionless by the side of her husband.
Gently raising her up, she endeavoured to restore her to herself by throwing cold water in her face, applying burnt feathers to her nostrils, and making use of such other remedies, as either she, or two or three neighbours, who had come in to her assistance, could think of.
For a long time their endeavours were ineffectual.
At length a slight convulsive tremor seemed to pass over her.
Her lips, which had been deadly pale, began to assume something of their natural colour, and after one or two deep and long drawn sighs, she appeared to breathe with some degree of freedom.
The first care of her kind attentive neighbours was, to remove her from the sad object which was stretched out by her side.
With difficulty they got her up stairs, and undressing her, laid her in the same bed with her children.
Hannah Reeves was anxiously watching over her, when she opened her eyes, and said in a faint voice, "What, is it you, Hannah?
What brings you here so early in the morning?
But I suppose it is time for me to think of getting up.--Oh!
Hannah, I have had such a dreadful dream!
But it is all over now, I am so glad that you woke me."
And then after a little pause, added, "How soon do you think James will be home again?
He told me that he should come back before night."
Poor Hannah turned away her head, and seemed to busy herself in another part of the room, and Mary again fell into an unquiet slumber.
Henry Stanwick had been landed near the castle at Sandgate, supported by one of his men, he was slowly ascending the beach, when he was met by the Admiral muffled up in a sea cloak.
He had heard of the engagement with the smugglers, and of his nephew's wounds.
"Come along, Harry, with me," said he, "we must nurse you at my house.
I have no doubt that you would be taken very good care of here: but still there are some little comforts, which perhaps can be furnished better at a private house; and we must allow that the women understand these matters better than we do."
Henry yielded to his uncle's persuasions.
He found his two cousins ready to receive him, with looks expressive of tender affection, mixed with deep anxiety.
They had been busily occupied in preparing his room.
As the surgeon was expected every moment, they were fearful of altering the position of the wounded arm until his arrival.
In the interval Lieutenant Stanwick, though suffering a good deal of pain, shortly mentioned a few particulars of the conflict; adding, "I cannot help longing to hear what becomes of the poor fellow, that we brought away in our boat.
He wished to be carried to Folkestone, and "--"To Folkestone!"
exclaimed Emily, "I hope it is not poor Mary's husband!"
"He did not mention his name," said Henry; "indeed he could hardly speak at all, but he was a remarkably well-made active looking fellow, and I was vexed to my heart at his having engaged in such a service."
The sisters could not help having some misgivings, but they had a nearer cause for anxiety in the severe wound of a relation so deservedly dear to them.
When the surgeon arrived, he found the bone of the arm so much injured, that immediate amputation was necessary.
The operation was successfully performed, but was followed by a considerable degree of fever, during which the two sisters nursed him with unremitting assiduity.
The fourth day after the amputation Henry seemed much better, and both he and the Admiral begged them not to continue to keep themselves such close prisoners, but to resume their usual exercise.
They were the more ready to comply, as they were very anxious to go themselves to Folkestone, to enquire after Mary Waldron.
They found out the house; but upon approaching it, observed a degree of bustle, and saw several men in sailors' jackets--most of them with some symbol of mourning about their dress--issuing from the door.
Presently the coffin was brought out; the men raised it on their shoulders; the black pall was thrown over it; and with measured steps they moved towards the church-yard, while the solemn toll of the bell, being heard at shorter intervals, announced the near approach of the corpse to its last mansion.
The sisters waited at some little distance, till the melancholy procession had passed on; and then going up to the door of one of the neighbouring cottages, enquired with feelings of deep interest after poor Mary.
She, they found, was perfectly insensible to all that was passing.
The morning after her husband had been brought home, she for sometime appeared to retain no trace of what had happened.
The circumstance of her being not in her own bed, and the manner of Hannah Reeves, who was unable to control her feelings, by degrees brought back to her recollection the dreadful calamity which had befallen her.
She uttered one piercing cry of woe, and then a deadly stupor took possession of her whole frame.
From this she had at last been roused, but it was succeeded by a wild delirium, and a burning fever, which no skill or attention had been able in the slightest degree to mitigate.
The sisters went to this house of mourning.
The children had been removed to the cottage of a neighbour, but Hannah Reeves came down to them.
She had hardly ever quitted the bedside of the sufferer, and attended her with that watchful kindness, which the poor so often shew to each other when in distress.
The Miss Mowbrays begged Hannah to let nothing be omitted which might contribute to the recovery of poor Mary, at the same time mentioning their intention to take every expense upon themselves.
They did not know Hannah, but there was something in her manner which told them that any hint of remuneration to her would be misplaced.
Upon their return to Sandgate they found sitting with the Admiral the captain of the troop of dragoons, which had come to the assistance of the seamen.
From him they understood, that of the two smugglers who had been taken, one was a Folkestone man of the name of Spraggon, a man of notoriously bad character, and who had behaved in the engagement with the king's men with a boldness bordering on ferocity.
The other prisoner was a labourer belonging to a village just above the marsh, who had long been in the practice of assisting in running smuggled goods.
He received high pay--five, eight, ten shillings a night--sometimes even more.
Money obtained by breaking the laws seldom does a man any good.
And, in fact, when he came to deduct the sum which he might have earned by more creditable work--for a man who had been out all night could not work the day following--and also the money which went in drink and other expenses--it was generally found that little came home to his family.
His earnings of all descriptions, however, were now put an end to.
He and Spraggon were convicted at the next assizes of the murder of the seaman; and two days after were executed.
It was long before Mary Waldron shewed any signs of returning health.
The fever, however, gradually gave way, but it left her in a state of the most deplorable weakness.
Emily and Caroline called at the house very frequently during the whole progress of her illness, supplying abundantly whatever they thought likely to contribute to her recovery, or to her comfort in her present state of suffering.
But from the time that her reason and recollection began to return, their walks to Folkestone became almost daily.
In the gentlest and kindest manner they said and did all they could, to comfort her, and to assist in directing her thoughts to the only unfailing source of consolation--to that Being, who invites the widow to trust in him, and promises to protect and provide for the fatherless children.
From such considerations as these, and from that aid which was granted from above in answer to her humble and fervent supplication, Mary recovered a degree of calm composure almost sooner than the sisters had anticipated.
Once, when speaking of her future means of subsistence, they hinted the idea of making up, with the assistance of their friends, an annual sum, which would be sufficient to keep her from want.
But Mary would not hear of this.
"If it please God," said she, "to restore me to health, I have no doubt, but that by taking in washing and needle work, I shall be able to get bread for myself and my poor children; and as long as I am able to work for myself, I could not bear to be a burden to any one."
"But it would be no _burden_ to _us_ at all," said Emily.
"Of that," replied Mary, "I am well assured, from the kindness, which you have already shewn me; but I feel that I could not be so happy if I depended for my livelihood, under Providence, upon any one but myself."
In their walks to Folkestone they were often accompanied by their cousin Harry, who in consequence of his wound had been relieved from the painful service in which he had been employed, and appointed first lieutenant to a frigate, which was destined to the Mediterranean, but was not to sail for some months.
One day, as they were approaching Mary's house, the two little children came running out, with much glee and animation in their eyes, to thank them for their nice new frocks.
The sisters knew not what they meant.
Upon entering the house, Mary expressed her acknowledgments for what they had sent the children, as well as for the gown and other clothing which she had received herself.
They looked surprised, and said that they had sent nothing.
The colour of Henry's face soon told Mary who had been her benefactor.
In their walk they had passed by Mrs. Hawker's shop, and found the windows shut up.
They asked Mary the meaning of this.
She told them, that some time before, the officers had made a large seizure of smuggled goods in her house, and had sued her for the penalties, which amounted to so large a sum, that she was utterly ruined.
It is hardly necessary to say, that the Miss Mowbrays had never visited her house since their purchase of the silks.
The many crimes and calamities which a single day had witnessed, had given them a sufficient lesson upon the evils of engaging in illicit traffic; and neither the stump of Henry Stanwick's arm, nor the sight of the widowed Mary and her fatherless children, were needed to make them resolve, that they would never again be guilty of _smuggling_.
GOOD-NATURE, OR PARISH MATTERS.
[Illustration] GOOD-NATURE, OR PARISH MATTERS.
Mr. Stanley had just reached the last stile in the footpath leading to Inglewood parsonage, when his progress was for a moment interrupted by two persons, who were talking so earnestly, that they did not see him.
One of them was a short fat man, in the dress of a farmer.
His round and rosy face seemed to be full of good cheer and good humour; but bore no great signs of intelligence.
He was speaking to an untidy looking woman, whose manner was expressive of a sort of low familiarity, not however unmixed with symptoms of servility and cringing.
"Never mind, Nanny," said the farmer, "never mind--neighbour Oldacre is, I must needs say, a little hard upon the poor--but never mind; I shall take to the books in a fortnight's time, and then things will be better."
"But you know, master," said the woman, "if you could but manage that little job for us, we should hardly trouble the parish at all."
"Well, I'll do what I can," answered the farmer; "my being a parish-officer, will help."
The woman was going to reply, but happening to see Mr. Stanley, she drew back from the stile, and allowed him to pass on.
Trifling as the occurrence was, Mr. Stanley happened to mention it to his friend at the parsonage, as they were sitting together after dinner.
Upon his describing the figure and face of the farmer, "Yes," said Mr. Hooker, with a smile, "that must have been my parishioner, Farmer Barton.
He is, as you describe him, a good-humoured looking fellow, and it has always been the height of his ambition to be reckoned a _good-natured_ man."
"I cannot much blame him for that," replied Stanley; "_good-nature_ is a most amiable quality, and I heartily wish there was more of it in the world than there is."
"In that wish I cordially agree with you," said Mr. Hooker; "if by _good-nature_ you mean a genuine spirit of kindness or Christian benevolence, which prompts a man to do whatever good he can to the bodies and souls of all within his reach.
The _good-nature_, however, of Farmer Barton is not exactly of this description.
It springs from a love of low popularity, from a wish to gain by whatever means the good will and good word of all descriptions of people.
This wish leads him to assent to whatever is said, and to accede to almost every request, unless it immediately touches his pocket.
To that indeed his _good-nature_ does not always extend.
In his fear of being thought _ill-natured_, he very often loses sight of duty, and his dread of offending or of contradicting those who happen to be _present_, makes him not unfrequently forget what is due to those who are _absent_."
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who came to tell his master that Farmer Barton wished to speak with him.
"Pray shew him in," said Mr. Hooker; "but I am unable to guess what his business can be."
The farmer came in, and, upon Mr. Hooker's asking him what he wanted, replied, "Why, it is only to get you to put your hand to this bit of paper."
"Let us look at it," said Mr. Hooker; and then casting his eye over it, added, "This I see is an application to the magistrates, to set up a new public house in the village, and a recommendation of Robert Fowler as a fit man to keep it."
"Yes, Sir," replied the farmer; "poor Bob since he got the hurt in his arm has never been able to do the work of another man, and he and Nanny have begged me and some of the neighbours to help him to set up a public house, as a means of keeping him off the parish."
"And do you, Farmer Barton, honestly think," said Mr. Hooker, "that we _want_ a public house here?
You know that there is hardly any thoroughfare through the village; and even if there was, we are but two miles from a market town, where there are inns and ale-houses in abundance."
"Why I can't say there is any particular want of it," said Barton.
"But Fowler's family is likely to be a heavy burden to the parish."
"The parish, I am satisfied," rejoined Mr. Hooker, "would be no gainer in the end.
Don't you suppose that many of the labouring men would often, after their day's work, go to the ale-house, instead of going home; and spend there, some part of the money which ought to find food and clothes for their wives and families?
A country ale-house is too often found to be attended with raggedness and hunger in the women and children; and I know that this is the opinion of the poor women themselves.
Besides, don't you remember, what drunkenness and quarrelling we used to have before Tomkins's house was put down?"
"Why, I must say, that the men have been more quiet and sober of late."
"As clergyman of this parish," said Mr. Hooker, "I shall never assist in setting forward a measure, which I think would be hurtful to my parishioners: and I must own, that I am surprised to see that so many sensible and respectable men have signed their names to this recommendation."
"Why a man don't like to seem _ill-natured_," said the farmer.
"We must not," replied Mr. Hooker, "for the sake of assisting one man or one family, do that which would be prejudicial to the whole parish.
And besides, I thought that Fowler was one of the most drunken, idle fellows in the village."
"Why to be sure," said the farmer, "he does like drink better than work."
"And yet you and your brother farmers are here ready to certify that he is of good fame, sober life and conversation, and a fit and proper person to be intrusted with a licence!
Do you not see that you have all set your hands to a direct falsehood?"
Barton looked foolish, but added, "Why one don't like to refuse such a thing--and when others do it, it would look so _ill-natured_."
"And so, for fear of being thought _ill-natured_, you can not only set your name to a lie, but give a helping hand to a measure, which by your own acknowledgment would be likely to increase the poverty as well as the immorality of many of your poor neighbours.
Indeed, indeed, Mr. Barton, an English farmer ought to have had more manliness of character than this comes to."
"But then poor Bob is such a _good-tempered_ fellow; and besides, you know, he is half disabled for work!"
"Yes, he received his hurt in the very act of breaking the laws of the land by poaching, and I do not think _that_ a reason for putting him in a situation in some respects above that of the generality of cottagers."
Farmer Barton found that he was not likely to succeed in the object of his visit; and saying with a smile, "Well, Sir, I did not think you had been so hard-hearted," quitted the room.
"There!
Stanley," said Mr. Hooker, "that's the way of the world.
Most of the men who have signed that certificate are, as times go, decent and respectable men, and would, I doubt not, pretty much agree with me as to the probability that both poverty and immorality would be increased by the establishment of an ale-house in the village; but yet for the sake of being _good-natured_ to an individual, they set forward a measure, which they think will be generally pernicious; and set their hands to a lie, rather than refuse an unreasonable request.
Their _good-nature_, to be sure, is not confined to Fowler as its only object.
Some of them, probably, wish to be _good-natured_ to a brother farmer, who is the owner of the house; and some think that they shall do a kindness to the brewer, who will supply it with beer."
"But what," replied Stanley, "shall you do in this business?"
"Why, I don't very well know," said Mr. Hooker.
"You have been acquainted with me long enough to be assured, that I would suffer my hand to be cut off, rather than set it to a palpable falsehood;--and that I would never take any _active_ step in assisting a measure which in my opinion will be hurtful to my parishioners.--But perhaps something of the same sort of weakness which I blame in others, may prevent me from taking any _active_ measures _against_ it.
I am not fond of going into public, or of encountering the bustle of the justice-room.--Perhaps I shall be _passive_, and try to quiet my own conscience by saying, that things must take their course: that it is not for me to come forward in opposition to the declared wish of most of the respectable part of my parishioners."
"But surely the magistrates will not set up a new public house without the signature of the clergyman to the certificate?"
"The new Act requires the signature _either_ of the clergyman, _or_ that of the majority of the parish officers, together with four reputable and substantial householders;--or that of eight respectable and substantial householders.
Fowler's certificate has all the parish officers but one, and other names in abundance, and _good-nature_ will prevent any one from saying that some of those names are neither respectable nor substantial.
The magistrates will see that the requirements of the Act are complied with, and they will perhaps feel like me;--they will be unwilling to incur the odium of opposing the wishes of all those _respectable_ and _substantial_ personages, and thus _good-nature_ may induce them to sign the licence."
"At all events," said Stanley, "you will be able to keep Fowler in order by the penalties of the new Act.
The old system of absolutely forfeiting the recognizance was too severe to be acted on."
"Perhaps," said Mr. Hooker, "now and then, in some flagrant case, by which some individual is _personally_ injured, these provisions may be called into play.
But how seldom do you hear--in the country at least--of penalties being enforced from a sense of public duty?
_Good-nature_ is always against it; and the man who from the purest motives endeavoured to enforce them, would be sure to have all the host of the _good-natured_ arrayed against him."
Two days after was the licensing day: the _good-natured_ Barton having undertaken the patronage of Fowler's application, set out in good time to advocate it at the justice-meeting.
He had got about three quarters of a mile from the village, in his way to Chippingden the market town, when he was overtaken by Mr. Bentley, one of the magistrates.
"You have a dreadful road here, Farmer Barton," said Mr. Bentley.
"Who is your surveyor?"
"Why, I am at present," replied Barton, "and as we are a little behind hand with the duty, I am afraid that I shall have to go on for another year."
"Then why do you suffer the road to continue in this state?
The ruts are so deep, that it really is hardly safe."
"It is all occasioned by that high hedge," answered the farmer, "which keeps off both sun and wind.--And besides, from there being no trunk or tunnel in that gate-way, the water of the ditch is thrown into the road.
To be sure it _was_ pretty dirty in the winter, for all we buried so many stones in it."
"Then why was not the hedge cut, and a tunnel made in the gateway to carry off the water?"
said Mr. Bentley.
"I did once give Farmer Dobson a hint about it," answered Barton, "but he says, that the hedge is not above nine years' growth, and that he shall have better poles by leaving it a few years longer."
"But you know very well," replied the magistrate, "that your warrant empowers you to require him to cut it, and if he refuses, to do it yourself at his expence."
"I know that well enough," said Barton, "but that would be so _ill-natured_ and unneighbourly-neighbourly, that I could not bear to think of it."
"And so," rejoined Mr. Bentley, "the necks and limbs of his Majesty's subjects are to be endangered, and the whole neighbourhood put to inconvenience, for the credit of your _good-nature_?
A man in a public office, Mr. Barton, should always execute the duties of that office with as much civility and kindness as possible; but he must never neglect his public duty, for the sake of gratifying any private individual whatever.--And look!
what business has this dunghill here?
your warrant tells you that nothing should be laid within fifteen feet of the middle of the road--and this dunghill is so close, that the road is ruined by the moisture proceeding from it.
And see how the farmer has cut the road to pieces by drawing out his dung in the wet weather."
"To be sure, what you say is true, but the field won't be ready for the dung till the spring."
"Another sacrifice of the interests of the public to private convenience!--And here again--you'll think and call me a troublesome fellow, Mr. Barton--but why do you suffer these heaps of stones to be so forward in the road?
They are absolutely dangerous."
"Why the men who work on the road like to have them _handy_."
"As they are paid by the day it can make no difference to them, and even if it did, you must not endanger the safety of travellers from a _good-natured_ wish to humour your workmen--I suppose the same reason induces you to allow them to put in the stones without breaking them?"
Barton acknowledged that it was.
Mr. Bentley charged him again not to let his _good-nature_ make him forget his duty to the public--"But," added he laughing, "perhaps I must confess that it is some feeling of the same sort, which keeps me from fining you five pounds, as I might and ought to do, for these neglects of your duty as surveyor."
They now reached the town, and happening to use the same inn, rode into the yard together.
Fowler and his wife, who were already there, augured well from this circumstance--and Mr. Bentley was hardly off his horse, when Nanny accosted him in a wheedling tone, with, "I hope, Sir, you'll be so kind as to _stand our friend_ about this licence."
"We shall see about that presently," said Mr. Bentley, as he walked off, wishing to cut short applications of this nature till he got into the justice-room.
He found his way stopped, however, by two or three poor women from the village near which he resided.
"Well!"
said he, "and what brings you all to Chippingden?"
"Why, Sir, we want a little of your kindness."
"My _kindness_!
why can you find none of my _kindness_ at home?"
"O yes, Sir, you are always ready to assist a poor person yourself, but we want you to _stand our friend_, and order us a little more relief from the farmers."
"That, my good woman, is quite a different story.
As a magistrate I must not be a _friend_ to any one person more than to another; but must endeavour to act without favour or affection either to rich or poor.
With respect to parochial relief, our business is to consider, as well as we are able, what the laws require and allow, and to act accordingly.
Poor people often apply to us in great distress, and the relief which we can order seems but very little.
If we listened to our own feelings, our own _good-nature_ as you would call it, we should often be glad to order much more, but we must not indulge such feelings at another man's expense--we must not be _good-natured_ with other people's money."
"But, Sir," said Betty Horseman, "I only wanted about a shilling a week more, and I'm sure that can't hurt the farmers."
"Whether it is much or little," said Mr. Bentley, "we cannot order more, than the law, in our opinion, appears to require.
Knowingly to order more than that, is to rob those out of whose pockets the poor rates are paid.
You would not wish me, Betty, to help you in picking a man's pocket."
"But it is so little that I ask for," said Betty, still harping upon the same string.
"We may not pick a man's pocket of sixpence, any more than of a hundred pounds.
Your application shall be heard presently, Betty, and we will give it the best attention we can.
If we think that you ought to have more, we will order it.--But you must remember, that if you have a shilling a week more, every family in the like circumstances will expect the same, which will make your shilling a week a pretty round sum.
In short, I am always glad as far as I can to help a poor person out of my own pocket, but must consider well before I help him out of the pockets of other people."
Mr. Bentley now joined his brother magistrates in the justice-room.
The licensing business came on first; and the licences to the old established houses having been renewed, the applications for _new_ houses were taken into consideration.
Fowler produced his certificate.
"This certificate," said Mr. Hale the chairman, "has not the clergyman's name; how happens that?"
Farmer Barton was at Fowler's elbow, and immediately answered, "Mr. Hooker has laid down a rule not to set his hand to an application of this sort, and could not break through it--but I'm sure he has no objection."
"And besides," said one of the justices, "if my memory does not deceive me, there was a man of that name in your parish who was a noted poacher."
"Why, I must confess," said the farmer, "that some time back the poor man was led by distress to go out once or twice; but he has, long ago, given it up, and is now quite an altered character.--When a man has seen his fault, and turned over a new leaf, I am sure, gentlemen, that you are too _good-natured_ to bring it up against him."
The justices still hesitated; but Barton and two or three of the farmers of the village represented to them that there always used to be a public house; that it was in many respects inconvenient to be without one; and that in this instance, it would give occupation and maintenance to a poor family.
At length the magistrates said, that in general they were not disposed to increase the number of ale-houses, but that they would give way to the declared wish of almost all the leading men in the parish.
In a case of doubt, they naturally leant to the side of _good-nature_.
Accordingly the licence was granted.
Fowler was overjoyed at his success, and after making his acknowledgments, set off, first to the carpenter, and then to the painter, to give directions for a sign and its appendages.
After these matters of business, he could not think of returning without drinking the health of the magistrates at the Red Lion.
Several friends dropped in to congratulate him; and when he thought about going home, he was not quite able to walk straight.
The butcher's boy, who had made one of the party at the Red Lion, offered to give him a lift in his cart.
They set off in high glee, and the exalted state of their spirits induced them to urge on the horse.
Though the night was dark and the horse sometimes swerved to one side of the road and sometimes to the other, yet the light colour of the road served for a guide, and they felt that as long as they kept to that they were safe.
They were mistaken, however.
They were within a mile of Inglewood, and had got the horse almost into a gallop, when all at once the wheel came upon one of the heaps of stones, which had been shot down in the _quartering_, and the cart was overturned.
Peter, the butcher's boy, called out that he was killed; but having got up and shaken himself, and found that he had received no sort of injury, he burst into a loud fit of laughter.
Poor Fowler, however, lay groaning in the road, unable to stir.
He was severely bruised, and both the bones of his right leg were broken.
Peter scratched his head, and was quite at a loss what to do, when luckily Farmer Barton and one of his neighbours came to the spot, in their way back from market.
They extricated the horse, which, having put his foot in the deep rut, had fallen with the cart, and then raised the cart without difficulty.
It was not, however, so easy a matter to get Fowler into it.
He cried out from pain every time that they took hold of him, and sometimes begged that they would leave him to die where he was.
At last, however, they succeeded, and at a slow pace he was conveyed to his humble cottage, which was soon to assume the dignity and importance of a public house.
His wife helped to get him to bed, though not without reproaching him with some asperity for staying so long at the Red Lion after he had sent her home.
Having taken as much care of him, as in her opinion he deserved, she hastened down stairs to comfort herself with some tea, of which two or three of her neighbours, who had been brought to the house by the tidings of the accident, were invited to partake.
The condolences and lamentations were soon over, and they fell into the usual train of village gossip.
The hardness of the times, of course, was one of the topics of conversation.
"Well, Hannah," said one of the party, "and what did you get from the justices?"
"Oh!
there's no use in a poor person's going to them," said Hannah, "they're all for the farmers?"
"I wonder to hear you say that," said Nanny, who was naturally disposed to be in good humour with the magistrates, who had just granted a licence to her husband; "I wonder to hear you say that, for as I was going out of the room, I fell in with two or three overseers, who were saying just the contrary.
They were complaining that the justices were ready to hear all the idle stories of the poor about wanting relief, and that they were much too apt to order some little addition.
In fact, they said, that they were all in favour of the poor; and the farmers could not stand it."
"If the poor complain that they were in favour of the farmers, and the farmers that they favoured the poor," said an old man sitting in the chimney corner, "I dare say they pretty nearly did the thing that was right between both parties."
"Well," said Hannah, "if I was a justice, I could'nt bear that the poor should think me _ill-natured_.
Be it how it would, I'd take care to have _their_ good word, even if I did now and then order a trifle more than was quite right."
"What should you say, Hannah," said the same old man, "of a justice who acted contrary to law for the sake of a sum of money?"
"What!
a bribe!
Why I'd have him turned out before he was a day older."
"And is not acting contrary to law for the sake of any one's good will, or good word, pretty much the same as doing so for a bribe?
A magistrate is sworn to do justice, according to law, to the best of his knowledge."
All the women, however, consoled themselves with the near approach of the time, when the poor would have to apply for their weekly allowances to Farmer Barton instead of Farmer Oldacre; it being the custom of the parish that the overseers should divide the year between them, each taking the trouble of the office for six months.
"Yes, indeed," said Hannah Bolt, "it will be a happy day for us poor creatures, when Mr. Barton takes the books;--Farmer Oldacre was always a hard man to the poor."
"Farmer Oldacre a hard man to the poor!"
said old John Truman, who came in at the moment from the sick man's room--"Farmer Oldacre a hard man to the poor!
I'm sure you're an ungrateful woman for saying so; as I should be an ungrateful man, if I allowed you to say it without taking you to task.--I've worked for him now these seventeen years, and a better or a kinder master cannot be.
Did'nt I see you, Hannah, day after day, when your little boy was ill, going to his house, sometimes for a little milk, sometimes for a little made wine, and did he ever refuse you?
did he ever refuse _any_ poor person, who was really in want, any thing that he was able to give?"
"I can't say but that he's ready enough to help a poor body with any thing he has himself; but then if one asks him for a little more parish relief, he's so terrible particular, and asks so many questions, that it's quite unpleasant, and perhaps we can get nothing after all."
"In short," said John, "you mean to say that he is liberal and kind in giving from his own pocket, but careful and cautious how he makes free with the pockets of other people.
And then again--who employs so many men as Farmer Oldacre?
I'm sure I have often known him in the winter try to find out jobs for the sake of keeping the men at work; and after all I believe, that he feels the change of times as much as any man, and that he and his family allow themselves little beyond bare necessaries.
And even with respect to parish relief, I believe that the _old_ men and women, who are really past work, are better off when Farmer Oldacre has the books, than at any other time."
"But then," answered Hannah, "Farmer Barton is so _good-natured_ when we go to him.
He says that a shilling or two cannot signify to the farmers, and is not worth thinking about."
"I believe it would be better for all parties," replied Truman, "if the able-bodied poor thought less of running to the parish, and more of depending, under God's blessing, on themselves.
When I was young, a man would have been ashamed of begging for parish relief.
Indeed, the law was, that those who were relieved were to be marked by a badge.
I know that I contrived to bring up a family of seven children without being beholden to any body.
For a few years it was certainly hard work, but God helped us on."
"But wages," said Nanny Fowler, "were better in those days."
"Compared with what they would buy, perhaps they were, but their being low now is, I take it, partly owing to the poor rates."
"Why how can you make that out?"
cried the whole party.
"In the first place, can you tell me, why wheat is so cheap just at present?
It was, you know, ten shillings the bushel, and indeed sometimes a great deal more--it is now less than five."
"Why it's cheap to be sure, because there is such plenty of it."
"And is it not the over-plenty of labourers, that makes labour cheap?
I remember this village when there were not more than fifty labourers' families, each with a cottage to itself; now there are upwards of eighty families, and sometimes two crammed together in one house.
I have read in the newspapers, that the people throughout England have increased in the last twenty years thirty-two in every hundred--that is, where there were but ten, there are now more than thirteen."
"But what has that to do with the poor rates?"
"Why do not you think that the poor rates are an encouragement to early marriages?"
"And what then," said Hannah; "did not the Almighty say, _Increase and multiply_?"
"The command to _increase and multiply and replenish the earth_, was given--_first_, when there were upon the face of the whole earth no men and women at all, excepting the first pair: and _again_, when all mankind had been destroyed, with the exception of the family of Noah.
The world was pretty well empty of inhabitants then, and wanted _replenishing_.
But the case is different in an old inhabited country, which is already so _replenished_--so full and over-full--that the people stand in each other's way."
"But surely, John, you are not for preventing marriages?"
"Heaven forbid!"
said the old man, wiping a tear of thankfulness from his eye; "Heaven forbid!
It is to marriage that I owe the greater part of the happiness that I have enjoyed in this life; and marriage, I trust, has assisted in preparing me, through divine grace and the merits of my Redeemer, for happiness in the life to come.
I know too who it is that has said, _Marriage is honourable in all_.--No, no, I am no enemy to marriage, I am its warmest friend.
But then, as the Prayer-Book tells us, there are _two_ ways of engaging in marriage.
Men may either enter upon it _reverently_, _discreetly_, _advisedly_, and _in the fear of God_; or else they may engage in it _inadvisedly_, _lightly_, and _wantonly_, '_like brute beasts that have no understanding_.'
I am afraid that now-a-days young people are more apt to engage in marriage after the latter manner, than after the former.
When I was young, men generally did not like to marry--I'm sure I did not--till they had secured a bit of a cottage to put a wife in, and a few articles of furniture, and perhaps a few pounds to begin the world with.
Now boys and girls marry without thought and reflection, without sixpence beforehand, and trust to the parish for every thing--house, goods, clothes, and the maintenance of their children.
As for the parish finding houses for all that wish to marry, it's what can't be done.--No, no, I don't want to prevent their marrying, I only want them to wait a very few years, that they may have a better chance of happiness when they marry.
We all know, that _when want comes in at the door, love is very apt to fly out at the window_; and parish pay is but a poor dependence after all.
"And why should they not wait?
Those, who are better off in the world, are for the most part forced to wait a good number of years.
The sons of the farmers, of the tradesmen, and of the gentlemen, generally wait, I think, till they are nearer thirty than five and twenty.
Look at Squire Bentley's family: there's his eldest son that is the counsellor, who, as they say, has been for some years engaged to one of Mr. Hale's daughters; he is now, I take it, upwards of thirty, but he waits till they have a better chance of maintaining a family.
There's his second son, who is to be a physician; and the third in the army; both I dare say would be glad enough to marry, if they could marry with any sort of prudence.--It is because the poor think that the parish must find every thing, that they marry without thought or care; and then the numbers of the people increase till there are more hands than work; and that makes wages so low.
"There's another way in which the poor rates keep down the price of labour.
A man is out of work.
He goes round to the farmers; but they all say that they don't want him: they have hands more than enough already.
He then goes to the overseer for employment.--Now the parish--if bound by law to find work for him at all, about which there seems to be some doubt--is only bound to pay him enough to keep him from starving, and for that may require a full day's work.
The farmers of course know this; and as in these times it is natural for them to wish to get hands at as low a rate as possible, one of them tells this man that he will give him a trifle more than the parish, though still a _mere trifle_, and turns off one of his regular workmen to make way for him; and so it may go on, till all are brought down to the same low key.--Or perhaps the farmers will pay all the labourers, either in whole, or in part, out of the poor rates.
This I take to be a very bad plan for the farmers in the end; for as men will seldom do more work than they are paid for, the work will not be done so well or so cheerfully; and besides, it sadly breaks the spirit of the labourers.
In short, I wish, as I said before, that the poor depended less upon parish pay, and more upon themselves."
"But, John," said Hannah, "you are not for knocking up the poor laws altogether?"
"By no means," answered John: "I am in one sense a poor man myself; and I am glad that there is such a provision for those, who can do nothing for themselves, and for those who are thrown back by a severe sickness, or by some accident.
For myself, I hope that, by the blessing of God, I shall never be forced to stoop to ask for parish relief.
As my wife and I contrived to bring up a family without any help from an overseer, so when our children were old enough to get out, and take care of themselves, we began to think of putting by a trifle against old age.
The savings bank notion has given us a lift, and I think that I have that there, which will keep me from being a burden to any one.
As times are now, a man with a large family can't help going to the parish, and no one can blame him for it--I only wish that times were such as to enable him, with industry and prudence, to look for maintenance to no one but himself and God Almighty."
By the time that old Truman had finished this _dissertation_ on the poor laws, the surgeon had arrived.
He examined Fowler's leg, and found the fracture to be as bad a one as well could be.
It was attended too with a considerable degree of fever, which was increased by the heated state of the blood, occasioned by excessive drinking.
The next day he was delirious, and the fever had increased so much, that but slight hopes were entertained of his recovery.
He remained for some days in this state, hanging between life and death, till at length the fever abated.
The delirium too was at an end; but it left him in a state of the most deplorable weakness.
Nanny Fowler never had bestowed one serious thought upon a future life; but some of her neighbours told her, that with her husband in such a dangerous condition, she ought to desire the parson to come and see him.
This she accordingly did.
Mr. Hooker, at his two or three first visits, found both body and mind so weakened, that he did little more than pray by him.
Neither Fowler nor his wife entered much into the meaning or spirit of his prayers, but still they were flattered and pleased by the attention of their pastor.
For many years Fowler had hardly set foot in church, excepting once to attend the funeral of a relation, and twice as godfather to the children of two of his friends.
Though he had not shewn any positive disrespect to Mr. Hooker to his face, yet he was in the habit of laughing at him behind his back, and of trying to turn whatever he did or said in the execution of his sacred office--and indeed his office itself--into ridicule.
In this, according to the opinion of his thoughtless and profligate companions, he succeeded tolerably well; for he had a turn for low humour; and it is sometimes found, the more sacred any thing is, the greater is the effect of representing it in a ludicrous point of view, to those who are unrestrained by any sense of decency or of religion.
From Mr. Hooker he had never received any thing but tokens of kindness, but he disliked him, because he knew that he disapproved of his manner of going on, and still more, for one or two admonitions which he had received from him.
He now felt ashamed of his former disrespectful behaviour towards his worthy minister.
The fever having entirely left him, Mr. Hooker determined to take advantage of the opportunity which this accident afforded, for the purpose of endeavouring to bring Fowler to some proper sense of religion.
He accordingly often talked to him in the most serious manner, trying both to inform his understanding, and to affect his heart.
One day when he called, he found Barton sitting by the bed side.
The farmer immediately got up to go away; Fowler, however, begged him to stay; and Mr. Hooker was not without hopes, that what he said might not be entirely lost upon Barton, of whose religious sentiments he had but an unfavourable opinion.
After making use of the prayers in the Visitation Office, he represented to Fowler the folly of living without God in the world; the hateful nature of sin; and the awful consequences of continuing in sin without repentance.
He spoke of the great atonement, but told him that the benefits even of that would be lost to those who continued hardened and impenitent.
He added a few words upon the particular vice of drunkenness, upon its tendency to lead on to almost all other sins without exception, and upon its dreadful punishment in the world to come, since _drunkards can not inherit the kingdom of God_.
Fowler appeared to be attentive, and to feel what was said, and Barton looked every now and then a little uneasy.
His uneasiness was occasioned, not by the slightest degree of apprehension for his own religious interests, but by the wound which his _good-nature_ received, at hearing such strong things said.
The farmer accompanied Mr. Hooker down stairs; but the moment he had quitted the house, exclaimed, "I wish, Nanny, you would not let the parson come to your husband any more.
I'm sure it's enough to make a man ill to hear him talk."
"Why, what's the matter?"
said Nanny, "what's the matter?"
"Why, he has been talking about his soul, and getting drunk, and heaven, and hell, and I know not what besides; I'm sure, I thought it very _ill-natured_ of him.
It's bad enough for poor Bob to have broken his leg, without being troubled with such melancholy thoughts.
And what's the use of it?
There's no chance of his dying this bout, and there can be no occasion for his making himself uneasy with these church-yard thoughts yet."
"Surely you are not in earnest, neighbour," said Farmer Oldacre, who had called in to enquire how the broken leg was going on; "you cannot really mean what you say."
"Yes, but I do though," replied Barton, "and I say again, it was very _ill-natured_ of Mr.
Hooker."
"I always thought," said Oldacre, "that you professed and called yourself a Christian."
"As good a Christian as yourself," rejoined Barton, with some quickness; "aye, or as Mr. Hooker _either_, though, perhaps, I mayn't talk so much about it as some people."
"Well, don't be angry," said Oldacre calmly, "but just listen to me for two minutes.
If a Christian, you of course acknowledge the Scriptures to be the word of God?"
"To be sure I do."
"Well--you know--the whole parish knows--that poor Bob Fowler was leading a most ungodly and wicked life."
"No, I do _not_ know it; poor Bob was nobody's enemy but his own; and if he did get drunk now and then, what was that to any body else?
I don't call that being wicked."
"And what _do_ you call being _wicked_?"
"Why, I call a man wicked, when he robs and steals, or commits murder, or--let me see--let me see--when he takes a false oath before a justice--or--when he slanders his neighbours."
"These, certainly," answered Oldacre, "are instances of great wickedness; but you seem to confine the word _wickedness_ almost entirely to offences, by which _men_ are injured; now I call a man _wicked_, when he lives in the wilful and habitual neglect of any part of his duty; and since the Scriptures tell us, that the first and chief part of our duty is our duty towards God, I particularly call a man wicked when he lives in the open neglect of that duty--when he leads, in short, an ungodly life."
Barton made no answer, but seemed to be waiting to hear what was to come next.
"Now as for poor Bob Fowler, you know very well that he never went to church, never thought of keeping holy the Lord's day, that he was in the constant habit of profane swearing, that he never spoke of religion but to laugh at it, and that instead of having God in all his thoughts, he lived in a total forgetfulness both of him and of his laws.
Now the Scriptures tell us, over and over again, that _the wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the people that forget God_.
If these words of Scripture be true--and you acknowledge yourself that they are so--Fowler was certainly in a dangerous state.
Now, neighbour, suppose you were to see a blind man walking right on to the brink of a pit, and ready to fall into it, should you think it _ill-natured_ to tell him of his danger?
And is it _ill-natured_ of Mr. Hooker, to try to save a man from falling into the pit of destruction?"
"But why should he do it at such a time--when Bob has a broken leg to vex him?"
"I know," replied Oldacre, "that Mr. Hooker did sometimes speak to him when he was in health; but Fowler was either sulky, or turned it into joke: he was one of those, who _sit in the seat of the scornful_; it was like _casting pearls before swine, which turn again and rend you_.
His present confinement offers an opportunity for giving him some notions of religion; and our good minister, who is always on the watch for opportunities of being of use, most likely felt, that if this opportunity was not taken advantage of, he might never have another."
"But is it not enough to drive a man to despair," said Barton, "to talk to him about death and judgment, and future punishment?"
"It is rather the best way to save a man from despair.
Mr. Hooker speaks to him of future misery, in order that he may escape it.
I dare say that he tells him, as he tells us in church, that if he will but repent of and forsake his sins, full forgiveness is offered, through the mediation of the Redeemer.
A man who wilfully goes on in a worldly, ungodly course of life, has certainly nothing before him but a _fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation_.
Surely it is not _ill-natured_, but rather the kindest thing that can be done for such a man, to try to persuade him to flee from the wrath to come, by changing his course of life by the aid of God's grace, and by seeking for God's mercy through Christ, before the gates of mercy are closed for ever."
There was a pause of some minutes.
Barton, however, did not like to give up his notions of _ill-nature_, and returned to the charge.
"Still, I must say, neighbour Oldacre, that the parson speaks of these things much too plainly and too strongly; and, to tell you the truth, that is the reason why I so seldom go to hear him in church.
It would not look well, you know, for a man like me _never_ to go to church at all, so I drop in sometimes when there is no sermon.
I like to be _good-humoured_ and pleasant, and don't like to think of these melancholy subjects until I've occasion."
Oldacre found that he was impenetrable by any thing that _he_ could say, and was not inclined to resume the conversation, and went up stairs to Fowler to ask him how he was.
Barton quitted the house, but the door was hardly closed, when his _good-nature_ was put to a fresh trial of a different description.
He was met by a stranger, who, having asked him whether his name was Barton, and received his answer that it was, put into his hands a paper, which he found was a notice to him as surveyor, that a certain part of the road in the parish had been indicted at the Quarter Sessions which were just over, and a true bill found.
The fact was this.--A gentleman, who was going to the Sessions on business, had occasion to travel along the road, the bad state of which Mr. Bentley had pointed out to Farmer Barton.
One of his coach-horses shyed at a heap of dung lying close to the road side, the coachman whipped him, the horses sprang forward, but in crossing the deep ruts, one of the fore springs of the carriage snapped, and the near horse was thrown down, and cut both his knees.
The gentleman proceeded slowly to Chippingden; and while his servants were getting the spring made safe for the remainder of his journey, had the worst part of the road measured, and then travelling on to Sessions in the full heat of his anger and vexation, preferred a bill of indictment against the parish of Inglewood.
This Farmer Barton thought the most _ill-natured_ proceeding that ever was known; and in the first warmth of his indignation said, that there should be no _putting off_, but that the parish should try it out at the following Sessions.
He was still surveyor, for he had so entirely neglected calling out the statute-duty, and indeed every part of his office, that he was ashamed to attend the justice meeting, which was held for the purpose of appointing new surveyors; and felt pretty sure, that his non-attendance would not be taken notice of.
The magistrates, every now and then, threatened _stoutly_, and talked of fining the absentees, but they would not be so _ill-natured_ as to carry their threats into execution; and the comfort and convenience of the public, and the real interests of the several parishes themselves, were sacrificed for the credit of their _good-nature_.
Fowler's leg, meanwhile, continued to mend, and he was able to get down stairs, and attend to his new business.
What Mr. Hooker had said to him, produced considerable effect upon his mind and conduct.
But though he left off drinking himself, yet from his former habits and character he could not be expected to possess much authority over those who resorted to his house.
Many of the poor never entered the public house at all; many went to it now and then for a pot of beer to drink in a quiet family way at home; but a few of the married men, and several of the young ones, spent there many of their evenings, and most of their money.
Many little disturbances consequently took place in the village.
One evening in particular, Tim Nesbit came from the public house so drunk, and was so noisy and troublesome, that some of the neighbours talked of having him fined, or set in the stocks.
"Surely you wou'dn't be so _ill-natured_ as that comes to," said Barton.
"When a man robs and steals, punish him to the utmost; but drunkenness is a _good-natured_ fault, and the drunken man is nobody's enemy but his own."
"Nobody's enemy but his own!"
said old Truman, who happened to be standing by, "I think a drunken man the enemy of every body.
He is ready to quarrel with every body that comes in his way, and to do all sorts of mischief."
"Yes," replied Barton, "but when a man don't know what he is doing, he has a right to be excused."
"Now I say just the contrary," answered Truman.
"When a man chooses to throw away his reason, and to bring himself down to a level with a beast, he must take the consequences.
Drunkenness, instead of being an excuse for any fault, is an aggravation, and the law of the land says the same.
I heartily wish that the laws against tippling and drunkenness[j] were more frequently put in execution."
[Footnote j: If any person (with a few particular exceptions) shall continue drinking or tippling in a public house, he shall forfeit three shillings and fourpence to the use of the poor, or be set in the stocks for four hours.
Any person convicted of drunkenness shall for the first offence forfeit five shillings to the use of the poor, or be set in the stocks for six hours.
Upon a second conviction the offender shall be bound, with two sureties, to be thenceforth of good behaviour.]
"These laws," replied Barton, "cannot, generally speaking, be put in force, unless some one will _inform_, and that would be so _ill-natured_.
And besides, every one hates and cries out against the very name of an _informer_."
"I grant you," said Truman, "that when a man turns _informer_ from spite--or for the sake of getting money--or from a view to private interest of any sort--he may perhaps deserve to be disliked.
But a man who, _after fair notice, informs_ against an offender from a sense of public duty--with a view to check a bad practice which is hurtful both to society and to those who are guilty of it--or from a sincere zeal for the interests of morality and religion, is a benefactor to the community.
The lawless and profligate, who would be glad to get rid of all the restraints of every sort, will of course try to run him down; but he ought not to mind that, and he certainly deserves the thanks of all the friends of good order and morality."
Not only was the quiet of the village of Inglewood sometimes disturbed by drunken _rows_, but many little acts of mischief were committed, not from any particular spite, but in the mere wantonness of drunkenness.
The farmers too found some of their men less disposed to work than formerly, and more disposed to be saucy; and they saw the wives and children of some few growing more and more ragged and miserable.
They consoled themselves by abusing the justices for consenting to the establishment of the alehouse, and by blaming their minister for not taking more active measures to prevent it; and said for themselves, that they would never have set their hands to the certificate, if at the time they had not felt sure that the licence would not be granted.
Fowler's friends, however, determined to make it as good a thing for him as they could.
His accident, and long confinement in consequence of it, had thrown him back, and they wished, they said, to give him a _start_.
They resolved to have some _pastime_ in the village, and tried to make up a purse for two prize fighters, who resided in the neighbourhood.
Barton entered zealously into the scheme, and took care to have the fame of the projected amusement spread through the adjoining villages.
Having occasion to call on Mr. Hooker on other business, he said that he hoped that he did not object to what was going forward.
Mr. Hooker replied, that "he disapproved of it most decidedly."
Barton's _good-nature_ was immediately up in arms.
"Surely, Sir, it's very hard that the poor may not have a little amusement now and then.
Our only object is, to give them a day's pleasure, and at the same time to give a little help to Fowler in his business, after his sad accident, which has thrown him back so unluckily."
"Nobody," said Mr. Hooker, "can be more friendly than I am to the amusements of the poor; provided they are _innocent_, and do not, almost necessarily, lead to immorality and sin.
You know, Mr. Barton, as well as I do, that the _pastime_, as you call it, which you propose, will be attended with a great deal of drunkenness.
Your avowed object is, that Fowler should sell as much beer and spirits as possible.
I need not tell you, that drunkenness is not only a great sin in itself, but that it also leads to sins of every description.
You know very well too, that on occasions of this sort, there is generally a great deal of swearing, a great deal of improper language, and, perhaps, a great deal of quarrelling.
With respect to _prize-fighting_, sensible men have entertained different sentiments.
My own opinion is, that it is a positive offence against the laws both of God and man; that it is a most disgusting exhibition; and surely a most improper sight for the women and children, who, in a village, will be spectators of it.
I think also, that if one of the combatants should be killed, as is frequently the case, all those who have promoted the battle are parties in the guilt of manslaughter.
"Do not say that I am an enemy to the amusements of the poor.
I like to have them enjoy themselves at proper times, and in a proper manner.
I can take pleasure in seeing them engaged in a game at cricket, at football, at quoits, or any other manly exercise, provided they engage in it without swearing, or drunkenness, or other vice; but of the amusement now proposed in the village, I disapprove most decidedly."
The disapprobation of the clergyman, however, was not attended to.
Barton talked of the parson's _ill-nature_ in grudging the poor a little enjoyment, and said it was all of a piece with his finding fault with the poor boys for going to play on a Sunday, instead of going to church or the Sunday school.
The promised day at length arrived.
The village was filled with a motley concourse from all the country round, and the fight took place.
The men were equally matched, and fought with skill and courage.
Both got severely bruised; but one of them received an unfortunate blow under the ear.
He fell into the arms of his second, and it was soon discovered that the blow was mortal--he never spoke again.
This sad _accident_ threw a damp over the amusement of the day, and many repented of the _good-nature_ which had led them to promote the _pastime_.
We will not, however, dwell upon this melancholy event, but proceed to the result of the indictment of the roads of the parish of Inglewood.
January came, and the Quarter Sessions.
Both parties wished to have the indictment tried at once, and came prepared--the prosecutor with witnesses to prove that the road was very bad and unsafe--and Barton with several _good-natured_ men, who were ready to swear, that it was as good a road as they wished to travel.
The parish, however, was beat; and it being proved that frequent representations had been made of the bad state of the road in question, Inglewood was sentenced to pay a fine of fifty pounds, together with all costs, which amounted to forty more.
Farmer Barton hardly knew which was most _ill-natured_, the prosecutor, the jury, or the bench of magistrates.
Perhaps he was most out of humour with the _jury_; for consisting, as it did principally, of farmers, they might, he thought, have put their oaths and their consciences a little on one side, where brother farmers were concerned.
However, there was no help for it, and the money was to be found before the Easter Sessions.
He returned to Inglewood to console himself with the popularity, which he acquired in the exercise of the office of overseer.
His _good-nature_ led him to accede to almost every application, but his _good-nature_ arose rather from his "fear of offending the importunate, than his desire of making the deserving happy[k]."
The industrious and the modest remained contented with their former pittance; but the forward, and the impudent, and the clamorous, were continually urging their claims for more relief, and seldom urged them in vain.
[Footnote k: Goldsmith.]
"I hope, Farmer Barton," said one woman, "you will give me a little more allowance: when bread, and candles, and soap are paid for, there's hardly any thing left for tea and sugar."
"Why I suppose then I must give you a trifle more--the parish can't miss it."
One petitioner he manfully refused, and told her she must be content with what she had.
"And how am I to buy snuff out of that[l]?"
The overseer relented: he loved a pinch of snuff himself.
Farmer Oldacre would gladly have filled a deserving old woman's snuff box at his own expense, but not at the expense of the parish.
[Footnote l: Fact.]
The liberal allowances granted by Barton, of course, required frequent rates, which it was not very convenient to the farmers to pay.
Those, however, who happened to have money by them, paid, and allowed themselves the satisfaction of grumbling.
Those who had it not, begged for time, and kept their grumbling to themselves.
Barton's _good-nature_ did not permit him to be very pressing.
The consequence was, that, as he was neither disposed, nor perhaps able, to advance the money from his own pocket, fresh rates became necessary, and those who _could_ pay made up for the deficiencies of those who could not.
Farmer Oldacre was one of the former description; and though he often told his brother overseer, that he was bound in law to levy and expend one rate before he applied for another; yet when his own pocket seemed to be concerned, he would not be peremptory.
Another of those who were always ready with their money, and were consequently entitled to the privilege of grumbling, was Richard Sterling.
Richard occupied five or six acres of land, kept three cows, and got on pretty well by supplying his neighbours with milk.
"What, another rate, Master Barton!--why it seems but t'other day that I paid the last."
--"It can't be helped, Richard;--the poor must be provided for."
--"I know they must," answered Sterling, "and as for those who cannot keep themselves, and are come to poverty without any fault of their own, I should not grudge it them if they had more;--but there are some who might as well help to support me, as I to support them.
Pray, what may you give to Tim Nesbit?"
--"Why--perhaps the matter of three and sixpence a week."
--"Three and sixpence a week?--that comes I think to about nine pounds twelve a-year.--Tim and I were born in the same year; when we grew up we worked for the same master; we married much about the same time, and our families are of the same size.
The only difference between us was, that while I tried to put by what I could spare, Tim, whether single or married, always carried good part of his earnings to the ale-house.
Now is it not a little hard that I must now be forced to help to maintain him, because he chose to squander away his money?
He might at this present time have been every bit as well off in the world as I am; but because he chose to be careless and a spendthrift, I am forced to take bread, as it were, from my own children, and give it to his[m]."
[Footnote m: See a lively dialogue to this purpose in that excellent little publication, the Cottagers' Monthly Visitor.]
One day, when Barton was going towards his house, he was overtaken by Ralph the butcher's lad, who accosted him with, "Mr. Barton, I want you to do me a kindness."
"What is it?"
said Barton.
"Why, you must know, that I have some thoughts of marrying, and want the parish just to run me up a bit of a house.
Master will give carriage, and I can manage a good deal of the labour myself, so that it will cost the parish a mere trifle."
"_You_ going to be married!"
said Barton laughing, "why, how old are you?"
"Old enough in all conscience, I shall be nineteen come February."
"It might be as well to wait a few years longer," answered Barton; "however, I can't wonder at you; and we'll see what can be done."
He accordingly mentioned the subject to his brother overseer, whom he found in the field near his house.
"I must say," replied Oldacre, "that I am no friend to these early marriages in any class of society.
Young men and women--or rather I should say, boys and girls--take it into their heads to marry, before they can be supposed really to know their own minds.
They are struck by something in the outward appearance, or taken by some whim and fancy, and become partners for life, before they have become acquainted with each other's temper or character, and before they have considered how to provide for a family.
The consequence too often is, that the marriage turns out unhappily.
Among the poor especially, who look to the parish for every thing, these early marriages produce a habit of dependence, which lowers their character and spirit for life."
"What you say, is much about the truth," replied Barton, "but these young people are bent upon marrying, and then, you know, there's no stopping them.
Of course they must have a place to be in, and I suppose we may as well run him up a bit of a cottage at once."
"It is a serious thing," said Oldacre, "for farmers at rack-rent to begin building houses for their poor; but I am against it, for the sake of the poor themselves."
"Now I'm sure you _must_ be wrong in that opinion," said Barton.
"Do just tell me," answered his brother overseer, "have we already labourers enough to do all the work of the parish?"
"Enough, and much more than enough.
You know how puzzled we are to find employment for them in the winter.
Indeed, excepting just in hay-making and harvest, we have always some men to be paid for their work out of the rates."
"Then is not increasing the number a bad thing for the poor themselves, if they already stand in each other's way?
And do you not see, that building cottages is just the way to increase them?
If you built twenty cottages, you would have them filled in a week's time.
We have of late been forced to _double_ some families, but that must be so uncomfortable in every way, that people do not like to marry upon such a prospect.
But there are plenty of young men and women quite ready to hasten to the altar, if they could be sure of a roof to themselves to shelter them at night[n].
This of course, would make a lasting addition to the poor rates, would throw a heavy burden on the land, and render it still more difficult for the poor to find work.
[Footnote n: Townsend.]
"The cottages that we have I wish to see as comfortable as possible, and would have the poor people who inhabit them take a pride in keeping them neat and clean, and their gardens in nice order; but I am not for increasing the number of them.
Such increase, I am persuaded, would be against the interest of the poor themselves."
Mr. Stanley, during a former visit to Inglewood, had often fallen in with Mr. Oldacre in his walks, and got into conversation with him: he happened to come up at the moment, and catching the last words that had fallen from the farmer, said to him, "I suspect, Mr. Oldacre, that you are not very friendly to the system of the poor laws."
"I will not by any means say that," replied Oldacre; "I believe that in every state of society, in a populous and old-inhabited country especially, there always will, and must, be poor.
As the Scripture says, _The poor shall never cease out of the land_.
I am glad, therefore, that provision is made by law for those who are unable to help themselves.
Private charity, in many places, does a great deal; and if there were no poor-laws, would do a great deal more.
But if all were left to be provided for by private charity, the kind-hearted would be oppressed by claims, and often give more than they could afford, while the selfish and covetous would contribute nothing.
It is right that these latter should be forced to take their share of the burden.
In many places again, if there was nothing but voluntary benevolence to trust to, multitudes would starve, and no civilized country ought to suffer that, if it can help it.
Indeed, I wish that we were able to give a larger measure of parochial relief to the aged and infirm, who are reduced to want through no fault of their own.
But then, I must say, though I shall be thought _ill-natured_ for saying so, that I cannot help seeing that the poor-laws--whether from bad management, or from the peculiar circumstances of the times, I will not pretend to say--have in many ways done no good to the character and the habits of several among the poor."
"I know," said Mr. Stanley, "that many sensible men entertain the same opinion; but, perhaps, you can give me a few instances which may make your meaning more clear."
"Many of the poor," replied Oldacre, "have not been hurt by them, but still preserve the steady, manly, independent character, which becomes an Englishman.
But too frequently dependence on parish rates has produced very pernicious consequences.
"The connection between a farmer and his labourers--you will say, that I speak like a farmer, in mentioning that _first_--ought to be advantageous to both--not merely as a contract, by which the employer is to receive so much work, and the workman so much money; but as it tends to produce an interchange between them of kind offices and kind feelings.
By many of the labourers this is still felt as it ought to be felt, and they take a pride and a pleasure in working year after year for the same master, and try to obtain his approbation by industry and good conduct.
Some of them, however, have no notion of fixing themselves.
They care little whether their employer is pleased with them or not, and upon the slightest affront as they call it, or the slightest difference about wages, they are off directly.
If one wont employ them, another _must_; or, at all events, they _must_ be employed by the parish.
"Again; the natural affection which subsists between parent and child, is strengthened and increased in both--as is the case indeed with brute animals--by the dependence of the children on their parents for subsistence.
But now this dependence is, in many instances, removed from the parent to the overseer.
On the other hand, when the parents grow old and infirm, the children often might do much to assist them, and if left to themselves would delight in doing so.
But under the present system, if they do it at all, they do it by _stealth_; for _why_, say they, _should we favour the parish_?
If they happen to have a little matter of money left them, they are tempted for the same reason to conceal it.
Here again they ask, why should they favour the parish?
and they will not feel, that the receiving of parish relief, when they have any thing of their own, is a fraud upon the parish, an act of dishonesty.
"Few virtues are more useful in any condition of life than _frugality_ and _foresight_.
Upon these, however, the poor laws have certainly made a sad inroad: unmarried men, or those, who though married have no families, or whose children have _got out_, while they continue in full health and vigour, might often contrive to lay by something against old age.
But this few of them think of doing, for _why should they favour the parish_?
The parish must provide for them at any rate, and so they may as well spend their money as fast as they get it.
The _future_ satisfaction of living on their own means, instead of on parish pay, is not sufficient to stand against the temptation of _present_ pleasure.--Savings banks are an excellent institution, but when once a man has quartered himself as a pauper upon the parish, he will not make use of them.
Why should he put money into the bank in order to _favour the parish_?--I shall tire you, Sir, I fear," continued the farmer, "but you must let me mention one thing more.
_Beneficence_ is, we know, twice blessed; it blesses him that gives, and him that takes; but parish relief comes sadly in the way of beneficence.
When men are forced to pay so much to the poor through the hands of the overseer, they have neither the inclination, nor, in fact, the power, to give so largely in the way of voluntary charity.
"Many other instances I could give of the unfavourable effect which the poor laws have had upon the characters, and consequently upon the happiness, of the poor[o].
I do not blame the poor:--many, who would otherwise keep off the parish, are driven to it by the low rate of wages, which has been occasioned, I suppose, partly by an oversupply of hands, and partly by irregularities in our currency.
[Footnote o: See the eloquent and forcible Pamphlets of Townsend, Bicheno, and Jerram; and particularly the judicious and well-arranged Sermon on "the Immoral Effect of the Poor-Laws," by Dr Richards of Bampton.]
"As I said before, I am glad that a legal provision is made for the poor, but I wish that more than half the money we now pay in rates was paid in wages, and that wages were such that a man in health, and with a good character, might always be pretty well able to provide for a moderate-sized family by his own exertions.
The parish pay should be kept chiefly for unforeseen calamities, for the orphan and for the widow.
We should then be able to give _them_ a better allowance.
Now there are so many claimants, that we cannot give _much_ to any, and the able, bodied and strong are the means of lessening the pittance of the sick and the helpless."
Lady-day was now approaching, and with it the time when Barton was to go out of office.
His _good-nature_ had lavished so much of the public money upon clamorous applicants, that many parish bills were still unpaid.
The fine too imposed upon the inhabitants of Inglewood upon the indictment of the road, and the legal costs attending it, were also now to be cleared off, so that altogether a very considerable sum was to be made up.
It was well known, that many of the rates were much in arrears; and the farmers who had hitherto paid with some degree of punctuality, grumbled more and more at the neglect of the acting overseer in not levying them.
Most of them expressed their determination to pay no more, till all arrears were cleared up.
One large farm was about to change its occupier, and the in-coming tenant declared--as he had a good right to declare--that he would have nothing to do with the debts of the parish incurred before his coming into it.
Strong hints also were thrown out, that Barton should take the consequences of his own neglect upon himself, and should make up all deficiencies out of his own pocket.
These threats answered the purpose of alarming Barton, whose _good-nature_, great as it was, had never been able to stifle his regard for his own interest.
He accordingly set actively to work to collect the arrears.
Those who had been unable to pay _one_ rate, were not likely to pay _four_, which had now become due, together with the heavy addition occasioned by the indictment.
Some of the defaulters blamed the overseer, for having let it run on so long; and all found fault with him for having brought so serious an expense upon the parish by his neglect about the roads.
_All_, I should not say;--for the poor widow Wildgoose uttered not a word of reproach or complaint against any one, but when asked for her arrears of rates, passively replied that she had no money, and that the parish must take her goods.
She had never held up her head since the death of her eldest son.
When she first set up her shop, she dealt a good deal for ready money, of course selling to ready-money customers at a much lower rate.
From the time of her son's death, however, her activity and attention to business had deserted her.
She suffered many of the poor to run deeply in her debt, and if she hinted any thing about payment, they pretended to be affronted, and took all their ready money to the other shops.
Farmer Barton, too, thought that it would be _good-natured_ to give the poor widow the _credit_ of his custom and protection, and had almost all his shop-goods and grocery from her house.
Unfortunately, however, neither his _good-nature_, of which he had so much--nor his sense of justice, of which he had but little--ever led him to recollect to pay her.
She was too much depressed--too _meek-spirited_--to urge, or even to ask for, payment, and the consequence was, that she was just approaching to utter ruin, which was of course likely to be accelerated by her goods being distrained for poor rates.
Her surviving children were in service in creditable places, and would have helped her in a moment; but she could not bear to tell them of her difficulties.
Now, however, one of her neighbours contrived to let them know the situation, in which their mother was.
Immediately they made up out of their wages a sum sufficient not only to pay off her arrears, but to give her a trifle for her present wants.
And soon after she received by the post a blank cover addressed to her, inclosing a five pound note.
She had no guess who could have sent it, but it was soon discovered that it came from Lucy Wilmot, a young woman to whom her eldest son had been attached.
Her second son Sam lived with a kind-hearted lawyer in London, who, upon hearing of the distress of the poor widow and its cause, not only sent her some assistance in money, but promised to take an early opportunity of looking into her affairs, and of taking measures for compelling those of her debtors who were able, to pay what they owed her.
Of the other defaulters, some contrived to procure the necessary money; some were summoned before the magistrates, and then, finding that they had no remedy, found a friend to advance the money; against others warrants of distress were issued.
No case excited more commiseration than that of Michael Fielding.
Michael had been a remarkably industrious and prudent labourer, and had managed to save a considerable sum of money.
He married a young woman of similar character, and being naturally anxious to get forward in the world, they had ventured, seven or eight years before, to take a small farm.
The rent was moderate when they took their lease, but they had felt the change of times severely.
The property was in the hands of trustees, who did not feel justified in making a diminution of rent; and consequently poor Michael, every year, saw his means growing less, while his family grew larger.
He was at work early and late, his wife gave all the help she could in the farm, and mended the children's clothes as long as they would hold together; and the hard-earned bread, upon which the family lived, was so coarse, that many of the labourers in the village would have turned from it in disdain.
Michael was naturally of a cheerful disposition, and not apt to murmur or complain; sometimes, however, he could hardly suppress a sigh, when he thought of his own children, and of the hard fare to which they were accustomed, and saw in the parish-books the large sums that were given by the _good-nature_ of Barton to idle and worthless characters[p].
Now and then he had ventured gently to remonstrate upon the hardship of being obliged to contribute so large a portion of his limited means towards the maintenance of men, who had begun the world with the same advantages with himself, and who, but for their own improvidence, might have lived without being a burden to any one.
The comparative smallness of his farm, however, and his former situation in life, prevented his remonstrance from being of much weight.
He was now nearly insolvent.
Several persons, to whom his character was known, would have been happy to have assisted him, but he was too high-minded to acquaint them with his difficulties.
All the money, that by his utmost exertion he could scrape together, was just gone for rent, and he had nothing at all left to meet the demand for the arrears of rates, and for his portion of the expenses of the indictment.
Barton, in spite of his _good-nature_, felt obliged to distrain.
This brought other creditors upon poor Michael, and he was obliged to sell off every thing.
[Footnote p: Townsend.]
Barton, however, was enabled to make up his accounts, and had got them passed at the vestry, though there certainly was among his brother farmers a little grumbling.
Barton defended himself as well as he could, and added, that at all events he had got the _good-word_ of the poor; that he always had borne, and always hoped to bear, the character of a _good-natured man_.
Farmer Oldacre could not suffer this to pass without observation.
He had been a little irritated by some things which he had witnessed at the vestry, and felt deeply for poor Michael, who had formerly worked upon his farm, and whom he had always loved and respected.
"Come, come, neighbour Barton," said he, "let us hear no more of your _good-nature_, for which we all have to pay so dear.
Your wish to obtain the _good-word_ of the poor has not really benefitted them, and has done serious injury to the rest of your neighbours.
Your _good-nature_ about the licence has increased the immorality and the poverty of the parish;--and your _good-nature_ to the road-workmen has given Fowler a broken leg;--your _good-nature_ to farmer Dobson, in not making him cut his hedge, and do his statute-duty, has cost us ninety pounds;--and your _good-nature_ as overseer has made the parish less able to pay that sum, and has helped to complete the ruin of two or three deserving families.
And--if I may venture here to mention so serious a consideration--your _good-nature_ would have allowed a sinner to go on towards eternal destruction without warning, and, for the sake of avoiding uneasiness of mind _here_, would have suffered him to incur everlasting punishment _hereafter_.
"Farmer Barton--I value brotherly-kindness most highly.
I know that the love of our neighbour, and a readiness to do him good offices, is the second great commandment both of the Law and of the Gospel.
But I hope that I shall ever be on my guard against that love of low popularity, that weak fear of giving offence, that sacrifice of _public_ principle to _private_ considerations, which, under the engaging name of _good-nature_, often lead to forgetfulness of duty both towards God and man, and do as much harm in the world as positive dishonesty."
NOTES.
Dr. Benjamin Franklin is well known as the friend of the poor and of liberty, and as one of the founders of American independence.
The following observations will, with many persons, have additional weight, as coming from _his_ pen.
_Extract from Observations written in Pennsylvania in 1751._ 2.--When families can be easily supported, more persons marry, and earlier in life.
3.
In cities, where all trades, occupations, and offices are full, many delay marrying till they can see how to bear the charges of a family; which charges are greater in cities, as luxury is more common: many live single during life, and continue servants to families, journeymen to trades, &c. Hence cities do not, by natural generation, supply themselves with inhabitants; the deaths are more than the births.
4.
In countries full settled, the case must be nearly the same, all lands being occupied and improved to the height; those who cannot get land, must labour for others that have it; when labourers are plenty, their wages will be low; by low wages a family is supported with difficulty; this difficulty deters many from marriage, who therefore long continue servants and single.
Only, as the cities take supplies of people from the country, and thereby make a little more room in the country, marriage is a little more encouraged there, and the births exceed the deaths.
_Dr.
Franklin's Letter on the Labouring Poor.
Dated April, 1768._ _Sir,_ I have met with much invective in the papers, for these two years past, against the hard-heartedness of the rich, and much complaint of the great oppressions suffered in this country by the labouring poor.
Will you admit a word or two on the other side of the question?
I do not propose to be an advocate for oppression or oppressors; but when I see that the poor are, by such writings, exasperated against the rich, and excited to insurrections, by which much mischief is done, and some lose their lives, I could wish the true state of things were better understood; the poor not made by these busy writers more uneasy and unhappy than their situation subjects them to be, and the nation not brought into disrepute among foreigners, by public groundless accusations of ourselves, as if the rich in England had no compassion for the poor, and Englishmen wanted common humanity.
In justice, then, to this country, give me leave to remark, that the condition of the poor here is by far the best in Europe; for that, except in England and her American colonies, there is not in any country in the known world (not even in Scotland[q] or Ireland) a provision by law to enforce a support of the poor.
Every where else necessity reduces to beggary.
This law was not made by the poor.
The legislators were men of fortune.
By that act they voluntarily subjected their own estates, and the estates of all others, to the payment of a tax for the support of the poor, encumbering those estates with a kind of rent charge for that purpose, whereby the poor are vested with an inheritance, as it were, in all the estates of the rich.
I wish they were benefitted by this generous provision, in any degree equal to the good intention with which it was made, and is continued; but I fear the giving mankind a dependence on any thing for support, in age or sickness, besides industry and frugality during health, tends to flatter our natural indolence, to encourage idleness and prodigality, and thereby to promote and increase poverty, the very evil it was intended to cure; thus multiplying beggars, instead of diminishing them.
[Footnote q: This, I believe, is inaccurate.]
Besides this tax, which the rich in England have subjected themselves to in behalf of the poor, amounting in some places to five or six shillings in the pound of their annual income, they have, by donations and subscriptions, erected numerous schools in various parts of the kingdom, for educating, gratis, the children of the poor in reading and writing; and in many of these schools the children are also fed and clothed; they have erected hospitals at an immense expence, for the reception and cure of the sick, the lame, the wounded, and the insane poor, for lying-in women, and deserted children.
They are also continually contributing towards making up losses occasioned by fire, by storms, or by floods; and to relieve the poor in severe seasons of frost, in time of scarcity, &c. in which benevolent and charitable contributions no nation exceeds us.
Surely there is some gratitude due for so many instances of goodness.
Add to this all the laws made to discourage foreign manufactures, by laying heavy duties on them, or totally prohibiting them; whereby the rich are obliged to pay much higher prices for what they wear and consume than if the trade was open.
There are so many laws for the support of our labouring poor made by the rich, and continued at their expence: all the difference of price between our own and foreign commodities, being so much given by our rich to our poor; who would indeed be enabled by it to get by degrees above poverty, if they did not, as too generally they do, consider every increase of wages only as something that enables them to drink more and work less; so that their distress in sickness, age, or times of scarcity, continues to be the same as if such laws had never been made in their favour.
Much malignant censure have some writers bestowed upon the rich for their luxury and expensive living, while the poor are starving, not considering that what the rich expend, the labouring poor receive in payment for their labour.
It may seem a paradox if I should assert, that our labouring poor do, in every year, receive the _whole revenue of the nation_; I mean not only the public revenue, but also the revenue or clear income of all private estates, or a sum equivalent to the whole.
In support of this position, I reason thus: The rich do not work for one another; their habitations, furniture, clothing, carriages, food, ornaments, and every thing, in short, that they or their families use and consume, is the work or produce of the labouring poor, who are, and must be, continually paid for their labour in producing the same.
In these payments the revenues of private estates are expended; for most people live up to their incomes.
In clothing, or provision for troops, in arms, ammunition, ships, tents, carriages, &c. &c. (every particular the produce of labour,) much of the public revenue is expended.
The pay of officers, civil and military, and of the private soldiers and sailors, requires the rest; and they spend that also in paying for what is produced by the labouring poor.
I allow that some estates may increase by the owners spending less than their income; but then I conceive, that other estates do at the same time diminish, by the owners spending more than their incomes; so that when the enriched want to buy more land, they easily find lands in the hands of the impoverished, whose necessities oblige them to sell; and thus this difference is equalled.
I allow also, that part of the expense of the rich is in foreign produce, or manufactures, for producing which the labouring poor of other nations must be paid: but then, I say, we must first pay our own labouring poor for an equal quantity of our manufactures or produce, to exchange for those foreign productions, or we must pay for them in money, which money not being a natural produce to our country, must first be purchased from abroad, by sending out its value in the produce or manufactures of this country, for which manufactures our labouring poor are to be paid.
And, indeed, if we did not export more than we import, we could have no money at all.
I allow farther, that there are middle men, who make a profit, and even get estates, by purchasing the labour of the poor, and selling it at advanced prices to the rich; but then they cannot enjoy that profit, or the increase of estates, but by spending them in employing and paying our labouring poor, in some shape or other, for the products of industry.
Even beggars, pensioners, hospitals, &c. all that are supported by charity, spend their incomes in the same manner.
So that finally, as I said at first, our labouring poor receive annually the whole of the clear revenues of the nation, and from us they can have no more.
If it be said that their wages are too low, and that they ought to be better paid for their labour, I heartily wish that any means could be fallen upon to do it consistent with their interest and happiness; but as the cheapness of other things is owing to the plenty of those things, so the cheapness of labour is in most cases owing to the multitude of labourers, and to their underworking one another in order to obtain employment.
How is this to be remedied?
A law might be made to raise their wages; but if our manufactures are too dear, they will not vend abroad, and all that part of employment will fail, unless, by fighting and conquering, we compel other nations to buy our goods, whether they will or no, which some have been mad enough at times to propose.
Among ourselves, unless we give our working people less employment, how can we, for what they do, pay them higher than we do?
Out of what fund is the additional price of labour to be paid, when all our present incomes are, as it were, mortgaged to them?
Should they get higher wages, would that make them less poor, if in consequence they worked fewer days of the week proportionably?
I have said, a law might be made to raise their wages; but I doubt much, whether it could be executed to any purpose, unless another law, now indeed almost obsolete, could at the same time be revived and enforced; a law, I mean, that I have often heard and repeated, but few have ever duly considered, _Six days shalt thou labour_.
This is as positive a part of the Commandment, as that which says, _The seventh day thou shalt rest_: but we remember well to observe the indulgent part, and never think of the other.
_Saint Monday_[r] is generally as duly kept by our working people as Sunday: the only difference is, that instead of employing it cheaply at church, they are wasting it expensively at the alehouse.
I am, Sir, your's, &c. [Footnote r: This applies not so much to farmers' workmen as to _manufacturers'_ labourers.]
_Extract from Dr. Franklin's remarks on Luxury, Idleness, and Industry._ Some of those who grow rich will be prudent, live within bounds, and preserve what they have gained for their posterity: others, fond of shewing their wealth, will be extravagant, and ruin themselves.
Laws cannot prevent this; and perhaps it is not always an evil to the public.
A shilling spent idly by a fool, may be picked up by a wiser person, who knows better what to do with it.
It is therefore not lost.
A vain silly fellow builds a fine house, furnishes it richly, lives in it expensively, and in a few years ruins himself: but the masons, carpenters, smiths, and other honest tradesmen, have been by his employ assisted in maintaining and raising their families: the farmer has been paid for his labour, and encouraged, and the estate is now in better hands.
In some cases, indeed, certain modes of luxury may be a public evil, in the same manner as it is a private one.
THE END.
* * * * * [Transcriber's Note: Older form of contractions retained.
Spelling "aground" and "a-ground" used in the text.
Spelling "ale-house" and "alehouse" used in the text.
Spelling "bed-side" and "bedside" used in the text.
Spelling "gate-way" and "gateway" used in the text.
Spelling "benefited" and "benefitted" used in the text.
Spelling "licence" and "license" used in the text.
Spelling "parish officer" and "parish-officer" used in text.
Page 31.
Letter 'f' added to text (as a matter of).
Page 47.
Comma, blank space and double quote removed after 'answered'.
(Wildgoose answered that as for the penalty,) Page 89.
Quotation marks around 'Mrs.
Hawker' removed.
(No, indeed now, Mrs. Hawker, you must) Page 109.
The notation '[oe]' is used for the oe-ligature.
Page 118.
Word 'carrried' changed to 'carried' (accordingly carried him).
Page 120.
Word 'matress' spelling retained.
May be period correct.
Page 137.
Word 'unfrequently' spelling retained.
May be period correct.
Page 138.
Closing double-quote added.
(as a fit man to keep it.)
Page 145.
Word 'intrusted' spelling retained.
May be period correct.]
Washed Ashore; or, The Tower of Stormont Bay, by W.H.G.
Kingston.
________________________________________________________________________ This is a fairly short book, and probably an easier read for the younger teenager.
Jack is a young member of a respectable family living in Stormount Tower, on the south coast of England.
Unfortunately the silly boy got himself involved with the smugglers, who got caught.
This of course would have been a hanging offence, but Jack manages to go to sea aboard the "Truelove", which, it is later heard, is lost at sea.
Folk at home long to see him again, but meanwhile there are some strange goings-on, involving ghosts, kidnaps, strange noises, secret tunnels, and smugglers' caves.
Eventually some of the local young men sail to the Pacific, hoping to find where the "Truelove" had gone down, and hoping above all to find young Jack.
After some misses they eventually manage to get some useful information, and from this they are able to find Jack, and bring him home to his family.
________________________________________________________________________ WASHED ASHORE; OR, THE TOWER OF STORMOUNT BAY, BY W.H.G.
KINGSTON.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE OLD TOWER--CAPTAIN ASKEW'S FAMILY--THE SMUGGLERS--WHY JACK ASKEW WENT TO SEA.
There was an old grey weather-beaten stone tower standing on the top of a high rocky promontory, which formed the western side of a deep bay, on the south coast of England.
The promontory was known as the Stormy Mount, which had gradually been abbreviated into Stormount, a very appropriate name, for projecting, as it did, boldly out into the ocean, many a fierce storm had, age after age, raged round its summit and hurled the roaring, curling waves into masses of foam against its base, while the white spray flew in showers far above its topmost height.
To the west of Stormount, the coast was rocky and fringed by numerous reefs, while on the further side of the bay, also formed by a promontory, less in height than that of Stormount, it consisted of cliffs, broken considerably however by chines and other indentations, and pierced here and there by caverns, some close down to the water, and others high up and almost inaccessible from below.
Inland, the country was sparsely cultivated--open downs and fern and gorse-covered heaths prevailing.
The more sheltered nooks in the bay contained a few fishermen's cottages, pitched here and there wherever the ground favoured their erection, with very little regard to symmetry or order.
Nearer to the water were boat-sheds, and stakes, and spars, on which nets were spread to dry or to be repaired.
But the old stone tower of Stormount claims our attention.
It was of considerable circumference, three stories in height, the walls massive and substantial, the strongest gales could not shake it, nor any blasts find entrance.
The tower had been the donjon-keep of the ancient castle, part of the wall of which attached to the tower, had of late years been roofed over, and formed a portion of a dwelling-house and offices, the main portion being in the keep itself.
The appearance of the tower from the outside, though highly picturesque, was bleak and comfortless, and gave a stranger the idea that it was more fitted for the habitation of sea-gulls and other wild fowl, than for the abode of man.
But those who had once entered within its portal came out with a very different notion.
And on a stormy, long winter night, when the wind whistled and the waves roared, and all was darkness around, and the entrance to the bay, easily enough seen in daylight, was difficult to be found, a bright light streamed forth from an upper window of the old tower, sending its rays far off over the troubled ocean, cheering the passers by, a warning to some of neighbouring dangers, a guide and welcome to those who might be seeking shelter from the gale.
People are occasionally met with in this world very like that old tower--rough and weather-beaten on the outside, yet with warm hearts and genial dispositions, cheering and encouraging the wanderer, blessings to all with whom they come into contact.
The old tower was inhabited, and about its inmates we have still more to say than about the tower itself.
Five miles to the eastward of the tower was a Revenue Station, and fifteen years or so before the time of our history commences, the command was held by an old Lieutenant Cumming, who had obtained it, he used with a touch of satire to tell his friends, as a recompense for forty years' services and numerous wounds in fighting his country's battles.
He was one day standing on the beach, when a cutter brought up in the bay, and her boat soon afterwards came on shore with a passenger.
No sooner did the old lieutenant see him than he hurried to the boat, and grasping his hand as he stepped on shore, exclaimed, "Welcome, welcome, old shipmate; I knew, Askew, that you would find me out some day; and so you have; come along!"
Towards his cottage near the beach the old lieutenant and his friend bent their steps, the former assisting the new comer, who having lost a leg, walked with difficulty--a seaman following with a small well-battered valise.
Didn't the old shipmates talk as they sat together during their supper!
Many a battle they fought over again, and Commander Askew had besides to talk of his own doings since last they parted.
He told his friend how in lashing the enemy's bowsprit to the mizen-mast of his own ship, his leg had been shattered, and how he held on to the task till he had done it, and then sank fainting on the deck.
He did not utter an expression like a boast, though he thoroughly possessed the characteristics of the true-hearted naval officers of the old school, who feared God, did their duty like lions, and said very little about it.
He spoke, too, of a promise he had made to a brother officer, who lay dying in the cot next to him, and how he had fulfilled it (the request was common in those days), "Jack, you'll keep an eye on my wife and little girl, I know you will."
"Cheer up, Tom, don't be cast down about that matter, God knows that I'll try and do the best I can for them."
That was all that passed.
John Askew did do his best.
He found his late friend's widow dying, and the orphan girl, not a child, but a young woman, without a friend in the world besides him.
He looked about to find a husband for her.
To those eyes who could only see the pure bright loving spirit beaming through her countenance, she appeared plain.
In vain Jack looked for what he sought.
"Why don't you marry her yourself?"
said a friend.
Jack said that he was much too old for Margaret Treherne.
However, he put the matter before her.
Her heart leaped with joy as she thought how she should now be able to devote her life to the comfort of her generous benefactor.
A truly happy couple were Captain and Mrs Askew.
He had lately got his promotion to the rank of Commander, and was now in search of a house in sight of the ocean he loved so well, where he might live a retired life and bring up the two children God had given him.
"Fit up Stormount Tower," said his friend, half in a joke, "the rent will be nominal, and you'll have as much of the sea as you can desire."
The next day the two brother officers walked over to inspect the tower.
The captain decided that he could soon make it comfortable, and accordingly went on to see the proprietor, Mr Ludlow.
Mr Ludlow, who resided on his somewhat extensive but barren estate, was glad to find a tenant willing to help to keep the old walls from tumbling down, and who might also prove a pleasant neighbour.
In a short time the old tower, under the captain's directions, was put into a habitable condition, and well caulked, as he observed, when he surveyed the work.
The furniture was of a modest description, for the captain's means were small.
When all was ready, he went away and returned with his wife and two children--one a boy, four years old, and the other a little girl.
The boy was named after his father, John, though he was generally known as Jack Askew; the daughter was called Margaret, but more frequently spoken of as Margery Askew.
An old follower of the captain's came with him-Tom Bowlby was a sailor of the old school, and knew as little of the shore as a whale does of the inside of Saint Paul's.
He loved the captain as a father, and would have been ready to die to save his life.
He had saved it once, by interposing his own arm, which he lost in consequence, and Captain Askew resolved that, should he ever have a home, Tom should share it with him.
Jack Askew grew up a fine bold, generous-hearted boy, and what was better still, fearing and loving God as did his father and mother.
In his childhood's days, when not with his parents, he was under Tom's entire charge; but as he grew older the old sailor found it impossible to follow him in his distant rambles, and Jack, who was of a sociable disposition, soon made the acquaintance of every individual of the surrounding population.
While Lieutenant Cumming remained at the revenue station, Jack was constantly out with him and his men in their boats; he was equally intimate with a class of men living on the coast, who, though they professed to be fishermen, either made smuggling their chief business, or were ready on all occasions to help the smugglers.
Tom knew very little about their proceedings; indeed, brought up as he had been, had he done so, it is not likely that he would have looked on them with much horror.
Captain Askew, of course, knew that there was a good deal of smuggling on the coast, but, except in the case of a few notorious characters, he did not know who were the individuals engaged in it.
Jack was a favourite with both revenue men and smugglers, and the latter knew that, should he by chance learn anything of their proceedings, he would not betray them.
He used to go off with them when they went out fishing, sometimes with Tom, and sometimes alone, and soon became a very expert boat sailor.
One thing is very certain, that his associates did Jack no good.
We know from Scripture that "Evil communications corrupt good manners," and, though undeservedly, he got the character of being a wild lad, likely some day to get into trouble.
Such was the opinion formed of him by Mr Ludlow, his father's landlord, who consequently seldom invited him to his house, nor did he encourage any intimacy between him and his son, which he would probably otherwise have done.
Mr Ludlow, who was a country magistrate, was a stern, self-opinionated, and narrow-minded man, with very little of the milk of human kindness in his composition.
He believed, among other things, that he could put down smuggling by force, and he was engaged in an effort to accomplish the task.
Stephen, his son, was rather younger than Jack, a good-looking boy, but he was conceited, headstrong, and not good tempered.
He occasionally went over to Stormount, where he was always welcomed, but he and Jack were not especially good friends; indeed, their pursuits were so different, that even then they did not see much of each other.
It happened one day that Jack, having betaken himself to the beach, found some of his friends going off a in boat, and begged to go with them.
One or two objected, others said--"Let him come, he's true as gold, he'll not peach."
"Yes, yes, for do ye not see if we get into trouble, they'll not be hard on us for his sake."
This decided the matter.
Jack did not hear these remarks, and went.
The boat sailed off till she was out of sight of land, when she met with a long white lugger, and out of her received a quantity of goods, bales of silk, and ribbons, and lace, and then returned towards the shore.
Night had come on--certain lights were seen, a signal that all was right, and without hesitation the smugglers pulled in towards the beach.
Suddenly from behind a point two revenue boats darted out and gave chase.
The smugglers' galley was put about and pulled away along the coast.
Jack's hitherto peaceable friends were suddenly transformed into fierce savages.
Their venture was a valuable one, and they swore that sooner than yield it they would lose their own lives, or take those of their opponents.
Jack heartily wished that he had learned the object of their expedition, and had avoided coming.
He, by this time, knew enough about the ways of smugglers to make him feel that he ought to have suspected that his friends were about some unlawful work.
Scarcely had Jack left the tower than a post-chaise came rumbling up the steep ascent which led to it.
Had it come five minutes sooner Jack would not have gone down to the beach.
It contained an old friend of his father's, Captain Summers, who had come to spend a few days at the tower while his ship was refitting.
She was a South Sea trader, generally sailing to the western coasts of America and the islands of the Pacific.
Everybody in the household was so busy--Captain Askew in talking to his friend, Mrs Askew and Margery in getting his room ready, and Tom in preparing supper, that no one thought of Jack.
It was not till they were seated at their evening meal that Jack was missed.
Tom went out to make inquiries.
He was not very well pleased when he at length learned that Jack had been seen with Bob Herring and some other men going off in Bill Starling's galley, Bill being, as Tom well knew, one of the most determined smugglers belonging to Stormount Bay.
"Well, Bob Herring would give his life before any harm should come to the lad, and Bill's a clever chap, and it's not likely that he'll be getting into mischief," said Tom to himself as he returned homewards.
As long as daylight lasted Captain Askew or Tom had their eye at the large telescope in the captain's own room, ranging over the ocean in search of Bill Starling's galley, but no where was she to be seen, and at length the captain became more anxious than he had ever before been about Jack.
He had done his best to prevent Mrs Askew from being alarmed, but was on the point of going out himself to make inquiries about the galley, when a ring was heard at the gate, and Becky Bott, the maid, came to say that blind Peter, the pedlar, wanted to see the captain.
Blind Peter with his dog Trusty traversed the country round, selling needles, thread, tape, and such like small wares.
Peter seldom failed, when he required it, to obtain a crust of bread, and a piece of cheese, and a glass of cider for himself, and a few bones for his dog.
He had always met with a kind reception at the tower, and seemed to have taken a very great fancy to little Margery.
"It's her sweet gentle voice I love to hear," he said one day talking to Becky.
"That's what goes to my heart."
"What brings you here, Peter, at this time of night?"
asked Captain Askew, with some anxiety in his voice.
"I wish, captain, I could say it was pleasant news I've brought you, and yet when there's evil it is better to know it, that we may find a remedy," answered the blind man.
"I wouldn't like to frighten the missus though--but it's just this--Master Jack has been taken with Bill Starling, Bob Herring, and a lot of other chaps, by the coastguards' men, with a cargo of contraband, and they are all now on their way to Mr Ludlow's.
He's long been wishing for such a haul, and he'll commit one and all of them to prison, and Master Jack too, if you don't go and bail him out."
Peter's news caused a considerable amount of anxiety, for Mr Ludlow's stern character was well known.
However, the only thing to be done was to set off immediately to see him.
Fortunately the post-chaise which brought Captain Summers was still at the public-house in the village, and the postboy sufficiently sober to undertake to drive to the hall.
The two captains found Mr Ludlow seated in magisterial state, with the prisoners before him, making out their committal for trial.
"I am very sorry for this, Captain Askew, very sorry," he remarked, as they were introduced.
"The case is clear against all the party, and your son was with them.
He is young, and may have been led astray by others, but a severe example is necessary, and he must suffer with the rest.
He will be sent to prison for a year, or to sea in a ship of war."
In vain Captain Askew and his friend pleaded for Jack.
Mr Ludlow would not listen to their explanations.
Captain Summers, as a last resource, offered to take Jack away with him to sea, and, to his surprise, Mr Ludlow at once agreed to the proposal.
Jack was accordingly allowed to accompany his father and his friend home.
Jack, though he liked the thoughts of going to sea, was very sorry to leave his father and mother and dear little Margery, but he bravely kept up his spirits, that he might not grieve them more than he could help.
Not a word of complaint either did he utter against Mr Ludlow, or those who had brought him into trouble.
"It will be a lesson to me through life to avoid associating with those who are doing wrong," he remarked, and he said but little more on the subject.
There was a void not likely soon to be filled in the old tower, and a greater still in the hearts of its inmates, when Jack Askew went to sea.
They occasionally received letters from him, not very often though, and they found that many he had written had not reached them.
The last letter they received was dated from a port on the coast of Peru.
The ship was about to sail among some of the wide-scattered islands of the Pacific, whose then still savage inhabitants were said to be addicted to the worst vices which disgrace humanity.
In vain they waited for another letter--none came.
Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.
Still they hoped, and hoped on, that tidings would come some day or other.
At length rumours arrived that Captain Summers' ship, the _Truelove_, with all hands, had been lost on a coral reef.
Captain Askew would not allow himself to believe the report, and he took a journey to London to ascertain its truth.
"God's will be done, dear wife," he said when he came back.
"He that gave has taken our child away."
Many a pious parent has repeated the same words, yet with anguish of heart.
Still they went on hoping against hope.
However, at length it became too certain that the _Truelove_ had been lost, and that not a trace of her crew had been discovered, although a brother captain of Captain Summers had made every inquiry in his power, and a ship of war had been sent to search for them.
Margery was now the sole earthly object round which the affections of Captain and Mrs Askew ere entwined.
Tom Bowlby, too, had transferred his love for her brother to her.
She was a bright sunny little creature, with light auburn hair, deep blue eyes, and a pure rich glowing complexion, which might have vied with that of the lily, had it not been burnt by the sun and sea breezes.
No one who saw her, or heard her joyous ringing laugh, or her voice so soft or gentle when moved by pity or sorrow, could fail to love her.
She had learned to think of Jack as of a brother gone on a long, long voyage, whom she should meet again, not for years perhaps, but some day certainly, and so she ceased to mourn for him.
The captain had seen so many of his companions launched into watery graves, and knew so well that it is the fate for which all who go to sea must be prepared, that he accepted his lot as common to many another parent, though his gallant boy was not often out of his thoughts.
He and Tom seldom, as was once their wont, talked over their adventures and battles, for Jack and his doings was the theme on which, when together, they loved to speak, in subdued tones though, and often with faltering voices and tears springing unexpectedly to their eyes.
Margaret seldom spoke about her boy, but she did not think of him the less, and there lingered yet in her mother's heart the hope--she knew it was baseless, yet she dared not contradict it--that she should yet again fold him to her heart on earth; she knew that she should meet him in heaven.
One thing Margaret bethought herself that she would do.
She might assist to save others from the fate which had befallen her own dear boy.
The day on which the sad tidings reached her she had retired to an upper chamber of the tower which overlooked the sea, to pray that strength might be given her to bear her deep affliction.
To those who pray aright, never are their petitions refused.
By labouring for the good of others, the sorrow-stricken heart is greatly relieved.
"Surely, if this tower could be seen by night as well as by day, it would show the entrance to our sheltered bay," she said to herself.
She possessed a large bright lamp; filling it with oil and trimming it carefully, she placed it in the window as the shades of evening closed over the then tranquil ocean.
Night after night, without fail, she did the same, allowing no one, not even Margery, to share her task.
By and by a reflector and more powerful burners were obtained, and the rays of the lamp were thrown still further over the sea.
The fishermen out on the waters soon learned whence the light came, and blessed the hand that placed it there.
CHAPTER TWO.
MARGARET--STEPHEN--THE ROCKS--THE FACE--BLIND PETER--THE STORM.
When the old tower of Stormount was being fitted for a modern habitation, the original arrangements of the interior had been in a great measure restored.
Entering at the gateway, a narrow passage led to the foot of a spiral stair which ran up to the top of the building.
On each story there was a landing-place, into which the rooms opened.
Most of them were in shape like a slice of cake, the largest, used as a sitting-room, almost semi-circular.
At each window there was a deep recess--the windows themselves in the lower stories being very narrow, having been made rather as loopholes for musketry than to let in light-while in the upper story they were square and low, formed as ports for such cannon as were used in the days of the Commonwealth.
Under the ground-floor some of the inmates suspected that there were vaults, as at two or three spots a hollow sound on stamping hard was elicited, but as there was no apparent way down, the captain had not thought it worth while to break up the pavement to examine them.
The dining-room, kitchen, some offices and bedrooms were in the newer part of the structure.
Captain Askew's own room was one of those on the upper story, looking towards the sea.
It could not be called his study--for he was not a reading man, and there were but few books in it,--but it contained something of everything, arrayed in the most perfect order on shelves arranged one above another, in cupboards, on tables, and in drawers.
It was a workshop, a museum, a laboratory, a model room, a library, a dressing-room in one.
Here he sat at work for a large portion of each day, but not often alone, as his wife, or daughter, or Tom Bowlby was constantly with him.
In two or three points the captain had changed somewhat of late years.
He lived less for himself and more for others than formerly.
He took delight in going out among the fishermen and cottagers in the neighbourhood, with his Bible in hand, or with some book on religion, and in reading and explaining the Scriptures.
He was also engaged in making the model of a lifeboat, and inventing other apparatus for saving life.
He had likewise been appointed a magistrate, for the especial object of assisting the revenue officers in putting down smuggling, which it was found difficult to do without a strong force of coastguards on shore and numerous cutters afloat.
He most unwillingly undertook the office, but having taken it, set about doing his duty, as he was accustomed to do everything, thoroughly.
This of course made him enemies among those he had hitherto looked upon as his friends; still, all but the worst characters acknowledged that the captain was an upright man, and that whatever he did, he would take no undue advantage of them.
Captain Askew sat in his room--the captain's room.
It was known by no other name.
He was a strongly-built man, with a fine open countenance, florid, or rather sunburnt, with blue eyes--Margery's were like them-and hair sprinkled thickly with frost.
The loss of his leg had prevented him from taking much rapid exercise, and he had grown slightly stout in consequence, but he was still hale and active.
Margery stood by his side watching his proceedings, and occasionally, when required, helping him in his work.
They were interrupted by Becky Bott, who put her head in at the door, saying, "Please, there's young master Stephen Ludlow a come to see you, Miss Margery, with a book he says."
Having delivered her message, Becky popped her head out of the room.
"I don't like that Stephen Ludlow, father, and I wish that he wouldn't come here as he does," exclaimed Margery, pouting.
"He never cared for dear Jack, and he has no right to come here, with his proud manners, sneering at everything, and thinking himself the most important person in all the country round."
"He is our landlord's son, little daughter, and it is our duty to treat him with attention," answered the captain.
"I have not found his manner un-courteous, though, being an only son, he possibly is spoilt a little at home."
"He is spoilt a great deal, I suspect," cried Margery tossing her head in scorn.
"Well, well, ask him if he has a mind to stop to dinner, then tell him that you are engaged with me, and come back here," said the captain; "he will find means of amusing himself in the meantime."
Margery found Stephen in the sitting-room.
He was a pale-faced boy, with irresolution marked on every lineament of his countenance; the curl of his lip, and a frown marked on his brow, were not pleasant traits.
"I have brought this book for you, Margery, as I thought you would like it if you have never read it," he said, presenting a good thick volume, with a somewhat awkward manner.
Margery took it coldly, saying, "Thank you, I'll try and read it, but I have not much time to read by myself, as papa likes to be read to, and so does mamma of an evening when she is at work.
Oh!
by the by, I am to ask you to stop and dine, dinner will soon be ready, and you can amuse yourself in the meantime on the beach.
As I think of it, it is really a pity that you should leave the book, I may never look into it."
"Oh!
but this book is not like any other, it is full of adventure.
All about a man living on a desert island, with a black called Friday, for I don't know how many years.
If it isn't true, it ought to be, and so you'd better read it," said the boy, pressing the book on her.
Margery had become interested with the description of the work, and no longer refused to take it.
She thanked Stephen more graciously than before, and, taking the book with her, hurried back to her father.
Stephen was satisfied; he liked Margery and the captain, and Mrs Askew, better than most people, next to himself, and he thought that he could pass the hour till dinner-time to his satisfaction on the beach, in picking up shells and other sea curiosities.
So, leaving his pony in a shed near the tower, which served as a stable, he strolled down to the shore.
The tide was unusually low, and on turning to the right as he faced the sea, he found that he could get along under the cliff on which the tower stood, by means of a narrow ledge of rock and sand.
He had never been there before, and he thought that he should like to see how the cliff looked towering above him.
He forgot the danger he was running, should the tide rise and cut off his retreat.
He went on and on till he got completely under the cliff, and when he looked up it seemed to bend over above his head, and to reach up to the sky.
The rocks were so wet that it was evident the tide had only just gone down, so he thought that he should have abundance of time to get further, and perhaps to get round, so as to climb up the cliff on the west side.
Going on, as he happened suddenly to look up, he fancied that he saw, high above his head, a human face looking down on him out of the side of the cliff.
He was startled--as well he might--for it seemed impossible that any one could get to the spot.
When he looked again the face--if fact it was--had disappeared, and he saw nothing which he could have mistaken for a face.
Still he went on; there was novelty in the expedition, and no apparent danger, of which he was not fond, and he thought that it could only be a very little way longer round.
Again he was startled, but this time it was by a cry, and hastening on to the spot whence the sound came, he saw a young girl, in the dress worn by the children of the fishermen, holding on to a wet, seaweed-covered rock, on which she had fallen to save herself from slipping off into the water.
He was not so devoid of good feeling as not to wish to help her, so he ran on, and taking one of her hands, he dragged her up and enabled her to reach a spot where the footing was more secure.
She thanked him simply but warmly, and then looking at him earnestly, she said, "You are young Master Ludlow, and I think this no place for you: so get back the way you came, or ill may come of it: there is time for you before the tide rises, but none to spare."
"Who are you?"
said Stephen; "I don't know what you mean; I've done nothing to offend anybody."
"Who I am does not matter," answered the girl, "It's enough that you are the son of one who is trying to take the bread out of the mouths of poor folks who never harmed him."
This remark was sufficient to give Stephen a notion of what she meant, and being naturally timid, thanking her for her warning, he hurried back as fast as he could scramble over the rocks.
He saw, indeed, that on account of the tide there was no time to lose, for the tops of several rocks which were before exposed were completely covered, and the ledge along which his path lay was becoming narrower and narrower.
He began to get alarmed.
It seemed a long way to the broad part of the beach.
He could not swim.
He wished he could, even a little, because he might then swim from rock to rock.
He thought that he was very near the end, when the tide came gliding treacherously up, till the water touched the very base of the cliff before him.
There was no retreat either backwards or up the cliff.
The rocks on which he stood were evidently covered completely at half-flood, while by the marks on the cliff the water must reach far above his head at high tide.
He ran on almost shrieking out with terror till the water completely barred his further progress.
He stood trembling on a rock, not daring to plunge in and attempt to scramble across.
It would have been better for him had he done so boldly at once, for every instant the water was deepening.
He was about to sink down in despair, when he heard a voice shouting to him.
This roused him up, and he saw Tom Bowlby waving the stump of his arm, and standing on a rock not twenty yards off.
"Jump in, young master, and come over to me, the water is not up to your middle yet, and it's all smooth sailing between you and me."
Still Stephen, paralysed with fear, would not obey, and at length Tom, losing patience, dashed into the water himself, and hooking him through the jacket by the iron hook which he had fixed to the end of his stump, dragged him across, not, however, without having to swim a short distance, and consequently giving poor Stephen a thorough wetting.
They had two places of the same character to pass through, but by the exertions of Tom, Stephen, more frightened than hurt, was at length landed safely on the dry beach, and was able to accompany him on foot up to the tower.
On their way Tom told him that he had seen him go down, and hearing from a fishwife the direction he had taken, he had come after him to bring him back.
On his reaching the tower, Stephen was carried into a room which had never been used since its last occupant, poor Jack, had slept in it; and while his own clothes were drying, others were given him that he might appear at dinner.
He guessed at once to whom they had belonged.
Tears came into Mrs Askew's eyes when she saw him, and Margery treated him with more gentleness than she was accustomed to do, forsooth to say, she had generally very little patience with him, he was so far behind her idea of what a boy ought to be.
She thanked him again for the book; she had read a few pages and found them very interesting, but would tell him more about her opinion when they next met, and she had read it through.
Stephen described the appearance of the face in the cliff, and what the girl he had met had said to him.
The captain seemed to think that the face might have been in his fancy, but he was puzzled to account for the girl being where he found her, and not wishing to accompany him, as it was evident that she must have known of some way up from the beach.
The captain got a hint which he resolved to make use of as opportunity should occur.
Margery ran off as soon as dinner was over to read more of the book Stephen had lent her, and when she returned to the sitting-room to wish him good-bye, as he was about to leave on his return home, she told him that it was a delightful book, and that she was sure she should like it better than any she had ever read.
Stephen did not appear at all the worse for his ducking and fright.
Tom brought his pony round to the door, and as he helped him to mount, he advised him to hurry home.--"A storm's brewing, young gentleman, d'ye see, and a wetting with fresh water will do ye more harm than the one with salt ye got this forenoon," he remarked.
"I don't just want to be reminded of that," answered Stephen, in a tone which showed his annoyance.
"But if there is rain coming, I think I had better."
"Put spurs to your pony, Master Ludlow, and get home as fast as you can," said the captain, who at that moment appeared at the door.
Stephen took the observation as a hint to him to be off, and he was too proud, fancying this, to return into the house as he was about to do.
"Ah!--he'll never be what our Jack was," sighed Tom, as Stephen rode off.
Dark clouds were coming up thickly from the south-west, the advanced guard of a dense mass rising rapidly out of the horizon.
Stephen, looking round occasionally to see if the clouds were likely to overtake him, galloped on down the steep path which led from the tower to the more level country over which his road lay.
He had not gone far when the voice of some one from behind a hedge cried out, "Who goes there?
Stop, I charge you!"
Stephen was at first not a little alarmed, but directly afterwards he saw Blind Peter, the pedlar, emerge from his concealment, led by his little dog.
Stephen had known Blind Peter all his life, and as soon as he saw him he answered, "I am Stephen Ludlow.
What do you want?"
"I warn you that you are in danger, young gentleman," said Blind Peter.
"I have been waiting for you all the morning.
I thought that I should know the tread of your pony's hoof, with your light weight on his back.
Don't go back the way you came, or evil may come of it.
Take the round by Fairleigh farm.
Be advised, young sir, be advised."
Stephen was timid, but he was obstinate, and as the rain was likely soon to fall he was in a hurry to get home.
He therefore was disinclined to believe Blind Peter.
"For what can any one want to hurt me?"
he asked.
"Ask your father, young sir.
He may guess better than you can," replied Peter, "But, I say again, go by Fairleigh.
Be advised.
The round will not increase your ride by more than twenty minutes, and a wet jacket is of less consequence than a broken head."
At the mention of a broken head, Stephen turned pale.
He remembered the warning he had from the girl in the morning, and he now no longer hesitated to take Blind Peter's advice.
Scarcely, however, thanking the pedlar, he turned his pony's head down a road to the left, and galloped on at full speed.
"He's a poor-spirited creature, or he would have had a word of thanks, or may be a piece of silver for the poor blind man," said Peter to himself, shaking his head as he spoke, and then hastened on towards the tower.
He had not gone far when down came the rain, driven by a heavy gale which dashed it furiously in his face.
Still he struggled on, his faithful dog pulling at his leading-string to induce him to walk faster, the animal's instinct telling him that the storm had but commenced, and that it was increasing in strength.
Captain Askew had been watching the storm after Stephen left from the window of his room in the tower, occasionally sweeping the horizon with his glass, to see what vessels were passing up and down the Channel, and exposed to its rage.
Then he returned to his work, in which he was much interested, and then he went back to the window again.
At length he remained longer than he had before done at the window, earnestly looking through his glass.
"She'll be lost to a certainty if they don't succeed in getting up jury-masts," he exclaimed.
"No chance of that either, she's driving right ashore.
She'll anchor, but the ground will not hold her.
I must get some of our fellows to go off to her with me.
They've courage enough, if they can be stirred up."
He was watching all this time a large ship, which, totally dismasted, was being driven towards the coast.
He quickly put on his foul-weather-dress, as he called it, with water-proof boots, and a sou'-wester, and went to his wife's room.
He put his head into the room and said, "Margaret, I am wanted out there.
God protect you and Margery.
I pray that I may be soon back--so will you, I know, dear wife--good-bye."
He did not stay to say more, and before she could ask any questions he had hurried from the room.
Tom saw his master leaving the house.
"I know what you're after," he said to himself, and with a rapidity which few but sailors can exercise, he had stepped into his rough-weather clothing, and was hurrying after him.
Though the captain was superior to Tom in most things, Tom having two real legs, and the captain only one, Tom went over the ground the fastest, and soon caught him up.
"You are not going without me, sir, I hope," said Tom, in a tone which showed that his feelings were deeply hurt.
"Did you ever go without me, sir, where there was anything to be done, and the chance of a knock on the head?"
"No!
Tom--but you see in this sort of work two hands are wanted, and you haven't got two, and that's the long and the short of it," answered the captain.
"One of them was lost in saving my life.
I don't forget that either."
"That's nothing, sir," answered Tom.
"If I haven't two hands, I've got a strong set of teeth, which are pretty well as useful as a hand; and who can say that my on arm isn't as good as the two arms of many a man."
"Not I, Tom, not I!"
answered the captain; "but it's just this--if anything was to happen to me, what would my wife and child do without you, Tom, to look after them?"
Tom still, however, argued the point.
They were walking as fast as the captain could move down to the beach.
Suddenly the latter stopped, looked Tom full in the face, and said--"It's just this.
Are you captain, or am I?"
"You, sir," answered Tom, touching his hat mechanically, as he was wont in the days of yore.
"Then stay, and do as I order you," said the captain, walking on.
"But I'll tell you what, Tom; you may go and look out for volunteers, and then come and help to launch the boat."
The appearance of the captain at the boat was the signal for the inmates of the neighbouring huts to come out to know what he wanted.
He showed them the ship driving towards the coast--urged them to come and help him save the lives of those on board; and when he saw that his appeal made but little impression, talked of the salvage money they would receive, and other recompense from those they might save, and from their friends.
First one man volunteered--then another, and another, from various motives.
Tom had collected more from other quarters, till a fine crew was formed.
Once having said they would go, they were not the men to draw back; but they might have been excused had they done so, for it was very evident that the undertaking was one full of dangers of the most formidable character.
The boat, one of the finest of her class on the coast, and fitted with a double row of empty kegs on either side to give her buoyancy (one of the earliest attempts at a life boat), was now hauled up in a cove on the west side of the bay.
The captain had ordered as many ropes as could be collected to be brought down.
These were now coiled up carefully at the bow and stern, ready for immediate use.
The oars were secured by ropes to the sides of the boat, so that they could not be washed away, but would swing fore and aft.
"All ready, lads?"
cried the captain, "Now altogether, shove, and off she goes!"
The united strength of her crew, and some twenty other men, quickly launched her on the water of the comparatively sheltered bay.
"Remember!"
cried the captain, standing up in the stern-sheets, and looking back at Tom.
"Shove off, lads!
Give way!
We shall be wanted out there before long."
Bravely the men bent to their oars.
Not many minutes had passed when the boat got from under the shelter of the headland, and exposed to the full force of the storm.
It seemed scarcely possible that a boat could live amidst the foaming, roaring seas which came rolling in towards the beach.
Her head was put at them, and on she went--now hid from view by the seething mass of water--now reappearing on the summit of a wave.
On she went, in the teeth of the gale--on--on--rising and falling, every instant in danger of being swallowed up by the fiercely-leaping seas.
Many of those who stood on the beach, cried--"The Lord have mercy on them!"
CHAPTER THREE.
THE WRECK--SAILORS' HUMANITY--THE NEGRO--THE YOUNG STRANGER.
Two persons were watching the storm and the progress of the solitary boat over the foaming water, from one of the windows of the old tower.
Both, as they watched, were praying that He who rules the wind would protect the husband and the father, and those with him, from the dangers to which they were exposed.
Mrs Askew looked through the telescope at the boat, a mere speck in the troubled ocean, till her eyes grew dim and her heart sank with anxiety, and she was compelled to relinquish her post to Margery.
The dismasted ship was some way to the south-west.
"The boat goes on bravely!"
cried Margery.
"Now she is on the top of a wave--now she sinks into the trough--she is rising again though--yes, yes, there she is!
But the ship--they will grieve to be too late; yet she is driving fearfully near those dark rocks!
and I heard papa say that not a human being would escape from the ship that once strikes them."
"Heaven have mercy on them!"
ejaculated Mrs Askew.
"How many have mothers and sisters, or wives and daughters expecting them at home--poor people, poor people!"
"But perhaps the wind will change, and the ship may be driven along the coast and into the bay, and they may yet be saved!"
exclaimed Margery, who was naturally more sanguine than her mother.
"I fear that there is no likelihood of that," said Mrs Askew.
"See!
the boat is still a long way off, and she makes but slow progress--while the ship is driven on to destruction with even greater speed than at first."
That the above remarks may be clearly understood, it should be mentioned that the ship was a considerable way to the west of Stormount Bay, and that she was driving almost directly on the coast, so that the boat, after pulling out some way to sea to get clear of the cape, had to steer almost parallel with the coast to cut off the ship, their courses being almost at right angles to each other.
All the time, though they looked occasionally towards the ship, the eyes of either the mother or daughter were scarcely for a moment off the boat--difficult as it was to keep her in view.
Often they gasped for breath, and their hearts sank within them, when she was concealed by the foaming waves; and more than once they could with difficulty refrain from crying out with agony of spirit as she remained longer than before hidden from view.
Still, there she was; but as yet she had encountered only a portion of the dangers she had to go through; the greatest was in getting alongside the ship, and next to that was the return through the breakers which were dashing on the shore.
The brave men on board might venture on yet greater danger, should the ship strike, in attempting to go close to the wreck.
Both Mrs Askew and Margery knew enough of the state of the case to be aware of this, for there was no lee side on which the boat could approach; and yet they knew that if the captain saw the faintest possibility of saving the lives of any of his fellow-creatures, he would make the attempt.
"I can still see the boat, mother--I can still see the boat!"
cried Margery, when Mrs Askew, pale and trembling, had resigned the telescope to her daughter, unable longer to discern the boat, and tinder the belief that it had been overwhelmed by the seas.
"She floats--she floats; but she is still a long way from the ship!"
"The ship!
where is she?"
exclaimed Mrs Askew.
"I do not see her."
Both, without the glass, looked out in the direction where the big ship had just before been seen floating.
"Oh!
mother, the ship is not there!"
cried Margery.
"Gone!
gone!
is it so?"
exclaimed Mrs Askew; "The Lord have mercy on those now struggling out there for their lives amid the raging waves!"
The ship had indeed gone down; and it seemed impossible that any but the strongest swimmers could keep afloat till the boat should reach the spot.
Still they watched for an occasional glimpse of her, for they were certain that the captain would not return till he had been compelled to abandon all hope of saving life.
Since he had gone out the rain had cleared off, but at the moment the ship disappeared a thick driving rain came sweeping on over the ocean, soon shutting out the boat from view.
In vain the lady and her daughter waited till the veil of mist should clear off; and at length their anxiety became too great for endurance.
They thought that Tom would come in to relieve this impatience, but he did not appear.
"Come, dearest, come!
we must go down to the beach," said Mrs Askew, taking Margery's hand.
Their cloaks and hats were soon put on, and together they hastened down to the shore, where they saw a group of men, with Tom in the midst.
In spite of the rain driving in their faces, they pressed on.
The men were eagerly looking out over the sea.
Some held coils of rope in their hands, others long poles, while Tom had fastened a number of cork net-floats together to form a life-buoy.
They drew aside as they saw the lady and her daughter.
"No fear, marm!"
exclaimed Tom, when he observed their alarmed looks.
"We doesn't think anything has happened to the captain, do you see, but it's just as well to be ready for whatever does happen, and there's no saying what that may be."
So poor Mrs Askew and Margery thought; and they were thankful that their friends were making such preparations, as seemed to them, for the worst.
Indeed, they might well do so.
The huge billows came rolling in towards the shore, breaking with a loud roar on the beach into masses of foam, and then rolling back again, looking as if it must sweep off everything it might encounter.
Mrs Askew found that some parties of men had gone along the coast to the eastward with ropes, on the possibility of some of the wreck driving on shore in that direction, for they were not aware that the ship had gone down, the mist having come on almost at the moment of the catastrophe.
Some of them shook their heads behind the lady's back when they heard of it.
The captain would be tempted to go looking about round the spot till darkness should come on, and then the return on shore would be doubly hazardous.
One thing was certain, that he would select the spot where they were for running in the boat, as it was the only one for miles along the coast affording the slightest chance of safety.
This was owing to its being sheltered by the cape from the south-west, a small bay being formed within the bay.
Still the sea rolled in even there with great force, and the landing was an undertaking of great difficulty and risk.
Mrs Askew heard the men say that in one respect the boat would gain by the delay, as the tide was on the point of turning, and would set up Channel with the wind, thus enabling her to return more speedily, while the sea might not possibly break so much as it had hitherto been doing.
Tom wanted Mrs Askew and Margery to return to the tower; but, though the rain pelted down, and the wind blew against them so that they could scarcely stand, they persisted in awaiting the expected return of the boat.
Now the mist cleared off a little; they peered anxiously out, but no boat was to be seen.
Now it settled down thicker than ever, and all they could see was billow after billow crested with foam come rolling in, and breaking with loud roars on the beach, making the very ground beneath their feet tremble.
They stood with their hands clasped together, Margery partly sheltered by her mother's cloak.
As they could see but a short distance, they listened the more attentively, in the hope of hearing some sound which might give them notice of the approach of the boat.
At length Margery started, and bent forward; either her quick ears had distinguished a shout amid the roar of the waters, or she fancied that she heard one.
She waited for some time.
"Oh!
yes, mother, it is--it is!
I hear a voice--it is papa's!
He is shouting!
He is telling the men to do something!
I know it is him!"
exclaimed Margery, darting forward.
Was it the little girl's fancy, or not?
Surely not her fancy, though no one else heard the voice.
Suddenly the mist again for an instant cleared away, and revealed the boat on the summit of a billow, close in with the shore.
Now is the time for the men on the beach to exert themselves if they will save the lives of their friends, though the risk of losing their own is very great.
The strongest secure the ropes round their waists, and prepare to rush into the sea that they may seize the boat as she touches the beach, before the sea can draw her back again or those in her.
On comes the boat--the captain steers her with consummate skill; the brave crew exert themselves to the utmost, yet with difficulty can they prevent her from being turned broadside to sea, and rolled over on the beach.
Those who are watching hold their breath with anxiety.
Margery and her mother stand trembling.
Tom can do but little except hold on to the end of one of the ropes.
The boat draws nearer--then down she comes.
The sea follows, ready to sweep all out of the boat, as if disappointed of its prey; but those on shore each grasp a man.
Tom seizes his master with his hook, and drags him up the beach.
Others attend to the boat.
She is quickly hauled up, and all are safe.
Margery and her mother were soon in the captain's arms: they were recompensed for all they had suffered by seeing him safe.
But where were those they had gone out to rescue?
Were none preserved?
Yes!
one person had been discovered alone, of the numbers who had been on board the ship--a black boy, but he could speak but a few words of English, and could give no account of the ship.
The captain, with his wife and daughter, and Tom leading the young stranger, now hurried up towards the tower.
The captain stopped, however, for a moment before he went.
"Thank ye, lads, for what you've done!"
he said; "it was your best, and you could do no more; and one life saved is better than none.
As soon as you've shaken yourselves dry, come up to the tower, and such fare as I can offer you I'll give it gladly."
"Thank ye, sir, thank ye!"
answered the crew of the boat, "we'll come by and by, if it's only to drink yours and the missus's health."
Before entering the tower, the captain gave a glance over the ocean.
The mist had again cleared off completely, and his keen eye discovered far out a small object--what it was he could not determine.
He pointed it out to his daughter.
Throwing off her wet cloak, she hurried to the telescope, that she might ascertain what the object was.
She looked eagerly, as it was, probably, she thought, a part of the wreck.
After watching it a short time, it became evident to her that it was being drifted by the tide and wind towards the shore.
She called her father, who by this time had put on his dry clothes.
He asked her to point out the spot where she had first seen it.
"Yes--yes, it may possibly drift into the bay!"
he exclaimed; "but it will be midnight before it can reach the shore.
I must go out, however, and set men to watch, for it is large enough to support a dozen or more people, though it is scarcely possible that they should have clung on in that heavy sea out there."
Once more the Captain and Tom, habited in their foul-weather clothes, repaired to the beach.
Darkness was coming on, and the object they were in search of was only for an instant at a time visible as it rose to the foaming summit of a wave.
It however remained long enough in sight to enable them to point it out to the men at the huts, several of whom agreed to remain with the captain and Tom on the shore, with ropes, to assist any one by chance clinging to the piece of wreck.
Again Mrs Askew and Margery were left in a state of anxiety, for they knew the danger that must be run in the attempt to draw a person out of such a raging sea.
Margery insisted on running down to take her father some food--for he had had none since dinner--and, of course, Becky offered to go, but at that moment Blind Peter came to the door, and he undertook to convey some supper for the captain and Tom; and the black boy, seeming to comprehend the matter, begged by signs to be allowed to accompany him, and to carry the baskets.
To Blind Peter day and night were the same, and with every inch of the ground he was well acquainted, so that he had no difficulty in finding the captain and his companions-guided to them by the sound of their voices.
Blind Peter was recompensed for his want of sight by the most acute sense of hearing.
Accustomed also to be out in all weathers, he cared nothing for the pelting of the storm, or for the clouds of spray which beat over those who stood on the beach, and expressed his intention of remaining till the piece of wreck should reach the shore.
"Then you must share with us the provender you have brought, friend Peter," said the captain, taking a seat on some rocks rather more out of the reach of the spray than where they had been standing.
Some lighted their pipes, and others produced bottles of spirits from their pockets, and, being all of them well clothed to resist the weather, they made themselves as comfortable as circumstances would allow.
Occasionally, one or two got up and ran along the beach, to try to ascertain if the wreck could be seen.
Suddenly, Blind Peter started up, exclaiming, "I hear something floating on the water!
There is a voice, too, faint, calling for help."
The captain, and Tom, and the other men, with their ropes, hurried after Peter along the beach.
He stopped, pointing over the sea.
The moon, which had hitherto been obscured, at that moment broke forth from behind a cloud, and revealed a small raft floating among the breakers.
Again the moon was hidden by the cloud, and then once more it appeared, and this time the raft was seen more distinctly, and on it appeared a human form, grasping the planks firmly with one hand as he lay along then he waved the other to show that he was alive.
No sooner was he seen than the agitation of the young black became very great; and taking the end of a rope from one of the men, he fastened it round his own body, and intimated that he would swim off with it to the raft.
There was no time to be lost, for any moment the lad--for lad he evidently was--might be swept off by the breakers, or the raft might be thrown violently on the shore, and he crushed beneath it.
The captain and Tom also fastened ropes round their waists, as sailors well know how to do, and rushed into the surf to help the brave black boy.
The raft came on towards them; the black boy sprang on it, and seized the lad, who seemed at that moment to have lost all consciousness.
An instant longer, and he would have been swept away.
The receding waters rushed back with the raft.
The black boy, though an excellent swimmer, could scarcely support his friend as those on shore hauled him in, when the captain and Tom rushed to his aid.
The captain stuck his timber-toe in the sand, Tom caught the stranger's jacket with his iron hook, and all three brought him at length safely up the beach out of the reach of the surf, which came hissing after them as if angry at the loss of its prey.
"Now, lads, carry him up among you to the tower; a warm bed and some hot grog is what the lad now wants!"
cried the captain, who possibly felt that it was high time for himself to get to a warm bed, for he was not so strong as he had been, and he had gone through great exertions.
It was too evident, that if the raft had had more occupants, the lad was the only survivor.
The light of the moon, as it shone on him as the seamen bore him up to the tower, showed that he was dressed in a sea officer's uniform jacket, such as is worn by midshipmen--to which rank, from his youth, it seemed probable that he belonged.
Tom had hurried on before, so that when the party arrived, Mrs Askew, Margery, and Becky, were busily preparing and warming Jack's bed for the young stranger.
The warmth and rubbing soon brought him to consciousness; but Mrs Askew, observing his exhausted condition, would not let him speak to give any account of himself until he had had some sleep, without which it was evident that food would do him but little good.
The captain pretended to be very indignant at being popped into bed as soon as he got home, "like a little boy who had tumbled into the water," he said; but he was not sorry to drink a glass of hot grog which Margery brought him, after which he fell fast asleep.
Mrs Askew watched by the side of the young sailor lad, who now also slept soundly.
She thought of her own dear boy, who might have been as this lad was--washed ashore on some strange land; and as she would have wished him to have been treated, so she desired to treat the young stranger.
He was older than Jack would now be--stouter and fairer--not like him, indeed, except in possessing an honest and innocent countenance.
She did not for a moment suppose that he was her own boy come back to her, and yet, as she watched him, her heart strings began strangely to coil round him, and she felt that he could never be a stranger to her.
She was sure that he would be worthy of her regard-judging by the expression of his countenance--this opinion being strengthened by hearing of the affection shown to him by the young negro.
She sat up with some food ready to give him when he should awake, and it was not till daybreak, after he had taken it, that she would allow Becky to take her place.
When she opened the door she found the black boy coiled up close to it, on a rug.
He had left the snug bed provided for him that he might be near the lad, to whom he was evidently attached.
Margery was the first of the family on foot; she longed to hear more about the young stranger, but he was still asleep, and there was no one else to tell her--the black boy was about, but he could not exchange many words with her--so, to employ the time, they looked through the telescope to ascertain if any more pieces of the wreck were floating about near the shore, but nothing was to be seen.
The wind had considerably abated, and the sun was shining brightly on the sparkling waves; though she could not forget that they danced over the graves of so many of her fellow-creatures who that time the day before were full of life and strength, and that probably the only survivors were the black boy and the young lad, now sleeping safely in the tower, who had been on the last night washed ashore.
CHAPTER FOUR.
CHARLEY BLOUNT--PETER A PRISONER--TRUSTY'S ASSISTANTS--IN HIDING.
"I want to know your name and all about you," said Margery, addressing the young stranger, who, having eaten a very good breakfast, and obtained permission to use his tongue, had had his clothes dried, and having dressed in them, looked every inch a midshipman, and spoke like one also.
"Why, you see, Miss Margery, for I understand that is what you are called, that matter is quickly settled.
My name is Charles, or rather Charley Blount.
My father and mother are dead, and I was sent away early to sea, and have been at sea ever since, and as I am very fond of it I know more about it than most lads of my age.
I was on my fifth voyage home from India in the `Durham Castle,' and expected before long to become a mate, when just in the chops of the Channel, our rigging being slack, we lost all our masts, and at the same time the ship sprung a leak.
We little knew how bad it was, but instead of getting up jury-masts, with which we might have steered the ship up Channel, the crew were compelled to work at the pumps; but the leaks gained on us, and so the poor old ship went down, with upwards of a hundred people on board."
"Dreadful!"
exclaimed Margery.
"But how did you escape from the ship?"
"A few of us, when we found that nothing could save the ship, hurriedly put together a small raft, but very few of the rest seemed inclined to venture on it.
Just as the ship was going down I sprang on to it with five others; they lost their hold, and were washed off; I retained mine, and was washed on shore, and now I think that I have told you all about myself that you will care to know."
"Oh no!
not by half!"
answered Margery.
"I want to know why the black boy is so much attached to you, and how it was that papa when he picked him up did not see you?"
"That I can easily account for," answered Charley, "as the ship went down a thick fog came on, and I had drifted by up Channel; that is to say, nearly east, before the boat coming more from the north had reached the spot; and as to honest, faithful Crambo, I once upon a time picked him out of the water as he last night helped to pick me out, and he has ever since stuck by me, and I assure you that I value his friendship."
"Oh yes!
I can easily understand that," said Margery.
"I am reading about a very interesting person, a great traveller, who had a black servant called Friday, and they lived together on a desert island for a long time--it must have been very delightful--but at last they got away.
I have not read the book through yet, but when I have I will tell you more about it, and perhaps Stephen Ludlow will lend it to you.
I will ask him, for I am sure that you will like it."
"Perhaps I may have read it, Miss Margery, already," said Charley, smiling.
"If it is the `Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe,' I have."
"Yes, yes!
that is the very book!"
exclaimed Margery, "how could you guess so quickly?"
"Because I know of no other book with a man Friday in it, or one so interesting," said Charley; "but I must tell you one thing.
Friday is always spoken of as a black, but that is a mistake, as the inhabitants of all the islands in the part of the Pacific where Robinson Crusoe is supposed to have been wrecked are light brown people; some are very light.
Many of them are civilised, and have become Christians, but in those days they were perfect savages, and some of them were cannibals."
"How dreadful!"
exclaimed Margery.
"But have you been out in those seas?"
"Yes!"
answered the midshipman, "I once came home that way, and we touched at several islands.
They are very beautiful, and I should much like to go out there again."
"So should I," said Margery, and she sighed.
She would like to have told him all about Jack, but he was as yet too great a stranger to her to allow her to speak to him on a subject which was to her almost sacred, so she said nothing; she did not even tell him that she had had a brother Jack, who had gone to sea and been lost.
Charley Blount soon became a great favourite of the inmates of the Tower, as also with most of the neighbours.
His history seemed a sad one, and yet he was as merry and happy a fellow as ever lived.
He had but few friends on whom he had any claim, and they were in India; the only one he had had in England, an aunt, was dead.
She was the sister of his father--a maiden lady of true piety, who had indeed instructed him in the way he should go, and Charley Blount had not departed from it.
This was the reason he was so merry and happy.
His happiness was within himself.
Captain Askew delighted in him.
He seemed to him what his own boy would have been, and it was with inward satisfaction he heard that he had no friends in England to whom he could go.
"Then, Charley, you must make this old Tower your home, as long as you can keep off the salt water," he answered.
"We are grave, old-fashioned people, but we'll do our best to make your stay with us pleasant."
Charley assured his friends that he knew when he was in good quarters, and that he should be in no hurry to go away.
It naturally occurred to the captain that his young guest would like a companion occasionally, so he sent a note inviting Stephen Ludlow to come over and spend a day at the tower, hoping also that Mr Ludlow would invite Charley in return.
Margery was very anxious to see Stephen to thank him for his book, and to tell him how much she liked it.
An idea had also occurred to her which she proposed broaching to him on the first opportunity.
Blind Peter was the general messenger as well as the purveyor of small wares in the neighbourhood, and as he happened to call that day, Becky took the captain's note down to him to carry.
"It's just to ask the young master at Ludlow to come over for a day," she observed, as she gave it to him.
"Then just, Becky, do you give him a hint not to wander away from the Tower while he is here, and tell him to go back by the way he went the last time, mind that," said Peter.
"I'll do as you tell me, Master Peter," answered Becky.
"But what's in the wind that makes you say that?
You know I am not a woman to go and prattle about other people's affairs, but I should just like to know, that I should, Master Peter."
Blind Peter turned his sightless orbs towards Becky, while a smile played round his lips.
"I'll tell you what, Becky," he answered, "there's an old saying, that a secret is no longer a secret if it's in the keeping of more than one person; so, do ye see, I think as I've got it I'd better keep it.
Not but what I own that you are a right sensible woman, Mistress Becky, and it's for your good as much as for my own that I don't tell it to you."
Becky was not satisfied, but she knew Peter of old, and that, as she said of him, "he was as close as wax, and if he was determined not to do a thing no mortal power could make him do it."
She made up her mind to abide her time, in the hope that after all she might discover the secret.
Blind Peter having received the note, set off on his journey, promising to deliver it either that night or the following morning.
Peter's reception at the hall was always very different to that at the tower, yet he did not refuse the crust of bread and mug of water offered to him at the former, but meekly took it, and went on his way with a thankful heart.
On this occasion, having delivered the note at the hall, and finding that both Mr Ludlow and his son were out, he continued his journey.
It was towards evening, as he was within a mile or so of the little public-house, near the coast, at which he intended to sleep, that he was overtaken by a man in a cart.
"Ah, Peter!
is that you?"
said the driver.
"Just get in, and I'll put you and your dog and your wares down wherever you may wish to stop."
"Thank you for your offer, Dick Herring--for I know you by your voice,-but my legs are well accustomed to carry me; and they'll do so as long as I need their services, I hope."
"Oh, nonsense, man; there's a storm brewing, and you'll be wet to the skin, if you keep to your legs; but just do you get in, and I'll whisk you along to your journey's end in no time," answered Dick Herring.
"That's kind of you, Dick, anyhow," said Peter; "but as to the storm, I don't feel as if one was coming, and I'm not often deceived."
"Just now you are, though, depend on't, mate.
Come, step in, I want to do you a service, and it isn't the like of me that would do you a harm," said Herring, in a persuasive tone.
Peter, who was in reality very tired from his long walk, was glad to have a lift, and his doubts as to Herring's intentions, which from certain circumstances known to him he entertained, having been quieted, he stepped up to the cart to get in.
In an instant he felt himself lifted up by strong arms, and placed on a seat next to another man who had not before spoken, and the cart drove on at a rapid rate.
In vain he begged that poor old Trusty might be lifted in with him.
"The dog has four legs, and can run as fast as the horse; we can't stop for him," said the man, in a gruff and feigned voice, though Peter thought that he recognised it as that of a notorious smuggler living not far off.
"I told you, Peter, that I'd whisk you along pretty quickly over the road, and I am doing so, you'll allow," observed Herring, in a tone which the blind man did not like, but he said nothing.
He was, however, after some time, convinced that they had gone much farther than the two miles which he calculated would take him to the inn where he had proposed sleeping.
He became aware, too, that the cart had altered its direction, by the feeling of the wind on his face.
On they went at a rapid rate for some time, when Peter inquired why they were conveying him from the place to which he wished to go.
"We've a good reason, Master Peter," answered Dick Herring, in a still more disagreeable tone than before; "you know a thing or two more than you ought to know, and we intend to keep you out of harm's way for a day or two; and that's the fact, if it pleases you to know it."
Peter was aware that expostulation was useless, so he resigned himself to his fate, believing that Herring, though a daring smuggler and utterly lawless, would do him no personal harm.
He felt the cart go up and down several rough places, and he was certain that it doubled several times, and had made a full circuit more than once.
The object of the smugglers, it was evident, was to mislead him and to make him suppose that he had gone a long distance.
He kept his own counsel, however, and in a short time the cart stopped, and he was told to get out.
He called Trusty to come and lead him, but no Trusty came.
"The dog couldn't quite keep up with us, and maybe he has lost his way," said Herring.
"But never do you mind, Peter, I'll lead you; here, take my arm."
Poor Peter did as he was directed, and then he found himself going up some very rough stone steps, and then he knew by the change of air that he had been led through a doorway into a room, and that there were people in it, though they did not speak; and then Dick led him into another room, and told him to sit down on a chair, and that he must make up his mind to remain there for some days to come, and that if he promised to be quiet and to behave well, he should be well treated.
Saying this, the smuggler walked out of the room, and bolted the door behind him.
Peter immediately got up and felt about the room.
It contained, he ascertained, a low pallet bed, a table and a chair, and had a small lattice window, with a bar across it; but it was so small that even without the bar he could scarcely have got through it had he wished.
He opened the window gently.
He could hear the sough of the sea on the beach, far down below him.
"I thought as much," he said to himself, "they have brought me to old Dame Herring's cottage, upon Eastdown Cliff.
I was here as a boy more than once, and could find my way from it easy enough, if I had Trusty's help to keep me from any pits or holes dug of late.
I know the reason why this has been done.
They suspect that I know what I do know, and perhaps more, and they want to keep me out of the way till they have carried out their undertaking.
However, they might have treated me worse; so I'll not complain, but try and take matters easily."
Saying this he took off his wallet and the knapsack which contained his wares, and threw himself at his length on the bed, intending to go to sleep.
He had not lain there very long when the door opened and some person looked in, and placing something on the table retired again, bolting the door.
In a short time several people came into the larger room, most of whom Peter knew by their heavy tread were men in large boots.
"Well!
Mother Herring, do you promise us success in our venture, we've been waiting long enough for it?"
said one of the new comers in a gruff voice.
"If you do as I bid you this time you will succeed," answered an old woman, whom by her cracked, harsh voice, Peter, even had she not been named, would at once have recognised.
"But, as I before told you, if you want to make all secure, get hold of the son of old Ludlow.
He dotes on the boy, and you would have the father in your power, if you could get hold of the son."
"So we should, long ago, if it hadn't been for blind Peter; howsomedever, we can keep him quiet for some time."
"I mind the time before the captain came to the Tower, the matter was much more easier than it now is," said an old man, whom Peter knew as a daring smuggler all his life.
"That was a first-rate place, I believe you."
"Then why not get rid of the captain and his family?"
croaked out old Mother Herring; "what business has he to come interfering with people's rights?"
"More easily said, Mother Herring, than done," exclaimed another of the party.
"The captain is a tough old bird, not to be driven from his perch in a hurry."
"Ha!
ha!
ha!
May be I'll put you up to a trick or two, my sons, that'll make the place too hot to hold him," croaked out the old woman.
"Just you be guided by me, and all will go right, depend on that;" and she gave way to a fit of laughter which almost choked her.
Peter did not hear more of consequence just then, but he had heard enough to show him that the smugglers were prepared to run a cargo of contraband goods on the coast, and in case of failure they wished to get young Stephen Ludlow into their power, that they might make terms with his father.
Had it not been for Peter, who had been long aware of their object, they might ere this have accomplished it, and he now guessed that they had discovered that it was owing to him that they had not hitherto succeeded.
At length Peter, being very tired from his long walk, to sleep.
He had a notion that the people in the next room were taking supper, and indulging in a carouse, of the materials for which their calling afforded them an ample supply.
The smugglers were drinking when Peter went to sleep, and when he again woke some were still at the table, and talking loudly and wildly, though others had, apparently overcome by the liquor, dropped off to sleep.
They spoke as men do when the wine is in their heads, without fear or caution.
The wildest proposals were made to carry out their objects.
One man suggested that if they could get rid of their two principal opponents, Mr Ludlow and Captain Askew, they would have no one to interfere with them.
The idea was taken up by others, who did not scruple to talk of murder; though, tipsy as they were, when they spoke of so awful a deed, they sank their voices so low that Peter did not clearly hear all they said.
His ear, however, caught one or two ominous expressions, such as--"over the cliff," "sink him out at sea," "entice him from the house," "the sooner the better."
These words convinced him that the speakers would not scruple to commit the most atrocious crime if they fancied it would advance their interests.
They made him also very anxious to get away to warn those who were threatened of their danger.
But how to get away was the question.
He might fancy that no one was observing him, and yet be watched the whole time.
One thing he hoped was that Herring and his associates, trusting to his blindness, fancied that he did not know where he had been carried to, and that he could not possibly get away.
By degrees the speakers dropped off, and the loud snores which came from the room showed that the occupants were mostly asleep.
He hoped that all might be so.
Considering what he should do kept him broad awake.
He had not remained so long, when his attention was drawn to a scratching under the window.
The night was warm, and the lattice had been left open.
He went to the window and put out his hand, and directly he did so he felt it licked by the tongue of his faithful Trusty.
He put down his hand still further, and calling the animal by name, it leaped up and he was able to drag it in.
Poor Trusty showed his delight at meeting his master by jumping up and licking his face and hands all over.
"But can you help me out of this, good Trusty?"
said Peter, whispering in the dog's ear.
Trusty, as if he understood the meaning, immediately went to the window, and leaped up on the sill.
"He thinks that I can get out," said Peter to himself.
"He is seldom wrong--I will try."
Suiting the action to the word, he put his head out between the bars.
"Where my head can go my body can follow, but my body must go first just now."
After twisting his body a variety of ways, he worked his way between the bars, to which he held on while he lowered himself to the ground.
The leading-string was still attached to Trusty's collar, and taking it in his hand, he said, "Go on, Trusty."
Trusty, pulling hard, led the way, as if he was conscious that there was danger in delay, and Peter set off as fast as he could venture to move.
No sound came from the cottage, and he had every reason to hope that he should completely effect his escape.
Trusty, that good sagacious dog, worthy of his name, pulled on as if he well knew that it was important to leave old Dame Herring's cottage far behind before daybreak.
Peter decided on going first to the tower, that he might consult with the captain, to whom he knew he could speak as to a friend.
Should he go to Mr Ludlow, he was afraid that the magistrate would perhaps immediately send off to Dame Herring's Cottage, and attempt to apprehend the whole body of smugglers.
"If he does, what will be the advantage?
None at all.
I know what I heard, but I cannot swear to the voices of any one of them and they will all escape, and revenge themselves on me; not that I care for that if I can do others a service, but it's hard to suffer and do no good to any one."
The captain was an early riser.
He had scarcely been a minute on foot when he heard blind Peter knocking at the door.
Peter was admitted, and his story soon told.
"I will consider what is to be done, and will give due warning to Mr Ludlow," answered the captain.
"But one thing is certain, Peter, that you must lie by for a while, and take up your abode in the tower.
The ruffians would treat you with little ceremony if they were to catch you as you were wandering about the country, but they would scarcely venture to molest you while you are here--indeed, there is no reason that they should know that you are here."
There was a small vacant room on the ground-floor of the Tower--into this the captain conducted Peter, and told him that he must consider himself a prisoner there till the smugglers were captured or driven out of the country, and it was safe for him again to go out by himself.
He promised him, however, that he should not be without visitors, and that Margery and Charley Blount should come and read to him.
Captain Askew, having made these arrangements for the safety of the poor blind man, considered how he could warn Mr Ludlow of the danger threatening Charley Blount was the best messenger he could select.
The hall was nine miles off, but Charley said that the distance was nothing, and that he would be there and back by dinner-time; so having received his instructions he set off, with a stout stick in his hand, in high spirits, observing that should the smugglers wish to stop him, they would have to run very fast before he was caught.
CHAPTER FIVE.
HOPES--THE SAILOR'S STORY--THE SMUGGLERS--GUESTS AT THE TOWER--GHOSTS.
About an hour after Charley Blount had left the Tower, Stephen Ludlow trotted up on his pony, not having met the young sailor on the way.
He said that he had come over early, to spend the day, and that if he was asked to sleep he might do so.
Of this the captain was very glad as he did not wish him to run the risk of going back alone, and at the same time he had not sufficient confidence in his discretion to tell him what he had learned from Blind Peter; so he said, "I am very glad to receive you, my young friend; but I must exact a promise that you will not go beyond the open beach, or the downs in sight of the windows of the Tower, unless with Tom or me.
I have my reasons, which I need not mention now."
Stephen thought this rather odd, but as he wished to stay, he readily gave the required promise.
Margery had for some time been wishing to see him, to talk to him about the book he had lent her, and which she had now read completely through.
"Oh, Stephen!"
she exclaimed, when she saw him, "it is such a delightful book.
I have never read anything I have liked half so much.
It has given me an idea--but I cannot talk to you about it here.
You must come out on the beach, and we will sit on a rock and look out over the sea, and then I shall be able to say all I wish."
So they went out together, and easily found a spot to suit Margery's taste.
"Well, Margery, what is it that you have to tell me about my old book?"
said Stephen, in a tone which would have told her, had she not been herself so engrossed in her subject, that she was not likely to have a very sympathising hearer.
"Pray do not speak of it in that way, Stephen," she answered.
"It's a dear, delightful book, at all events; and since I read it I have been thinking more than ever of dear Jack.
You know that he went away in a ship to the Pacific Ocean, and the ship was wrecked, just as Robinson Crusoe's was, and though he was not a supercargo, he was a midshipman, and I don't suppose there is much difference; and at all events, if Robinson Crusoe was saved, and lived on a desert island for many years, though everybody else in the ship was lost, why should not dear Jack have been cast on some island, and be still alive, though not able to get away, or I am sure that he would, and would come home and tell us all about it; for he knows how we all love him and think about him every day."
"What a strange idea!"
said Stephen, somewhat coldly.
"I thought that it was settled that Jack was dead long ago.
Do you really believe that he is alive?"
"Of course I do," answered Margery, with some little impatience in her tone; "it was only those who don't care about him settled that he was dead.
I have always, always, been sure that he is alive, over the sea there, a long, long way off; but he will come back when we can send for him."
"Very strange!"
muttered Stephen.
"But what, Mrs Margery, would you have me do?"
"Stephen, you knew dear Jack well," she answered, fixing her large blue eyes on him; "you used to call him your friend, and friends ought to help each other.
If I was a boy, whether or not I was Jack's brother-if I was his friend,--I know what I would do: I would go out and look for him."
"But where would you look?"
asked Stephen.
"The Pacific is a very wide place, even on the map; and I have a fancy that in reality it is wider still.
There are many, many islands no one knows anything of."
"Ah!
that is the very thing I have been thinking of," exclaimed Margery.
"I am certain that Jack is living on one of those very islands."
"How can you, Margery, be certain of any such thing?"
said Stephen, in his usual cold tone, which contrasted curiously with the enthusiastic manner of little Margery.
"How can you ask that question, Stephen?"
she exclaimed, half angry that he should venture to doubt the correctness of her most cherished belief.
"Robinson Crusoe was wrecked on a desert island and so Jack may be, and I want you to go and look for him, and bring him home!
There!
I will not be refused!
You are old enough and big enough to go,--bigger than Jack was--and you have plenty of money; and your papa always lets you do just what you like, so you say; and besides, you often speak to me of Jack as your old friend; and if he was your friend I ask you to prove it by bringing him home."
When Stephen heard this he first thought that Margery was joking, but the matter was too serious for that; then the idea occurred to him that she had gone out of her mind; but she looked so calm, and quiet, and earnest, that he banished it immediately, and promised to think over her proposal, and speak to his father.
He, however, very well knew the answer his father would give, and he himself had no wish to go wandering about the world in search of one for whom he cared but little.
Had Margery known what was passing in his mind how she would have despised him.
But she did not; she fancied that he must be as enthusiastic as she herself was, and that it was only necessary to mention her idea for him to take it up warmly.
She therefore was prepared to wait patiently, under the belief that Stephen would soon be able to give a favourable answer to her request.
Margery's belief that Jack was still alive received a very remarkable and curious confirmation that very day, after she had parted from Stephen.
She was on her way to the village to carry some food to a sick child, when she encountered a rough sailor-like man, who, taking off his hat, begged for assistance, as he was on his way to join his ship at Plymouth, and had spent all his money; and if he did not make haste she would sail without him.
He had come last from the Pacific, and complained that he had had but very little time on shore to amuse himself.
The mention of the Pacific made Margery instantly ask him if he thought it possible that her brother Jack might be living, cast away on one of the numerous islands of that vast ocean.
"It is a very strange question for you to put to me, Miss, for a curious thing happened as we were steering southward from Vancouver's Island, on our way home.
What should we see but a small boat floating, all alone, hundreds of miles, for what we knew, from any land.
We made towards her and picked her up, for there was a man in her, or what once had been a man, for he was lighter than a baby, and that I found out, for I lifted him upon deck myself.
He was still alive, though the life was going fast out of him, and he couldn't speak above a whisper, and only a few words then.
He had been living on fish, we guessed, may be for weeks, by the number of scales we saw at the bottom of the boat.
Now this is what he told me.
His name was David King.
He had been shipwrecked with another young man--a gentleman's son, I know he said, and they were the only survivors of all the crew.
He had gone out fishing in their boat, and had been blown off the island.
I made out this by fits and starts, as it were, for he couldn't speak without pain, it seemed.
Poor fellow!
he was far gone, and though the doctor poured all sorts of things down his throat, it was no use, he never lifted up his head, and before the evening he was dead.
Maybe if we had seen him a day or two before he'd have lived, and been able to tell us more about himself."
Margery was, of course, deeply interested with this account of the sailor.
She imprudently gave him all the money she possessed, and then begged him to come up to the Tower that he might repeat the story to her father.
He, however, was in a hurry to proceed on his journey, and declined coming, possibly not aware of the importance which might have been attached to his narrative, and perhaps selfishly indifferent in the matter.
Margery at length hurried home and told her father, and he and Tom went down to look for the sailor, but he had disappeared, and notwithstanding all their inquiries they could gain no trace of him.
The captain, indeed, suspected that the man was some begging impostor, who had heard of the loss of his son, and had concocted the tale for the sake of getting money out of the young lady.
This was especially Mr Ludlow's opinion of the matter.
Charley Blount stepped boldly out towards Ludlow Hall, singing as he went, not from want of thought, but from joyousness of heart.
He reached the hall without interruption.
Mr Ludlow was much pleased with his manner and appearance, thanked him warmly for bringing the message, and said that he would accompany him back to the Tower, with a couple of men on horseback.
Charley, like most sailors, could ride; that is to say, he could stick on and let his horse go.
He did so on the present occasion.
They had got within two miles of the Tower, when a number of men, rough-looking fellows, were seen standing in the road before them.
As Mr Ludlow and his party drew near, their gestures became threatening, and it was evident that they meant mischief.
The squire was not a man to be turned aside from his purpose.
"Charge the fellows, and if they attempt to stop us, fire at them," he exclaimed, putting spurs to his horse.
Charley and his men followed his example.
Those most frequently succeed who bravely face dangers and difficulties--the timid and hesitating fail.
Mr Ludlow dashed on.
The smugglers, for such there could be no doubt that they were, had black crape over their faces, and most of them wore carters' smock frocks, which still further assisted to disguise them.
This made it yet more evident that they had collected with evil intentions.
There could no longer be any doubt about the matter when two or three of them stretched out their arms to stop the horses, but when they saw the pistols levelled at their heads, most of them sprang hurriedly back again.
One, however, more daring than the rest attempted to seize Mr Ludlow's rein.
Fortunately for the ruffian the magistrate's pistol missed fire, but he dealt the man's wrist so heavy a blow with the butt-end of his weapon that the smuggler was glad to let go his hold lest he should have had another such a blow on his head.
Charley laid about him with his thick walking-stick, and in a few seconds the whole party were out of the reach of the smugglers.
They galloped on, however, without pulling rein till they reached the Tower.
"Never in the whole course of my life have I been subject to so daring an outrage, Captain Askew," exclaimed Mr Ludlow, as he dismounted--"It is more like the doings of ancient days than what we have a right to expect in the nineteenth century.
I dread to hear what has happened to my boy.
Has he reached you safely?"
Stephen, who had just come up from the beach, answered the question for himself.
"So far the smugglers have gained no advantage over us," observed Mr Ludlow, addressing Captain Askew.
"But with your leave, my good neighbour, I will take up my abode here with you for a night, that we may the better consult as to the further steps it may be necessary to take to put a stop to these proceedings.
I have written to Captain Haultaught, the new inspecting commander of the district, requesting him to meet me here with two or three of his lieutenants, and it will be very strange if we cannot manage to get to windward, as you would say, of these smuggling gentlemen."
Captain Askew could only say that he was happy to put his house at the disposal of Mr Ludlow and those he thought fit to invite, on a public matter of so much importance.
He had forgiven, and he believed from his heart, the unfeeling way in which Mr Ludlow had acted towards Jack, under what, he acknowledged, might have been his stern sense of justice; yet he, as a father, could not but remember that he was indirectly the cause of Jack's loss.
He felt this, but did not allow his feelings in any way to bias his conduct.
Tom and Becky were therefore directed to make all necessary preparations to do honour to the guests present and expected.
Mrs Askew and Margery were also not idle in arranging the provisions and the rooms for the guests.
Tom was a man of a single idea; that was, that it was his business to obey the captain in all things without questioning.
He had learned that lesson at sea and it would have been impossible for any one to persuade him out of it.
Becky, however, not having been under similar discipline, did not consider herself bound to obey in the same way as did Tom.
She therefore grumbled very much when she heard that Mr Ludlow was to remain during the night.
"It's bad enough to have the young cub come prowling about the house, but when the old wolf comes and sits down in the hall, it bodes ill luck to the family," she muttered to herself, though loud enough for her mistress to overhear her.
Mrs Askew made no remark, but of course knew to what she alluded.
"I'd be ashamed to show my face inside the doors, if I were he, after sending the only son of the house away over the sea to die in foreign lands, and then to come up laughing and talking as if he had never done any harm to any one of us."
"We are taught to forgive our enemies not only seven times, but seventy times seven, Becky," observed Mrs Askew, feeling that she ought at length to check her attendant.
"Even had Mr Ludlow wantonly or intentionally inflicted an injury on us, it would be for us to receive him as a guest.
What he did was under a sense of duty, and we have no right to complain."
"A sense of duty, indeed," muttered Becky, "what would he have said if his precious son had been packed off to sea like poor dear Master Jack?
I should care little if the food I have to cook should choke him.
I only hope that he'll not get a wink of sleep in the bed I have to make for him.
Towards the boy I have no ill will; but I only hope when he grows bigger that he'll not be thinking he's worthy of our Miss Margery--that's what I have to say."
The last words were addressed to Tom, Mrs Askew having left the room.
"What need have you or I to trouble our heads about the matter, Mistress Becky," he observed.
"What the captain thinks fit is fit, that's what I have to say."
"I don't gainsay that, Mister Tom," answered Becky, "but what I ask is, why this Mr Ludlow, who has behaved so shamefully to the captain and the missus, dares to come to the Tower, and why they let him?"
"Why, to my mind, Mistress Becky, it's just this--the captain's a Christian of the right sort, and real Christians don't bear malice, and so, do you see, the captain doesn't bear malice," answered Tom, giving a tug to the waistband of his trousers, a nautical trick he had never lost.
"If he was a make-believe Christian, like too many folks, I can't say what he might do.
Becky, does you say your prayers?
Now I do, since the captain taught me, and I know that I axes God to forgive me my trespasses as I forgive others as trespasses against me; and I'll moreover make bold to declare that the captain says that prayer every night of his life, and has said it too, blow high or blow low, ever since he was a little chap on his mother's knee.
There, Mistress Becky you have what I calls the philosophy of the matter, and if I'm not right I don't know no better."
Becky acknowledged that Tom's arguments were unanswerable, though she did not altogether comprehend them.
She resolved, however, to dress the dinner as well as she could, and to make up a comfortable bed for the magistrate.
Everything went off as satisfactorily as could have been desired.
Mr Ludlow did his best to be agreeable, and Stephen was pleasanter than usual, and listened with interest to the accounts Charley Blount gave of his voyages, and the countries he had visited.
The inspecting commander, however, did not arrive.
Late in the evening a revenue cutter came off the coast, and put on shore a very stout lieutenant, who came puffing up to the Tower, and announced himself as Lieutenant Dugong, of the Coast Guard.
The captain received him cordially, but Becky surveyed him in despair.
"He'd break down the strongest bed in the house if there was one to spare for him," she exclaimed, when she and Tom were next alone.
"What can you do with people like him, Mr Tom, at sea?
What sort of bedsteads have they got to sleep on?"
"Why, Mistress Becky, that depends whether they are berthed forward or aft," answered Tom.
"If forward, they swing in a hammock; and if aft, in a cot.
We'll soon sling one or t'other for this here Lieutenant Dugong, and depend on't he'll have no cause to complain."
As may be supposed, every room in the Tower was occupied.
Tom took charge of Blind Peter, and Charley Blount was put into the room he had occupied on the ground-floor, and the stout lieutenant had another small room on the same floor, while Stephen was placed in a small one near the first landing, and his father had a room not far off.
The whole family and their inmates retired to rest and to sleep.
No one in the old Tower was awake.
The hour of midnight had been struck by a clock constructed by the captain.
The evening had been calm, but now the wind began to moan and sigh and whistle round the walls, and through any crevice into which it could find an entrance, while the dash of the sea on the beach grew every instant louder and louder, and ever and anon the shriek of some wild fowl startled from its roost was heard, as it flew by to find another resting-place; giving the notion to the ignorant and superstitious that spirits of evil were flying about intent on mischief.
The clock struck one when Stephen Ludlow awoke with a start, and saw standing close to his bed a figure clothed in white, and from it proceeded a curious light, which, while thrown brightly on him, darkened everything else around.
His first impulse was to hide his head under the bed-clothes, but then he was afraid that the creature might jump on him, and so he remained staring at it, till his hair stood on end, and yet not daring to scream out.
At length it stretched out an arm, with a long thin hand at the end of it, shook a chain, which rattled and clanked on the floor, and growled forth, "Out of this!
out of this!
out of this!"
Stephen's teeth chattered.
He could not speak--he could not move.
He thought for a moment, and hoped that the apparition might be merely the phantom of a dream; but he pinched himself, and became too truly convinced that it was a dreadful reality.
There it stood glaring at him; he was too frightened to mark very minutely its appearance.
"Out of this!
out of this!
out of this!"
again repeated the phantom, slowly retiring towards the door--a movement which would have been greatly to Stephen's relief had he not felt sure that it would come back again.
His eyes followed it till it glided out of the door as noiselessly as it had entered.
Poor Stephen kept gazing towards the open door, which he dared not get out of bed to shut, lest he should encounter the phantom coming back again.
About the same time that Stephen saw the phantom, Charley Blount was awakened by a strange noise in his bed-room of clanking of chains and horrible groans; then all was silent, and a voice exclaimed-"Out of this!
out of this!
out of this!"
"What do you mean by `Out of this!
out of this!
out of this'?"
cried Charley, quietly leaning out of his bed, and seizing one of his heavy walking shoes.
"Explain yourself, old fellow, whoever you are."
"Out of this!
out of this!
out of this!"
repeated the voice.
"That is no answer to my question," said Charley, undaunted, and peering into the darkness, in the direction from whence the voice appeared to proceed.
"Out of this!
out of this!
out of this!"
said the voice.
"I say, you had better get out of this, or I'll be trying the thickness of your skull with my walking-stick."
There was a loud groan and a clanking of chains; a light flashed in Charley's eyes, and at the same moment he saw at the further end of the room, near the door, a tall figure in white.
The instant he saw it the young sailor's shoe was flying across the room, and he following it with his stick in his hand; the ghost, if ghost it was, made a rapid spring through the doorway, and fled along the passage.
Charley, having no light, could not follow, so he returned to his room, and took his post behind the door, hoping that if the ghost should come back he might have the satisfaction of trying the strength of his stick on its head, supposing ghosts to have heads.
In this case, at all events, it showed that it possessed some sense, as, though he waited till he was almost as cold as the ghost might be supposed to be, it never came back, so he picked up his thick shoes, and with them and his trusty stick by his side, ready for any emergency, got into bed again.
Meantime, Lieutenant Dugong had been sleeping soundly in a cot formerly used by the captain, which Tom had slung for him in the unused room.
He was contentedly snoring away, when suddenly he felt a tremendous blow under his back, which almost sent him flying out of his cot, which immediately afterwards was violently shaken from side to side.
"Hullo!
what's got hold of the ship now?"
he cried out, only half awake.
"Steady, now!
Steady!
All comes from bad steering."
However, directly afterwards awaking, he struck out right and left with his fists, hoping to catch those disturbing him.
A loud, hoarse laugh followed, and the next moment a light flashed in the room, and a figure in white appeared before him, and he heard, amid rattling of chains and groans, the words, "Out of this!
out of this!
out of this!"
"Get out of this indeed!
I'll see you at the bottom of the Red Sea first!"
exclaimed the fat lieutenant, "I've done my duty; and so if you are a ghost I don't fear you; and if you are not, just wait a bit, and I'll give you such a drubbing that it will be a long time before you venture again to awake a naval officer out of his first sleep."
Whether or not the ghost understood this address it is difficult to say; but at all events, as the gallant officer began to get out of his cot, an operation he could not very rapidly perform, it vanished from his sight, so he drew in his stout legs again, rolled himself up, and under the impression that he was suffering from nightmare from having taken too much lobster at supper, was in two minutes fast asleep, to be awakened again in a minute by the loud report of a pistol, which made him start up and look about him in earnest, not to see anything, however, for it was nearly dark, as a faint glimmer of starlight alone came through the long, narrow, and only window in the room.
What befel the other inmates of the Tower on that memorable night must be narrated in another chapter.
CHAPTER SIX.
MR. LUDLOW DISTURBED--MAGGIE SCUTTLE AND BLIND PETER--MARGERY DISAPPEARS.
How the slumbers of several of the inmates of the old Tower of Stormount Bay were disturbed has already been described.
The ghosts, if ghosts they were--for that may be doubted--were of a daring character, for they ventured to appear even to Mr Ludlow.
He was awakened by a groan close to his head, a chain clanked, and a deep voice uttered the words, "Out of this!
out of this!
out of this!"
Though broad awake by this time he made no answer, but endeavoured to pierce through the gloom with his eyes to ascertain who was in the room.
A minute or more passed by, and he also suspected that he had been dreaming; at the same time he quietly stretched out his hand to take hold of a pistol which he had placed on a chair by his bedside--a dangerous, and in most instances very useless practice.
He kept his finger on the trigger, peering into the dark in the hope of seeing the person who was attempting, he suspected, to play off some trick on him.
His hand began to ache with holding the pistol in an uncomfortable position.
Suddenly a bright light flashed in his face, and a voice groaned, "Out of this!
out of this!
out of this!"
He pulled the trigger, aiming at the point whence the voice came, but the cap alone exploded, a hoarse laugh at the same time bursting forth, when a fearful looking figure for an instant appeared, surrounded by a blue flame, and then again all was dark and silent.
Mr Ludlow was a man of nerve; springing from his bed he rushed towards the spot where he had seen the figure, but nearly fractured his head against the wall.
He sprang to the other side, but only upset some articles of furniture which seemed to have been placed purposely in the way; and at length, after groping about for some time, he was glad to get back, utterly baffled, to his bed.
He had no matches in the room, or he would have lighted a candle and gone in search of the disturbers of his slumbers.
He could not go to sleep again very easily, so he lay wondering who could have played the trick.
"Not Stephen, my own son," he thought, "but that other boy, Charley Blount; he seems up to anything.
Still he would not have the audacity to come into my room and attempt to frighten me."
Thus thinking, he was dropping off to sleep when a deep groan awoke him--he listened, all was silent; he thought that he must be mistaken, but he tried to keep awake to listen, directing his eyes at the same time towards the door.
Once more there was a groan, and directly afterwards, at a spot where a gleam of starlight came through the window, he caught a glimpse of a tall figure gliding across the room.
He fired at the instant; this time his pistol went off.
There was a hoarse laugh as before; but when he sprang up, hoping to seize his untimely visitor, the figure had disappeared, and he ran his head against the edge of the door which had been left open.
So unusual a sound as the report of a pistol in a quiet household at midnight soon brought most of the inmates to his room.
The captain came stumping down in a red nightcap and an old pea-coat; Tom had quickly slipped into a pair of trousers, and had a yellow handkerchief round his head; Becky appeared, her countenance ornamented with huge curlpapers, in a flannel petticoat and piece of chintz curtain over her shoulders; while the stout lieutenant, unable to find his garments in the dark, had groped his way up wrapped in a blanket, when coming suddenly in front of Becky, she shrieked out, "A ghost!
a ghost!
a ghost!"
and ran off, nearly upsetting her master in her flight.
"Stop!
stop!
I'm not a ghost, my good woman," cried out the lieutenant; "I only wish that you would tell me where I could find any of the gentlemen, and I would break their heads for them, for not a wink of sleep have they allowed me for the last two hours."
The captain and Tom having brought lights, search was made throughout Mr Ludlow's room, and in the other rooms where the noises had been heard, but not a trace of any one having been in them could be discovered.
Still, both the captain and magistrate were convinced that not only one person, but several, must have been in the house during the night for nearly two hours, and probably were still there, for the front and the side doors were closed, and no windows were found open by which they could have escaped.
The lieutenant was rather more doubtful as to the character of their visitors, and Becky and Tom shook their heads and declared that they did not believe mere mortals could play such pranks, and get away without being discovered.
"If my visitor was a ghost, we shall find the pistol bullet, but I rather suspect that the fellow withdrew it while I was asleep, or he would not have ventured to have remained in the room after he knew I had a fire-arm," acutely observed Mr Ludlow.
On examining the room, not a trace of a bullet could be discovered, though a piece of paper in which it had been wrapped was picked up unburnt.
This confirmed the magistrate in the opinion that his surmise was correct, and it proved also the daring character of the people who had played the trick.
How they had managed to get into the Tower was the question.
The magistrate was puzzled, so was everybody else.
Neither the captain nor Tom, who knew the building better than anybody else, could solve the mystery.
Charley, hearing their voices, came out of his room, and Stephen crawled out of his, still pale and trembling, and both had accounts to give of their ghostly visitant.
Stephen gave the most dreadful account of the ghost he had seen, of the spiritual character of which he seemed to have no doubt.
"Tut!
boy, ghosts, if there were such things, would not spend their time in trying to shake a stout gentleman like myself out of his cot, in drawing bullets out of pistols, in using dark lanterns, and groaning and growling with the rough voices of boatswain's mates," exclaimed Lieutenant Dugong, with a look of contempt at poor Stephen.
"The people who have been in here deal in spirits, I have no doubt, for they are smugglers, and pretty stupid ones too, if they fancy that by such mummeries they can frighten officers and gentlemen as we are."
"You don't mean to say, Mr Dugong, that those are not ghosts which we have been seeing to-night," exclaimed Stephen.
"I wish as how I thought they weren't," cried Becky, "for it's awful to think that the old Tower where we've lived so long in peace should be haunted."
"Fiddlestick, woman, with your haunted Tower!"
said the magistrate, who was apt soon to lose his patience; "I suspect that you and your one-armed companion there, who looks as scared as if he had a real goblin at his heels, have been leaving some door or window open by which these ghosts, as you call them, have found an entrance, and if they have not got out by the same way they came in they must still be somewhere about the building, and you must be held responsible for any mischief they may commit--you hear me, sirrah!"
"Beg pardon, sir, and no offence, I do hear you," said Tom, stepping forward and giving a pull to his red nightcap, and a hitch to his wide trousers: "but I've served his Majesty--that's three on 'em and her Majesty, that's Queen Victoria--man and boy for better than forty years, afloat in all seas, and all climes, and never once have I been told that I wasn't attending to my duty, and doing the work I was set to do as well as I could.
Now I know it's my duty to see that all the doors and windows are fast at night, not to keep out robbers, because we've no reason to fear such gentry down here, but to prevent Mister Wind from making an entrance, and I say it, and again I begs pardon, I did close the doors and windows as securely as I ever did in my life."
"Oh!
very well, very well, my good man, I do not doubt your honest intentions, but assertions are not proofs; if you were to set about it, and find the ghost, I should be better pleased," said the magistrate.
"I really think, Mr Ludlow, that you are somewhat hard upon Tom," interposed Captain Askew; "I can answer for his doing his best to find the ghost if he is to be found, and if not I will leave him in charge of the deck while we turn in again; and you may depend on it no ghost will dare to show his nose while he is on duty."
This proposal was agreed to, and, as after a further search no trace of the nocturnal visitors was discovered, the family once more retired to rest, and Tom, with Mr Ludlow's pistols in his belt, and a thick stick in his hand, kept watch--walking up and down the passages, and into all the empty rooms, and should he see anything he was immediately to call the captain and the rest of the gentlemen.
Once, as he was walking slowly along a passage on the basement story, he saw on the ceiling a faint gleam of light, as if it had been cast from somewhere below, but as he proceeded it vanished, and though he looked about carefully he could not discover the spot whence it had come.
He however noted it, that he might prosecute his examination in the morning.
He was walking on, when a deep groan came from almost beneath his feet, as it seemed.
Tom was not altogether free from superstition, but though he did not disbelieve in ghosts and other foolish notions, he was too brave to be frightened by anything, and consequently cool and capable of reflection.
"Ho!
ho!"
he thought, "if that was a ghost which groaned, he has got a light to light himself about with anyhow; and he must be stowed away in some hollow hereabouts, under the floor or in the wall, and there he shall remain till morning light if he doesn't want a broken head or an ounce of lead sent through his body."
So he posted himself in the passage to watch the place whence the sound had come.
After waiting for some time he took a short turn, when directly his footsteps sounded along the passage there was another groan.
"Ho!
ho!
old mate," he muttered, not aware that Hamlet had used the expression before him; "groan away as much as you like, you'll find it a tough job to work your way through the hard rock, I suspect, and I'm not going to let you frighten me away from my post, let me tell you; the pistol has got a bullet in it this time, understand."
The ghost evidently considered discretion the best part of valour, for after this not a groan or any other sound was heard.
Tom watched all the night, hoping that somebody or something might appear, that he might get a shot at it; but not even a mouse crept out of its hole, nor were the inmates of the Tower again disturbed.
Everybody was on foot at an early hour, and the old Tower was thoroughly examined inside and out, but no possible way by which the visitors could have entered could be discovered.
Tom's account of his having seen a light and heard a groan was disbelieved; it was thought that his imagination had deceived him.
"Maybe it did," muttered Tom to himself, "howsomdever, I'll keep a bright look-out thereabouts, and I've a notion that some day I'll catch the mole coming out of his hole."
The next day the inspecting commander of the coastguard, and another magistrate and two more lieutenants arrived, and a grand consultation was held.
Plans were resolved on by which it was hoped that the smugglers would be completely put down.
It did not occur to them, possibly, that while the temptation to smuggling was so great that would be a very difficult matter.
Margery had never seen so many people at the lower before, but she acted with as much propriety as if she were every day accustomed to receive guests.
It was supposed at length that the anger of the smugglers against Blind Peter would have passed away; and at all events, as he could not for ever be kept a prisoner, he begged that he might be allowed to go out again with his faithful dog Trusty.
"There is One watches over me and takes care of me, and He has sent that good dog and given him sense to guide my steps, and so I trust in Him and do not fear what can happen to me," he observed, when one morning, not without Captain and Mrs Askew feeling some misgivings, he went forth from the Tower.
He had, as usual, his pack on his back and his staff in his hand, as he wound his way down the hill to the hamlet on the seashore.
As it was not his custom to tell the people whence he had last come, they, naturally supposing that he had been at a distance, asked him if he had heard of the awful doings up at the Tower since he had last been there?
"What are they, Maggy Scuttle?"
he inquired of the old woman who asked the question.
"Terrible!
Peter, terrible!"
she answered, shaking her head; "not but what the captain is a good man, and a charitable man, and a kind man; that I'll allow.
He comes down here and reads to us out of a book, and preaches to us, and talks to us about our souls; but do all he can, he can't keep the devil out of his house.
It's haunted; no doubt about that.
They say that ghosts and hobgoblins, and all sorts of bad spirits go wandering up and down night after night, and won't let the people in the Tower sleep.
It's believed that the captain is so vexed that he'll give up the Tower and go away, and 'twill then soon turn back into the ruin it was when he came to it."
"I hope not," said Peter, "he's a good customer of mine and a good neighbour to you, and so we shall both be the losers; and as for the ghosts, he's not a man to be frightened by such nonsense.
I don't believe in ghosts, and I'll tell you why--I couldn't see them in the first place; I couldn't feel them, because they are spirits; and if they are spirits, I couldn't hear them, because, do ye see, spirits haven't got the power of speaking; they've no throat nor lungs, nor tongue, nor lips.
I've thought of these things as I go along on my solitary way with my good dog Trusty to guide me, for there is nothing to draw off my thoughts such as those who can see have, by what is passing around.
My idea is this--that God made everything in order, and keeps everything that He alone has to do with in order--though He leaves man free to do what he likes--be it good or evil.
Now God alone can have to do with spirits or ghosts, and I'm very sure that He wouldn't let them play the pranks and foolish tricks all the ghosts or spirits or hobgoblins, and such like things I've ever heard of, are said to have played.
I've never yet met a man who has seen a ghost; and what's more, I'm very certain that I never shall."
"What do the people up at the Tower say to the ghosts, which have been appearing there night after night I'm told?"
asked Dick Herring, who had the moment before walked into old dame Scuttle's, but unseen by Peter.
"They say, Master Herring, that the ghosts are clever ghosts to get into the Tower as they did; but they are not so clever as they fancy themselves, and that if they don't look sharp they'll be trapped one of these days.
You've seen a mole-trap, Master Herring, such as the farmers use--when the mole is caught the end of the stick flies up with him, and there he hangs dangling in the air.
Perhaps your ghosts wouldn't approve of a fate like that!"
"I don't see what you're driving at, Master Peter," answered Dick Herring, in a growling, displeased tone; "but I'll tell you what, those who know more than they ought to know are likely to come to grief some day."
"Maybe, Dick, if they make a bad use of what they know," said the blind man, turning his face towards the smuggler; "and I have something to tell you--there is One who watches over the poor blind man, who puts his trust in Him; and He is able to keep him from all harm."
"That's what you say, Master Peter, you'll have to prove it some day, maybe," growled out the smuggler, anxious, however, to change the subject of conversation.
"I have proved it," answered Peter, with a firm voice; "and now good-bye, Dick, I must be round and see who wants anything from my pack."
And the blind man went fearlessly on his way, showing that the confidence he spoke of in God's protecting providence was real, and not assumed.
The subject of the ghosts had by this time pretty well been dropped by the inmates of the Tower, although it was still a matter of wonder how they, or rather the people who acted them, could have got inside.
Stephen had come over again to see them, attended by a groom, for he was not allowed to ride about by himself.
He said that he must go back early; indeed, it was clear that nothing would tempt him to spend a night in the Tower--and he wondered how Charley Blount could venture to sleep on by himself after the dreadful sights he had seen.
"I never have found that sights or sounds could do a man any harm, and so I do not mind them any more than the Scotch Quaker, who, when a fellow was one day abusing him, observed quietly, `Say what ye like, friend, with your tongue, but dinna touch me.'
If the ghost had come with a dagger, or pistol, or bowl of poison, I should have had good reason for wishing him to keep his distance."
"Oh!
Charley, you are so fool-hardy," drawled out Stephen; "I, for my part, don't see any fun in trifling with such serious matters."
Charley Blount burst out into a hearty fit of laughter.
"Why, Stephen, I thought from what I have heard, that you were more of a man than to believe in such nonsense," he exclaimed.
"What is it that you have heard that makes you think so?"
asked Stephen.
"That you were going to persuade your father to let you go to the South Seas, that you might try and find out what has become of Jack Askew."
"Yes, I know that is what I thought of doing," answered Stephen; "that is to say, Margery wished me to go; but, in the first place, I know that my father wouldn't let me go; and in the second, I don't think that I should like the sea, and my health wouldn't stand it, and altogether I have made up my mind not to go."
"Have you told Margery this?"
asked Charley; "at present she fully believes that you are going and that you are certain to find her brother alive in some desert island, like that Robinson Crusoe lived in; as you knew him so well, she thinks that you are more likely than any one else to find him out."
"Oh!
that is a mere fancy of Margery's," answered Stephen, in a tone which showed great indifference to the subject.
"It is a hundred to one that Jack is alive, in the first place, and equally unlikely that I should stumble on him, even if he is.
The captain does not think so, or he would go out himself, or send out, I should think."
"As to that I do not know, but I do know that you ought to tell Margery; at least, I know that I would, if I had made up my mind as you seem to have done."
"You had better go, then, instead of me, if you think so favourably of the little girl's wild scheme," said Stephen, in a sneering tone, which somewhat tried Charley's temper.
"She has not asked me," he answered; "it would make them all very happy if Jack was to be found, and I should think no trouble too great if I could bring him back, that is all I say."
"Oh!
you are very generous," sneered Stephen who would have been very glad to please Margery if he could have done so without any risk or trouble to himself.
There are a good many people in the world of similar character: the test of love or friendship is the amount of self-sacrifice which a person is ready to make for the object of his regard.
Stephen had at length, at Charley's instigation, to confess to Margery that he had no intention of becoming a sailor for the sake of trying to find Jack.
Her countenance expressed as much scorn as its sweetness would allow, as she answered, "Oh!
I feared that you did not care for him, and am certain that you do not care for me.
Here is the book you were polite enough to lend me, and I suppose that you will not very often come over to the Tower, as we shall have no longer that subject to talk about."
Stephen could say nothing, but looked very sheepish, and soon afterwards ordered his horse and rode homewards.
The next morning the family assembled in the breakfast-room for prayers; but Margery, usually the first on foot, had not made her appearance.
She slept in a little room on the first floor, with a window looking out over the sea; it was prettily papered, and had white dimity curtains, and everything in it looked fresh and nice, like herself.
Charley ran up and knocked at the door, but got no answer; then Becky went to the room, the door was not locked and her heart sank with an undefined alarm when she found the room empty.
She scarcely dared to return to the breakfast-room to tell Captain and Mrs Askew, fearful of the effect the announcement might have on her mistress.
She hunted about the room.
The little girl had slept in the bed, but neither her night things nor her day clothing were there.
Several other articles appeared to have been removed from the room.
Becky had an observant eye, and quickly discovered this; otherwise she might have supposed that she had merely gone out unobserved to take a morning walk.
As to her having gone away of her own accord, without saying anything to her father and mother, or allowing even a suspicion that any plan was running in her head, that was so unlike dear little, loving, tender-hearted Miss Margery that Becky dismissed the notion as altogether improbable; but then again, how could anybody have got into the house to carry her off?
Poor Becky, with grief and perplexity, would have sat down on the bed and cried her eyes out, but she felt conscious that the so doing would not assist in discovering what had become of Margery; so at length, mustering courage for announcing what she would, she told Tom, rather have cut out her tongue than have had to do, she slowly returned to the breakfast-room.
Her prolonged absence had produced some anxiety, and she met Mrs Askew coming to see what was the matter.
Becky's face alarmed her.
"Is my child ill?
is she dead?
oh!
speak--speak--tell me the worst!"
she exclaimed.
"Oh!
don't take on so, marm, Miss Margery isn't ill, and she isn't dead, that I know on; but, oh dear!
marm, she isn't there," she answered, bursting into tears.
It is needless further to describe the sorrow and consternation which everybody in the house felt when this fact became known, and very soon it was ascertained to be a fact, for, hunting high and hunting low, not a trace of dear little Margery could be discovered.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE SEARCH FOR MARGERY--THE SLIPPER--THE VAULT--TOM AND CHARLEY DISAPPEAR.
Captain Askew was a man of action, and, while the search for Margery was being carried on in the Tower, he hurried down to the hamlet, to ascertain if she had been seen by any one there, or if any one could give him any clue by which to trace her.
He went, in the first place, to Dick Herring's cottage, for though of late Dick had always met him with a sulky, surly expression on his countenance, they were once good friends, and he thought that under the present circumstances the heart of even the rough smuggler would be softened; but Dick was away, and Susan, his wife, said that she did not know when he would return--she never did know.
Their daughter Polly, whom he met bringing in a bucket of fresh water from the neighbouring spring, also said that she had not seen Miss Margery, though the captain fancied that there was an odd expression on her countenance when she spoke.
He therefore cross-questioned her, but not a word to show that she could even guess what had become of Margery could he elicit.
He next went to Molly Scuttle's cottage, but the old woman could give him no information; she could only suggest that the ghosts must to a certainty have had something to do with it.
When he replied that he did not believe in such things, she answered that they had evidently carried off his daughter to punish him for his incredulity, and to prove their existence to him.
He hurried round from cottage to cottage, but the people only opened their eyes and mouths wide with astonishment, and gave him no information likely to be of the slightest use.
Disappointed, he returned to the Tower.
There the search had continued with unabated diligence; Tom had made a discovery, but it seemed doubtful to what it would lead.
He had found one of the little girl's slippers in the dark passage on the ground-floor, near the spot where he had fancied that he had seen the light and heard the groan on the memorable night when the pretended ghosts had appeared.
How it had come there, however, was the question.
He carried it to Becky to consult with her on the subject.
It was not likely to have been dropped by Margery, because had she been walking she would naturally have stopped to put it on again.
Indeed it was absurd to suppose that she had run away of her own free will; it therefore seemed most probable that she had been carried along by some one, and that her slipper had fallen off unobserved.
Still the questions, how those who had committed the outrage had got into the house, and how they had got out again, remained unanswered.
Becky could solve neither.
She was of opinion, "though she would not like to tell the captain or the missus, that the ghosteses had done it, and that they hadn't got in by either of the doors or windows, but somehow or other out of the ground, for that's where them things, I have heard say, always comes from; but it's dreadful to think that poor, dear, sweet Miss Margery should have been carried off into such a place as they lives in," she observed to Tom in a low voice.
"That's all nonsense, Becky," responded Tom.
"The captain says as how there's no such things as ghosteses, and therefore it's my belief that there isn't; besides, don't you know that this here old Tower stands on the solid rock?
Why there isn't an inch of ground all round it, into which I could run a spade if I tried ever so much, and I should like to see the ghost who could work his way through that: it's all very well for them as is put under the soft black mould of a churchyard, of course, if they has a mind to take a turn or two about the world at midnight, there'd be nothing to prevent them that I sees, except that the captain says it's impossible."
"Oh, dear!
Tom, don't go on to talk in that way; it makes me all over in a cold shiver to think what has become of poor dear Miss Margery."
Neither Tom nor Becky were possessed of any education of the most ordinary sort, so they may be excused talking the nonsense to which it must be confessed they gave utterance on the subject.
Poor Mrs Askew was bewildered with grief and dismay and anxiety as to what had become of her beloved child.
Charley could not believe that Margery would be guilty of any foolish act, yet when he remembered her conversation in the morning with Stephen about going to look for her brother in the South Seas, and her indignation on finding that he would not go, he thought it just possible that she might have set off by herself with some wild scheme of the sort in her head; and yet such a proceeding was so unlike herself that he dismissed the idea as soon as he had conceived it, and did not even mention it to Captain Askew.
If she had gone, it was not likely that she would get far without being discovered, and they would soon hear of her.
Although Captain Askew was himself a magistrate, it was necessary to give information of the strange event to Mr Ludlow, that he might assist in discovering the perpetrators of the outrage, and Charley Blount volunteered to go over to the Hall for that object.
Some time had already been spent in fruitless search, so Charley, after he had snatched a hurried breakfast, set off as fast as his legs could carry him.
He was a good runner at all times, but on the present occasion, believing that the faster he went the sooner dear little Margery might be recovered, he ran as he had never before run in his life.
Had he been dilatory he might never have reached the Hall at all, for those who were on the watch for any one leaving the Tower, believing that he would have gone at an ordinary speed, happily missed him.
Mr Ludlow was highly indignant at what he heard, and sorry too, for even he admired little Margery, and he at once proposed sending to London for a detective officer.
"One of those sharp-witted gentlemen is far more likely than are we thick-headed country-folks to discover how she little girl has been spirited away," he observed.
"Of one thing I am certain, that the smugglers are at the bottom of it, and of another, that if they have not a confederate in the house--and old Tom and Becky look honest enough--they have the means of getting in unknown to us.
I will write for the officer, and then you and Stephen shall ride over with me and we will look into the matter."
Captain Askew was very grateful to Mr Ludlow for coming over so speedily, but though they again made a thorough examination, as they supposed, of the whole tower, they could not throw any fresh light on the mysterious subject.
"The detective officer, when he arrives, will soon ferret out the truth, however, depend on that," observed Mr Ludlow, as he and Stephen mounted their horses to ride back.
But neither the captain nor Charley were inclined to wait till the said detective should arrive to win back what they valued so much.
Charley thought again and again over the subject, and talked to Tom about the light, and the groan, and the dear little slipper, and suddenly Tom slapped his leg and said that he remembered when the Tower was being put in order that one of the workmen had told him that there was a vault or cellar under a part of it, from which a passage was said to lead down to the seashore.
He was not certain whether the captain had heard the account, at all events he did not appear to have believed it, and of course had forgotten it altogether.
Tom confessed that he was very stupid not to have thought of it before, though he was not even then much inclined to believe in the truth of the story.
Charley thought differently, and resolved at once to search for the opening--if such existed--to the vault.
He charged Tom not to tell the captain, as it would be a disappointment to him should they fail to make the discovery they hoped for.
At that very juncture blind Peter, having heard a rumour of the supposed abduction of Miss Margery, came to the Tower to learn whether or not the story was true.
Charley immediately took him into his counsels.
Peter thought over the subject.
Yes, he had heard the account of the vault under the Tower, and what was more, he knew an old mason residing about two miles off who had worked there, and who was, he rather thought, the very man who had told him of it.
He would go off at once and fetch John Trowel and his tools, and they would very soon burrow into the molehill if one existed.
Charley and Tom occupied the time of Peter's absence in preparing with a rope and a lantern to explore the cavern they hoped to find.
They forgot at first that they might possibly encounter opposition, as it was certain that if the cavern did exist it had had occupants, and probably had still, who would not welcome any intrusion on their privacy.
Charley, however, at length thought of this.
It did not for a moment make him hesitate about carrying out his plans, but he thought that it would be wise to provide himself and Tom with arms.
The captain had a brace of pistols and a fowling-piece, and Tom had an old French cutlass which he had taken from the enemy, and treasured as a trophy of his fighting days.
Charley at once went up to the captain, who was writing to the officers of the coastguard, and to others who might possibly hear something of his little girl.
"Any news?
any news?"
he asked, as Charley entered.
"No, sir, but if we could find our way into some of the smugglers' hiding-places, we might learn more than we do now, and as I would rather have a weapon in my hand than trust to my fists with such gentry, I beg that you will lend me your firearms."
The captain made no answer, but pointed to them over the fireplace, where they hung, with a flask of powder and a bag of bullets.
Charley hurried off to avoid having any questions asked him.
Tom was delighted to get the weapons, and declared that, although he had but one arm, he could use his cutlass as well as any man.
He then put on a belt that he might stick a pistol in it, and advised Charley to do the same, that he might hold the gun ready for use.
At last old John Trowel arrived with Peter.
He remembered perfectly all about the vault, had once been down it, and thought that he could find the entrance without difficulty, though it had been been blocked up; but as to a passage leading down to the beach--of that he could not speak with any certainty.
"No time is to be lost, though!"
exclaimed Tom, when he heard this.
"Come along, and mind you make as little noise as possible."
The old mason went at once up to the very spot where Tom had seen the light, and he began immediately to work there, scraping away the mortar from between the stones, Charley and Tom helping him, while blind Peter held the lantern.
They worked on patiently, knowing that by such means people have frequently let themselves out through the thick walls of a prison.
More than half-an-hour had been thus employed when Charley felt the stone on which he stood move; jumping off it, with but little difficulty he lifted it up, when a regular wooden trap-door appeared below.
This it was soon found was made to open downwards and how to force it open without making a noise was the question.
Again Charley had to hurry off to the captain's room to borrow a centrepiece, a small saw and a file, and by labouring with these steadily the bolt which held up the trap was cut round, and Tom then having securely fastened a rope to it, the trap was noiselessly lowered and a dark vault appeared below.
There could now be little doubt by which way the pretended ghosts had found their way into the Tower.
On a lantern being lowered a ladder was seen, on to which Charley immediately jumped, and fearlessly descended into the vault.
As a sailor, he knew the importance of securing a fresh hold before letting go of the first, so he held on to the beam above till he had found a firm rest for his feet.
He thus descended for a considerable depth, while Tom let down the lantern by a rope that he might see the nature of the place into which he had got.
He at length reached the bottom, and taking the lantern from the end of the rope, commenced an examination of the place in which he found himself.
It was a large roughly-hewn vault, which looked as if it had been the quarry from whence the stone with which the fortress was built had been taken.
Around it were cells, where some rusty iron bars and ring bolts let into the rock showed that it had been the prison of the castle, and Charley shuddered as he thought of the unhappy people who had once been confined there, where not a gleam of light nor the slightest sound could pierce through the solid rock.
As soon as Tom found that Charley had reached the bottom, he also descended--holding his cutlass in his teeth--as actively as most men could have done with two hands.
Peter and old John Trowel were directed to wait above.
Peter said that from his acuteness of hearing he should be able to judge what progress they were making, and to let Captain Askew know where they were gone.
Blind Peter and old John waited on the top of the ladder leading down into the vault, expecting the return of Tom or Charley, or else to receive some signal from them announcing the progress they had made.
Peter listened attentively--"I hear them going round and round the vault to look for the passage," he observed to old John.
"It must be a large place, larger than I thought for, and they don't seem to be able to find the passage."
"Maybe there's no passage to find," said John sagaciously.
Still they did not come back, and Peter declared that he could no longer hear their footsteps.
They waited and waited, but the explorers did not appear.
Old John suggested that there might be some pit or hole into which they had tumbled, and perhaps nothing would ever again be heard of them; but the idea was too terrible to entertain, for Peter had a sincere regard for Tom, and Charley's blithe voice and kind manners had won his heart.
They ought at once to have gone to Captain Askew, and procured proper assistance, with lights, ropes, and ladders.
Old John was scarcely able to descend the ladder, and did any hole exist, the blind man would most probably have fallen into it.
Notwithstanding this he proposed descending, till old John persuaded him to give up the idea, and at length, when it would very likely be too late to save the lives of the explorers, they agreed to summon the captain.
Captain Askew could scarcely understand the account he heard.
That there was a vault under the Tower he was ready to believe, as he now remembered hearing the report that one existed, but that his young friend Charley and old companion Tom should have gone into it and been irretrievably lost he would not believe.
He would immediately have descended himself to look for them, but that his timber-toe and a rickety ladder did not suit each other.
He considered whom he could summon in the village, but they were all more or less connected with the smugglers.
He however determined to ask the assistance of some of the most trustworthy among them.
He took his hat and was hurrying down the hill when he met one of the men of the coastguard going his rounds.
He at once agreed to accompany the captain, but said that by the delay of twenty minutes or so he could obtain the assistance of two or three of his mates, and as he could be of little use by himself, the captain begged him to get them as soon as possible.
The captain then went back to the Tower, and found blind Peter and old John waiting at the trap-door.
They had heard sounds, they said, but had got no answer to their shouts.
In vain the captain also hailed as a sailor alone can, though his voice had perhaps lost something of its strength.
All remained silent below, and his fears for the safety of his friends increased to a painful degree.
At last the coastguard men arrived--stout fellows, well armed--with their lanterns and ropes; they were not likely to be baffled in the search.
As, however, they stood over the entrance of the dark abyss, the countenances of most of the party turned pale.
They were ready to face smugglers or pirates, Russians, Frenchmen, Turks, or savages of every description, all the enemies of their country; but they had heard of the Tower being haunted, and suppose any of the ghosts, or spirits, or imps, who frequented the spot, should start up and confront them!
The captain saw what they were thinking about.
Following the system he had always adopted where danger was to be incurred, he exclaimed, "Lower me down first, my lads, I'll see what is to be seen."
Suiting the action to the word he fastened a rope round his waist, and, with the help of it and the ladder, soon reached the bottom.
The men now followed without hesitation, the captain leading the way, and looking round and round the vault.
"It is very extraordinary," he exclaimed at length.
"I can scarcely believe that they came down here, there is no hole into which they could have fallen, no outlet through which they could have passed."
"It's vary terrible, vary terrible indeed, sir," said Sandy MacGregor, an old Scotchman and the chief boatman.
"It's the spirits or the bogies ha' carried them off, there's na doubt about that, and it's only to be hoped that they'll na come and carry us awa' too."
The fear thus expressed very soon communicated itself to the other men, and had a rat started up, although they would not have deserted the captain, their knees would certainly have shaken as they had never done in the presence of a mortal foe.
"Nonsense, my man," exclaimed Captain Askew.
"There are no spirits in this vault to hurt us, and depend on it if our friends have been carried away spirits have had nothing to do with it; still, I tell you, I cannot account for it."
It was indeed strange.
Every cell, every nook and corner was examined.
The sides of the vault were either solid rock or masonry.
There was no place through which two people could have passed by any visible means.
At length, most unwillingly, Captain Askew told the men that he should return into the Tower.
The order was obeyed with wonderful alacrity, and they were well pleased when he told them that he would be the last man up.
They were all soon out of the vault, and ready to assist him up in the way he had gone down.
He had to confess himself thoroughly baffled.
When he talked the subject over with Mrs Askew, they could neither of them account for the way in which their dear child had been so cruelly carried off, nor how Tom nor Charley had disappeared, and yet they were fully convinced that human agency alone had been at work.
Meantime Becky had taken charge of the coasts guard men, and blind Peter and John, and was able, in spite of her grief, to serve them with bread and cheese and cider.
As they continued to discuss the matter, Peter was the only one who persisted in asserting that human agency alone had been employed, while Sandy MacGregor as strongly maintained that spirits of a very disreputable nature had a finger in the pie.
That, however, like other matters of mystery, was one day to receive a solution.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE SMUGGLER'S CAVE--TAKEN CAPTIVE--A TERRIBLE SITUATION.
As soon as Charley was joined by Tom, he commenced a more thorough examination of the vault; but no outlets could they discover, and they began to doubt whether their nocturnal visitors could have got through it into the Tower.
Could there be another passage independent altogether of the vault?
They went round and round and could find no door or trap, or opening of any sort.
"I doubt if we are right, after all," observed Charley; "we must try and find some other way down--for way there is, of that I am certain."
"We are right; still, though," answered Tom, "that ladder has had other feet on it of late besides ours; and just let me see how the bolt of the trap-door could have been fastened from below if there wasn't some one to do it.
It wasn't the ghosteses, I suppose, Mister Charles?
and look here--what's this?"
he added, as stooping down he picked up another small slipper, the fellow to the one which was known to be Margery's.
The sight of it induced Charley to renew his search, and directly afterwards he discovered in one of the cells a ring, which looked, he thought, as if it was intended to serve as a handle to a stone door.
He pulled it with all his strength, and slowly turning on a pair of heavy rusty hinges it opened, and showed a flight of steps cut in the rock, and leading downwards.
"Come along," he whispered to Tom, "we shall soon solve the mystery."
He led, Tom following, and holding the lantern with a torch ready to light at the end of his hook arm, while he held a pistol in his other hand.
At first they descended by very steep steps cut in the rock, then the passage was almost on a level and turned and twisted considerably, showing that it had been formed in the first place by nature, and had been simply enlarged by the hand of man.
Charley was, however, thinking all the time far more of little Margery, and how frightened she must have been when carried along it, than of the way in which the passage had been formed.
He was expecting also every instant to find himself confronted by a number of fierce smugglers, who would naturally be exasperated at having their long-concealed haunt at length discovered.
There could be no longer any doubt as to who represented the ghosts, nor how they had entered the Tower and so speedily disappeared.
The passage was somewhat slippery from the moisture which here and there trickled through the rock, and was clearly not often traversed, which it would have been had the vault above been used as a store-house.
It was pretty evident from the words the smugglers had used that their object was to get rid of the inhabitants of the Tower that they might occupy the vaults as a store-house, and have free egress from it for their goods.
They had probably hoped, could they have attained their object, to have baffled the revenue officers for years to come.
They must have felt that they had been completely defeated, and, either in revenge or in the hopes of making some terms with Captain Askew, had carried off Margery.
Still, Charley could not believe, that, savage and lawless as they might be, they would wish to injure the innocent little girl, and was nearly sure that he was on the right track to recover her.
Charley now proceeded very cautiously, for he thought it possible that the passage might lead to the edge of a precipice to be descended only by a ladder, and an incautious step in advance might send him tumbling headlong down; and he had the sense to know that people even when engaged in the best of enterprises must guard against accidents and failure, and that they have no right to expect success unless they do their best to secure it.
Tom wanted to lead, but Charley would not let him.
"No," he answered, "make fast the rope you've got round my waist, then if I slip you'll haul me up."
Tom did so, and they once more advanced.
They had gone some way further when Charley again stopped and listened.
He heard a low, murmuring sound--it was that of human voices.
He and Tom crept on more cautiously than ever.
A gleam of light shone on them as if through a crevice.
There was evidently either a door or a curtain hung across the passage.
This would enable them perhaps to see what was going on within, before entering.
Shading their lantern and making as little noise as possible, they got close up to what seemed to be a door or a number of planks nailed together, and placed so as to lean against the entrance.
Charley was afraid that while searching for a hole to look through he might knock it over.
At length he found a chink through which he could look into what appeared to be a cavern of some size, but the hole allowed him the command only of a very limited range of vision.
In front of him were two men seated on casks at a rough table, made apparently of pieces of wreck.
There was a lantern on the table, and they had account-books and some piles of money, with a bottle or two and some tin mugs.
From the way in which they were occupied, Charley supposed that they were principal men among the smugglers, settling their accounts.
They were both strangers to him.
He was afraid to ask Tom whether he knew them, for fear of his voice being heard.
The plan he at once formed was to rush out on them, seize and bind them, and hold them as hostages till Margery should be given up; for it did not occur to him that a young lad like himself and a one-armed man were scarcely likely to overpower two stout, hardy ruffians like those before him.
He drew Tom back a little distance where it was safe to speak, and asked him if he would make the attempt.
The old sailor was ready for anything.
It would certainly be a grand matter to capture the leaders of the gang.
He only wished that the captain was there to lead them, then there would be no doubt about it.
Charley's chief anxiety was with respect to Margery.
If she was in the cavern, and any of their pistols were discharged, she might be hurt.
As regarded the risk he and Tom ran, he did not reflect a moment.
The outlaws were to be captured, and he had undertaken the task of seizing them if he could.
"Now, Tom, are you all ready?"
he asked; "I will take the man on the right side, you the man on the left--knock them over and hold our pistols to their heads, while we march them up the passage into the Tower."
"Yes, I'm ready, Mr Charles," answered Tom.
"But leave the gun where we are, it will be only in our way, and I'll stick to my cutlass.
We must be sharp about it, though, for they don't look like fellows who'd stand child's-play; and yet I've known in the war time, two staunch fellows take a ship out of the hands of a prize crew of ten men: and so I don't see why we shouldn't be able to clap into bilboes two big ragamuffins like those there.
Come on!"
The hearts of the bravest must beat quick when they are about to engage in a desperate struggle with their fellow men.
Charley Blount felt his beat a great deal quicker than usual when he and old Tom were about to rush on the two smugglers in the cavern, and, as they hoped, overpower them.
They got close up to the door, and pressing with all their might against the upper part, sent it flat down before them on the floor of the cavern, and rushing over it threw themselves instantly on the smugglers, who, astonished at the sudden noise, had not time to rise from their seats when they felt their throats seized, and saw the muzzles of a brace of pistols presented at their heads.
Nothing could have been better done, and the two smugglers would have been made prisoners, but at the same moment a dozen stout fellows, who had been sleeping round the cavern, and had sprang to their feet at the noise of the falling door, came round them; the muzzles of the pistols were knocked up, Tom's going off and the bullet flattening against the roof of the cavern, and they found their arms pinioned, and instead of capturing others were themselves made captives.
Charley felt bitterly disappointed and crestfallen, but not for a moment forgetting the object of his expedition, he looked round the cavern for Margery.
She was not to be seen.
"Where have you carried the little girl to?"
he asked; "we came to fetch her.
You had no business to carry her off.
Take her back to her father and mother, and you may do what you like with us."
"You are von brave young rogue, _mon jolie garcon_!"
exclaimed the man (the captain of a French lugger), whom Charley had seized.
"You have no fear, it seems, for ghosts nor for men; but you give me von terrible gripe of my neck.
Ah, not you tink we do wid you?"
"I don't know, and don't care," answered Charley, recklessly; "only give me back Miss Margery--that's what I want."
"Ah!
is it?
She long way from dis, _mon garcon_," said the captain, in a mocking tone; "Vould you like go see her?"
"Yes, I would," answered Charley; "and let me tell you that if a hair of her head has been injured, you will all have to pay dearly for it."
"Vary well, vary well," said the Frenchman, still mocking at Charley; "Ve vill take you wid us, eh?"
"Come, enough of this, mounseer," growled out the other man, who was only then recovering from the effects of the iron grip Tom had taken of his throat.
"If we don't look out, mates, we shall have a whole gang of the coastguard down on us while we stay chattering here.
Just settle what's to be done with the old man and the lad, and then the sooner we are away from here the better."
"Give us up the little girl, and neither coastguard nor police shall molest you if we can help it," exclaimed Charley.
"Then no one is following you?"
asked the man.
"No," answered Charley, without thinking of the consequences of his reply.
"Then come with me, lads, and we'll stop up the entrance to our burrow in a way which will give plenty of work to any one to find it!"
exclaimed the man; "but we'll put irons first on the claws of this young fighting-cock and his companion."
The smugglers were deaf to all Charley's expostulations, and he and Tom speedily found their hands in heavy manacles, which would effectually prevent them from making their escape.
Tom did not at first deign even to speak, but now lifting up his manacled hands he exclaimed, "Thank ye, mates, for these pretty gloves; we had intended to put your hands into some like them before the night is over, and just let me advise you, or you'll be caught as it is."
Charles and Tom were left standing by themselves to indulge in meditation, while one-half of the smugglers hurried off to stop the entrance to the passage, and the other half packed up the goods which lay about the cavern, ready to carry them off.
Charley's meditations were not altogether pleasant, but though grievously disappointed at the failure of his expedition, he kept up his spirits with the hope that something might still turn up to enable him either to see Margery, or to learn where she was.
He was, however, greatly concerned with the thought of the additional anxiety Captain and Mrs Askew would feel when he and Tom did not return.
"Of course the vault will be explored, and if the smugglers stop up the passage as they intend the entrance to it will not be found, and no one will be able to guess what has become of us."
The smugglers were not long about the work, and as soon as they returned they blindfolded Charley's and Tom's eyes, the Captain observing that though they had found their way into the cavern, they should not be able to boast that they knew their way out again.
Most of the men were strangers, and by their appearance French; but Charley thought that he recognised the countenances of a few, though as there was but a dim light in the cavern, and they kept out of his way, he could not be certain.
As they led him along he heard them muttering in angry tones, and, as he thought, consulting what they should do with him and Tom.
"He knows too much already," said one.
"Dead men tell no tales," growled another.
"A slip over the cliff--nothing could be proved against us," muttered a third.
Similar pleasant remarks continued to be made while he was led up and down passages, and, he was convinced, more than once turned completely round, till at last a rope was fastened round his waist, and he felt himself lowered down what he concluded was the side of a cliff, for the wind blew strongly against him.
He was then led along the bench to the westward; this he knew by hearing the surf beating on his left hand, and feeling the wind on his left cheek.
He heard the footsteps of several people, but he could not ascertain whether Tom was of the party, and he began to be afraid that they were separated from each other.
The way was very rough, and he had great difficulty in keeping his feet.
The wind too was getting up, and he heard the men grumbling at having to lead him along, and at being unable to embark; from which he concluded that their original intention had been to send him and Tom off to the coast of France with the French captain.
After going a considerable distance, the wind still increasing, he found that they turned inland up a steep ravine.
He was now in a part of the country with which he was unacquainted, he supposed, but still he endeavoured to remember each turn he took, that if necessary he might be able to retrace his steps.
More than once, as he went along, he thought that he heard Tom's voice, and he was about to shout to him, but the muzzle of a pistol pressed against his cheek, and a hint from a gruff voice, that if he hallooed his brains would be blown out, warned him that it would be wiser to hold his tongue.
Poor Charley had never taken so unpleasant a walk in his life; he had attacked the smugglers first certainly, and--though he did not know it, as he had no warrant--in an illegal manner, and they could if they had chosen have brought an action against him and Tom for an assault and battery; but, on the other hand, as they were themselves engaged in illegal transactions, this they could not venture to do, as it would have brought their own misdeeds to light.
On the party went, now turning rapidly to the right, now to the left, till Charley felt convinced that they were attempting to mislead him.
At last, strong as he was, he was almost ready to drop with fatigue.
The men who held him were frequently changed, as if they too were knocked up with their work.
Suddenly they stopped, declaring they could go no further, and that there could not be a more convenient place for getting rid of their prisoners.
"Heave them over the cliff!"
said one, in a low, savage tone.
"The water is deep, and they will be soon washed out to sea."
"Not so certain of that," said another; "better make some stones fast to their feet to sink them."
"Just to prove that they came to their end by foul means!"
observed a third with a sneer.
"No, no, heave 'em over here, they'll never speak again after they reach the bottom, and no one will be able to tell but what they fell over of themselves."
This agreeable discussion afforded Charley the first intimation that old Tom was near him, and directly afterwards he heard his voice saying, "Do what you like with me, mates, but let that young lad go free.
How would you like to have one of your own boys or young brothers treated as you threaten to treat him?
There's life and work and happiness in him, and you'd just knock it all to pieces for the sake of a paltry revenge.
What good can killing the boy do to any of you?
Why, I'll tell you-murder will out, and you'll all be hanged, every one of you."
"Hold your jaw!"
exclaimed one of the smugglers; "we've made up our minds, and you'll both go the same way."
Neither Charley nor Tom were of a disposition to beg for their lives; besides, they believed that if the ruffians had determined to kill them, no entreaties would make them alter their minds.
Charley, not to lose precious time, tried to prepare himself for death; he thought of the sins he had committed, and endeavoured to repent of them; he forgave all his enemies, even those who were about to kill him, and then, claiming no merit for anything he had ever done, he cast himself at the feet of One he knew to be full of love, and mighty to save.
Such is the way a true Christian and a brave man would prepare himself for that great change which must come on all of us.
"Are you going to say your prayers, young man, before we heave you off?"
asked a smuggler, in a gruff voice.
"I have said them, thank you," answered Charley, calmly.
"Tom, have you said yours?
Have you made your peace with Heaven in the only way it can be made?"
"Yes, Mr Charles, I've done that for many a day.
When I first came to live on shore with the captain, `Tom,' says he, `we must all die, and as we know not the day we should always be ready,' so he showed me the way to be ready, and I've kept ready ever since."
"Now, friends," said Tom, addressing the smugglers, "what do you intend to do?
I've again to tell you that you'll gain nothing by committing a cruel murder, and you'll repent of it as long as you live, and longer, far longer."
"Stop his canting mouth, and over the cliff with him!
let him preach to the lobsters and crabs if he's a mind!"
exclaimed one of the smugglers, and others joined in the vindictive cry.
Charley and Tom on this found themselves dragged along by the shoulders till their feet were over the cliff.
"Now, over with them, let them drop!"
cried one of the men.
"No, no," exclaimed another, "let them grip on to the edge with their hands.
They'll have time to think about that where they're going, and pleasant thoughts to them!"
This last sally of wit produced a roar of laughter from the savage smugglers who, passing their lives in systematically outraging the laws of their country, seemed no longer to be moved by any of the better feelings of our nature.
Still Charley and Tom felt grateful for the few moments of existence allowed them, and clutched the edge of the cliff with all the energy of despair.
No sooner had they been lowered into their perilous position than they heard the smugglers, with heartless indifference to the agony they were suffering, moving off, some actually laughing, as if enjoying their misery, though none of them apparently were so utterly inhuman as to wait to see them dashed to pieces by their fall.
Charley, light and strong, felt that he could hold on for some time, but at the same time was afraid of struggling and endeavouring to get up on the cliff lest he should lose his gripe altogether.
Tom had stuck his hook into the earth, but he in the same way knew that in attempting to climb up on to the top of the cliff, he might slip, and fall to the bottom.
Their hope was that somebody might come by and help them, but that was very unlikely.
"Hold on, Mr Charles, hold on, my lad!"
cried Tom.
"If I could but just get the point of a rock to put my knee on, I would soon be on the firm ground and have you safe in a moment."
"I'm doing my best to hold on," answered Charles, "but the edge is terribly crumbling; I would make the attempt to get up, but I am nearly certain that I should fail."
"Then don't try, Mr Charles," said Tom, "I'll shout, and may be one of the coastguard men or somebody else will hear us.
Help, ahoy!
help!
help ahoy!"
he shouted in a voice which age had not weakened, and which might have been heard nearly half a mile off, had any one been near enough.
Charley then joined him in shouting, but no answer came, and Charley felt as a person does in a dreadful dream, every instant growing weaker and weaker.
"Tom, I don't think that I can hold on many seconds longer," he at last said; "good-bye--I must let go--the earth is crumbling away--I am going--oh?"
At that instant Tom, feeling that Charley's safety depended on his being able to get on the ground above, made a desperate effort--his hook became loosened, in vain he tried to dig his fingers into the earth, and at the same moment that Charley gave his last despairing cry and lost his hold he lost his; down he came, but not as he expected, on the hard rock a hundred feet below him, but into a shallow pool not five feet from where he had been so long hanging.
"Why, where am I?"
exclaimed Charley, who, at the same time, had lodged safely on a green mound close to the pool, and tearing off the handkerchief from his eyes he looked about him; "after all, those smugglers are not so bad as we thought them."
"We are at the bottom of a chalk-pit, Mr Charles," answered Tom, "the fellows have played us a somewhat scurvy trick, but I cannot but say that it was better than sending us over the cliff and breaking our necks; howsomdever, the sooner we get out of it the better as I'm wet to the skin, and would like to take a brisk walk homeward to get dry."
A bright moon was shining, though obscured occasionally by the fast driving clouds which came up from the south-west, and by its light they had no difficulty in clambering out of the pit.
They were on the top of some downs, at some distance from the edge of the cliff.
However, they could see the now foam-covered sea, and distinguish vessels far off running up the Channel before the gale, and thus could take a tolerably direct road homeward, though neither of them had before been thus far from the Tower.
They hurried on, being certain that the smugglers could not leave the coast, and hoping that even if one could be captured he would give information where Margery was to be found.
"Margery!
poor dear little Margery, she to be all this time in the power of these ruffians!"
Charley kept saying to himself as he and Tom hurried on.
CHAPTER NINE.
A FRIEND IN NEED--MARGERY ESCAPES--MARGERY'S MISSION.
Tom and Charley had gone through so much that they could not calculate at all what hour of the night it then was.
They had not noted the hour when they commenced their adventure, but remembered that it was then daylight; they had had no dinner, and they felt very hungry.
They were hurrying along a path which led through a hollow, when on the hill above them they saw a female figure.
She stopped and looked about, either to find the path or in expectation of some one.
What could she want at that hour of the night, in so lone a place?
They were under the shadow of a stone wall, and she evidently did not see them.
They hesitated whether to remain concealed, as it occurred to both that her appearance there was in some way or other connected with the smugglers.
However, after waiting a minute, she came down the hill with the light step of a young girl; when, catching sight of them, instead of retreating she came boldly forward.
"Oh, Tom, oh, Mr Charles, I am so glad to see you all right!"
she exclaimed, as she got near enough for them to recognise the features of Polly Herring, the smuggler's daughter.
"I heard that something dreadful was going to happen, and I came along to try and stop it."
"And you thought, Polly, that your father was in it, and may be James Trevany, and you did not wish them to get into trouble.
Was not that it, Polly?"
"Yes!
Tom, that was one reason," answered the girl, frankly; "another was that I wanted to save you and Mister Charles from coming to harm; and now I'll ask you, if father or James get into trouble, to speak a good word to the captain to help them out of it."
"The captain is a just man, and will return kindness with kindness, no doubt of that," answered Tom.
"But I say, Polly, if any one can find out where Miss Margery is, you can, for I am as certain as I stand here that your father, or James, or some of your friends, had a hand in carrying her off.
Come, speak the truth, girl; you'll gain more by helping us to find her than by any other way."
"Yes!
it was a cruel shame to carry her away," she muttered, in a low voice; "but I dare not indeed I dare not."
"Dare not do what, Polly?"
asked Tom, in a soothing tone.
"Tell where she is, or help you to get her," answered the girl, promptly.
"Then you do know where she is, Polly, and may be who took her away, and all about her," said Tom.
"Now what I've got to say is this, that just do you do what's right, and never do you fear what any one can do to you."
The girl still hesitated.
"Just let me ask you a question, Polly," continued Tom.
"Is your father in trouble, or James?
Tell me that."
"Yes!
the revenue men have got some information against them, and are after them both."
"Then depend on't, Polly, the best thing for them is to give up Miss Margery before they are caught," said Tom; "they'll gain nothing by giving her up afterwards.
The law doesn't make terms with people."
"But they're terrible people who've got her," answered Polly.
"They'd as soon shoot you, or me, or anybody, as look at us, if we came near them."
"We don't fear terrible men," said Tom, laughing, "just do you put us in the way of getting back Miss Margery, and we'll say as many good words as we can for thy father, Polly, and for James too, if he needs them."
"But you'll do no harm to those who have got her, and all you'll say is that Polly Herring, Dick Herring's daughter, helped you to get her back," said the girl, in a tone which showed that she still feared the consequences of what she was about to do.
Charley had not before spoken, but he now thanked her, and urged her to lose no time in restoring Margery to them.
"Come on, then," she said, in a firm voice; "it's a long way from here, but you may be there and back at the Tower with the little girl before daybreak."
These words made Charley's affectionate heart beat with joy.
Polly added, however, "We must be careful, though, for if we were to fall in with any of our people it would go hard with you and me too."
Polly had well-knit limbs, and, being accustomed to active exercise, led the way at a rapid rate.
She seemed well acquainted with the road, for she never stopped or hesitated as to which path to take, and Charley soon totally lost the direction in which he was going, and Tom had no little difficulty in keeping up with her.
They had thus gone on for some distance, when Polly stopped and stood as if listening.
"I hear some coming; we must hide, and quick too, for if they are those I fancy, and they catch us, our lives are not worth much."
A high bank with a hedge on the top of it was on one side, and as she spoke she led the way through a gap, and the adventurers found themselves perfectly concealed from any one passing along the road.
Scarcely had they got behind the hedge, when a party of five or six men appeared, talking in subdued tones, but high enough to allow some of their words to be heard.
They were uttering oaths and breathing vengeance against the revenue officers and others, by whom their plans had been defeated.
From the mood they were in, Charley felt that it would have been very unpleasant to have again encountered them.
Polly waited for some time before she ventured into the road, and then she led on, without speaking, as fast as ever.
The ground became very rough, and they went up and down hill till the sound of the surf told that they were once more approaching the sea.
As they were ascending a steep, rocky hill, covered with loose stones, a light appeared before them.
They crept on cautiously, imitating Polly's way of proceeding.
"They have taken her there," she whispered, pointing to a cottage, the dim outline of which could be seen.
"This very night, if the weather had been fine, they would have carried her across the Channel.
There's no time to lose, for they won't let her stay long, and if we don't get her to-day, to-morrow she may be far off from this."
Again she moved on, till she reached a low stone wall, which formed a fence to the garden of the house.
"Stay still as death here," she whispered.
"There's a terrible woman lives there.
If she was to find out what I was about she'd kill me though I am her own flesh and blood, and you too, and, may be, in her rage, the little girl too."
Saying this, Polly stole on towards the cottage.
Charley had expected that he should have been called on to run some personal risk, and to carry off Margery from the grasp of half-a-dozen fierce smugglers or so, and he felt somewhat disappointed at the inactive part he was called on to play.
From the words Polly had dropped he guessed that the cottage was the one inhabited by old Dame Herring, who was looked upon by the inhabitants of the country for miles round as a witch, and known to be a very bad character.
She took advantage of her evil reputation, and practised on the credulity of the people.
It is not necessary to mention her bad practices.
A few years before she would very probably have been burnt as a witch; she now ran a risk of being ducked in a horse-pond.
Polly seemed to be a long time absent.
Tom had the gift of patience, and was accustomed to wait, and so, though he was fully as anxious as Charley to have Margery safe under his charge, he made no complaint; but Charley began to lose patience, and to wonder what could have become of Polly, contemplating even going to look for her.
Those who have had experience in life know that it is much more difficult to wait for an event than to rush forward to meet it; passive courage is therefore often the greatest.
Still, when difficulties occur, the wisest course is boldly to face them at once.
To the eyes of the multitude the soldier who rushes onward into the thickest of the fight may appear the bravest, and yet he may be a positive coward, urged forward by despair.
The truly brave is he who can stand undaunted to meet the shock of the onset.
Charley had to wait and wait till his patience was taxed to the utmost.
At length his ear caught a light footstep approaching, and Polly came up to him.
"I couldn't get the little girl out, for she is shut up in a room by herself," she whispered.
"I had to wait till they were all asleep, and then I crept out to tell you.
Still, I think if you are careful you may manage to get her.
I will show you the window of the room where she is shut up, and if you can climb in and awake her without making any noise you may do it; but understand that there are several men sleeping in the cottage with loaded pistols under their heads, which they are very quick to use; and remember that the slightest noise will alarm them.
Come along, but you must wait ten minutes to let me get into the cottage before you begin your business."
Charley and Tom, of course, promised to attend to Polly's injunctions, and eagerly followed her through the garden to the back of the cottage.
She showed them the window, which seemed a very small one, about eight feet from the ground; and then, with her finger on her lips, disappeared round the corner.
Charley waited what he considered a very long ten minutes, but Tom, who could calculate better, held him tight, as a sign that it was not yet time to move, and at last bent his back with his head against the wall, and signed to him to get on the top of it.
This Charley did with alacrity, and grasping the window-sill, drew himself up till he got his knees on it, and he was then able without noise to open one side of the lattice window.
There was barely room for him to creep through, but he managed to do so without making any noise, and at length he stood inside.
He looked round anxiously into the room.
At that moment a gleam of moonlight burst through the passing clouds, and showed him a small bed, and Margery, completely dressed, sleeping soundly and peaceably on it.
He was afraid if he awakened her suddenly she might speak or cry out; so taking off his shoes he crept softly up to her, and kissing her brow, whispered low in her ear, "Margery, Margery, don't speak--a friend--Charley has come for you, to take you home."
She opened her eyes, which Charley could see, for the moonbeam cast its light directly on her countenance; a sweet smile came across it, and he thought that she had never looked more lovely; but she evidently thought that she was dreaming.
"Dear Margery, wake up; Charley has come to take you away from this place," he repeated.
"Is it possible?"
she asked, in the same low voice in which he spoke, and took his hand.
The touch assured her.
"Yes, yes!
I am ready; oh, thank you, thank you!"
Charley helped her to rise, and to step softly across the room.
He then got through the window, and holding on, as only a sailor or a cat could, to nothing, helped her through and lifted her down to Tom, who couldn't refrain from giving her a hearty kiss in his joy at recovering her.
Charley then put on his shoes, and dropped noiselessly to the ground.
"They brought me here without shoes, and would give me none for fear I should run away," she whispered; "but I will try to walk without them."
"Not for worlds, Margery," answered Charley.
"We'll carry you all the way, never fear."
"Aye, aye, Miss Margery," said Tom; "I've carried you many a mile when you was a baby and you was no heavier than a feather, and I've still strength left in my old arms to carry you now that you are a young lady nearly grown, I may say."
Margery could only murmur her thanks, as Tom bore her in his arms across the garden and down the hill at a rapid rate, Charley bringing up the rear, and ready to do battle should they be pursued.
Polly had so far proved faithful, and Charley hoped sincerely that the part she had played in the affair might not be discovered by her associates.
Still, he cast many an anxious glance behind him as they descended the steep, rough hill side, lest any of the smugglers should have been aroused, and have come in pursuit.
Their chief difficulty was to find the way; but they guessed pretty correctly the direction of the Tower, the moon still affording them the assistance of her light.
They did not even stop to rest, Tom declaring that Miss Margery was still almost as light as a feather, if not quite as light as when she was a baby.
They had thus made good progress, when Charley said that he heard footsteps.
"May be," answered Tom; "but they must be stout fellows who will dare to take our Miss Margery from us."
"I am not at all afraid of anybody now," said Margery.
"I am sure, Charley, that you and Tom would not let them take me from you."
Charley of course promised that no one should, and as they did not believe that any smugglers would venture to interfere with them, should any be met, they continued their course.
However, before they had gone much further, two very suspicious-looking personages overtook them and asked various questions, as to whence they had come and where they were going.
"Easily answered, mates," said Tom; "we are coming from the place we last stopped at, and we are going home, and our business is nobody else's, do ye see?"
Whatever had been the intentions of the men, Tom's firm bearing, and Charley's determined air, as he brought up the rear, following Tom as a bull-terrier does the heels of his master, ready to fly at any one venturing to interfere with him, made them alter their purpose.
"I thought as how those piratical craft would sheer off if we showed a bold front," said Tom, as the men turned down a lane on one side.
"It's a great point to show an enemy that you are wide awake and not afraid of him.
Mind you that, Master Charley.
There's a great enemy, too, who is always going about seeking whom he may devour; and if he finds that we are prepared for him, and know how to resist him, he'll be off like a shot."
At length the door of the Tower was reached.
Becky, who opened it, instead of welcoming them as they might naturally have expected that she would, stared wildly at them, and then throwing her apron over her head ran back screaming, "There are ghosts--there are ghosts--there are ghosts at the door!"
"No we ain't," said Tom, bluntly, as he entered; "but we've brought back Miss Margery all right, and she'll be glad of some grub presently, and so shall we by and by I'm thinking,--eh, Master Charley?
But just do you first, as soon as you have got your five senses back, run up and tell the captain and missis.
They'll not be sorry to hear the news, at all events."
In another minute Margery was in her parents' arms, and they were thanking Heaven that she had been safely restored to them.
Little Margery had kept up her courage wonderfully, from the moment she was seized till her return home.
She said that she was awake and thought that she saw Becky collecting her clothes, when suddenly she was taken up in the arms of a woman; she supposed her mouth was gagged and her eyes blinded, and she was carried swiftly along, down into some damp place and along passages into the open air, and finally into the cottage where Charley had found her.
She had had no fear about being ill treated, for she did not think any one would hurt a little girl like herself.
She was very grateful, however, to Charley and Tom for all the risk they had run to rescue her.
Tom and Charley's adventures created great surprise, for the captain could not conceive how they could have got out of the vaults; and it was not until they had all together paid another visit to it that they discovered the aperture lately blocked up with loose stones, and then at length guessed that it had been done by the smugglers to cut off pursuit.
The result of the whole proceeding was the very reverse of what the smugglers had expected.
In their foolish ignorance they fancied that they could frighten away a sensible man, like Captain Askew, from the Tower by their notable scheme of making it be supposed that it was haunted.
We may be surprised at their gross representations of ghosts and spirits, but which were undoubtedly exact imitations of their own conceptions of such things; nor does it at all follow, that because some of them ventured to appear in the character of ghosts, they did not firmly believe in their existence.
Probably their own superstitious fears would as easily have been worked on as they hoped to work on those of others.
A considerable amount of the property of the gang, which they had not time to remove, was seized when they left their chief stronghold and place of rendezvous on the coast, where they had long defied the vigilance of the revenue officers, and many of them were driven away from the coast.
The entrance to the cave from the sea was carefully blocked up, so that no one could again undermine the Tower, and attempt to play off such tricks on the inmates.
Mr Ludlow, accompanied by Stephen, rode over to the Tower to congratulate his tenants on the recovery of their daughter.
"I am very glad to see the young lady back, and safe, and well; but," he added, "I have a bone to pick with her.
What do you think, captain?
She has actually been endeavouring to persuade my only son to go to sea, that he may spend his life in searching for your poor boy, whom she asserts is still alive in some island of the Pacific, either in consequence of reading a child's book, or from some cock-and-bull story which she heard from an old sailor one day, who was never afterwards to be found to corroborate the truth of his narrative.
I wish bygones to be bygones, and I would rather not have alluded to the subject, but I really do not know what powerful influence she may exert over him, though I cannot say that at present he has any fancy for the undertaking; but I wish, at all events, to nip the project in the bud."
As may be supposed, Captain Askew was not a little astonished at this address, while he could not but be sensible of the want of feeling of the man who could thus coldly speak of his long-lost son, that son who had been banished in consequence of Mr Ludlow's own stern decree.
"I was not aware that my little Margery entertained any such notion," he answered mildly.
"Did she, I should have supposed that your son, Stephen, however much she may esteem him as a friend, was the very last person she would have selected for the scheme."
"Oh, the foolish boy lent her a book, a copy, I believe, of Defoe's `Robinson Crusoe,' and as he describes a person living on an island for a number of years by himself, she has taken it into her head that her brother may have escaped shipwreck, and be still alive on one of the many islands which I understand stud parts of the Pacific."
"I have only to repeat that my daughter has not mentioned the subject to me, and I will undertake that she does not induce your son to act contrary to your wishes," answered Captain Askew.
"Very well, neighbour, I will trust to your word," said Mr Ludlow, in his usual supercilious manner, which, to a man of a temper less mild than the captain, would have been very galling.
"I, of course, have other designs for him than to lead the life of a sailor."
When Mr Ludlow and Stephen had taken their departure, he could not help repeating to himself, "he may be alive on one of the many islands which stud parts of the Pacific.
The sailor's story may be true, or it may be only dear Margery's fancy.
It is but natural that she should indulge in it; I would that I had health and strength, and the means to go out and search for the dear boy--dear whether alive or dead."
That evening the captain spoke of their boy to his wife.
He would not venture to raise her hopes.
He scarcely hinted at the possibility of his having escaped from the wreck, and yet he spoke of such things having happened to others.
Margaret's reply was, "God's will be done.
He knows what is kept for us in all respects."
In the meantime, Stephen had told Margery that his father objected decidedly to his becoming a sailor, that he might go and look for her brother Jack; an announcement which the young lady received with much dignity, and an expression of contempt on her pretty countenance which it was not wont to wear.
"Of course, Mr Stephen Ludlow, you are right in doing what your father wishes," she observed; "and now I think over the matter you are not at all fitted to become a sailor.
Sailors are true friends--generous, brave, kind, and liberal; I was mistaken when I supposed that you were likely to possess those qualities.
Good-bye.
I do not want to quarrel with you, but now you know what I think."
Margery was not aware how severe her words might have sounded.
Stephen did not fully understand their meaning, but he felt very sheepish, and had an idea that it would probably be some time before he again paid a visit to Stormount Tower.
Margery had, however, far from abandoned her idea.
She had for some time naturally thought that Charley Blount would be the proper person to perform her behests, and she felt certain that he would very gladly undertake the task she might assign him.
She put the matter before him, and to her great delight he at once undertook her mission.
"I cannot say that your brother Jack is alive," he observed; "but this I promise, that if he is I will do my utmost to find him and bring him home."
CHAPTER TEN.
CHARLEY GOES TO SEA--A GALLANT COMRADE--COOLNESS OF ISLANDERS--THE SAVAGES.
"May Heaven bless and prosper you, my boy!"
said Captain Askew, as Charley Blount was prepared to start for Liverpool, where he expected to get a berth on board some ship bound for the shores of the Pacific.
He had letters of introduction to Jack's old friend, now Captain Cumming, who resided at Birkenhead, on the other side of the Mersey, and to other friends of Captain Askew, so that his way would be likely to be made smooth.
His parting with the inmates of the Tower need not be fully described.
Neither Mrs Askew nor Margery dared trust themselves with words.
Becky gave him a hug, such as he was not accustomed to receive as she whispered, "Bring him back, Mr Charley, bring him back, oh do!"
"If the lad's above board you'll find him out, I know you will, Mr Charles," said old Tom, heartily wringing his hand.
He modestly replied that he would do his best; and that, with a person of spirit and energy, signifies a good deal.
He was not going altogether without pecuniary means.
Captain Askew had raised every shilling he could for the undertaking, and he felt sure that Captain Cumming would get friends at Liverpool to help him yet further.
He soon reached that city, and when his object became known, although many declared that it was visionary, he had, from the liberality of merchants and others, ample supplies placed at his disposal, which he was to employ as he considered best.
He without delay obtained a berth on board the _Southern Cross_, Captain Harper, as fourth mate, with the understanding that he should be allowed to quit the ship after she had reached the coast of Peru, where she was to take a fresh cargo on board.
The _Southern Cross_ was a well-found ship, Captain Harper, an upright man and a good seaman, and with the other officers and the crew, Charley was on his first acquaintance tolerably well pleased.
He enjoyed the sensation, which few but seamen can enjoy after some time spent on shore, when he once more trod the deck moved by the buoyant waves, as the good ship pursued her southward course over the Atlantic, and he thought of the enterprise in which he was engaged.
Most of his shipmates, as many people on shore had done, thought his undertaking preposterous, and said that to search for a lad he had never seen, among the thousand and one isles of the Pacific, and who probably had been drowned, or eaten by the savages years ago, was more ridiculous than looking for a needle in a bundle of hay.
Charley, however, kept, if not to his own opinion, to that which Margery, at all events, entertained, and got two young shipmates, midshipmen, to join him in it.
Hugh Owen, an enthusiastic Welshman, and Edward Elton, a quiet and unpretending English lad who had been three years at sea.
He was pale-faced and small of his age, his eyes were blue and his features regular, and in a crowd he would have been the last selected to do a daring deed; and yet no bolder or braver lad was to be found on board, and there was no act of heroism of which those who knew him would not have believed him capable.
Charley Blount was not much senior to either of the lads, but having been to sea longer, was their superior in rank.
Off duty he treated them as equals, and the three young men soon formed a sincere friendship for each other.
The Falkland Islands were visited to obtain a supply of fresh provisions and water, and then the ship steered west round Cape Horn into the Pacific.
Just, however, as that mighty headland was sighted there sprang up a fierce gale from the westward, which drove the _Southern Cross_ back into the Atlantic, the huge billows rising up like mountains to bar her progress.
But her captain well knew that perseverance alone could overcome this as it can conquer most difficulties, and she was kept under close-reefed sails, now with her head to the south, now to the north, ready to take advantage of any slant of wind which might enable her to work her way to the westward.
The wind had fallen, and once more sail was made.
It was night, and Charley Blount had a watch on deck, when without warning down came the gale on the ship with greater fury than before.
With a crack like a clap of thunder the main-topgallant-yard parted and hung by the lifts, dashing furiously against the topsail, and threatening to carry away the topmast.
"It is my duty to clear that," exclaimed Charley, not waiting to be ordered or asked to go, for it was a task of the greatest peril, which only volunteers alone would be expected to attempt.
Seizing an axe, he flew aloft.
"Heaven protect the bold fellow!"
exclaimed the captain, who had hurried on deck.
Young Elton had also come, up from below.
One part of the task was done when Charley's axe was torn from his grasp, and he was seized by the coils of a loose rope, lashing furiously, while the remaining part of the spar came whirling round his head.
His terrific position could be seen from the deck, and the great danger any one would incur in going near him could be equally well perceived.
Not a moment, however, did young Elton hesitate.
Scarcely had the accident happened than he was flying up the ratlines amid the clouds of spray which drove across them.
The ship was heeling over and pitching into the seas as if never to rise again, the masts were bending and straining, and the broken spar was flying round, now in one direction, now in the other, and threatening to render the brave young Elton's attempt useless, by hurling Charley Blount to destruction before he could release him, while the least want of vigilance would have proved equally fatal to himself.
He had, amid the darkness of the night and the heeling of the ship to watch the movements of the threatening spar, and to dart forward as it receded and left a spot for an instant free from its attacks.
His first aim was to release Charley, whom the rope was encircling every instant more closely in its deadly embrace.
He watched his opportunity; he sprang along the yard, and with two blows of his axe the rope was severed, and Charley was released, and able to join him in the still more difficult task of clearing away the broken spar.
Together they climbed the mast.
"Stand from under!"
was the cry, but there was no need of it.
Again their sharp axes were at work; the spar fell clear of the ship into the foaming ocean, the topmast was saved, and loud cheers greeted the young seamen as they descended safely on deck.
This incident united Charley Blount and Elton in still closer friendship, and gained the support more completely of the enthusiastic Hugh Owen, who became now more than ever eager to follow their fortunes.
At length the ship got to the westward of the Cape, but she had been driven far to the south, and it was some time before the wind allowed her to steer a northerly course.
She had already got into warm latitudes, when a high, cocoa-nut-covered, reef-bound island was discovered ahead.
The savage character of the inhabitants of the isles of the Pacific had frequently been the subject of conversation on board, among those who had never before been in that part of the world, and it was naturally supposed that those living on the island in sight were deserving of the same description.
As they coasted along, however, they could distinguish with their glasses numerous neat white buildings, and a wide extent of cultivated ground, and here and there towers and steeples, and edifices which had the appearance of ordinary school-houses; indeed, the land wore a wonderfully civilised aspect.
The captain, ordering the chief mate to keep the ship standing on and off, invited as many as two boats would contain to accompany him on shore.
He carried an assortment of goods, not beads and looking-glasses and spear-heads, as would once have been the case, but cottons, and useful cutlery, and writing materials, and leather, and other articles in demand among civilised people.
The boats arrived at a well-constructed wharf, where several decently-clothed natives stood ready to receive them.
They were greeted with the salutation of "Blessings be on your head!"
and one stepped forward and introduced himself as the trading-master, and requested to know what articles they wished to purchase.
The captain gave a list of what he wanted, which were very soon brought down, and, the trade-master acting as interpreter, equitable bargains were soon struck, and all that was required by the voyagers was obtained at a reasonable rate.
They were then allowed to visit any part of the island they chose with licensed guides.
They expressed their surprise to the native interpreter at the state of things.
"Yes!
great indeed is the change," he answered.
"Thirty years ago we were among the most degraded of savages; but the good missionaries came, and though we would have driven them away, they persevered in remaining till they had taught us better things; and now you see us sitting clothed and in our right minds."
On inquiry, Charley found that there was not a heathen native in the whole island.
There were churches always regularly attended, school houses, printing presses, lecture halls, a well-constituted government, and a perfectly educated native ministry.
Not only were there no heathen, but, as far as human discernment could discover, true Christian principles were professed and practised by a large majority of the population.
Few islands were in a more satisfactory state than this one; at the same time Charley heard that the inhabitants of a very considerable number had become Christians by the instrumentality of English missionaries, and still more by that of Christian natives, eager to impart to their countrymen the glad tidings they had themselves received.
"It was to this island, many years ago, that a native missionary swam on shore with a few books, wrapped up in a cloth, on his head.
Our savage fathers stood on the rocks with clubs and spears, ready to kill him, but his life was preserved by the mercy of God, who loved our souls though we knew Him not.
At first no one would listen to what the missionary had to say, and laughed him to scorn; but by degrees one stopped to hear, and then another and another, and found what he said to be very good, till by degrees as they understood more clearly the tidings he brought, hundreds flocked in and believed, and were converted."
Captain Harper corroborated all Charley had heard, and stated that whereas once it was dangerous at most of the islands to land unless in a strong body, well armed; now, throughout the whole of the eastern groups, the inhabitants were as kind and courteous to strangers and as well conducted as any people he had met on the face of the globe.
One day after they had left the island, the officers of a whaler becalmed near them came on board, and complained bitterly of the altered state of things, abusing the missionaries for being the cause of the change to which they so much objected.
The surgeon of the ship, who ought to have known better, was especially very indignant with them.
"Once we could go on shore, and for a few beads or a knife not worth twopence buy as many provisions as we required, or any other article, and we could play all sorts of pranks with the natives, and nobody interfered with us.
Now, if we ask them to buy or sell, or to dance, or to do anything else on a Sunday, they won't do it, and we can have no fun of any sort; and they say that we have lost our religion, and pull long faces at us, and ask us all sorts of strange questions about our souls.
As a fact, these savages know more about religion than we do; and they can write books, and print and bind them, and some of them can preach for an hour at a time; indeed, I don't know what they can't do.
The missionaries have done it all--spoilt them, I say; they were jolly fellows as savages, but they are desperately stupid now.
To be sure, they did now and then murder a whole ship's company if they had the chance, and roast and eat them too, and they would steal anything they could lay hands on; and they were always fighting among each other; and they worshipped curious logs of wood and stumps of trees, and figures made out of rags, matting, and feathers; but we had nothing to do with that, it was rather fun to see them."
And so the surgeon of the whaler ran on, not at all aware that he was condemning himself and his companions, and their practices, and praising the long-benighted savages.
Charley observed that he could not help thinking that the change was for the better, and he could not help asking himself, "Where will the white man and where will the brown man be found standing at the day of judgment?"
He inquired of the doctor if he had heard of any young Englishman residing among the natives, or on any island in the eastern Pacific.
The doctor laughed, and said that there were a good many who had native wives, and were the prime ministers and privy councillors of the kings and princes who ruled the islands, especially those which still remained heathen.
Charley scarcely wished to find Margery's brother among these unhappy men.
No!
he was certain that if he was alive he was living on some unfrequented island, unable to get away.
The _Southern Cross_ touched at several islands, for the captain had a roving commission, to go where he thought best.
At each of them Charley left on shore a number of cards on which he had written, "Jack Askew, a friend of your father's, Charley Blount, is looking for you.
Send word to Callao, on the coast of Peru, and he will assist you to return home."
Captain Harper gave every assistance to Charley, but not a trace could they discover of the missing one.
Two uninhabited islands had been visited; a third was sighted.
Charley's heart beat high in anticipation of finding him whom he sought.
Yet, why he expected to find Jack there more than at any other place he could not tell.
On the island, though it was a small one, there was a mountain and three or four lesser heights, which might prevent a person on the opposite side from seeing a ship; the captain, therefore, though he could not spare much time, agreed to sail partly round it, and to land Charley, Elton, Owen, and some of the men, to explore it.
They landed in high spirits, on a sandy beach, and pushed on to the highest point whence they could survey the whole island, and where a flag they carried could be seen by any inhabitant on it.
They reached the summit of the mountain.
There were valleys and rocks and cascades, and cocoa-nut and other tropical trees and plants; indeed it was very like the description of Robinson Crusoe's island.
They waved the flag and shouted, though shouting was of no use, as no one in the valley could have heard them.
At length they descended towards the east, the point from which the ship was to take them off.
Still they hoped that some one might appear.
"He may have been all the time watching the ship, and not have looked up towards the mountain," observed Owen, who had assumed the fact of Jack's existence, even more than Charley himself.
They reached the beach without meeting the trace even of a human being.
All the party looked blank at each other; it was very clear that that was not Jack's island.
Disappointed they returned on board.
"Don't let us despair," cried Charley.
"There may be, in the latitude where the _Truelove_ was lost, fifty other islands, and Jack can only be in one of them, so that we cannot hope to find him in a hurry."
"No!
of course not," cried Owen; "but we will find him notwithstanding that.
Just let us get our little schooner fitted out and we'll visit every one of them, and twice as many if necessary."
Captain Harper had most liberally and kindly done his best for Charley's object.
Captain Askew's friends at Liverpool had promised a reward of a hundred pounds to any man or ship's company, half to go to the master, who should discover and bring off young Askew, and half that amount for the discovery of any of the crew of the ill-fated ship.
This information he gave to every whaler and other vessel the _Southern Cross_ fell in with.
Whalers especially, visit so many out-of-the-way spots while searching for their prey, to obtain wood and water and vegetables, essentials for the support of the health and life of the crew, that it was possible some of them might be tempted to make a more thorough examination of islands near which they might find themselves, than they would otherwise do.
At length Callao was reached, and Charley with his two friends obtained their discharge.
The next thing was to find a vessel suited for their purpose.
After inspecting a number, a beautiful little Spanish schooner, of about eighty tons, which had just come into the harbour, was purchased, and a motley crew engaged.
The crew consisted of one Englishman, who had been twenty years from home, a negro, a Tahitian, and a native Indian; but still they all pulled wonderfully well together.
Charley Blount was captain; Elton, first mate; and Hugh Owen, second.
The schooner had been called the _Boa Esperanza_, and so they called her the _Good Hope_--an appropriate name.
Never had a happier party put to sea.
They were in prime health and spirits, and had a good object in view, so that they could venture to pray for the success of their expedition.
They had an ample crew for the size of the vessel; she was well-found, and sailed like a witch, and was altogether a first-rate little craft.
The _Good Hope_ went out of harbour at the same time as the _Southern Cross_, the latter steering south on her homeward voyage, the former west, to explore all the islands known and unknown in that direction.
Charley had given his utmost attention to navigation since he left England, and from the time Elton and Owen had agreed to accompany him, they had also studied the subject more carefully than before.
They were, therefore, all three very fair navigators; indeed a good knowledge of navigation was very necessary for the work in which they were about to engage.
Away went the _Good Hope_ on her adventurous and perilous voyage.
The Pacific, though often calm, shows that it does not deserve its name at all times.
After they had been a week out, the weather gave signs of changing: dark clouds appeared in the west, though the wind was still blowing from the east.
They continued their course to reach an island which rose high out of the sea ahead.
With the fair wind they then had they rapidly neared the island.
Their glasses showed them that it was a beautiful spot, very like the island they had before visited, but larger.
Just, however, as they got abreast of it, the gale, which had for some time been brewing, broke on them with great fury.
Fortunately they were able to run back for shelter under the lee of the island, where, though they still felt the wind, the sea was comparatively smooth.
Great vigilance was, at the same time, necessary, lest the wind changing suddenly she might be driven on the reefs which surrounded the island.
Still they kept as close as they could, looking out for an opening through which they might pass and anchor inside.
Hugh Owen had a remarkably sharp pair of eyes, and was the first to espy, some way to the northward, a space of clear water with a sheltered bay beyond.
The schooner was steered towards the spot.
Owen was right.
A slant of wind enabled them to stand through the passage.
The sea dashed in foam over the coral reefs on either hand; careless steering, the parting of a rope, or a sudden change of wind would have hurled them to destruction.
The dangers were passed, and she rode safely in a little bay, which had a sandy beach, and a fringe of rocks and trees above.
No huts or dwelling-places could be seen, yet it seemed scarcely possible that so fine an island should be uninhabited.
Still people might exist on the other side of the island, or more inland.
They had been advised not to venture on shore on any island, unless the inhabitants had become Christians, without arms.
Owen and Elton proposed on this occasion going without them, as they were heavy to carry.
"No, no!"
said Charley.
"A rule is a rule, which, if a good one, should never be broken through."
This was the first island where, by their calculations, they had the slightest chance of finding Jack Askew, at least, it was about the longitude that the _Truelove_ was supposed to have been lost.
Owen took charge of the schooner while Charley and Elton and three men went on shore, all sufficiently armed with rifles, pistols in their belts, and cutlasses by their sides.
They hoped by starting early in the day to accomplish the tour of the island before dark.
Having drawn up their boat on the beach, they pushed on for the highest point of land in the neighbourhood.
On reaching it they saw in the valley below, on the further side, wreaths of smoke ascending from among a grove of trees.
Charley and Elton agreed that there must be inhabitants, but wisely determined not to approach them without first ascertaining, if possible, their disposition.
They therefore continued along the height, so as to avoid the valley, proposing to cross over by a route which appeared open to the opposite side of the island.
As they advanced they saw more signs of the island being inhabited: tracks leading in various directions, ruined huts, and marks of fires and native ovens.
Some natives were also seen in the distance, but whether or not they were observed they could not tell.
Charley and Elton speculated as they went on as to the probability of Jack being on the island.
Wherever they went, in all conspicuous places they left the cards, with a notice that the schooner, on the east side of the island, was waiting for him, hoping that possibly he might see one of them, should they themselves miss him.
At length they reached the west side of the island, where the full strength of the gale was felt, and they were thankful that their vessel lay snugly in harbour, and sheltered from its fury.
Here they found a group of huts and patches of cultivated ground, for the production of the taro root, but the inhabitants had hastily fled.
This was unsatisfactory, as they must have had cause to dread the appearance of white men.
They saw, therefore, that it would be prudent to return by the most direct route to the bay, where it would be safer to attempt establishing friendly relations with them; for should they fail, unless they could fight their way, they would probably be cut off.
Keeping close together, they therefore marched rapidly westward.
Several times they saw natives armed with bows, spears, and clubs, hovering on either side, but none of them came within speaking distance.
They seemed to increase in numbers as the party approached the bay, and Charley felt thankful when they came in sight of the schooner.
Their first care was to get the boat afloat, that they might retreat if necessary.
They had brought a number of useful articles for barter-knives and pieces of cotton cloth, and handkerchiefs, and nails, and some of them they placed on the rocks, beckoning the natives with friendly gestures to approach and take them.
No sooner had Charley and his party retired to the boat, than nearly forty savages started up from behind the rocks and rushed towards the goods, eagerly seizing them, and as quickly retreating again under shelter.
After this, nothing could tempt the savages from their cover.
One thing was certain, that Jack could not be on the island, or the savages would have learned to treat white men in a different manner.
Charley, therefore, determined to return to the schooner.
No sooner, however, had his men begun to shove off the boat, than the savages, fearing to lose the treasures they possessed, made a furious rush in a body towards her, flourishing their war-clubs, and holding their spears ready to throw.
"Shove off, lads, shove off, for your lives!"
cried Charley, seizing an oar.
"Let not a shot be fired unless I give the word."
The savages, however, seeing that their expected prize was about to escape them, rushed on with greater speed, some hurling their spears, others, with clubs uplifted, threatening the destruction of all in the boat.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
THE RIGHT WAY TO TREAT SAVAGES--THE MISSIONARY AND HIS CONVERTS--THE BOY ON THE ISLAND.
Charley Blount's great wish was to avoid injuring any of the natives.
In spite, therefore, of the spears which came flying around him, and the array of warriors with their war-clubs, he refrained from firing, and directed all his efforts to get the boat completely afloat.
Just as a savage had got one hand on the stern and with the other was about to deal a blow with his club which would have killed Charley, the boat glided off into deep water, and the savage warrior toppled down with his nose in the surf.
He was up again in a moment, but blinded by the salt water, and not seeing that the boat had escaped him, struck out with his club and again fell over as before, and would possibly have been drowned, had not some of his companions hauled him up and set him again on his legs.
This circumstance assisted the escape of the boat, which was now getting away from the shore.
Charley, anxious not to injure any of the savages, had ordered his men not to fire till the last extremity.
Not a shot therefore was fired, and the boat got well off out of danger.
The question was now, how to show the savages that the white men possessed power, but had mercifully not employed it against them.
They had on board an empty cask, in which some of the articles left with the savages had been brought off.
This was ballasted and put in the water with a short flag-staff, and a handkerchief as a flag fixed in it.
Pulling away a short distance Elton and Charley, and one of the men, who was a good shot, repeatedly fired and hit it, till at last the flag and staff were shot away to the astonishment of the natives, who stood looking on.
Fortunately, a tree grew near the beach on one side, where there were no natives.
Charley next made this his target, and the white splinters which flew out on either side must have convinced the savages that the missiles which produced them would have made, with greater ease very disagreeable holes in their bodies.
Charley now once more pulled in towards the beach; the savages ran off.
He had a few more articles left; he landed, spread them out, and then, returning to the boat, beckoned to the people to come and take them.
At length they seemed to comprehend his humane intentions, for several of them, leaving their clubs and spears on the bank above, approached the water, holding out their hands as if to welcome the strangers.
Charley, on seeing this, telling Elton to be ready to support him if necessary, leaped boldly on shore, and advanced with extended hands towards the savages.
They understood him, and now seemed to have banished their fears, and to have no treacherous intentions.
His first object gained, he endeavoured to make them understand that he was looking for one of his own countrymen.
By signs he showed how a vessel had been wrecked, and that two of the people had swam on shore, and how he was looking for them; but they shook their heads, and he felt certain that this was not the island where Jack was to be found.
While he was speaking several of the people brought down cocoa-nuts, plantains, taro, and other roots and fruits in baskets, as a proof of their friendly feelings, and showing, also, that they knew what the wants of white men were.
How different, however, would have been the conclusion of the intercourse with these people, if the schooner's crew had fired on the first alarm, and the blood of the poor savages been shed?
The _Good Hope_ laid at anchor for two days, when, the gale abating, she again sailed.
There was still a good deal of sea, but as Captain Blount found that he could lay his course, he was unwilling to delay any longer, and, like most sailors, he believed that his craft could do anything.
He ought before to have been called captain, though it must be owned that he was rather a young one, and captain of a somewhat small craft.
He and his companions regretted that they had not brought an interpreter with them, that they might communicate without difficulty with the natives.
"We might have obtained some information from the poor savages we last visited about other islands lying to the westward," observed the captain; "I suspect, too, that they would have had to tell us, that some former visitors had taken them unawares and killed some of them, and so they had thought all white men were enemies, and had determined to kill the next they could get in their power."
"Yes, indeed," said Elton, "how different these are from the inhabitants of the first island we visited; I have been thinking that I should like to tell some of their missionaries of these poor people, and get them to send one of their number to instruct them."
"What, do you think that you could hope to make Christians out of such naked savages as those are?"
exclaimed Hugh Owen, who had not turned his mind to the subject.
"Of course; those well-behaved, well-clothed people we saw, were quite as wild and ignorant as the naked savages we have just left, but a very few years ago.
Not fifty years since there was not an island in the wide Pacific which had risen out of a state of the most complete savagedom.
Now, in the eastern part of the ocean, whole groups have embraced Christianity.
The Sandwich Islands are rapidly advancing in civilisation, and King George of Tonga, himself a man of much talent, though once a savage, ruled over a large population of enlightened men, a large number of whom possess a better knowledge of the Scriptures, and would be able to give better reasons for the faith that is in them than would nine-tenths of the population of any country in Europe, England not excepted."
"Who told you that?"
asked Owen; "I have heard a very different account."
"I heard it from my late captain, who spent three years cruising among the islands of all parts of the Pacific," answered Elton.
"Captain Harper, too, said the same thing, and neither of them can be accused of being in the interest of the missionaries."
"Certainly not; I fully believe the facts," exclaimed Charley.
"If I had not undertaken to carry Jack back to his family, I should like to volunteer to convey missionaries to all these islands.
I could not wish for a better employment for the little schooner or for myself."
"The very thought that was in my head," said Elton.
"When our present enterprise is accomplished, I will offer my services for the work.
I think that a sailor could scarcely be engaged in a better."
Faithfully did young Elton keep his promise.
Just then the man on the look-out exclaimed that he saw an object floating on the water ahead, but what it was he could not make out.
As the schooner got nearer, the object was pronounced to be a raft, and to have living people on it.
On getting still nearer, it was seen to be not a raft, but one of the double canoes of those seas, which consist of two canoes joined together by a platform.
This platform extends across the entire width of both canoes and the greater part of their length.
Several people were on the deck.
Some were kneeling, one was standing up, and others were lying at their length, their heads propped up, as if in a state of exhaustion.
As the schooner hove-to close to them, those on board her were startled by hearing, among sounds strange to their ears, the name of Jehovah clearly pronounced.
The people were dark-skinned, undoubtedly natives, though clothed in garments, either of native cloth or cotton, several of them wearing hats.
They, however, it was evident, did not regard the appearance of the schooner with satisfaction, and several of them hung down their heads with apprehension at seeing her.
As there was still too much sea to allow of the schooner going alongside of the canoe, a boat was lowered, and Elton and two men pulled up to her.
"We are friends; we, too, worship Jehovah," he shouted, holding up his hands as if in prayer.
In an instant the aspect of the whole changed.
Those who had been hanging down their heads lifted them up with a smile on their countenances, and the man who was standing in the midst of them exclaimed in return, "Yes, yes; friends--all who worship Jehovah are our friends!"
Elton was soon on board the canoe.
The condition of the crew was truly piteous.
Their last drop of water was exhausted--their last taro-root-their last cocoa-nut,--yet they were not desponding.
They had done their utmost: they had prayed earnestly for deliverance, and were calmly waiting the result.
Their canoe was in so battered a condition, that before Elton asked them any questions he advised that they should remove at once on board the schooner.
Though only one of them spoke a little English, several of them understood what he said.
They gladly assented to his proposal, begging him to take the most feeble first.
These were quickly conveyed to the deck of the schooner, where Charley and Owen were ready with food and water to administer to them.
It took several trips before they were all safely placed on board the schooner, and, not long after the last party left the canoe, she slowly settled down to her platform, from which all on it would soon have been washed away, even with the sea there was then running.
When the whole party had been carefully attended to, Charley inquired by what means they had been brought into the condition in which they had been found.
The chief man among them answered in broken but still intelligible English, that he was a native missionary, that he and his companions, two of whom were catechists and one a schoolmaster, had started to visit an island to the westward, which they had expected to reach in a couple of days, but that they were caught in a gale, and their mast and sail being carried away they were driven past it, and onward before the gale utterly unable to return, or even to stop their frail vessel.
Day after day they had been driven on, anxiously looking out for reefs ahead, knowing that if driven on one, their canoe must be dashed to pieces.
Their rudder and oars had been lost, so that they had no power of directing their vessel.
Several islands were passed on which they might have landed if they had had their paddles to guide the canoe to the shore.
"One of them," said the missionary, "we passed so close, that we could clearly see a man on shore.
It was a small low coral island, with a lagoon, or lake in the centre, and cocoa-nuts and other trees growing round it.
By his dress and appearance we judged the man to be a white.
We also saw a hut of some size built under the trees.
He waved his hands wildly, as if entreating us to take him off, and seemed to be shouting, and then he went down on his knees and lifted up his hands, as if imploring mercy.
Helpless ourselves, we could render him no aid."
"That must have been Jack!"
cried Charley and his two friends in the same breath.
"If we had not heard this, we might easily have overlooked such a spot.
We might have run past it at night, or within ten miles, and not have seen it.
What a dull and solitary life the poor fellow must have dragged out in such a place."
"If a man's mind is at peace, and he can converse with his God, he need not be sad or solitary," observed the missionary, calmly.
The young men then inquired how far off he should suppose the island to be.
The missionary answered that they had passed it about ten days before; that at that time they had been driving very fast before the gale, but after it had abated, much slower.
So eager were Charley and his friends to follow up their search, that they debated whether or not they should continue their course to the west, and look for the island which had been described.
Elton was opposed to this while they had so many strangers on board.
"No, no," he exclaimed; "do not let us be carried away by our zeal in the cause of our lost countryman; we have another duty to perform.
We were but lately wishing that we could send a missionary to the ignorant inhabitants of the island we have lately left.
Here is one presented to us--a man in every way fitted for the work.
Let us put the matter before him."
They did so.
Directly the missionary had heard the account they gave of the wild islanders, he, without hesitation, expressed his readiness to go among them, and said he was sure that all his companions would be ready to join him in the work.
He was not mistaken in the zeal of his friends, "When souls are to be saved, and the glorious tidings of salvation to sinners to be conveyed, we are ready to go," they answered.
The schooner was therefore at once put about, and a course at once steered for the island.
They were all curious to see how the wild natives would take their speedy return, and whether the missionary would be able to communicate with them, though he seemed to have no doubt on the subject.
The next day the schooner dropped her anchor in the sheltered bay she had lately left.
The natives were seen assembling from all quarters, and soon a large number collected on the beach.
Charley and Elton, Mark, the missionary,--for so he was called--and two other natives, went in the boat.
Instead of pulling at once for the beach, the missionary begged to be landed at a point where some trees grew.
From these he cut down some branches and distributed them among the party, when the boat was steered in for the place where the natives were collected.
The branches were waved as the boat approached the beach, when the natives were seen cutting down branches and waving them in return.
"It's all right," exclaimed the missionary, in a cheerful voice; "we shall be friends."
He then shouted to the natives, who replied in the same language; and without landing, as the stem touched the sand, he began an address, which appeared from his tones to be full of eloquence.
They listened to it with profound attention, and then several of them stretched out their hands, and gave indubitable signs that they were eager to welcome him on shore.
He and his companions accordingly landed, and were surrounded by the natives, who appeared as eager to listen as before.
Captain Blount determined, however, to remain till the following day, as he had heard that these island savages were seldom to be trusted, and that, though they might appear friendly at one time, the next instant they might turn round and destroy those who had trusted them.
The night was an anxious one to Charley and his friends, as well as to the natives on board; but the next morning, when they went on shore, Mark gave so good a report of the islanders, that the whole of the strangers agreed to land and remain.
Mark, however, recommended one young man, who understood English, though he could not speak it, to continue on board the _Good Hope_, that he might tell the natives of any islands they might visit who the strangers were, and also to assist in discovering the small coral island where the solitary white man had been seen.
Captain Blount gladly accepted the offer.
"Tell my friends," said Mark, "that we have begun the work, but some years may pass away before all the inhabitants of even this small island understand the Glad Tidings, which they at present appear to receive so readily.
When the work is accomplished, then I may return home."
Charley found that Mark, who was thus ready to devote himself to the work of the Gospel, was the son of a powerful chief or prince, and that he had thus literally given up much and all for its sake.
Both officers and men of the _Good Hope_ had enough to do in keeping a proper look-out ahead for the numerous dangers in their course.
Those who have only sailed in seas navigated for centuries with excellent charts of every rock, shoal, and current, are scarcely aware of the anxiety those experience who have to sail across an unknown ocean where numberless small islands exist, and reefs, some under the water and some just above it, on which the incautious voyager may run his ship and lose her, with little or no warning.
At night, except when there was a moon, the schooner was hove-to, lest she should run on a reef, or past Jack's supposed island.
The native, who said that his name was Peter, was as eager as any one, and was constantly aloft looking out for it.
Such an island as it was described might very easily be passed by without being observed.
Charley, Elton, Owen, or Peter was therefore always on the look-out, for they would not trust one of the crew.
Their difficulty was increased by a foul wind which sprung up from the westward, and compelled them to tack across their course.
This greatly increased the distance they had to go over, and completely baffled Peter's calculations.
One night, having stood farther than before to the northward, a bright light was seen in the distance, which was pronounced by all on board to be a ship on fire.
Sad must be the fate of all on board if no assistance arrived!
Making all sail, they stood towards the spot.
The red glare increased, the reflection extending over the whole sky.
While they looked, expecting every instant to see the supposed ship blow up or the light suddenly cease by her sinking, Charley exclaimed that it was a burning mountain.
His companions doubted the fact.
Still they thought that it was a burning ship; the light was decreasing--again it blazed up.
The sky over head appeared peculiarly dark.
"Hillo!
what is this coming down on us?"
exclaimed Owen.
They felt the tops of their caps--they and the deck were gritty.
It was a shower of ashes; the mystery was explained; the light was that of a burning mountain.
As there was no object to be gained in going nearer to it, and Peter gave them to understand that he had not seen it when on board the canoe, they tacked and stood to the southward.
More than once Charley thought of the remark people had made to him, that his expedition was like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay.
"Never mind," he repeated; "if the needle is in the bundle, by diligent searching it may be found.
A solitary white man has been seen on an island, we must first find out who he is."
The wind baffled them frequently, but still they perseveringly plied to windward, though next night they were again in sight of the burning mountain, which was to the north-east of the schooner, showing that they had made but little way to the west.
Once more the wind turned in their favour, and they rejoiced that they were able to make better way than they had done for a long time.
It was getting dusk, but at sunset no land had been seen ahead, and, eager to get on, they continued their course without shortening sail.
Suddenly, Owen, who was forward on the look-out, shouted at the top of his voice, "Breakers ahead!
Starboard!
Down with the helm!
Haul aft the sheets!
For your lives be smart about it!"
All hands flew to the sheets.
The little vessel came up to the wind, and turned aside from the danger with a rapidity no larger one could have accomplished; but, even as it was, as she went about the white spray was seen dancing up in the darkness close under her counter, while beyond was a mass of foaming-breakers, among which had they been thrown, in vain would they have struggled for their lives, their career would quickly have been over.
Owen confessed afterwards that he was very weary, that he was fully under the impression that he was keeping a very bright look-out, and that certainly his eyes were wide open, but that it was on a sudden he became aware, from hearing some unusual sound, that breakers were dancing up directly ahead of the schooner.
In another minute her doom would have been sealed.
Thankful for their merciful preservation, they agreed that at night two people should be on the look-out, and that they should be relieved every hour.
The appearance of the reef made it probable that they were in the neighbourhood of other reefs and low coral islands, and they anxiously waited for daylight in anticipation of discovering the particular island of which they were in search.
Standing to the south they cleared the reef, and once more, having shortened sail, they stood on their course.
The sun was just rising, a vast globe of fire, out of the purple ocean, when Elton, who had gone aloft, shouted, "Land!
land!
A low island, with palm-trees on it!"
One after another, everybody on board went aloft to look at the long-wished for island.
Peter came nodding his head, with a pleased smile, exclaiming, "Dat is land!
dat is land!"
for he had already learned some words of English.
The island, as the schooner drew near it, appeared to be of an oval form, under a mile in length and half that in width, with a large lagoon in the centre, having one entrance from the southern end and an outer reef, on which the surf broke, curling upwards like a wall of snow, and then falling back in wreaths of foam; the outer reef thus saving the islet from being overwhelmed during every gale of wind which raged.
Inside the reef, the water was calm as a mirror and of the deepest blue; then came a line of glittering white sand, and then a circle of green of the brightest emerald, surrounding a basin of water even of a deeper blue than that on the outside.
Carefully the schooner approached; frequently she hove-to and sounded, but no bottom was to be found, and consequently there was little hope of her being able to anchor.
She stood closer and closer in; with their glasses the adventurers examined the island in every part, but no one was seen moving.
Still Peter insisted that it was the island on which the white man had been seen; indeed, he pointed out what certainly appeared to be a hut under the trees.
The only way to ascertain whether the man was still there was to land, and that was a work of some difficulty.
The boat, fitted with empty casks and pieces of cork round her sides to serve as a lifeboat, was lowered; the captain steered, Elton and three other men rowed.
A narrow space of clear water presented itself through the surf: "Give way!
give way!"
cried Charley, and they dashed on, the water foaming and leaping up on either side, and they were safe within the outer reef.
The safest landing was within the lagoon.
As they pulled up to it and looked over the sides of the boat, so pure and transparent was the water that they could see down to the very bottom, and beautiful indeed was the sight they beheld.
Masses of varied coloured coral, sea-plants of every conceivable tint and of the brightest shells--some with their living inhabitants, others deserted--of the most lovely forms, while fish of curious shapes and beautiful colours glided noiselessly in and out amid the rocks and groves of this submarine fairy land.
Charley, however, was thinking of Jack, and was eager to land to ascertain whether he was really an inhabitant of the islet, or whether they had yet further to continue their search.
The whole party was soon on shore, and hurrying up towards the spot where they expected to find the hut.
"Jack Askew!
Jack Askew!
are you there?"
cried Charley, thinking that this was the best way to bring out the inhabitant of the hut should there be one, but there was no reply.
"Alas!"
he said to himself, "I am afraid that we have come too late to save him.
Dear Margery, how bitter will be her disappointment; how it will grieve the hearts of the good old captain and Mrs Askew to hear it!"
And Charley walked on in silence towards the hut, which just then appeared between the cocoa-nut trees.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
JACK ASKEW FOUND--HIS ADVENTURES.
Was the hut deserted, or was the person whom Peter had seen waving his hands as the canoe drove past still its occupant?
The hut was rudely built, partly of pieces of coral but chiefly of drift-wood, and thatched with the broad leaves of the pandanus, a species of palm growing on the island.
Charley entered:--yes, it was inhabited.
On a rough bed of dried leaves lay a young man; his cheeks were pale and hollow, his eyes sunken, but he breathed.
"Water, water," he muttered; "oh mercy, water!"
Happily, Charley had brought a flask with some weak brandy-and-water; he poured a few drops down the sufferer's throat, while the men dispersed to try to find water on the island.
Charley repeated his remedy, and by the time the water was found the sufferer was able to sit up long enough to take a refreshing draught of it.
He looked around him with a surprised and bewildered air.
"Who are you all?"
he asked at length, in a low voice.
"Where do you come from?
I thought that I was left alone to die."
"Friends and countrymen; but don't speak," answered Charley, for though he was burning to learn if the sufferer was Jack Askew, he saw that he was in so weak a state from famine and sickness that any agitation might prove fatal.
Suppressing therefore his curiosity, his great wish was to get him on board the _Good Hope_, where such food as was best fitted for his weak state could be procured.
Still it seemed very important to give him some hot food before an attempt was made to remove him.
"I will manage it," exclaimed Elton, producing a calabash.
"Let us get a fire lighted first, and see if any shell-fish or crabs, or perhaps even a young turtle may be found; I will make some soup, and though it may be blackish, it will not be the less wholesome."
As soon as the fire was lighted, while the men went to search for the fish, Elton collected a number of clean rounded stones from the beach and placed them in the midst of it.
He then half-filled the calabash with water, into which, by means of a cleft stick which served the purpose of tongs, he put the red hot stones, and quickly made the water boil.
By the time this was done the men returned with a very respectable sized turtle, which they had caught in a pool, into which he had been unwittingly washed.
Some strips were immediately cut off him and put into the boiling pot.
As soon as their goodness was supposed to be extracted, they and the stones were taken out with the cleft stick, and hotter stones and fresh strips put in.
In a very short time a thick and nutritious soup was formed, which, though it would have been improved with salt, pepper, lemon, and a few other condiments, was well calculated to restore the vital energies, aided with small doses of brandy-and-water.
Such, at all events, were the only means that Charley and Elton could think of for giving the sufferer the strength he required.
Whether or not the turtle soup would have served the purpose without the spirit, or the spirit without the soup, it may be difficult to determine; at all events, the two combined had a most beneficial effect.
In the course of two or three hours he was able to sit up of his own accord, and then, gazing earnestly at those surrounding him, he asked, "What made you come to look for me?
I have watched several ships pass, but no one saw me; no one thought that on this little island there was a human being longing to be at home with his friends, who must have long thought him dead, perhaps forgotten him altogether."
Charley saw that now was the time to speak, and that if the stranger should prove to be Jack Askew, the news he brought would do him good.
"But, my friend, do you think that a fond mother so easily forgets her sailor son?--do you think a young loving sister forgets her brother?--do you suppose that an old sailor father does not know that a person may be cast on shore on a desert island in these little-known seas, and remain for years undiscovered?"
"Why do you ask those questions?"
asked the lad, leaning forward with earnest eyes, and eagerly seizing Charley's arm--"How do you know that I have a sailor father, a fond mother, and a young sister?"
"If you are Jack Askew I know it very well, for your parents and dear little sister Margery have never ceased to think of you," answered Charley.
"I am!
I am!"
exclaimed the lad, throwing his arms round Charley's neck.
"You tell me that they are alive still, father and mother, and Margery--dear, dear Margery!
And are they well?--do they ever expect to see me?--can they believe that I am alive?
All you tell me nearly turns my head with joy, but it won't kill me; I must live to go back to them."
Charley assured Jack that all were well, and that the only drawback to their happiness was his absence.
"And Margery!
dear, dear little Margery; you must tell me all about her," exclaimed Jack, after a lengthened pause.
"Is she grown?--is she as fair and bright and beautiful as she was?
You don't know how I loved that little girl.
I have often dreamed of her as an angel coming to look for me and take me home; and I have thought that she was flying away with me, holding my hand, over the sea and over the land; and oh, how bitter was the disappointment when I awoke and found that I was alone."
"You see, Jack, that she was constantly praying for you, and going in spirit to look for you, and her prayers were heard in heaven, as I am sure that sincere prayers, rightly prayed, are heard," observed Charley.
"But you must not talk any more just now; have a little more soup, and go to sleep, if you can, for a short time, and then we will go on board."
"Thank you; you are very kind indeed, quite like a brother; and I want to know more about you--who you are, and why you came to look for me?"
said Jack.
"Time enough for that when we get on board," answered Charley; "we have a somewhat long voyage before us, and it will be well to keep something in store to talk about."
Jack made no reply, he was indeed too weary to speak.
Charley even now, as he watched over him, felt far from sure that he would ultimately recover, he was so thin and wan, and when he slept he looked more like a dead person than one alive.
Two or three anxious hours passed away, and every moment, as Charley watched the poor lad, he dreaded to see him heave his last sigh; but the food he had swallowed began to take effect permanently on his system--a slight colour spread slowly over his cheeks, his breathing became more regular, and when he awoke there was a brightness in his eye and a cheerfulness in his voice which Charley had not before observed.
He wished that they could remain some days longer on the island, that Jack might regain more strength before going on board; but the weather was uncertain, and a gale might spring up and drive the schooner off, or perhaps wreck her; and, besides this, Jack entreated that he might be taken on board, and that no time might be lost in commencing their homeward voyage.
Hugh Owen was feeling somewhat anxious at the long delay of the boat, and was standing close in shore with the schooner to look for her, when she emerged from the passage through the reefs.
His delight at seeing Jack was very great, and he declared that he could scarcely believe his senses when he found that what they had been so long talking about had really come true.
By standing to the south they should be able to touch at one of the Harvey or Society Island groups, where they were certain of a hospitable reception, and of obtaining such provisions as they might require.
To refit the schooner properly, and to obtain stores for their long voyage home, it would be necessary to touch at Valparaiso, or some other port on the coast of Chili.
It was a satisfaction to feel that wherever they touched among the groups of islands which have been mentioned, they would find civilised men and Christians ready to welcome them as friends, instead of as formerly savages, who would have taken every opportunity of murdering them and plundering their vessel.
Still, as the noble-hearted Elton observed, as they looked over the chart of the Pacific and noted the numberless islands which dotted it in often thick-clustering groups, there must still exist a great deal of work to be done, and that he trusted to be able to engage in doing it.
Some days passed before Jack was able to speak much, and even then not beyond a whisper, or to listen to the account Charley had to give him of his expedition, and the way it had been brought about.
Then, of course, he also wanted to hear of the doings at Stormount Tower, and how Margery had been carried off by the smugglers, and how Charley and Tom had recovered her.
"Tom, dear old Tom, how I shall like to wring his horny fist again; it's as honest a palm as any in England!"
cried Jack.
"And you, Charley, what a fine fellow you are; I don't like to talk of giving Margery to any one, but I would rather give her to you, when the time comes, than to anybody else in the world; and I suspect that she wouldn't say nay if she was asked."
Charley said that he hoped so, and turned the conversation.
And now Jack was asked to narrate his own adventures, for hitherto the subject had been avoided, and he seemed in no way inclined to allude to it.
"It has been a terrible time indeed, as you may guess," he observed; "but now that it is over, I ought to think of it with gratitude to the good God who has preserved me safe through all my dangers.
You know how I sailed in the _Truelove_ with Captain Summers, and how, after touching at Callao, we steered westward, to visit various islands on our way to Japan.
We were in high spirits, for we thought nothing of the dangers of the voyage, and only of seeing so many beautiful and strange islands and their inhabitants.
A good look-out was always supposed to be kept ahead, and we were running one night, in the first watch, believing that the whole of our voyage would be as prosperous as the commencement, when the cry arose, `Breakers ahead!
Breakers on the starboard bow!'
followed by `Breakers on the port bow!'
The helm was put down, the sheets hauled flat, but before the ship could by any possibility come about, she struck--then forged ahead, to strike again more heavily.
"Directly every one on board knew that there was not the slightest hope of saving the ship, scarcely of escaping with our lives.
We had a long night before us, and the wind was increasing.
The order was given to lower the boats, but two were swamped and the hands in them carried away.
We heard their shrieks, but could not help them; besides, we knew that their fate would soon probably be ours.
Then the sea began to beat over the ship, and soon made a clean breach across the waist, washing away the captain and the first mate and several more of the men.
Just then a bright light burst forth to the north-east; two or three of the men who were clinging to the taffrail with me thought that it was a ship on fire, but after watching it for some minutes we became convinced that it was a burning mountain.
We argued that if there was a mountain there was land; and I had heard that such lands were generally the most fertile, and so we hoped that if we could reach it we should find support.
"There was a light burning in the cabin, and the captain's supper was on the table; I managed to reach the companion-hatch, and slipped down below.
I quickly snatched up whatever provisions I could find--a compass, a quadrant, and navigation book, and returned with them on deck.
A small boat hung astern; two of the men, David King and another, agreed to lower her, for the water astern appeared occasionally to be comparatively smooth, and we fancied that she might swim where a larger boat might be swamped; at all events, we believed that the ship was about to break up, and that this would be the only chance of saving our lives.
There was no time to be lost; we put everything necessary we could find into the boat, and, jumping in, lowered her down.
As she touched the water, the other man, crying out that we should be swamped, swarmed up the falls, and in an instant King and I were carried far away from the ship.
I thought his words would come true, but we were driven on right through the surf, and once more floated in smooth water.
"What would happen next we could not tell, so we lay on our oars, waiting till daylight.
It was very long of coming; we thought that it never would come--at least that we should never see it.
When it broke, we could no longer see the burning mountain, nor any land in that direction; nor could we have reached it had we seen it, for the wind was blowing strong from the quarter in which the light had appeared.
Still more anxiously we looked for the ship; not a portion of her remained entire, but the numerous pieces of wreck which floated about near us, told us plainly what had become of her and our shipmates.
We looked about, hoping that some of them might be floating on bits of the wreck, but no living being was to be seen.
In the distance we observed the bodies of two poor fellows; we pulled up to them, knowing from the first that they were dead; they were those of two men who had been holding on to the ship when we left her.
"It would not do to remain where we were, and as we could not sail in the direction we proposed, we agreed to run before the wind till we could fall in with some island on which we could land.
For four anxious days we ran on, till some palm-trees appeared ahead rising out of the water, and we knew that we we approaching a coral island.
The wind had happily fallen, but the surf ahead showed us our danger in time, and putting down our helm we stood to the southward till we came to the end of the island; keeping away again we found a passage through the reef, by which we safely entered the lagoon.
"Here, for the present, we were safe from the dangers of the sea; the island was uninhabited, and we found a spring of water, but provisions were not likely to be plentiful.
There were cocoa-nuts for one part of the year, and turtle and their eggs occasionally, and roots and shell-fish; and after a time it occurred to King that we might be able to catch some fish.
Having walked round and round the island, or rather, almost round and back again, and considered how we should procure food, our next care was to build a hut to shelter ourselves from the sun by day, and the dews by night.
"And now commenced a solitary life, the end of which we could not see.
Years might go by before a vessel might pass that way, and if one should pass, what little chance was there of our being seen!
Still, I do not think a day went by without our talking on the subject, and looking out for a sail.
King, poor fellow, was not much of a companion, as we had few ideas in common; but we never grew tired of talking of the probability of our getting away.
He had a wife and family in England whom he longed to see, as much as I did my friends.
How many months or years went by while he was with me I could not tell, for our life was a very monotonous one.
"We had kept our boat in as good repair as possible, not with the hope of making our escape in her, for she was too small for that, but for the purpose of putting off to get on board any ship which might appear.
We were, therefore, chary of using her, but occasionally we went out fishing in her, when the supply we could get in the lagoon or from the shore ran short.
One day I was ill, and King said that he would go out by himself.
I warned him not to go, for from the appearance of the sky I thought bad weather was coming on.
He laughed at my fears, said that he would bring me back a good dinner, and rowed round to the eastward of the island.
"He had not been gone long before my prognostications were verified; the wind began to rise.
I went to the beach and beckoned him to return, but he was busy hauling up fish and did not see me, or observe the altered state of the weather; I shouted, but my voice did not reach him.
He had already drifted out farther than usual; suddenly the movement of the boat as she got into rough water made him look up.
By some carelessness one of his oars slipped overboard, and before he could recover it the squall had caught the boat, and whirling it round had sent her far from it.
I saw his frantic gestures as he endeavoured to scull the boat back toward the island.
Now he tried to paddle her with his remaining oar as an Indian does a canoe, but in vain.
Every instant the gale was increasing and driving her farther and farther away.
"I watched her with a sinking heart growing less and less to my sight, till she was lost among the foaming seas in the distance.
I then for the first time felt with full force my lonely position; I wrung my hands like a child; I burst into tears; I bemoaned my hard fate, and thought that I was forsaken of God and man.
Not only was my companion taken from me, but the only means that I saw by which I could effect my escape.
He might possibly reach some other shore; I should never leave that on which I was drawing out my weary existence.
I see now, from what you tell me, how short-sighted I was; that our kind Father in heaven chooses His own way in carrying out plans for our benefit, and that what I thought was my ruin would ultimately prove the means of my rescue.
"For several days after King had gone I could neither eat nor sleep, or if I slept I dreamed that I saw him floating away, and tried to follow and could not.
By degrees I recovered a portion of my tranquillity.
Still I watched more eagerly for any passing ship.
It might have been nearly a year afterwards, one morning as I arose a sail hove in sight.
My heart leaped within me: I thought in my folly that those on board were coming to look for me.
Oh how eagerly I watched her as her masts rose out of the water!
On she came; I could see that she was a ship, a large ship, a man-of-war by her square yards.
She must have sighted the island, and I thought that she would approach to survey it more carefully, when suddenly--perhaps some reef unknown to me intervened-she turned aside, and after hovering in the distance to tantalise me the more, she slowly stood away to the northward.
I was almost as much overcome as when poor King was blown off the island.
I now passed my days in a dull state of apathy; I had no books, no writing materials.
Had I, as I might when I visited the cabin, brought away a Bible I saw on the captain's table which he had been reading for the last time, what a blessing and a comfort it would have, proved to me!
I had a knife and an axe, and I often began to make various articles, but I had not the heart to finish them, for I always thought--`No one will see them, of what use will they be?'
So the days passed on.
Two other vessels appeared at long intervals, but passed at too great a distance to see me.
One of them was becalmed off the island for some hours, and had I still possessed the boat I could without difficulty have pulled off to her.
At length I fell sick; I had long been ailing, and it is my belief that had you not appeared at the moment you did, my career on earth would soon have been over."
"God, who in His kind mercy had resolved that you should be saved, so directed our movements for your speedy rescue; so that you owe us no gratitude," observed Elton.
"But I am surprised at the description you give of your sensations, I had thought that a solitary life on an island might be made very pleasant and satisfactory."
"Oh, no, no!"
cried Jack, "do not believe any such thing.
We are not born to live alone, of that I became convinced.
An older man might have found the life less irksome, but when I took it into my head that I should never get away it became perfectly terrible.
Even had I not been ill, I do not think that I could have survived many weeks longer."
Such was the outline Jack gave of his life on the island, but when once he had begun the subject he described many adventures and other details which showed that there had been rather more variety it his existence than he had at first led his hearers to suppose, and that had he had books and paper and pens, he might probably have kept up his spirits better than he appeared to have done.
"Still, all is well that ends well!"
exclaimed Jack, after he had one day been talking on the subject.
"I now feel sure that what I have gone through was for my ultimate benefit, and I can thank God for the merciful way in which He has dealt with me."
The _Good Hope_ touched at several islands, the entire population of which had become Christians not only in name but in deed, as they evinced by their lives and their totally changed characters.
She got a thorough refit at Valparaiso, on the coast of Chili, to prepare her for her voyage round Cape Horn, and five months after Jack got on board she sighted the shores of Old England.
Captain Blount felt sure that he could pilot her safely into Stormount Bay, but the wind fell somewhat, and the shades of evening came on before the schooner could beat up to it.
Just then a fishing-boat was sighted, and a signal was made to her that a pilot was wanted.
She was soon alongside, and a stout, middle-aged man stepped on board.
"Can you pilot us into Stormount Bay, friend?"
asked the captain.
"I should think I could, since I've sailed in and out of it, man and boy, for pretty nigh forty years," answered the man.
"It makes no matter night or day to us now either.
You see that bright light just now, beaming out from the top of the cliff it seems?
That's the light the lady who lives in the tower burns every night, that (as they say) her lost son who went away to sea and has never since been heard of, may see it when he comes up Channel, and find his way into the bay.
Poor lad, I'd give pretty nigh all I'm worth to see him come back, for I was the main cause, I fear, why he was sent away; and bless his honest old father, he has never owed me a grudge for it, but on the contrary, has done me all the kindness in his power,--he has taught me to be an honest man."
The fisherman might have run on much longer had not Jack, who overheard him, exclaimed, "Nor do I owe you a grudge, Dick Herring; but tell me, old friend, how are my father and mother, and sister Margery, and old Tom, good old Tom?"
"Why, bless my heart!
Master Jack, is it you?
Well, it's hard to believe my senses,--and you to be alive all this time!"
exclaimed Dick Herring, seizing Jack's hand and wringing it nearly off.
"They're all well, every one on 'em, and they will be glad to see you, that they will."
Dick now recognised Charley, and right proud he was to pilot the _Good Hope_ into Stormount Bay, nor would he receive a shilling reward, not even a glass of grog to drink Jack's health, for since he had given up smuggling and all its accompanying sins, he had become a strict temperance-league man.
"No, Master Jack, I won't drink your health, but I'll pray for it, and that'll do us both more good," he observed.
Little did Mrs Askew suppose whose vessel her lantern was guiding into Stormount Bay that night.
The schooner's anchor was dropped and her sails furled before nine o'clock.
The voyagers had purposed waiting till the morning before going on shore, but Jack's impatience would brook no delay.
Charley went first and announced himself to Becky, who immediately exclaimed under her breath, "Is he come, Master Charles?"
"Never mind," answered Charley, "Do you go in and say Charley Blount has come."
Somebody heard his voice, and that somebody, forgetting that he was not Jack himself, rushed into his arms.
"Has Jack come?
has Jack come?
Dear Charley, have you brought him?"
exclaimed Margery.
"I can't keep you in suspense, my sweet Margery, he has come, and is not far off," answered Charley and before he could say more, Tom, who had followed Becky to the door, darted out into the darkness, and was soon heard exclaiming, "Come in, come in, my dear boy, joy does no harm to no one!"
Mrs Askew, who had been sitting at her work opposite Captain Askew, who was reading the newspaper by a bright light, hearing an unusual commotion, rose from her seat, as he also did from his.
"What is it all about, Margery?"
cried the captain, stumping to the door.
"Good news, father, good news!"
cried Margery.
"Charley has come back safe, and he has--" "Has he brought our boy--has Jack been found?"
asked the captain, his voice trembling with eagerness.
"Yes, dear father, he has, he has!"
cried Margery.
"Then let me have him here, and thank God!"
cried the old sailor, stretching out his arms; and Jack, who had been hauled in by Tom, overheard him, and in another second, bounding up the stairs, was folded in those arms, with his mother and Margery clinging to his neck and weeping tears of joy.
The evening was indeed a happy one, and not till a late hour did any of the inmates of Stormount Tower think of retiring to rest.
While Mrs Askew lived, the light in the Tower was always, as before, lit at night, and on her death a lighthouse was built in its place.
Charley Blount at a very early age, got command of a fine trader to India and Australia, and on the death of her parents Margaret Askew became his wife, while Jack was chief mate with Captain Blount for many years; and when the latter came to live on shore, Jack took command of a fine ship he had built, called _The Stormount Tower_.
THE END.
THE GO AHEAD BOYS ON SMUGGLERS' ISLAND BY ROSS KAY Author of "The Search for the Spy," "The Air Scout," "Dodging the North Sea Mines," "With Joffre on the Battle Line," etc.
_ILLUSTRATED BY R. EMMETT OWEN_ I leave this rule for others when I'm dead; Be always sure you're right--THEN GO AHEAD.
--_Davy Crockett's Motto._ NEW YORK BARSE & HOPKINS PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1916, by BARSE & HOPKINS PREFACE A basis of fact underlies many of the incidents incorporated in this story.
Even the letters are very like those received by one of the official agents of the United States Treasury.
Occasional use has been made of the work entitled, "Defrauding the Government."
Out of his material the writer has tried to present a tale that should be stirring and yet wholesome, having plenty of action, but free from sensationalism.
Naturally, changes in characters and localities have been freely made.
If his young readers shall be interested in the story and shall draw the conclusion that any attempt to defraud the Government reacts in harsher form upon the one who tried to evade the laws, a part at least of his purpose will have been accomplished.
CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I An Early Morning Party 11 II The Landing on the Canadian Shore 20 III A Mysterious House 30 IV The Coming of the "Gadabout" 39 V A Perplexing Letter 48 VI An Addition to the Party 57 VII Once More on Cockburn Island 67 VIII Left Behind 76 IX The Lost Skiff 85 X The Flight of the "Gadabout" 93 XI Alone on the Lake 101 XII The Search in the Night 109 XIII A Fresh Arrival 117 XIV Another Mysterious Letter 126 XV A Signal of Distress 136 XVI The Sinking Skiff 144 XVII The Rescue of the "Gadabout" 152 XVIII The Search for the Lost Boys 160 XIX Suspicious Characters 168 XX Penniless 178 XXI A Vague Hint 188 XXII A Passenger for Cockburn Island 198 XXIII An Unexpected Meeting 207 XXIV Two Boats 217 XXV A Small Box 226 XXVI Conclusion 236 THE GO AHEAD BOYS ON SMUGGLERS' ISLAND CHAPTER I AN EARLY MORNING PARTY "I never saw such a morning!"
"I never did either.
I am glad I am alive!"
"So am I.
It is worth something to be up here where the air is so strong that you can almost bite it off.
When we left Mackinac this morning one could hardly tell whether the island was upside down or not.
He could see the reflections just as clearly in the water as he could see the island above."
"I wonder what would happen if a fire should break out on the island?"
"Probably it would burn, just as it does everywhere else.
They did have a fire over there once and they say the whole island burned down."
"This is the place for the simple life!"
"Yes, it is a good place for the simple life, but to my mind there is a great difference between a simple life and an idiotic life."
It was an hour before sunrise in a morning in July.
The conversation which has been recorded occurred on board a beautiful little motor-boat named the _Gadabout_.
Assisting the captain and owner in the management of the fleet little craft was a young man, whose name sounded to the boys very much like Eph, when they heard the owner of the boat address him.
On board the motor-boat were four boys among whom conversation did not lag.
The one who had perhaps the most to say was Fred Button.
He was a tiny, little fellow, though his round face and rounder body gave him the appearance, as one of his friends described it, of a young bantam.
He was familiarly known among his companions sometimes by the nick-name of Stub, or more often was called Peewee, or Pygmy, the last appellation sometimes being affectionately shortened into pyggie, or even pyg.
Seated next to him was John Clemens, a boy already six feet three inches tall, though he had not yet attained his eighteenth birthday.
Familiarly he was known as String and frequently, when he and Fred Button, who were warm friends, were together they were referred to as the "long and short of it."
On the opposite seat was Grant Jones, a clear headed, self-contained boy of the same age as his companions.
A leader in his class in school and active on the athletic field, he had won for himself the nickname of Socrates, which frequently was shortened to Soc.
The fourth member of the group was George Washington Sanders, a boy whose good-nature and witty remarks had made him a favorite among his friends.
In honor of the name which he bore he sometimes had been referred to as the father of his country, which distinction was occasionally shortened to Papa, or even to Pop.
The owner and captain of the swift little craft was an elderly man, whose whiskers and hair formed an unbroken circle about his tanned face.
Both he and Eph, when occasion required, served as oarsmen in the two skiffs which the swift _Gadabout_ was towing.
The light little boats were far astern, each being held in its place by a long rope made fast to the _Gadabout_.
"Whew!"
said Fred Button, rising and stretching himself, "I hope we'll get some fish to-day.
How far do we have to go?"
he added, addressing the captain as he spoke.
"It depends a little upon where you want to go to," drawled the captain in response, without turning his head as he replied.
"I thought it was understood," continued Fred, "that we were going to the channel between Drummond Island and Cockburn Island."
"Ye'll have to show your papers, if you fish over on the Canadian side," growled the captain.
"We shan't fish on the Canadian side," spoke up Grant Jones.
"We'll leave it to you to keep us in American waters."
"That's right," added John.
"If we get caught on the Canadian side, Captain, we'll hold you responsible for it."
"Humph," growled the captain, "we'll see what we'll see."
Meanwhile the sun had risen and like a huge ball of fire was casting its beams across the smooth waters of Lake Huron.
Scarcely a ripple was to be seen as the boat sped forward.
The day promised to be unusually warm, but as yet the air was cool, and the spirits of the boys, after their early breakfast, were all high.
"We've got to get some of these fish to-day," broke in George Sanders.
"We didn't get many the other day."
"We weren't far enough away from Mackinac," said Fred.
"I've usually noticed," suggested Grant, "that the best fishing grounds are always a good ways away from where you're staying.
The further away they are, the better they are."
"I've noticed that too," laughed George.
"In fact there are a good many funny things in this world.
I wonder what people speak of a family jar for."
"What do you mean?"
inquired Fred.
"I mean just what I say.
I heard a family jar this morning."
"I don't understand you," persisted Fred.
"Why, there was a family having a jar in the room next to mine.
Only I think it was a little more than a family jar, it was more of a family churn, it was such a big one.
There seemed to be such a very decided difference of opinion that the jar wouldn't hold all that they were saying."
"You shouldn't listen to such things," said Fred.
"'Listen'!
'Listen'!
Why that was the very thing I was trying not to do, but I guess anybody on Mackinac Island could have heard them, if he had stopped."
"Who were the people?"
inquired George.
"I don't know their names.
The man is the one that wears that ice-cream suit when he goes fishing."
"Oh, yes, I know him," laughed Grant.
"I have observed several times that the immaculateness of his manipulators has not been extremely noticeable."
"That's right," laughed John.
"There seems to be a superincrustation of unnecessary geological deposits that doubtless are due to his transcontinental pedestrianism."
"Why, did he have to tramp across the continent to get here?"
laughed George.
"I guess so.
I know more about them than I wish I did, but I don't know enough to know that."
"I noticed," said Fred, "yesterday afternoon when he came in that his lips looked like Alkali Pete's."
"What was the matter with Alkali Pete's lips?"
demanded George.
"They were seldom closed and there were great crevasses in them, cracked by the alkali."
"I am taking your word for it," said John, "but I confess I don't know what you're talking about.
I'm a good deal more interested in the fish we're going to get."
"'We're going to get.'
I like that.
Does String really think he is going to catch any fish?"
said George, turning to his companions as he spoke.
"His attenuated form doesn't look to me as if it would be able to stand the strain of landing the fish some of us are going to catch to-day.
About the only thing I think String will ever catch will be a crab."
"String, how old are you?"
demanded Grant abruptly.
"I'm eighteen in October."
"When will you be ten?"
"I don't understand your language," replied John.
"In your superlunary efforts to appear intellectual you sometimes state things that are incomprehensible, even to people of my limited intellectual parts."
"Oh, quit!"
broke in Fred, "don't spoil the day and scare the fish away.
I want to tell you about Professor Jackson.
You know him, don't you?"
"Yes," replied Grant, "he's the man who came on Monday, isn't he?
The man who is making investigations of the island, digging up all sorts of relics?"
"That's the man," acknowledged Fred.
"Yesterday he dug up some cannon balls.
He said they were relics of the French and Indian war."
"They were all right," said George.
"I know, for one of the guides told me that they were the same balls that had been dug up by every old fellow for the last twenty-five years."
"A new crop?"
laughed Fred.
"Not at all.
They are the same old cannon balls.
They plant them every spring and give pleasure to some of these old fellows, who are traveling around the island in their gentle, antiquated gait looking for things that belonged to our grandfathers.
They give them the childish pleasure of making 'discoveries' every year."
"I should think they would take the balls away with them," suggested John.
"No, they leave them for the historical interest they provide for the visitors.
You go up to the reception room and you'll find some there now in the glass case.
They are a part of the same crop."
"That's all right," laughed Grant.
"It's an easy way to keep the old people interested."
By this time the _Gadabout_ had gained the lower point of Drummond Island, thirty-five miles from the place from which they had started more than two hours before this time.
Across the narrow channel they saw the shores of Cockburn Island.
The latter was within the Canadian boundaries and as the captain of the _Gadabout_ had explained, the boys would not be permitted to fish in the waters along its shore without a special permit from the Canadian officials.
The shore which they were approaching apparently had no buildings of any kind.
There were high bluffs and rocky points, but no house was within sight.
"Captain," called Fred, "why are you taking us to this island?"
"I'm not taking you to this island," responded the captain.
"I'm going to take you past it.
I'm not fool enough to try to dodge the Canadian laws."
Both the captain and his mate were watching the shore of the island, which every moment was becoming more distinct.
Unexpectedly on a bluff far to the left a man was seen standing and suddenly he appeared to become aware of the approaching _Gadabout_.
Turning abruptly about he several times waved a white cloth, which he held in his hand, to parties that apparently were behind him.
Then, once more facing the waters, he again waved the cloth.
Instantly and with a grin of satisfaction appearing on his face the captain changed the course of his motor boat.
The four boys glanced blankly at one another and for a brief time no one spoke.
It was later when they learned that the signal which they had observed was to mean much, both in excitement and adventure, for all four of the boys on board the _Gadabout_.
CHAPTER II THE LANDING ON THE CANADIAN SHORE As the course of the _Gadabout_ was sharply changed in response to the call of the captain, the attention of the four boys was quickly drawn in another direction.
Not one of them was aware of anything unusual in what really was a signal on the shore of the Canadian island.
In a brief time the party was once more in American waters and as it was still early in the morning, preparations were soon made for the sport of the day.
The _Gadabout_ was anchored in a little cove and the mate, with Fred and John, as the members of his party, took one of the skiffs, while Grant and George together with the captain departed in the other.
It was agreed that they should meet at a certain place for luncheon and the rivalry was keen as to which boat should have the bigger catch of fish.
"Look out for us!"
called Fred as his boat drew away from that in which his companions were being carried.
"Look out for us!
If you hear a whistle you'll know we will need help."
"To catch your fish?"
laughed Grant.
"No, to bring them in.
We'll have a boat-load, anyway."
In high spirits the boys soon were ready for the sport of the day, and it was not long before neither boat was within sight of the other.
When the noon hour arrived, still excited and hungry, the two boats were landed at the place agreed upon and the captain at once displayed his skill as a cook.
"Isn't it wonderful!"
said George, not long after they were seated about the folding table which the captain had brought in the _Gadabout_.
"Isn't it wonderful the amount of food a fellow can put himself outside of?"
"It is that," mumbled John, who was as busy as any of his comrades.
"It pays for it all, now."
"Of course it pays," laughed Fred.
"That's what we're here for.
Honest, Grant, who caught that big pickerel?"
"I did," responded Grant proudly.
"I cannot tell a lie, I caught it with my little hook and line."
"I'll ask the captain about that later.
I saw some other boats up there where you were and I am going to ask them how much they charged for the fish they sold you."
"They didn't sell us any fish!"
retorted George indignantly.
"Another boy that cannot tell a lie.
No wonder they call you the papa of your country.
What do we do this afternoon?"
"I'm going to take you to another place," explained the captain, who throughout the meal had been busied in attending to the numerous wants of the boys.
"Shall we get more fish than we did this morning?"
"That depends," said the captain solemnly.
"Some people do and some don't.
It mostly depends on whether they are any good with the rod."
"Don't you think we're good?"
demanded Fred.
"Huh!"
retorted the captain.
"Maybe you will be some day.
Most of the fish you got this morning were hooked so that they couldn't have got off the hook.
There's a big difference between catching a fish that way, and getting one with just a hook through his lip.
It takes some skill then."
"All right, captain, just as you say.
You show us the right ground and we'll do the rest."
"Maybe you will and maybe you won't," retorted the captain as he turned away to prepare dinner for himself and his mate.
When afternoon came, the _Gadabout_ took the two skiffs once more in tow and swiftly carried them seven miles farther, where the wonderful ground described by the captain was located.
As soon as the anchor was dropped, the skiffs, arranged as in the morning, sought the place where the marvelous fishing was to be had.
Apparently the words of the captain were in a measure fulfilled for so busy were the four young fishermen that not one of them was aware of the increasing distance between the boat in which he was fishing and the one which carried his comrades.
It was late in the afternoon when Fred suddenly looked up and said, "It's getting late, Jack.
We ought to be going back to the boat.
I don't see it anywhere, do you?"
"You mean the skiff in which Grant and George are fishing?"
"Yes."
"No, I don't see them," said John slowly, after he had glanced all about him.
"I don't see the _Gadabout_ either."
"Well, the mate knows where it is," said Fred easily.
"I hope the other fellows won't get into any trouble, for there's a storm coming up."
As he spoke, Fred pointed to some clouds that rapidly were approaching in the sky directly overhead.
They were black, angry clouds too, and the frequent flashes of lightning were followed by reports of thunder that at first had been so low as scarcely to be noticed.
Now, however, the sounds were threatening and the oarsman, bidding the two boys reel in their lines at once, began to row swiftly toward the point behind which the _Gadabout_ was anchored.
In a few moments, however, the calm waters had become rough.
Whitecaps were to be seen all about them and the boys glanced anxiously at each other.
The wind too had risen now, but instead of blowing steadily across the waters, it was coming in puffs.
"We're in for it, Jack," said Fred anxiously.
His companion made no reply, though the frequent glances he cast at the sky indicated that he too was becoming anxious for their safety.
"Don't you want me to help?"
inquired John as he glanced at the oarsman.
The mate shook his head in response and it was plain that he was exerting all his strength in his efforts to keep the boat headed in the direction in which it had started.
"There comes the rain," exclaimed John, as some heavy drops fell upon them and the nearby water was becoming more and more disturbed.
"Take one of these oars," called the mate sharply, as he spoke rising with difficulty from his seat and placing one oar in another oarlock.
"We'll have all we can do to make the point."
By this time both boys were thoroughly aroused.
The rain was falling in torrents and both were drenched to their skins.
Such a plight, however, was hardly to be noticed in the presence of the danger that now beset them.
In spite of their efforts the wind was driving them away from the point.
More and more the boys did their utmost but their efforts were in vain.
At last the mate shouted, "There's nothing for it, boys, except to run for it.
Sit down and we'll let the gale drive us across to the other shore."
The Canadian island was nearby and the shore could not be more than two miles distant, as both boys learned from their oarsman.
However, it was with white and set faces that they followed his directions and each took his seat as he was bidden.
Swiftly the boat was driven before the wind, the mate exerting himself only to keep the light, little skiff headed in the right direction.
So black were the clouds that already the boys were surrounded by darkness almost like that of night.
Neither was able to see the shore toward which they were headed.
The mate, however, appeared to be more confident than he had been while he was seeking to drive the boat against the wind.
Swiftly and still more swiftly the frail little craft sped forward.
No one spoke in the brief interval between the crashes of thunder.
The streaks of the lightning seemed to fall directly into the waters of the lake and at times the boys believed themselves to be surrounded by fire.
Never had either been in such peril before.
Fred had sunk into his seat so that only his head appeared above the gunwale.
John, whose seat was in the stern of the skiff, was so tall that he was unable to follow the example of his friend and was clinging tenaciously to the sides of the boat.
Meanwhile, the mate successfully keeping the skiff headed for the shore, was watchful of every movement of his passengers.
When ten minutes had elapsed it was manifest that the anxiety of the oarsman was increasing, as they drew near the shore.
Without explaining his purpose he did his utmost to change the direction so that they would move in a course parallel to the shore, but, labor as he might, he was unable to accomplish his purpose.
Directly upon the rocky border of Cockburn Island the gale was driving the little boat.
Once more the mate exerted his strength to his utmost as he strove to guide the little skiff toward a cove not far away.
For a time it seemed as if his efforts were to succeed.
But at that moment the wind became even stronger than before and the howling of the tempest increased.
The boys had a sudden vision of an opening in the rocky shore, then there was a crash and both found themselves struggling in the water.
When they arose to the surface they saw that before them the waters were still.
The sheltered cove promised a degree of safety such as a moment before they had scarcely dared to hope for.
Fishing rods, coats, cooking utensils, tackle, all things had been thrown into the water when the boat had struck the jutting rock.
All these facts, however, were ignored in the efforts of both boys to gain the beach before them, for they now could see a sandy stretch not more than forty feet in length that marked the limit of the waters.
And it was only twenty yards away.
"All right, Fred?"
called John as he swam near his friend.
"All right," sputtered Fred.
"How is it with you?"
"I'm all right here.
Have you seen the mate?"
"Yes, he's ahead of us."
Even as he spoke the mate could be seen rising to his feet in the shallower waters and a moment later he gained the refuge of the sandy beach.
It was not long before the boys also gained the same place of safety, although before their arrival the oarsman had disappeared from sight.
As soon as the boys stood on the shore they shook themselves much as dogs might do when they come out of the water and then in a moment the thought of the peril of their friends came back to their minds.
"What do you suppose has happened to Grant and George?"
said Fred in a low voice.
"I think they must be all right," replied John, although his expression of confidence was belied by the tones of his voice.
"What shall we do?"
"Better go up on the bluff.
Perhaps there we'll see the _Gadabout_ or the skiff.
They must have been driven in the same direction that we were."
"I don't think so.
You see the _Gadabout_ was in the lee of that point.
The last I saw of the skiff it was on the other side of the point too.
I think that Grant and George probably have gone back to the _Gadabout_ and are all right.
Very likely they are talking about us at this very minute and are scared at what may have happened."
"Can't we signal them?"
inquired Fred anxiously.
"Signal them?
No.
We haven't anything to signal with in the first place and they can't see us in the second."
"The storm is going down," suggested Fred.
"They say the lake up here gets quiet almost as quickly as it gets stirred up."
"It can't get quiet any too soon to suit me," said John dryly.
"Where's the mate?"
"I don't know.
I don't see him anywhere."
Both boys looked carefully along the shore, but no trace of the missing oarsmen was discovered.
The rain had ceased by this time and the sky was clearing.
Not a sign of the presence of the _Gadabout_ was to be seen on the waters before them.
The oarsmen had disappeared and each boy for a moment gazed anxiously at his companion.
"Look yonder!"
said John, suddenly pointing as he spoke to a spot in the direction of the interior of the island.
"What is it?"
said Fred.
"Why, there's a house up yonder.
Don't you see it?"
"You mean a shanty?"
"I don't care what you call it, but I see smoke coming out of the chimney.
We'll go up there and get somebody to help us."
Moved by a common impulse both boys started in the direction of the strange house.
Neither was aware that they were entering upon an experience that was to be as mysterious as it was trying.
CHAPTER III A MYSTERIOUS HOUSE The sun was shining brightly as the boys moved across the island in the direction of the place they were seeking.
As they stopped occasionally to look back over the waters of the lake, they saw that the waves still were tipped with white and the waters still were rough.
"I wish I knew where the other fellows are," said Fred, once more stopping to look out over the waters that now were reflecting the light of the afternoon sun.
"They are all right," said John, confidently.
"I told you both the _Gadabout_ and the other skiff are around the point."
"I know you told me so, but that doesn't make it so," said Fred, still unconvinced by the confident manner of his companion.
"Look yonder, will you!"
said John abruptly as he pointed toward the house they were seeking.
"I'm sure there is somebody in there."
"It doesn't look as if it would hold together long enough to let any one stay very long inside," laughed Fred.
"We'll find out anyway pretty quick who it is."
In a brief time the boys arrived at the rear of the little house, which was not much more than a shanty in its appearance.
They found that their surmise that smoke was rising from the chimney was correct.
There could be no doubt that some one was within the building.
Once more the boys turned and looked anxiously toward the lake, eager to discover if any trace of their missing friends could be seen.
The waters already were becoming smoother and the rays of the sun were almost blinding as they were reflected by the shining waters.
"What shall we do?"
said Fred in a low voice.
"Shall we rap?"
"Of course we'll rap," retorted John.
"You talk as if you didn't know what the customs of civilized countries are."
"Is knocking one of them?"
inquired Fred demurely.
"It certainly is."
"Well, then, I guess I don't live in the place you are talking about, for nobody has rapped at our door at home for the last ten years.
Not since we have put in electric bells."
"It's hard work to keep up with you," said John, not strongly impressed by the attempt of his friend to be facetious.
"But we'll knock here anyway."
Advancing to the kitchen door, John rapped loudly to proclaim the presence of visitors.
A silence followed the summons and when several seconds had elapsed John repeated his knocking.
Still no one came to welcome them, and then, glancing behind him at his friend, John demurely raised the latch and opened the door.
Fred at once followed and the two boys found themselves in a low, rude kitchen.
The stove was in one corner and it was plain now that the smoke they had discovered was rising from it through the chimney.
Upon the stove several cooking utensils were to be seen, but as yet no person had announced his presence in the little building.
"There must be somebody here," whispered Fred.
"Of course there is."
"Well, why doesn't he show up?"
"He will be here in a minute."
But when several minutes passed and still no one made known his presence, John decided to announce their arrival in other ways.
"Hello!"
he called, and then as his hail was not answered he repeated the summons in tones still louder.
"Hello!
Hello!"
he shouted again.
While he was speaking both boys were glancing toward the rude stairway that led from the room to the small loft.
They had surmised that the occupants of the house might have been caught in the storm as they themselves had been, and were in the upper room changing their clothing.
"Who are you?"
Startled by the unexpected sound both boys turned quickly about and saw standing in the doorway of the kitchen a man plainly puzzled by their unexpected appearance.
Neither of the boys ever had seen him before.
He was apparently fifty years of age, strong, and his face bronzed by sun and wind.
There was an expression in his face, however, that was puzzling to both boys.
He glanced quickly from one to the other and for a moment the boys suspected that he was prepared either to leap upon them or precipitately flee from the spot, they could not decide which.
The man was well-dressed and it was plain that he was not an ordinary inhabitant.
"We got caught in the storm," explained John hastily.
"We landed down here and then we saw this little house and we thought perhaps we could come up here and dry out."
"Anybody with you?"
inquired the other man, still gazing keenly at both his young visitors.
"Nobody but the mate."
"Mate of what?"
"The _Gadabout_."
"Did you come over from Mackinac Island?"
demanded the man quickly.
"Yes, sir," said Fred.
"We started this morning about four o'clock."
"And you came over with Captain Hastings?"
"Yes, sir.
We got caught in the storm out here around the point and we couldn't get back to the _Gadabout_, so the mate just let our skiff drive before the wind and the boat was stove in when we finally landed in that little cove out yonder."
"Where is the mate now?"
"We don't know.
He went ahead of us and the first thing we knew he disappeared from sight."
"Was he on shore here?"
"Yes, sir, we landed, as I told you, in that little cove and while we were getting ashore we lost the mate.
We don't know where he went."
"And you say there were others with you?"
"Yes, sir," explained Fred, "there were two other boys and they went out with the captain."
"What happened to them in the storm?"
"We don't know.
We wish we did," said John soberly.
"Oh, they're all right," broke in Fred.
"The _Gadabout_ and the skiff were both beyond the point when the storm broke and they had no trouble in keeping to the lee of the point."
"This fire feels good anyway," said John, whose long, attenuated frame was trembling with cold, in spite of the warmth which had followed the shower.
"Sorry, boys, that I cannot give you a change," said the man, smiling dryly as he spoke.
As he was a man who weighed at least 190 pounds, while John's form towered at least six inches higher and his weight was at least seventy pounds less, the idea of either wearing the clothing of the other was so ludicrous that Fred laughed aloud at the suggestion.
"That's all right," said John quickly.
"All we want is a chance to dry out before the mate gets back."
"How are you going to get back to Mackinac?"
"I don't know," said John ruefully.
"We thought that perhaps the mate could get word to the _Gadabout_ and the motor-boat would stop for us."
"How can he get word to the _Gadabout_?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Fred.
"We don't know anything about this part of the country.
It's the first time we ever were here.
We thought perhaps the captain might know some point where he could signal.
It isn't more than two or three miles across, is it?"
"Not here," responded the man.
"But you are cold and I shouldn't be surprised if you were both hungry.
I've seen fellows at your age who sometimes were afflicted in that manner.
I'll put some more wood on the fire and we'll dry you out and then we'll see what we can do."
Placing his hands together in a peculiar manner the man whistled through them and in response, in an incredibly short time, a little Japanese serving man appeared.
"Mike," said the man, "see if you can't find something for these hungry young fellows to eat.
They were caught in the storm and their boat was wrecked down here in the cove."
The Japanese laughed loudly at the explanation and then quickly turning about departed from the house.
"What do you say his name is?"
inquired Fred.
"We call him Mike."
"I never heard of a Japanese with that name."
"Well, I don't suppose that is his full name.
That's a mouthful and I don't often speak it.
He has been with me for several years and when he first came some one named him Mikado, that was shortened to Mik, and of late that's been gradually changing to Mike."
"Then he wasn't born in Ireland?"
laughed John.
"No, he belongs to the Sunrise Kingdom.
He will have something for you to eat very soon.
I have been coming here for several years now every summer."
"Where is your home?"
inquired John.
"That's hard to say.
I was born on the ocean when my father and mother were coming from England.
My father was French and my mother was Russian.
We lived in the States two years after I was born and then we went to Bermuda a year or two and finally we wound up in Brazil.
From Brazil we moved to Sweden and then went to Constantinople.
After my father and mother died I came to England and then moved to Montreal.
Now, if you can tell me where I belong and what I am you'll do better than I have been able to do for myself."
"I think you're a first cousin of the Wandering Jew," laughed Fred.
"Perhaps I am more like the Man Without a Country," said the man soberly.
"I have come up here from Montreal every summer for the last few years."
"Why, how do you get here?"
inquired Fred.
"I come up the Ottawa River from Montreal and then I leave the river at Mattawa.
It is easy going then from Lake Nippising, across the Georgian Bay, and from Georgian Bay into Lake Huron doesn't take very long.
Have you ever been there, boys?"
"Where?"
inquired Fred.
"Georgian Bay."
"No, sir."
"Then you have missed one of the prettiest spots in America.
I never tire--" The man stopped abruptly as the mate of the _Gadabout_ suddenly appeared in the doorway.
Without waiting for an invitation he at once entered the room and then to the surprise of the two boys extended his hand and received from his host a small package which he quickly thrust into the pocket of his coat.
The action although simple in itself nevertheless was surprising to the boys.
It was manifest that the mate already was acquainted with the occupant of the house and also that he was having relations with him.
Just what these were neither of the boys understood, but before many days elapsed they both were keenly excited by the recollection of the simple exchange which they had just seen in the kitchen of the old house on the shore of Cockburn Island.
CHAPTER IV THE COMING OF THE GADABOUT It was quickly manifest to the two interested boys that the mate and their host were well acquainted with each other.
Puzzled as they were to account for the familiar greeting it was not long before John whispered to his companion, "I suppose that man has been coming here so many years that he knows all the men on the lake.
That must be the reason why they know each other so well."
"I guess that's right," said Fred, who was watching the men with an interest which he was not entirely able to explain even to himself.
The mate was endeavoring to speak in whispers, but his voice was so penetrating that it carried into the remote corners of the house, although no one was able to distinguish the words which he spoke.
By this time the boys were dry once more and as they prepared to depart, the Japanese servant unexpectedly returned.
In his hands he was carrying a tray on which there were numerous tempting viands.
Both boys watched the lithe little man as he speedily cleared the table and then deposited upon it the plates and food which he had brought.
"You're not going now," said their host to the two boys.
"You're just in time for afternoon tea."
"We didn't know that you served anything like that," laughed Fred.
"I think we'll both be glad to stay and accept your invitation, shan't we?"
he added as he turned to John.
"I'm sure we shall," replied John, with a sigh which caused the others in the room to smile at his eagerness.
The movements of the little Japanese speedily convinced the boys that he had had long experience in the work he then was doing.
Deftly and silently he attended to all the wants of the guests and not many minutes had elapsed before, responding to the influence, both Fred and John were in better spirits.
Turning to the mate, John said, "Don't you think it is time for us to find out what has become of the other boys?"
"Don't you worry none about them," said the mate.
"I guess the cap knows how to take care of them."
"But we don't know where they are," suggested Fred.
"We don't know how we are going to get back to Mackinac.
We're sure they'll be anxious about us and I know we are about them."
"Don't you worry none," retorted the mate.
"They'll be coming this way pretty soon.
I can tell the toot of the _Gadabout_ if Gabriel was blowing the whistle.
They'll be here very soon, but I think by and by it may be a good thing for us to go down to the shore and watch a little if we don't hear the whistle calling pretty soon."
The entire party still was seated about the table.
Relieved by the confidence of the mate in the safety of their friends and of the _Gadabout_, both John and Fred became more intent listeners to the conversation which was occurring between the men.
"That Mackinac Island," suggested their host after a time, turning to the boys, "is one of the most beautiful spots in the world.
Ever been there before?"
"No, sir," replied Fred.
"This is our first visit."
"Don't you like it?"
"Very much.
There are no two days alike.
We have been up the river, down the shore of Lake Michigan and to-day we came over here to Drummond Island to try the fishing."
"And pretty nearly had a shipwreck, didn't you?"
asked the mate.
"Yes, if you can call a skiff that was smashed a shipwreck."
"The skiff isn't smashed," drawled the sailor.
"She's just stove in.
We'll have her fixed up in no time and she'll be as good as ever."
"I'm fond myself of Mackinac Island," continued the host.
"I go over there some days and shut my eyes and try to imagine what it was like so many years ago when it was first discovered by the French."
"They didn't hold it very long," suggested John.
"No, and we didn't either."
"Nor did the British in the War of 1812.
They got it away from us just as they got it away from the French years ago.
But after that war was ended it came back to us and nobody has been able to lay hands on it since."
"You stay there all winter?"
inquired the host, turning to the mate as he spoke.
"I do that."
"I guess it's pretty cold," suggested Fred.
"You don't need to 'guess' and you don't need to say 'pretty.'
It's just cold.
It's so cold that when you toss an egg up into the air it just freezes and stays there."
"It couldn't stay there," said John.
"Why couldn't it?"
declared the mate.
"I guess I know what I am talking about."
"Why, the attraction of gravitation would pull it to the ground."
"That's all right," roared the mate, "but the attraction of gravitation is frozen too.
Yes, I've seen with my own eyes eggs staying right up in the air and the air itself all froze up and the attraction of gravitation froze too."
"That must be a great sight," laughed Fred.
"It is, and you can't see it anywhere except on Mackinac Island."
"What do you do with yourself all winter?"
demanded John.
"Get ready for summer."
"And then when summer comes you work all the while getting ready for the winter, don't you?"
"Yes, that's just it," acknowledged the sailor soberly.
"It just seems as if all the time nobody had a chance to live, but he just plans to get ready for it."
As the conversation continued John became more and more thoughtful and silent.
Several times he had been startled by sounds which he had heard in the room directly above that in which they were assembled.
Twice he suspected that some one had come to the head of the rude little stairway and was listening to the sounds of conversation below.
On each occasion it had seemed to him that he had heard the sound of a rustle of a woman's dress.
But of all this he could not be certain and even if his surmise had been correct he had no reason to be more suspicious of their host.
Indeed his suspicions might not have been aroused had not he intercepted a look which the man gave his Japanese servant, which caused the latter quickly to go to the head of the stairway.
John was deeply interested and striving to appear indifferent watched keenly the face of the Japanese when the latter returned to the room and was positive that he saw the little, brown man shake his head slightly in response to a question in the eyes of his employer.
Such actions might be entirely natural, and John tried to assure himself that there was no cause for his increasing suspicions that something was not right in the strange house on the shores of Cockburn Island.
He had no opportunity to explain his suspicions to Fred, however, for just then the sailor said, "It is time for us to go back and keep a lookout for the _Gadabout_."
Acting at once upon his suggestions the two boys arose from their seats.
Cordially thanking their host for his kindness in receiving them into his house and providing for their wants, they soon departed, following the mate as he led the way to one of the higher bluffs along the shore.
"I don't know that man's name yet," said John to Fred.
"That's so," acknowledged Fred.
"We don't know who he is, do we?
Well, it's as broad as it is long, for he doesn't know our names either."
"Probably we never shall see him again anyway, so it won't make any difference, but I should like to know more about him."
"He seems to have been in several parts of the world, doesn't he, Jack!"
"He surely does.
I don't wonder that he can't tell what nationality he is."
"Look out on the lake," suggested Fred.
"It's as calm as a mill pond."
"Yes," acknowledged John.
"It's so smooth that if one didn't know, he wouldn't believe it possible for it to stir up such a gale as we saw there a couple of hours ago."
"Well, there's one comfort," said Fred.
"If it doesn't take very long for a squall to come, it doesn't take very long for it to go either.
So we're just about as well off as when we started."
"Except our fish," suggested John.
"Well, we're carrying back some fish, though they don't show.
I don't think I ever ate so much fish in my life as I did this noon.
I think the pickerel will hold a revolutionary congress--" "Look yonder!"
interrupted John quickly.
"Isn't that the _Gadabout_?"
Fred instantly looked in the direction indicated by his companion and far away saw the faint outline of a small boat which plainly was headed in the direction of the bluff.
"Yes," he said after a brief silence.
"I believe that's the _Gadabout_."
"Probably they are out looking for us.
I hope the boys won't be worried."
"You needn't be afraid of Papa Sanders being worried," laughed Fred.
"As long as he and Grant are in some dry place and don't have to think of any work they won't trouble their heads about us, you may be sure about that."
"They ought to be ashamed of themselves if they are not," replied John half angrily.
"But they certainly are coming this way," he added a moment later.
"Yes, and they see us, too," said Fred quickly, as he pointed to the mate, who, in advance of them, had arrived at the bluff and was waving a signal.
This signal consisted of a large piece of cloth that had at one time been white, attached to a long pole.
The sailor was waving this back and forth in such a peculiar manner that the attention of the boys at once was drawn to his actions.
"What's he trying to do?"
whispered John to Fred.
"Trying to signal the _Gadabout_."
"Yes, but what's he doing it in that way for?"
"Well, I don't know, Jack.
You're always suspicious of somebody.
Probably the captain doesn't know that he is doing anything out of the ordinary."
Whatever the explanation may have been, in a brief time the _Gadabout_ was seen approaching the bluff on which the sailor and the two boys now were standing.
The skiff in which their friends had been seen was in tow and soon after it was discovered both Grant and George were seen in the bow of the swift little motor-boat.
"That's good.
That's a relief," said John when he was convinced that his friends were on board.
"Probably they feel the same way now that they have seen us."
"We'll know about that very soon."
CHAPTER V A PERPLEXING LETTER It was decided to leave behind them the skiff that had been wrecked and as the boys ran down to the shore they saw that the beautiful little boat had been drawn up on the land.
"That can be fixed all right," said the mate in response to the question of the boys.
"The frame's all good."
Neither of the boys, however, heard his words as they both climbed into the skiff, which Grant had rowed ashore.
"Where were you, fellows?"
he asked as he grasped the oars and headed the little boat once more for the _Gadabout_.
"We went ashore.
The mate just let us drive before the wind.
We couldn't do anything against it."
"Yes," added Fred.
"We stove in the boat when we tried to land.
The waves were a million feet high."
"How high?"
laughed John.
"Well, they were pretty nearly ten feet anyway."
"That's about as near as you get to things, isn't it?"
remarked John.
"Well, you know what I mean."
"I don't care what you mean as long as you're both safe.
The captain was afraid you might capsize."
"You mean he was afraid we would be capsized," retorted Fred.
"May be that was it.
At all events he was afraid you would go into the water and he knew you couldn't take care of yourselves if you did."
"Hello," exclaimed John abruptly.
"Here comes our recent host.
I wonder what he wants now."
As he spoke John pointed toward the shore from which the man in whose house they recently found refuge was seen approaching in a skiff.
Just where his boat had been kept was not plain to either of the boys.
There was no boathouse on the shore and few places where the craft might have been sheltered.
"I guess he has forgotten something," laughed Fred, "or he's after us.
John, did you take anything from the table when you left the house?"
"Nothing except what I had already taken inside," retorted John.
In response to the call of the man the departing _Gadabout_ was delayed until he came alongside.
There was a whispered conversation between him and the captain, which lasted only a few minutes.
What was said could not be heard by the boys, although John was really trying to discover what the subject of the conversation was, at the same time doing his utmost to appear indifferent.
Fred, who understood the peculiarities of his companion, laughed silently as he saw John's actions and shook his head warningly.
Quickly, however, the captain turning about gave the order to start and almost as if it had been hurled forward by some powerful and unseen hand the graceful little boat suddenly started swiftly on its return to Mackinac Island.
The speed of the motor-boat was much greater than in the morning.
Indeed as the time passed and the graceful little craft darted over the surface of the water the boys looked at one another in amazement.
The water seemed almost to rise and be parted by the bow.
It rushed past them with a noise that was loud and almost confusing.
Still the speed of the _Gadabout_ increased.
The roaring of the waters and the occasional call of the captain were all that could be heard and in a brief time the boys abandoned all attempts to speak to one another.
Darkness had fallen when at last they arrived at their destination.
The lights of the many windowed hotels and of the cottages along the road were shining in the evening darkness.
There was yet time, however, for the boys to obtain dinner and in a brief time all four were seated about the table, which had been assigned them when first they had arrived.
Fred was the last to enter the dining-room and as he did so his companions saw that something had greatly amused or pleased him.
"Look here, fellows," he said as he seated himself at the table.
"See what I have got."
Drawing from his pocket a letter, which he explained he had received from the clerk on his way to the dining-room, he placed the sheet of paper on the table and began to read,-Sir,--I am one good american Citizen and I will do not the other Strangers peoples Cheat us My duty Me oblige to let you know which Cheater the U. S. Secret Contraband the man is it one British have one store in Chicago and one other store in Montreal Canada.
This man make her Business in this Way.
he order her goods to come from Paris france to Montreal Canada and ther he pay duty Very Cheap and then he express her goods to the boarderings of the untied States and then he took the Said goods and giving to the Cariage Man and the Cariag Man in the nighte time he Carry them With other different things eggs and other things lik that in many Barrel and the goods Mixed With Them So the goods entre in united States in the Way the dessert.
respectfully yours truly, American Brother.
"What do you think of that?"
demanded John as he extended his hand and received the letter.
"I don't know what to think of it," laughed Fred.
"What do you think of it?"
"It's too much for me," said Grant.
"I don't believe even papa here knows what it means."
"But it was sent to me," said Fred.
"At least the directions are to Mr. F. Button, and that's my name."
The boys were still laughing and talking about the strange epistle which Fred had received when at last they withdrew from the dining-room and selected four chairs near together on the broad piazza.
They had not been seated very long before the clerk of the hotel approached the group and said to Fred, "I think I gave you a letter which belongs to some other man."
"I guess you did," laughed Fred.
"I don't think it belongs to me anyway.
Is this the letter?"
he added, as he held forth the epistle which had been the cause of so much mirth among the boys.
"I don't know whether it is or not," replied the clerk.
"All I know is that there is another man here, whose name is almost like yours.
He is Mr. Ferdinand Button.
That letter was directed to Mr. F. Button.
As you had been here longer than he I thought it was for you."
"Well, it isn't," said Fred.
"If it was my letter I would read it to you, but I guess it belongs to Ferdinand, so you had better take it and give it to him."
Laughingly Fred held out the letter which the clerk took and at once withdrew from the place.
It was not long afterward before a stranger approached the boys who were still seated and said, "One of you, I am afraid had a letter to-night which belonged to me."
"Yes, I guess we did," said Fred quickly, rising as he spoke.
"My name is Fred Button and the clerk said that this letter was meant for Mr. Ferdinand Button."
"That's my name," explained the stranger, "and the letter was for me.
Did you read it?"
"I shall have to acknowledge that I did," answered Fred.
"I didn't suspect until I had done that that it really belonged to any one else."
Somewhat confused by his confession Fred noted the bearing of the man before him more carefully.
It was plain to him now that the stranger was quiet in his manner, gentlemanly in his bearing and possessed of a quick intelligence that enabled him to perceive many a thing which his younger companions might have lost.
The stranger was about thirty-five years of age and his bronzed face was nearly the color of that of the captain of the _Gadabout_.
"Have you been here long?"
inquired John.
"I came this morning."
"I thought perhaps you had been on the lake--" "I have been on the lake," interrupted the stranger.
"Indeed, I spend much of my time on the lake.
I am sorry you had the misfortune to receive this letter which apparently was meant for me."
"What makes you so sure it was for you?"
inquired Fred laughingly.
"It was signed 'American Brother' and was simply addressed 'Sir.'
Perhaps it was meant for me after all."
"No, the letter is mine," said the man quietly and as he spoke the four boys were aware that he intended to retain possession of the perplexing missive.
That he was able to do so was manifest in the breadth of his shoulders and the evidences of strength which were apparent as he turned and walked away.
"Whew!"
whispered Grant.
"I guess that man could tell some stories if he wanted to."
"I hope he will want to," said George.
"I know I want to hear them."
The conversation turned from the stranger who had claimed the letter to plans for the following day and then when two hours had elapsed all four boys, thoroughly tired by their experiences of the day, sought their rooms.
The following morning John was surprised when he first went down to the lobby to discover there his host of the preceding day.
At first John suspected that the man intended to ignore him, for he advanced toward him with outstretched hand to express his surprise at the unexpected meeting.
The stranger, however, turned abruptly away.
Abashed by the action John's face flushed and he watched the man when he slowly walked out to the piazza and seated himself near the entrance.
Turning to the clerk John said, "Who is that man?"
"I do not know," replied the clerk.
"I have seen him here several times this summer."
"How many years have you been coming here?"
broke in John.
"Fourteen."
"And you never saw this man until this summer?"
"No.
Why?"
"Oh, nothing much.
I just wanted to know.
I had an idea somehow that he belonged to this part of the country and that perhaps he was here every summer."
"No, sir," answered the clerk.
"This is the first summer he has shown up on Mackinac Island."
"You mean it is the first time he has shown up at your hotel," suggested John.
"No, I don't mean anything of the kind.
I mean just what I say, that this is the first summer he has been seen on the island."
John said no more and turned away.
He had decided that he would go out to the piazza and see if this mysterious man was still there.
Was it possible that he had been mistaken?
Was not this the man who had received them in his strange house on Cockburn Island the preceding day?
If any questions concerning the identity of the man remained in John's mind they were quickly dispelled when he glanced toward the dock and there saw the newcomer talking to the captain of the _Gadabout_.
At that moment the other three boys approached the place where John was standing and declaring that they were hungry demanded that he should at once go with them to the dining-room.
CHAPTER VI AN ADDITION TO THE PARTY While the boys were seated in the dining-room they found Fred's namesake, as they now called Mr. Button, seated near them at a small table.
Apparently, however, he ignored their presence and paid no attention to what they were saying.
Convinced, that peculiar as the man's actions were they had nothing to fear from him, the boys soon gave their undivided attention to their breakfast and to discussing their plans for the coming day.
"It is agreed," said Fred, "that we are to go back to Drummond Island, isn't it?"
"That's right," said George.
"We shan't get as early a start this morning but we ought to do as much as we did yesterday."
"I hope," said Grant, "that we shan't have any such storm."
"And I hope," joined in John, "that we don't have any more of these mysterious events that took us over to Canada and made us afraid there is somebody watching us."
"It's only a guilty conscience that is afraid," retorted Fred, "but we'll go to Drummond Island and the sooner we can get started the better it will be.
We're late as it is."
When the boys departed from the dining-room they stopped together on the piazza to discuss one or two further details in connection with their proposed trip.
To their surprise Mr. Ferdinand Button approached the group and said, "Pardon me, but did I understand you to say that you were going to Drummond Island?"
"Yes, sir," said Fred promptly.
"I chanced to overhear your remarks while I was at breakfast and I thought perhaps you might be willing to give me a lift."
"Do you want to go there?"
asked John.
"Near there," said the stranger quietly.
"I find there isn't another motor-boat to be had.
I am going to take a skiff and my man and if you can find a place for us on board your motor-boat I shall gladly bear my part of the expense and also appreciate your courtesy very much."
"Of course you can come," said Fred quickly.
"I shall not trouble you about coming back.
I may not be ready to come when you are, or I may want to come before you do.
In either event, I want to pay for my share of the _Gadabout_ for the day."
"We'll talk about that later," said Fred.
"Are you ready to start?"
"Yes, my man is at the dock with his skiff."
"All right," said Fred.
"Go right down there and we'll all be down in a minute."
"Well, Captain," said John, when the boys approached the dock and found their boat already at hand.
"We're going to take a couple more passengers."
"Who are they?"
growled the captain.
"Why, this man, Mr. Button.
He wants us to take him over to Drummond Island.
He doesn't know whether he will come back again with us or not."
"My guide says he will ride in the skiff," suggested Mr. Button.
"That won't be necessary, unless he wants to," said Fred.
"That's the way we'll go," said Mr. Button quietly, and at once the five passengers took their places on board the swift, little _Gadabout_.
"What's the matter with the captain?"
whispered Grant in a low voice to Fred as soon as the motor-boat had put out from the dock.
"I don't know.
Why?"
"Look at him, that's all.
He's grouchy or else he's afraid.
He looks to me as if he wasn't very enthusiastic over the addition to the list of passengers."
"It doesn't make any difference whether he is or not.
We chartered the boat and can do what we please with it."
Whether or not the captain was suspicious of the newcomer, the boys gave no further attention to him.
In a brief time they were drawn to the newcomer, whose knowledge of the region and whose stories of the early days at once appealed strongly to his young listeners.
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Button.
"There have been some stirring scenes up around Mackinac Island.
To my mind it is one of the most beautiful spots in the United States, and, standing just as it does where the lakes join, I do not wonder that the Indians did not want to give it up and that the French and English fought over it the way they did.
There's a very interesting story of the defense of the old fort.
It is published I believe, in a little pamphlet and my advice to you is to get a copy and read it before you go home."
"We'll do that," said Grant enthusiastically.
"When we get back," laughed George, "Grant's head is going to be so full of the information that he has picked up about the lakes and Mackinac Island, that the rest of us won't have to do any work, except to keep him quiet."
"By the way, Mr. Button," said Fred, "did you find out anything more about that letter?"
To the surprise of the boys the captain appeared at that moment, glaring angrily at Fred and turning about several times after he had started back to his place at the wheel.
"It was a strange letter," said Mr. Button, "but I am accustomed to such things.
It is a part of my business."
All four boys looked at him questioningly, but he smiled slightly without satisfying their curiosity at the time.
"As I was saying," he continued, "there have been some very exciting adventures around Mackinac Island.
Perhaps I will tell you something about them before long.
Just now I should like to have you tell me about your trip yesterday.
Did you have good luck?"
"It depends upon how you look at it," said John with a laugh.
"We caught all the fish we wanted for our luncheon, but we had a terrific thunder storm out there that drove us ashore in the afternoon.
At least Fred and I were driven ashore."
"You were wise lads to run before the gale."
"You needn't charge us with the wisdom," laughed Fred.
"It was the mate that had it.
We were lucky enough to have him with us and he took us ashore over at Cockburn Island.
We weren't so lucky when we landed, though, because our skiff was all stove in and we had to leave it when we came away."
"How did you get away?"
"Why, the other fellows took the Gadabout and began to look for us after the storm died out and then they came ashore for us in their skiff."
"How far is it between Drummond Island and Cockburn?"
"Two or three miles.
That's about all, isn't it, Captain?"
said John turning abruptly about as the captain's face once more was seen peering eagerly at the company seated in the stern.
"That's about it," drawled the captain.
"Have you never been there?"
he added, looking directly at Mr. Button as he spoke.
"I'm looking forward with great pleasure to the trip," replied Mr. Button, quietly, apparently ignoring the question that had been asked.
"You don't think we are likely to have another storm, to-day, do you?"
"No," said the captain abruptly, as once more he turned to his work.
"Tell me about Cockburn Island," said Mr. Button, speaking to the boys.
"Is it inhabited?
Are there many people living there?"
"I don't know," said John.
"We didn't see very much of it.
We found a little shanty, or shack, not far from the shore and when we saw smoke coming out of the chimney we went up there thinking that we might dry our clothes, for we were wet through."
"Did you find anybody there?"
"Yes, that's the strange part of it," explained John.
"The old shanty, that looked almost as if it would fall to pieces, was pretty well fixed up inside.
There was a man there and he had a Japanese servant.
Indeed, I am sure I saw the man at the harbor this morning.
At least I thought it was the same man, but he didn't speak to me, so I couldn't be sure after all."
Conversation ceased for a time and it was not until they had arrived off the shore of Drummond Island that Mr. Button said, "I think I will leave you here.
I want to thank you again for your kindness in bringing me."
"Where are you going?"
demanded the captain, who again approached the group.
"I'm going to leave the _Gadabout_ here," explained Mr. Button.
"Where you going?
There's no good fishing here."
"I'm going to trust my guide for that," explained Mr. Button, pointing as he spoke to the man in whose skiff he was to depart.
This man was now seated in his little skiff about one hundred feet astern of the _Gadabout_.
"Fetch him up then," said the captain.
"I'll stop the _Gadabout_ and let you off."
In spite of the captain's manifest effort to appear at ease it was plain to his young passengers that he still was angry or alarmed over the presence of Mr. Ferdinand Button.
What the connection was between the two not one of the boys was able to conjecture.
Their attention, however, was speedily drawn to the skiff which Mr. Button now hauled in and as soon as it was drawn alongside he stepped lightly on board.
It was impossible for any of the boys to see the face of the guide, who at the time was bending low over a box which contained the fishing tackle.
It was only later when John reminded the other boys of the strange coincidence between the excitement of the captain and the inability of all to see the face of the guide in Mr. Button's boat, that they recalled it.
"There isn't any fishing here," again shouted the captain.
Apparently Mr. Button was not greatly impressed by the knowledge of the captain, for ignoring his words, he seated himself in the stern of the skiff and prepared to begin his trolling.
Meanwhile the _Gadabout_ was belying her name, as now she was only drifting slowly with the current.
"Come on, Captain," called Fred at last.
"We're ready to start."
"Better start," retorted the commander of the motor-boat.
"There's no fishing here and I told that man there wasn't, but he doesn't seem to pay no attention."
"That's his own fault," laughed Grant.
"Go on with us."
Still manifestly reluctant the captain at last started the engine but the _Gadabout_ had not gone more than a few yards before he again stopped the boat and said, "We might as well try it here as anywhere."
"But you said the fishing here wasn't any good," protested Fred.
"It'll do no harm to try it."
In accordance with the captain's words the _Gadabout_ was anchored, and as soon as the young fishermen were separated into two parties as they had been the preceding day, the two skiffs were soon prepared for the sport of the morning.
The captain, who now was rowing the boat in which John and Fred were seated, had rowed one hundred yards from the _Gadabout_ and the boys both were trolling.
Still the captain watched the skiff in which Mr. Button had departed as long as the little boat could be seen.
Even the _Gadabout_ now was soon lost to sight.
"I'll have to have a fresh bait," said Fred, who had been the first to have a strike.
He reeled in his line and swung the hook around for the captain to bait it.
A moment later the captain abruptly changing his position dropped overboard the box which contained the leaders.
"There I've gone and done it!"
he said.
"Lost every leader!
There is nothing to do, boys, except to go back to the _Gadabout_ and get some more.
I'm sorry, but it won't take long."
"Nothing else to be done," said John, "so the sooner we get back the better."
No one in the little boat spoke while the captain rowed swiftly back to the motor-boat.
The surprise of the boys was great when they drew near the little _Gadabout_ to discover that a skiff had been made fast alongside the boat.
"Whose skiff is that?"
demanded John abruptly.
"We didn't leave any boat here."
The captain without replying increased the speed at which he was rowing and as he drew near the _Gadabout_ the boys were startled when they saw peering from the companionway the face of Mr. Ferdinand Button.
CHAPTER VII ONCE MORE ON COCKBURN ISLAND "Who's that on board the _Gadabout_?"
roared the captain.
"What are you doing there, you lubber?"
"I guess you know who I am," replied the man on deck, who now the boys were convinced was indeed the mysterious stranger.
Both boys were startled, as they looked into the face of the captain, who was now rowing swiftly toward the little motor-boat.
Whether the expression on his face was one of anger or of fear was not known by either.
The man, however, was keenly excited and his anxiety to gain his boat became apparent with every stroke of his oars.
In a brief time he swung the skiff alongside the _Gadabout_ and without making any effort to board the boat the captain roared, "What are you doing on board there?"
"I came back to get something that I thought might be here, which I didn't take with me," said Mr. Button quietly.
It was manifest from his appearance that he was in nowise alarmed by the noisy questions of the captain of the _Gadabout_.
"Well, did you find it?"
demanded the captain.
"I cannot say that I have--as yet."
"I guess that depends on what you're looking for," said the captain, his voice becoming lower, although his excitement was still manifest.
"I didn't suppose there would be any such feeling over my coming back to your boat.
I have known of other men who neglected to take some things with them when they left home, to say nothing about a motor-boat."
"Did you say you found it?"
again demanded the captain.
"I found something that will do me just as well."
For a moment the two men stared at each other, the captain still keenly suspicious or angry, while the expression on the face of Mr. Button was one which the boys were not able to understand.
To all appearances he was unruffled by the noisy queries of the captain, and yet what was behind it all no one could say.
There was nothing, however, more to be done and in a brief time Mr. Button stepped into his skiff in which the man, who was to be his guide, was still seated.
Without any delay the guide picked up his oars and resumed his rowing.
Meanwhile the captain remained standing on the deck of the _Gadabout_, glaring at the departing skiff, although he did not utter any sound until the man of whom he was suspicious or afraid had rounded the nearest point.
"Better get your leaders, captain, because we want to start," suggested Fred impatient over the long delay.
"Humph," grunted the captain.
Nevertheless he disappeared below and in a brief time came back to the deck with a box in his hands.
"That's the same box you took out this morning, isn't it, Captain?"
laughed John.
"What's that you say?"
roared the sailor.
"I said, isn't that the same box of leaders that you took out this morning?"
"Well I'll have to own up that it is," said the captain.
"I had it in my pocket all the while and I thought I dropped it overboard.
We'll make up for lost time now, so get aboard, both of you."
To the surprise of the young fishermen, however, the captain did not return to the ground over which he had been fishing at the time of his unexpected return to the _Gadabout_.
Instead, he followed swiftly in the direction in which Mr. Button had disappeared.
Both boys questioned him sharply concerning the change in their plans, but the only reply their guide made was to explain that he thought the fishing was likely to be better in the direction in which he was going than where they had been before.
Fred winked slyly at his companion when several times the captain ceasing his efforts took a glass and drank of the waters of the lake and then taking from his pocket a jointed telescope gazed long and earnestly in the direction in which they were moving.
"What's the trouble, Captain?
What are you looking for?"
demanded Fred.
"I wanted to see if that man's got on my ground."
"Do you see him anywhere?"
"No, I don't.
I wish I did."
"Who is he, anyway?"
inquired John.
"You seem to have a pretty wholesome respect for him."
"What's that you say?
What's that you say?"
demanded the captain sharply, as he glared at John.
"Why, what I said," explained John, "was that you seem to be very much impressed by him.
Do you know who he is?"
"I don't know nothin' about him," retorted the captain, resuming his occupation once more.
When at last the captain declared that they had arrived at the grounds he was seeking the boys renewed their attempts of the morning.
For some reason, however, all their efforts were unavailing.
Either the fish were not there, or they were not biting.
"I believe, Captain," said John, at last, "that you were more interested in following that man than you are in getting a good shoal for us to fish over."
"What's that you say?"
retorted the captain.
"It's no such thing.
It's no such thing.
I don't care about that man any more than I do about--you."
"You have a strange way of showing it, then," suggested Fred with a laugh.
"I tell you what I'll do, boys," said the captain at last.
"If we don't have any luck here by noon I'll take you across the channel and we'll try it 'long Cockburn Island."
"But we haven't any right to fish there.
That's in Canadian waters," said John quickly.
"Well, I have a permit," explained the captain.
"Good for us, too?"
inquired Fred.
"Yes, good for you, too."
Both boys were somewhat dubious as to the extent of the permission secured by the captain, but they made no protest.
Swiftly the little boat was rowed across the intervening waters and in a brief time, under the shelter of the bluffs of the island they were seeking, preparations were made for resuming their sport.
"We don't want many fish just now," said the captain.
"That's lucky for us," laughed Fred.
"What I mean is, that we want something for dinner, but that's about all.
After dinner we'll see what we can do with our luck."
When the time came for landing, the captain turned to the boys and said, "Before I start a fire I want to go up to that house yonder for a minute."
"We'll go with you," suggested Fred, winking at John as he spoke.
"No, no," said the captain sharply.
"You stay right here on the shore.
If you want to you can start a fire and have things goin' so that when I come back everything will be ready."
"What do you suppose is the matter with the captain?"
inquired John after the departure of their guide.
"Why he's either afraid of or he doesn't like that Mr. Button.
Maybe he's the man that wrote that letter."
"More likely he's the man that the other fellow wrote the letter about," laughed John.
"I think myself that the old fellow will bear watching."
"I haven't seen anything in him that I thought was wrong," said Fred.
"Naturally he doesn't waste very much affection on the officials of the law."
"I don't see why he shouldn't," broke in John.
"Unless there's something wrong with him."
"There may be something wrong as far as the law is concerned, but I guess the old fellow himself thinks he's right.
You know there are a good many people that do that."
"What do you suppose he's up to?"
"I don't believe anybody knows, not even the captain himself.
I guess it's his general principles.
He's opposed to everything."
"Do you think this Mr. Button is anything more than he appears to be?"
"I'm not sure," said Fred thoughtfully.
"It may be that he knows a good deal more than he explains and it may be that letter he got, which was sent to me first, has made him suspicious of the captain.
I don't myself believe there's anything the matter with the captain anyway."
"Look yonder!"
said John quickly, dropping the fish, which he was cleaning, as he spoke.
"Isn't that Mr. Button himself?"
Hastily looking in the direction indicated by his friend Fred was silent for a moment and then said, "That's just who it is.
What do you suppose he's doing here on this island?"
"He isn't on the island yet.
I'll tell you later what he does, that is, if he lands.
Don't let him see us."
Hastily moving behind the high bushes, though neither boy could explain just why he did so, they watched their fellow-guest, as his skiff was swiftly sent ashore and Mr. Button himself stepped out upon the land.
It was plain that he was not aware of the presence of the boys and that all his movements were being keenly watched.
The interest of the boys, however, was speedily increased and in a brief time both were highly excited when they saw Mr. Button take from his pocket a revolver, which he inspected carefully and after he had returned it to its place he at once started toward the house in the distance.
It was the same rude, little shanty in which the boys had found refuge the preceding day.
Now, however the sun was shining brightly and the clear waters of the lake were reflecting its beams.
There were no signs of life about the house on the shore, but both boys excitedly watched Mr. Button as he made his way across the fields and after a brief time approached the side door of the house and then entered the little building.
"Let's go up to the house, too," suggested Fred quickly.
"What for?"
"Why, there's no reason why we shouldn't go and if there's any fun going on we want to be on hand."
"I'm with you," said John cordially, and as soon as they had banked their fire both boys started across the open field toward the house in the distance.
"I'm telling you," said Fred in a low voice, "there's something going on up in that house."
"You always make a mountain out of a mole hill."
"Well, perhaps I do, but I'm sure there's something doing and they may need us before long."
"Yes, probably they are wondering now why we don't come," laughed John.
"Just you wait," retorted Fred.
"You'll see I'm right."
"If I thought you were, I know of one fellow who wouldn't go near that house."
"But you're going just the same," said Fred positively.
There was no delay and after the boys had crossed the field they approached the kitchen-door of the rude, little house where Fred made known their presence by his noisy summons.
CHAPTER VIII LEFT BEHIND In response to Fred's knock the door was opened by the little Japanese servant.
He stared blankly at the boys and then broke into another of his loud laughs.
"Is there any one here?"
inquired Fred.
The response of the Japanese was another boisterous laugh.
"Why don't you tell us?"
demanded John, irritated by the manner of the little man; but the sole response of the Japanese was a loud burst of laughter after each inquiry.
"Let's go in anyway," suggested Fred.
The Japanese offered no opposition to their entrance and when they were within the familiar room they glanced hastily about them, but there were no signs of the man they were seeking.
Abruptly, however, Fred said, "Hush!
Listen, Jack!
That's the captain's voice upstairs."
Both boys were silent as they listened attentively to the sound of voices which now could be heard from the upper room.
Gradually the captain's voice became louder and it was manifest that he was either in trouble or angry.
To the astonishment of the boys the interview suddenly ended and the captain, rushing down the stairway, abruptly departed from the house.
Apparently he had been unaware of the presence of either of the boys.
He had glanced neither to the right nor to the left and as the boys looked out of the window they saw that he was walking rapidly toward the shore.
"Let him go," said John, "he'll have to wait for us anyway."
"I wish I was sure that he would wait," said Fred doubtfully.
"Wait?
Of course he'll wait," retorted John.
"That's what he's paid for."
"I'm not so sure," said Fred once more.
"I think the best thing to do would be for one of us to go back and see that everything is all right."
"All right," responded John quickly.
"You stay here if you want to and I'll go down to the shore and see if anything happens there."
Meanwhile Fred seated himself in the room and watched the Japanese servant, who apparently ignored his presence save occasionally when he stopped and stared blankly at him for a moment and then broke into a noisy laugh.
Not many minutes had elapsed, however, before John came running back to the house.
"The captain has taken the skiff and left the island!"
he said excitedly when he burst into the room.
"Oh, I guess not," said Fred.
"But he has, I tell you.
He was rowing like mad.
He has taken the skiff and left us here."
"We'll go down to see about it," said Fred, abruptly rising and accompanying his friend as together they ran back to the shore.
"There it is, just as I told you!"
said John, when they arrived on the bluff.
"The boat has gone and the captain has gone with it."
For a moment Fred made no reply.
He glanced in either direction along the shore, and then peered intently out over the water, but neither the boat nor the captain was to be seen.
"What shall we do?"
demanded John.
"That's strange and I told you there's something wrong."
"He'll come back again," said Fred confidently.
"I'm glad you think so," responded John.
"I'm not so sure of it myself."
"It'll come out all right," persisted Fred.
"Come on now, we'll go up to the house again."
When the boys returned to the house and once more entered the kitchen, the little Japanese servant, who met them at the door, made no protest when they entered.
Once more the boys seated themselves in chairs near the window.
They occasionally glanced blankly at each other for there was really no explanation for their presence in the house.
At the same time they were both watching the waters of the lake not far away, but their watching was vain, for when an hour had passed no signs of the captain had been seen.
"Where is the man that lives here?"
finally Fred inquired of the Japanese.
The servant laughed loudly, but shook his head to imply that he did not understand.
"He knows English, all right, I'm telling you," said John in a low voice to Fred.
"This is getting all mixed up.
I wish we were back in Mackinac."
"You are finding trouble everywhere, Jack," said Fred, although he too was at pains to speak in subdued tones.
Turning once more to the Japanese he continued, "Can you get us some supper?
We'll pay you for it."
The sole reply of the servant was another of his unmusical bursts of laughter.
Either he did not understand what was said, or he took this method of ignoring the requests of his uninvited visitors.
"Let's go back to the shore," suggested John.
"All right," responded Fred, and together the two boys at once departed from the little house.
When they arrived at the shore not only was their own boat gone, but the boat in which Mr. Button had come had also disappeared.
"What do you make of that?"
demanded John in astonishment.
"I'm sure I don't know," answered Fred, genuinely surprised by the double disappearance.
"Maybe I'm not Calamity Jane's brother after all," said John.
"There's more in this than you think."
Fred was silent, though it was plain that he was puzzled by the failure to discover any of the boats.
The _Gadabout_ also was nowhere within sight.
"Nothing for us to do," said Fred at last, "except to wait.
They must know we're here and there's no way for us to get away unless the _Gadabout_ comes for us."
"Then we'll have to wait," said John, "and that's all there is to it."
Together the boys remained on the shore until at last the sun sank below the western horizon.
Darkness would soon be creeping over the land and both boys now were more serious.
"It's plain the boys are gone," said Fred soberly.
"I thought surely one of them would be back here."
"Well, I didn't," said John.
"The captain was in such a hurry when he started that I didn't believe he would come back.
I don't half believe we will ever see him again anyway.
I tell you there's something wrong here."
Fred's expression was serious as without making any reply he looked out over the waters of the lake.
The darkness deepened and night would soon be at hand.
"There's nothing for it," said Fred at last, "except to go back to the house."
"I don't know what good that will do," said John, "but I'm ready to go if you want to.
This is the strangest thing I have ever been mixed up in in my life.
For my part I wish I was out of it."
"Don't cry, John," said Fred, striving to speak cheerfully.
"I'm not crying," retorted John, "but I don't like the look of the whole thing.
I tell you there's something serious in it."
Fred said no more and in a brief time the boys were standing once more at the kitchen door.
Again the little Japanese, who had the faculty of apparently being in different places at the same time, faced them as they entered.
This time he did not greet their coming with his usual loud laughter, but as he made no protest the boys entered and Fred said to him, "Did you get some supper for us?"
Either the Japanese did not understand, or he continued his pretense, for he shook his head, though his expression was not unfriendly.
Both boys had suspected when they returned that the Japanese was about to bar their entrance.
Either they were mistaken, or he had changed his plan for now he busied himself in his duties about the kitchen, apparently ignoring the presence of the two uninvited guests.
A few minutes later both boys were startled by what they were certain was the voice of a woman calling from the head of the stairway.
"Mikado," called the woman, "did you let those boys in again?"
Whether the Japanese understood or not he ran to the foot of the stairway and a low conversation between him and the woman who had called him followed, of which neither Fred nor John was able to distinguish any word.
"You better give them some supper," at last she said in tones that the boys plainly heard.
"Tell them to go away then.
We haven't any place for them to sleep."
A candle was burning on a little side table in the kitchen and in its dim light each boy was able to see the face of his companion.
It was plain to each that the other was now seriously perplexed.
However, a few minutes later, the Japanese entered the room with a tray on which he had a simple supper to which by a motion of his head he invited the boys.
"Do you see how dark it is?"
whispered John to Fred.
"Yes," replied Fred as he glanced out of the window.
There were no stars to be seen in the sky and the wind as it whistled about the corner of the little building gave forth sounds that were weird and strange.
The boys seldom spoke throughout the meal and when at last they arose, one of them took some money from his pocket and handed it to the Japanese, who served them.
Quickly the little man took the money and thrust it into his pocket.
No language was required for the transaction and it was clearly manifest that he understood the action of his guest.
"Let's go down to the shore again," suggested Fred.
"Perhaps one of the boats has come in and the fellows are looking for us now."
Both boys ran swiftly on their return but when they arrived on the bluff once more they were doomed to disappointment.
Not a boat was to be seen in the dim light.
Nor was any light to be seen as they looked out over the waters.
Somehow the darkness itself seemed to be startling.
"There isn't any boat here and there isn't any boat coming," said Fred at last.
"What shall we do?"
inquired John.
"There's only one thing for us to do," said Fred, "and that's to go back to the house.
We'll have to explain to them why we haven't left, and I don't believe that woman, even if she didn't want us to see her, will turn us out on a night like this.
We'll tell her that we'll pay for our lodging and I guess she'll let us in."
Neither boy, however, was confident of his welcome when they once more retraced their way and started back toward the little house which now itself was wrapped in darkness.
Not even the beams of the candle now could be seen shining through the kitchen windows.
CHAPTER IX THE LOST SKIFF Slowly the boys again crossed the familiar field.
In their distraction the various objects assumed grotesque forms in the dim light.
The swaying branch of a low tree seemed almost like the extended arm of a waiting man.
Every sound that came from the waters startled them.
The cry of the night birds was unusually weird and penetrating.
Neither of the boys was willing to acknowledge that he was afraid, but nevertheless they kept closely together and did not speak until once more they were standing before the kitchen door.
Both were startled when not far away they heard the sound of a deep growl.
They had not seen any dogs about the premises in their previous visits and both were startled by the unexpected sound.
In their haste and alarm they both began to rap upon the door.
The dog, still growling, did not advance upon them, but they could see the dim outline of his form as he stood near the corner of the house.
There was no sound within and no response was given to their summons.
Nor when they repeated their knocking, as they did several times, was any heed paid them.
"What shall we do?"
whispered Fred, looking up into the face of his companion.
"There must be somebody in here."
"Open the door," suggested John.
Fred reached for the latch, and, doing his utmost to be quiet in his action in order to avoid undue attention on the part of the dog, tried to open the door.
The door, however, was locked or bolted and although both boys pushed against it with their shoulders they were unable to move it.
For the first time they were aware now how massive and strong the door was.
"It isn't much like an ordinary kitchen door," whispered Fred as they abandoned their effort.
"I should say not," responded John.
"We can't get in and that's the only thing I can see plainly around here."
"I wish George and Grant were here."
"So do I, but if wishes were horses, beggars might ride.
Is that dog creeping any nearer to us?"
"I don't see that it is.
I guess all there is left for us is to go back to the shore and wait."
"We seem to be left on all sides, don't we?"
"Pretty much, and I hope that dog thinks so too."
Cautiously withdrawing from the kitchen door the boys slowly moved toward the corner of the house.
Not far before them was a pile of wood and in case they should be attacked by the growling brute, they were hopeful that there they might find some weapon of defense.
Suddenly both boys found themselves in need.
With another growl the dog advanced upon the boys as soon as they had passed the corner.
Leaping to the wood-pile John drew forth a stick three or four feet in length and only about two inches in diameter.
Fred was less fortunate and unable to secure a weapon he darted toward the opposite side of the pile.
Meanwhile John was compelled to face the dog.
As the savage animal leaped forward John struck at it, but either his blow was too slow, or he did not see plainly in the dim light, for he failed to stop its progress.
He had, however, almost succeeded in dodging the brute, which fastened its teeth in his trousers and steadily held John in his grip.
"Hit him!
Hit him!"
said John excitedly.
"He's got me and I can't get away!"
In response to the appeal of his comrade Fred hastily took a stick from the wood-pile and advanced upon their common enemy.
The dog, however, still clung to John in spite of the boy's desperate attempts to use his club.
Lifting the stick which he carried Fred brought it down with all his force upon the back of the dog, which still was growling and clinging to its prisoner.
There was a loud yelp of pain and relinquishing its hold the dog fled howling back to the house.
Without waiting to discover the reception which awaited the animal, both Fred and John started swiftly across the field toward the shore.
Frequently they glanced behind them, but it was manifest that the dog was not pursuing them.
"He's got a backache," suggested Fred, "or else he's homesick.
He doesn't want to leave the house."
"I hope he doesn't," said John heartily.
"I didn't know there was any dog around there."
"Nor I. I don't know where they kept him."
"If they will only keep him now that's all I want."
Nothing more was said until at last the boys arrived at the shore.
Both looked keenly out over the waters hoping to discover some trace of their friends.
In the dim light, however, they were unable to discover the presence of any boat on the waters or of any parties on the bluff.
The night air was becoming cooler, although the breeze which had arisen at sunset had now died away.
For several minutes the boys stood waiting and listening upon the shore and then Fred in a loud whisper said hastily, "Listen, Jack.
Do you hear anything?"
"On the water?"
inquired John.
"Yes."
Both boys listened intently and in a brief time John said eagerly, "I do hear something.
To me it is like the sound of oars in oarlocks."
"That's it.
That's it exactly," said Fred.
"There's a boat out there somewhere, only we can't see it.
Let's get behind these bushes and wait until it comes nearer."
Acting upon Fred's suggestion they quickly took their places behind a low growth of bushes only a few feet back from the water.
There they were still able to see what occurred on the lake, and at the same time in the dim light would not be readily discovered by any parties that were approaching.
Not many minutes elapsed before the dim outlines of the skiff were discerned.
There was only one occupant and he was rowing toward the shore, apparently unconcerned whether or not his presence was known.
"Ahoy, there!"
called John abruptly.
The sound of the oars abruptly ceased and a brief period of tense silence followed.
"Who's in the skiff?"
called John.
"Wait until I come ashore and I'll tell you," came the reply.
With a few sturdy strokes the oarsman sent the light little skiff ashore and as he stepped out on the ground both boys were startled when they discovered the newcomer to be Mr. Button.
Why he should be coming from the lake was something they could not explain.
"Where's the _Gadabout_?"
demanded Fred eagerly.
"I haven't seen it."
"Haven't you seen anything of the other boys?"
"Not a trace of them."
"What do you suppose has become of them?"
demanded John, who was beginning to be seriously troubled by the failure of his friends to appear.
"I cannot say," replied Mr. Button.
"What are you doing here?"
"That's what we should like to know ourselves," replied Fred ruefully.
"We can't get into the house and we haven't any boat so it looks very much as if we would have to stay here on the shore all night."
"Can't you get into the house?"
inquired Mr. Button.
"No, sir.
We have been up there two or three times.
The doors are locked and no one pays any attention to us when we rap.
Besides they have got a dog there and he's a savage brute.
He got John by the trousers and wouldn't let go until I hit him on the back with a stick of wood."
"Was it John or the dog you hit?"
inquired Mr. Button dryly.
"The dog, of course.
What are we going to do now, Mr.
Button?"
"I think I can get you over to the shore of Drummond Island, but I should like very much to have you wait a little while before we start."
"All right," replied both boys together.
"Meanwhile," suggested Mr. Button, "I would like to have you come with me up the shore as far as that cove where the mate left his skiff after it was stove in.
It isn't more than one hundred yards or so from here."
The boys readily consented after they had assisted Mr. Button to haul his boat farther up on the beach.
Whatever the purpose in the mind of the man was he did not explain, nor were the boys able to conjecture what it was after they had walked along the shore as far as the cove and then had returned to the spot where the skiff in which Mr. Button had come had been left.
Their consternation, however, was great when after a vain search they were convinced that the skiff was gone.
That it could have drifted away was impossible.
All three were alike convinced of that fact.
There was not much wind now and the little boat had been hauled so far from the water that it was impossible for it to drift away.
There was only one conclusion and that was that some one had taken it.
For a moment they stood in silence after they were convinced that the boat indeed was gone, and then the boys, keenly excited, turned to their companion demanding what he would suggest as the next thing to be done.
CHAPTER X THE FLIGHT OF THE GADABOUT For several minutes the boys ran up and down the shore vainly searching for the missing boat.
They were convinced that some one had taken the skiff and probably was not far away, as it would be impossible for any one to go far during the short time that had elapsed since they had left the spot where Mr. Button had landed.
At last the search was abandoned and when the boys returned they discovered Mr. Button awaiting their coming.
"Listen, boys," he said in a low voice.
"Do you hear any sound?"
The boys were silent, but in a brief time Fred said quickly, "Yes, sir, I think I hear a motor-boat."
"You are correct," said Mr. Button.
"There's a boat coming this way.
I have been sure of it for two or three minutes, but I have not been able to make out its outlines, as yet.
Can either of you boys see it?"
Neither Fred nor John was able to discern the outlines of the boat, which steadily sounded nearer.
A few minutes only had passed before Fred gleefully announced his discovery of the approaching motor-boat.
"I think it must be the _Gadabout_," he said eagerly.
"Probably George and Grant are on board and they are looking for us.
Shall I hail them?"
"No, no," said Mr. Button quickly.
"At least not yet.
We had better wait here until we are sure who is on board."
Obediently the boys followed the instructions and waited until the motor-boat had come within twenty feet of the shore.
There the power was shut off and the course slightly reversed, so that the _Gadabout_, for it was indeed the missing boat, came slowly about, broadside to the island.
Although the boat was so near, it was impossible for John or Fred to see who was steering.
They were aware that at least three were on board for they saw plainly the forms of the men as they let go the anchor and the boat became stationary.
"I guess it's George and Grant--" began Fred, at the same time preparing to advance near the water.
He was sharply recalled, however, by Mr. Button, who once more urged the boys to remain behind the bushes where they had taken their stand until they had seen who made up the party on the _Gadabout_.
Only a brief time elapsed before a man stepped on board a skiff and pushed out from the motor-boat to the shore.
Without using his oars the boat soon ground on the beach and when the occupant stepped forth both of the watching boys were aware that it was the mate of the _Gadabout_.
He pulled his skiff up on the shore, and then, scarcely glancing behind him, at once passed swiftly into the field and soon disappeared from sight.
"He's going up to the house," said Fred in his excitement.
"It looks like it," said John.
"Shall we follow him?"
He had turned to Mr. Button as he spoke.
"No," said the man quickly.
"The thing for us to do is to take this skiff and board the _Gadabout_."
"All right," said John eagerly.
"Hadn't we better hail the other fellows before we do that though?
We are not sure that Grant and George are on board."
"Yes, hail them," said Mr. Button, "but don't make much noise about it."
John stepped forth from behind the bushes and taking his stand on the shore called, "Ahoy there!
George, is that you?"
"Who's that?"
came the response from the motor-boat.
"Fred and I are here," responded John.
"Who are 'I'?"
laughingly came from some one on board the _Gadabout_.
"I guess you know who we are.
That's you, isn't it, George?"
"It's Grant and I."
"That's all I wanted to know," responded John.
"Wait a minute and we'll be with you."
John and Fred quickly hauled the skiff into the water but before they had taken their seats Mr. Button approached and said, "Don't leave me behind, boys."
"We aren't going to stay very long," suggested Fred.
"That will be all right," said Mr. Button, "but take me with you."
The boys delayed a moment while Mr. Button stepped on board and seated himself in the stern of the little skiff.
A moment later the little boat was alongside the _Gadabout_ and all three stepped on board, Fred still holding the painter in his hand.
Before them sat George and Grant peering eagerly into their faces and plainly surprised by the unexpected action of their companions.
"We must leave right away," said Mr. Button.
"What for?"
demanded Fred.
"I haven't time to explain to you," said Mr. Button, "but the only thing for us to do is to get away from this island, and the _Gadabout_ is the best means for us to use."
"But the boat doesn't belong to us," protested John.
"Doesn't it?"
laughed Mr. Button.
"Didn't you hire it for the day?
Didn't you pay the man to bring you out to Drummond Island and then carry you back to Mackinac?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, he hasn't done all he agreed to, has he?"
"No, sir, but--" "Then there's no reason in the world why we shouldn't start out.
It must be between nine and ten o'clock at night.
We have been cheated out of a good deal of our day by the captain and we have a right to take his boat and go on back to Mackinac if we want to."
The boys still hesitated to adopt the unusual suggestion and after a brief silence, John said, "I don't believe any of us knows very much about running a motor-boat."
"That isn't necessary," said Mr. Button.
"I know all about it."
Meanwhile, although he continued his conversation with the boys, Mr. Button had hauled in the anchor and then made fast the skiff to the stern.
Without waiting for any further words he at once advanced to the wheel and as soon as the power was turned on the speedy, little craft began to draw away from the dim shores of Cockburn Island.
They had not gone far, however, before they heard a loud hail from the shore.
"Hi, there!"
called some one.
"What are you doing with that motor-boat?
Come back here!
Come back here with it!"
A low suggestion from Mr. Button caused all the boys to remain silent.
Again the hail came from the shore, louder than before and in tones of one who evidently was angry or alarmed.
"Come back with that boat!
You'll run her aground!
I'll have you arrested for piracy!
Bring that boat back here!"
All four boys were decidedly uneasy over the situation in which they now found themselves.
They had recognized the voice of the mate as the one which had ordered them to return with the boat.
They were aware also that the charge he had made, that they were stealing or running away with a chartered boat, might become a serious matter for all concerned.
Almost as if he was aware of the thoughts in the minds of his companions, Mr. Button said quietly, "Don't be afraid, boys.
I'll see you out of this trouble, but just now there's nothing else to be done.
You can put the whole blame on me, for I'm the one that took the _Gadabout_.
I'm steering her and I am taking her against your protests.
You see you cannot help yourselves because we're too far from the shore now for you to try to get back."
At that moment again there came a loud call from the shore, but it was evident from the tones of the voice that the _Gadabout_ was rapidly leaving Cockburn Island behind her.
"Bring back the boat!
I'll give you ten dollars to bring her back!"
Silence still followed the noisy offer, however, and only a few minutes had elapsed before the _Gadabout_ had passed beyond the sight of any one who might be standing on the shore.
Apparently Mr. Button was not in any confusion as to the course he was to follow.
Directly across the narrow waters he steered until in a brief time the shore of Drummond Island loomed before them.
Then changing his course he guided the swift, little craft on a line parallel with the shore.
The boat was moving southward and all four of the unwilling passengers expected that in a brief time they would pass the point of Drummond Island and then would turn westward and seek the harbor at Mackinac.
The speed of the _Gadabout_ was increasing now and in the dim light the waters near the stern seemed almost to glow with light.
There was excitement for the boys in the midst of the mystery, but all had become silent and watchful of the man at the wheel.
Swiftly the little _Gadabout_ plowed its way across the smooth waters.
The point of Drummond Island was passed and then to the amazement of the boys the course was not changed.
The _Gadabout_ now was headed for the open waters of Lake Huron.
Mackinac Island lay far to their right.
"You have made a mistake, Mr. Button," called George anxiously.
"This isn't the way back to Mackinac Island."
"Don't be alarmed, boys," replied Mr. Button, without glancing behind him.
"I'll bring you out all right."
"But you are headed in the wrong direction," protested Fred.
"Don't be afraid," said Mr. Button once more.
"I know what I am doing and so will you all pretty soon."
It was too dark to enable any of the boys to perceive the expression on the faces of his comrades.
That they all were aghast at the unexpected turn of events, however, was manifest to all, but the little _Gadabout_, as if the anxiety of its passengers was of no concern, kept steadily on its way toward the open waters of Lake Huron.
CHAPTER XI ALONE ON THE LAKE The four boys huddled together near the stern of the swiftly moving motor-boat.
For a few minutes silence rested over the group.
They were aghast at the turn of events and all were alike fearful of the consequences of their appropriation of the _Gadabout_, although no one acknowledged his fears.
George was the first to break the silence, when, leaning toward his friends he said in a whisper, "He's veering off to the left now.
Do you see what he's doing?"
"So we are," replied John after the boys had carefully looked ahead.
"That must mean that we are headed for the Canadian shore somewhere."
"I don't know where we are headed," said Grant, "but we're going to get there pretty soon.
I wish I knew what the trouble is."
"You don't suppose Mr. Button is crazy, do you?"
suggested Fred.
"I don't know," replied Grant soberly.
"Most of the people that have his name are candidates for insane asylums."
"You are safe in making that remark now," retorted Fred.
"I shan't forget it, however.
You wait until we go back to Mackinac--" "I'm afraid if you wait until then," broke in George, "you'll forget all about his kind words.
You don't suppose this fellow is really crazy, do you?
He acts like a man beside himself."
"That's as true as you live," said John in a whisper.
"I'm wondering if we ought not to jump on him all together and take the wheel away from him."
"They say a crazy man is ten times as strong as a man who isn't crazy," suggested Fred.
"I don't believe we had better attempt that, yet awhile, anyway."
"What's become of his man?"
inquired Grant abruptly.
"He isn't on the boat."
"That's right," responded the boys all together, after they had glanced all about the boat, as if they were expecting to discover the guide whom Mr. Ferdinand Button had taken with him when the party had set out from Mackinac Island.
"We're four to one anyway," said John.
"I'm not in any hurry yet to try to do anything violent, but if the worst comes we ought to be able to handle him.
There's a fellow for each foot and each hand and between us we ought to be able to take care of him."
Meanwhile the swift little _Gadabout_ was speeding forward, as if it was governed by a spirit of its own.
The water rushed past the stern, boiling and singing on its way.
The eyes of the boys, more accustomed now to the dimness of the light, saw no objects in whichever direction they glanced over the dark waters.
And the speed of the motor-boat was unchecked.
Still the _Gadabout_ swept forward in its course.
Not once did Mr. Ferdinand Button give any token to indicate that he was even aware of the presence of the boys on board the boat.
He had not once glanced behind him and if he was looking steadily ahead, the boys, who frequently glanced in that direction, were unable to discover any object toward which he was guiding his course.
Silence fell upon the little group seated in the stern of the motor-boat, and the depression which rested upon all alike seemed to deepen with the passing moments.
Suddenly the speed of the _Gadabout_ slackened.
A moment later the engine ceased to go and although the motor-boat was still moving swiftly forward it was doing so because of the headway under which it had been speeding.
Instantly every boy leaped to his feet and stared blankly into the faces of his companions.
In spite of the dimness of the light the alarm which every one felt was manifest and for a moment there was silence deep and intense.
"What's that?"
demanded Fred, who was the first to speak.
"I give it up," replied John.
"There's something happened."
"You talk like a philosopher," said George impatiently.
"As if we didn't know that!
What's wrong, Mr.
Button?"
he added in louder tones.
"I'm not sure," replied Mr. Button, who now turned and joined the boys.
"I cannot quite make out whether our gasoline has given out or whether a blade in our propeller is broken."
"If our gasoline is gone," said Grant, "we're likely to be out here on the lake for some time."
"Yes, and if a storm comes up," added Fred, "we're going to have troubles of our own."
"Don't begin to borrow troubles," said Mr. Button in a tone of irritation.
"They may come, but it will be time enough to face them when we have to."
"But what are we going to do?"
demanded Fred.
"I'm going to have one of you boys get into the skiff with me and I'm going to try to find out if anything is the matter with the blades."
"I'll find out," said George, "what the supply of gasoline is."
Taking his place on board the skiff, which was in tow, John seized the oars while Mr. Button seated himself in the bow.
In a brief time the motor-boat was motionless and then pushing the bow of the skiff against the stern of the _Gadabout_, Mr. Button, who had taken off his coat, rolled back his sleeves and began to investigate the condition of the blades.
"There," he said abruptly, "it is what I feared.
There's something wrong there."
"What can we do?"
inquired John.
"I don't think we can do anything until it is light."
"Then we'll just drift about over the lake."
"That's it exactly."
"But suppose a storm comes up?"
"But suppose it doesn't?
There isn't anything we can do to bring it on or to keep it away.
We'll have to take things as they come."
"It will be a hard job for the Go Ahead Boys to hang out here all night.
We aren't used to that."
"It will be a good time to learn it," replied Mr. Button dryly, as pulling himself alongside the motor-boat he directed his companion to step on board, an example which he himself followed a moment later.
"The gasoline is out," said George.
"Are you sure?"
inquired Mr. Button quickly.
"Yes, sir.
I am sure."
"Then we're in a worse plight than I thought we were," said Mr. Button, "for there's something wrong with the blades."
"I guess it won't make any difference whether the blades are right or wrong, if there's no gasoline to drive the engine," said Fred disconsolately.
"We cannot do anything but wait," said Mr. Button.
"The morning will be here before long."
"And so won't breakfast," said Grant dolefully.
"We'll have no trouble," explained Mr. Button, "just as soon as it is light.
Somebody will be out here fishing and we'll get help."
"But we don't want to wait until morning," protested Fred.
"If you really don't want to wait," said Mr. Button, "then the only thing you can do is for two of you to take the skiff and row ashore."
"We might get lost," suggested Fred.
"Yes, so you might," acknowledged Mr. Button.
"I was following a suggestion, that's all.
It's the only thing which can be done that occurs to me."
"I don't think the suggestion is so bad," said Fred.
"We can keep within hailing distance of the _Gadabout_ and it may be that we shall find some other boat nearby, or it may be that we are not very far from the shore."
"I know we are not very far from the shore," declared Mr. Button, "but it isn't the shore of the mainland."
"What is it?"
demanded George.
"Western Duck Island.
I'm sure we cannot be far away from it.
Now, if two of you boys want to take the skiff and make some investigations I don't think there will be any special danger.
Don't go too far away, though your whistle or your voices will carry a long distance over the water."
"I'm one of the Go Ahead Boys, and I'm for trying it," said Fred sturdily.
"And I'm with you," said John.
A moment afterward both boys stepped on board the skiff and with John at the oars and Fred seated in the stern, they speedily left the _Gadabout_ behind them.
"Don't go very far away," called George warningly.
"You're right, we won't," called back John, and then silence rested over the waters of Lake Huron.
"We had better row in a circle," suggested Fred.
"I'm the captain of this expedition and I want you to follow my directions."
"All right, sir," responded John glibly, "but the main thing is to keep a sharp outlook for a boat coming or going, or for any light that we may see on the shore."
For a time John rowed forward in silence.
Both boys were keenly observant, but they were unable to discover any trace of the shore, nor were any lights of passing vessels seen on the water.
"I think we have gone about far enough," suggested Fred, when a half-hour or more had elapsed.
"So do I," answered John.
"Better let me row back," said Fred.
"That's all right, too," responded John.
The boys exchanged places and Fred rowed more rapidly on their return than his companion had done on their advance.
Several minutes elapsed and then John said in a low voice, "It's strange we don't see anything of the _Gadabout_.
I thought that we were headed right for it."
"So did I," answered Fred.
"We had better call."
John placed his hands about his mouth and shouted: "Ahoy, there!
Is this the _Gadabout_?"
He repeated his hail several times, but as no answering shout was heard, he again hailed the invisible motor-boat.
Still no response was given to his call.
"Maybe we had better shout together.
Two can make more noise than one," suggested Fred, rising from his seat as he spoke.
"Now, then," he added, "when I say three, let's yell together."
But though the boys united a half-dozen times in their shouts, the silence of the night was still unbroken and no signs of the presence of the _Gadabout_ were seen.
CHAPTER XII THE SEARCH IN THE NIGHT "This is becoming pretty serious," said Fred in a low voice when both he and John were convinced that they were not near the missing _Gadabout_.
"You went too far to the right," retorted John.
"I thought you were going in the wrong direction."
"Well, why didn't you say so, then?"
"If I had, I would have been told my advice was good when it was asked for."
"Never mind, Jack," said Fred, his friendliness returning and manifesting itself in the tones of his voice.
"Things aren't so bad, and they might be a good deal worse.
I guess the _Gadabout_ is off yonder," he added, pointing to the East as he spoke.
"I'll row a while in that direction and we'll try it again."
Seating himself at the oars Fred pulled in the direction he had suggested.
When several minutes had elapsed, once more he ceased rowing and both boys united in a hail.
Still there was no response made to their calls and the spirits of the boys drooped accordingly.
"I tell you this is getting serious," said Fred.
"Are you afraid?"
demanded John.
"Some, and I don't mind saying so.
We never ought to have left the _Gadabout_."
"That may all be true," responded John, "but we did leave the _Gadabout_ and we are here on the lake.
The only thing for us to do is to go ahead."
"That's all right," said Fred more cheerfully.
"I haven't forgotten our name, but I'm wondering whether we really are going ahead or not."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, we may be rowing around in a circle, the way a man travels when he is lost in a woods."
"I guess it is not quite as bad as that," responded John.
"Want me to take the oars?"
"Not yet," said Fred sturdily, once more seating himself and resuming his task.
A half-dozen times the boys rowed ahead and then stopping, united in a call to their friends.
Their call, however, was unanswered and at last both boys were convinced that they had lost the location of the motor-boat.
"There isn't anything for us to do except to wait until morning," said Fred at last.
"Yes, there is, too," said John.
"You let me take those oars.
I'm not going to stay here.
I'm sure we'll find the _Gadabout_ or something just as good."
"That doesn't trouble me as much as somebody finding us."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, suppose some boat runs us down in the dark?"
"We can hear a boat two miles away."
"If we are awake," suggested Fred.
"We'll be awake all right, at least I shall, for I'm going to keep rowing."
"That wouldn't be my plan," said Fred, nevertheless relinquishing his position to his friend.
"I think we are just as well off to wait where we are and when the sun rises we'll know better what to do."
"I'm not much for waiting," said John.
"I'm going to see if I can't find that boat."
Several times John ceased rowing and the boys united in calls and shouts and finally joined in a shrill whistle.
Their efforts, however, were still unavailing and the conviction steadily deepened in their minds that they were lost on Lake Huron.
"If we stay where we are," suggested Fred at last, "we can get back to Mackinac Island in the morning."
"In which direction do you think Mackinac Island is?"
demanded John.
"It's off yonder," said Fred, pointing to his right.
"You're dead wrong, Fred.
It's right off here," affirmed John, pointing as he spoke in the direction opposite to that which Fred had selected.
"You'll have to go around the world," declared Fred, "before you get to Mackinac Island, if you follow the direction you suggest."
"Maybe we will, but I have got these oars and I'm going to try it," declared John.
Fred laughed derisively and did not make any offer to relieve his friend.
John, however, apparently was determined to follow his plan and for a long time rowed steadily forward.
At last Fred broke in upon the silence, saying, "I tell you, John, you're simply taking us farther away from Mackinac Island all the time.
Can't you see that you are?"
"I can't see much of anything," replied John, disconsolately.
"I guess maybe I am wrong after all."
"Of course you're wrong."
"But that doesn't mean that you're right," retorted John.
"If we go in the direction you suggest we may be as far as ever from the _Gadabout_."
"Not at all," said Fred confidently.
"You let me take those oars and you'll soon see for yourself that I am right."
The exchange of places was made, but after Fred had rowed for an hour or more his confidence also began to wane.
"I'm not as sure as I was," he said.
"Well, I'm just sure of one thing," responded John.
"What's that?"
"That we are lost and that neither one of us knows where he is.
And what's more," he added, "the only thing for us to do is to stay right where we are and wait until the sun rises."
"How long will that be?"
"I haven't any idea.
I haven't any matches and I can't see the face of my watch.
If I can judge by my feelings it ought to be about the week after next.
It seems to me we have been out here forever."
Fred did not respond, however, and for a time the boat drifted on in silence.
"What's that ahead?"
demanded John, abruptly pointing as he spoke toward the bow.
Instantly both boys were peering eagerly in the direction indicated by John, and, after a brief silence, Fred said, "That's land ahead."
"That's what I think," said John.
"What do you suppose it is?
Do you think it is Mackinac Island?"
"More likely it is Paris, France," retorted Fred scornfully.
"You don't suppose we're anywhere near Mackinac Island, do you?"
"I don't know.
I know I wish we were."
"So do I, but we're not.
Now what shall we do?
Shall we go ashore, or shall we keep out here on the lake?"
"We had better go ashore," said John.
"At least we can row in near enough to see what it's like, anyway."
Fred required no urging as he renewed his labors and not many minutes had passed before both boys were convinced that they were steadily drawing nearer to land.
Whether it was the mainland or an island they were unable to determine at the time.
"It's all marsh along here," declared John at last when the boat was not many yards distant from the shore.
"I can see the rushes."
"That's right, Jack," acknowledged Fred a moment later after he too had peered intently at the nearby shore.
"What shall we do?"
"Why, keep on, and we'll watch for lights too."
"You won't see any lights this time of night," retorted Fred.
"If there is anybody willing to live in this forlorn spot he's probably in bed four or five hours ago."
"Well, go ahead anyway," said John.
Accordingly Fred again grasped the oars and slowly rowed forward.
For a long distance they were unable to discern anything but the marsh on their right.
There was no place seen where they might make a landing nor was an attempt considered worth while.
"I don't see any use in this," said Fred at last.
"We aren't getting anywhere."
"Try a little longer," said John.
"Maybe we'll come to something different.
There you have it!"
he added a few minutes later when apparently they came to the end of the marsh and saw before them the dim outlines of a sloping bank.
"We can land here, I guess."
"Land!"
retorted Fred.
"What do you want to land for?"
"Why, maybe we can find a house or some place where we can get some gasoline."
"Gasoline will be a fine thing for us," laughed Fred, his courage having returned with the knowledge that they were no longer on the open waters of the lake.
"You'd better take the oars, Jack, and we'll row on a little further.
Even if we can see no light perhaps we can find a house."
Once more the boys exchanged places and John rowed slowly along the shore.
Neither of the boys discovered any house, however, nor did they see any indications that the region was inhabited.
"We're having a fine time here," Fred said at last.
"There doesn't seem to be anybody living here.
We haven't anything to eat and we haven't even a gun or a fishing-rod in our skiff."
"We shan't need any of them," said John, "when the sun rises.
We'll be sure to find somebody who will take us back to Mackinac Island, or maybe the _Gadabout_ will be looking for us."
"My namesake acted as if he liked to spend a good deal of time searching for us," said Fred scornfully.
"I tell you, Jack, he has other business on hand."
"Maybe we can take him back to the insane asylum and claim the reward," suggested John.
"Or to state prison."
"Yes, or he may be something else."
"What do you mean?"
"It doesn't make any difference what I mean.
I have my own ideas and I'm not going to cast any pearls before swine.
What I'm going to do now is to go ashore.
The sun will be up in a half an hour.
It's beginning to be light in the east now."
"You're right, John," acknowledged Fred.
"It surely is getting light over yonder.
I don't know what you're going to gain by landing, but I'm willing to try it, if you want to.
Be careful that you don't strike a rock."
Hardly had Fred spoken before there was a dull thud and a moment later it was evident that the frail little skiff had struck the jagged point of a hidden rock.
CHAPTER XIII A FRESH ARRIVAL Water at once began to pour into the skiff but the boys were so near the land that neither was greatly alarmed.
By a few vigorous strokes the little boat was quickly sent ashore.
Leaping out upon the dry land both Fred and John seized the gunwale and together brought the skiff far up from the water.
"That's a pretty kettle of fish," said Fred.
"Just look at it!
There is a big leak.
You must have stove a hole in the bottom."
"Turn it over and let's see," suggested John.
In a moment the boat was overturned and the fears of the boys were confirmed when they discovered that the blow against the jagged rock, although it had not torn a hole in the bottom of the skiff, had nevertheless sprung it in such a manner that it was leaking badly.
"How are we ever going to get back to Mackinac Island?"
said Fred.
"I guess we won't have to go in this boat," answered John.
"Just now, the thing for us to do is to look around here and find out whether we are really Robinson Crusoes or there are some people living here who can give us some breakfast."
"That's all right," said Fred, more cheerfully at the mention of the possibility of a morning meal.
"You run up the shore in one direction and I will go down the other way.
We'll come back in about five or ten minutes and we'll report."
Fred's suggestion was agreed to by his friend and the boys at once started along the banks which were only a few yards back from the shore.
More than the allotted time had passed when the two boys returned.
Neither had been able to discover any tokens of the presence of people dwelling or camping on the island.
"It looks pretty dark," said Fred more disconsolately.
"It's easy to go back," said John solemnly, "but it takes some nerve and grit to go ahead.
I never yet knew a boat that drifted up the stream.
If you leave it alone and don't do anything it will go down stream every time."
"You speak like a philosopher, as I told you," said Fred.
"I wonder sometimes how one small head can carry all you know."
"And that's not original either, I have heard that before.
What's that yonder?"
he suddenly added.
At the question both boys turned and looked out over the waters of the lake.
In the distance a tiny speck could be seen, but it was plainly moving toward the place where they were standing.
The sun had risen by this time and the quiet waters of the lake were flooded with its beams.
"It's a a motor-boat," declared John after a brief silence.
"You're right once in your life, Jack," acknowledged Fred.
"That's just what it is and it's coming straight toward the place where we are."
"So you had all your crying for nothing.
It doesn't pay to give up when there's still any chance to go ahead."
"We'll wait and see.
Perhaps we'll know more an hour from now than we do just at this minute."
Eagerly the boys watched the coming of the motor-boat.
It steadily became more distinct and not many minutes had elapsed before both boys were convinced that the little boat was nearly of the size of the _Gadabout_.
Then they were able to distinguish two men on board, one at the wheel and one seated in the stern.
"I thought at first it might be the _Gadabout_," said Fred in a low voice.
"So did I," joined in John.
"I can see now that it isn't."
"So can I.
What do you suppose it is?"
"I haven't the remotest idea.
If we wait long enough we'll find out."
"What do you suppose that boat is coming here for?"
inquired Fred.
"That's another thing you'll have to wait to find out.
You're a great lad.
You make me think of what the headmaster said the other day."
"What did he say?"
inquired Fred.
"He often makes remarks to you that I don't hear, and some of them I am very glad I don't."
"That's all right, too," said John.
"What he told us the other day was that children and savages are the people that are the most likely to give way to their feelings.
They laugh and cry when strong people keep quiet."
"What do you mean by that?"
demanded Fred sharply.
"I don't mean anything.
I'm just telling you what the headmaster said."
"They are going to land right in here," said Fred abruptly, as the motor-boat slightly changed its course and apparently was approaching the very place where the boys had made their unfortunate landing.
"Let's go farther back," suggested John.
"Maybe it is some more of this strange business.
It won't do any harm if they don't see us and I don't believe they have yet because they wouldn't be looking for anybody where we are."
"Come ahead," suggested Fred, quickly acting upon the advice of his companion.
Drawing farther back and yet still remaining in a position from which they were able to see the approaching boat, the boys were confident that they would not be seen.
Both excitedly were watching the coming boat.
In a brief time the power was shut off and the anchor was cast overboard.
Then in a small skiff, which the motor-boat had in tow, the man who had been at the wheel quickly rowed toward the shore.
"Do you see who that is?"
whispered Fred in great excitement.
"I do," replied John quickly.
"It is that man that we saw on Cockburn Island.
It is the same one that came over to Mackinac.
What do you suppose he's coming here for?"
"You know just as much about it as I do.
If we keep still we may be able to learn more in a little while."
The excitement of the watching boys did not decrease when they saw the man, who now they were convinced was indeed their recent reluctant host on Cockburn Island, step quickly ashore and then draw his boat up on the beach.
Apparently the presence of the other skiff had not yet been noted.
Indeed, the boys were quite confident it had not been discovered, as the place where they had landed was around a little bend in a small cove.
The actions of the man, however, soon became more mysterious and puzzling.
Out of his pocket he took a small package and seating himself upon a rock he proceeded to open it.
There were occasional flashes of light that were reflected in the eyes of the boys, although neither were able to discover the contents.
After carefully refolding the package the man restored it to his pocket and then advancing toward the higher bank stopped for a moment there and peered intently all about him.
Apparently satisfied that he was unobserved the mysterious stranger then advanced rapidly toward some woods in the distance.
He had, however, gone only a part of the intervening distance when another man was seen approaching from the midst of the trees and in a brief time the two men met.
There was a hasty consultation which greatly interested the boys, although they were unable to discover its purpose.
They were convinced, however, or at least Fred was positive, that there had been an exchange of packages made by the two men and then instead of returning to the shore the man whom they had been watching advanced beside the stranger and soon both were lost to sight within the borders of the woods.
Meanwhile the motor-boat had been left in charge of the man who had come to the island with the mysterious visitor.
Neither of the boys had obtained a clear look at him until Fred suggested, "What's the use?
We're making a mountain out of a molehill.
Come on, let's go and speak to the man on board the motor-boat."
John hesitated a moment and then quickly followed his friend, as they advanced openly along the shore.
"Do you see who that is?"
whispered Fred, clutching John by the arm.
"Yes, I do," answered John.
"It's that little Jap that we saw on Cockburn Island."
"That's exactly who it is.
What do you suppose he's doing here?"
"He's not doing much of anything just now.
I should guess that he is in charge of the boat until his boss comes back.
I'm going to hail him."
In response to John's hail the little Japanese quickly turned and glanced in the direction from which the unexpected call had come.
"He doesn't understand English, don't you remember?"
said Fred.
"I know he pretended that he didn't, but we'll see how much he knows now.
Got anything to eat on board?"
called John, turning once more toward the motor-boat.
The first feeling of alarm or surprise had passed and the little manservant now broke into another of his loud and unmusical laughs.
"Got any breakfast?
Got anything on board to eat?"
again called John.
It was plain now that the Japanese understood what was said, for in broken English he explained that he had some articles of food on the motor-boat.
"I wonder if you'll sell us some?"
inquired Fred eagerly.
"We'll come aboard and see what you have got."
Quickly taking the stranger's skiff the boys rowed out to the motor-boat and after they had made it fast, stepped on board.
The Japanese seldom spoke, but in a brief time he handed each of the boys two sandwiches, which they eagerly took and quickly ate.
"How much do we owe you?"
asked John.
Again laughing loudly the Japanese shook his head and it was manifest that they would be unable to pay for the slight repast they had received.
"When did you come from Cockburn Island?"
inquired Fred.
The question was not answered and John quickly broke in, "When are you going back?
That's a good deal more to the purpose.
Do you suppose your boss would be willing to take us over to Mackinac?"
The Japanese laughed, but still did not answer.
"We'll pay him well for it," said John.
"How far is this place from Mackinac anyway?"
"'Bout forty mile," answered the Japanese.
"Whew!"
said Fred.
"We're a good ways out of our course, aren't we?"
CHAPTER XIV ANOTHER MYSTERIOUS LETTER "I don't care much how far we are away if we can only get back," said John thoughtfully.
It was apparent, however, that extended conversation with the little Japanese would be impossible.
He had made no inquiries as to why the boys were on the island and except for his first expression of surprise when he had heard their hail, he did not give any sign of special interest either in them or in their doings.
"We stove a hole in the bottom of our skiff," explained John.
"Have you got a piece of tin and some tacks or something we can mend it with?"
"You no feex it?"
inquired the Japanese.
"We haven't anything to fix it with," explained John.
"I go see," volunteered the little man.
In accordance with his suggestion the boys speedily rowed ashore, the little Japanese accompanying them, and led the way to the cove where their skiff was resting on the beach.
The Japanese made a careful investigation of the injury to the skiff and then said, after he had once more laughed loudly, "I feex her."
Quickly turning he ran back to the skiff and returned to the motor-boat.
Only a few minutes elapsed before once more he came back and the very implements John had sought with which to repair the boat were now in his hands.
Deftly he drove caulking into the seams and the cracks and then taking a piece of tin tacked it on the bottom of the skiff over the spot where the break had occurred.
Then once more he used the caulking, driving it in all about the place where the skiff had been struck.
"He no sink now," said the Japanese, at last standing back and with pride viewing his workmanship.
"He no sink now.
She just as good as new."
Declining the offer of the boys to pay him for his labor the Japanese seated himself upon a rock and looked steadily at them.
"What for have you come here?"
he inquired.
"We had bad luck last evening," explained John.
"We started from Cockburn Island in the _Gadabout_ but we got out of our course.
Then the first thing we knew our gasoline was gone and we had an accident in the shaft or the blades of the propeller.
We thought that we might be able to get some help, so two of us left the boat and started ashore in our skiff.
But we lost our way and that's why we're here and not where we want to be."
"Where other man?"
inquired the Japanese.
"What other man?
Do you mean Mr. Ferdinand Button?"
"Yah.
Where Mr. Button now?"
"That's the very question that we would like to have you answer for us," said Fred.
"We don't know whether the _Gadabout_ is lost somewhere or the other fellows think we are lost and have gone back to Mackinac.
That's why we want to go back there ourselves and we'll pay well if you'll take us there on board your boat."
This time the Japanese did not laugh, but there was a peculiar expression that appeared for an instant in his eyes and that alarmed John, although Fred had not seen that which so greatly troubled his companion.
"When are you going back?"
demanded John.
"Two hour."
"Have you got anything more to eat on board your boat?"
Once more the strange laughter was heard but the Japanese did not reply to the question.
"It will be two hours before they start, the Jap says," said Fred, turning to John as he spoke.
"Well, there isn't anything to do except to wait for the time to come, is there?"
"I don't know what to do."
"I do," observed John.
"We'll wait until that man comes back here and then we'll tell him of our troubles and I'm sure he will take us on board.
If he won't take us to Mackinac at least he will take us back to his house."
"Maybe he will," responded Fred somewhat dubiously.
"Here he comes, anyway," said John quickly, as glancing toward the woods he discovered the man approaching, who was the subject of their conversation.
The boys waited until the man drew near and when he discovered their presence his remarks were not complimentary to either of his would-be passengers.
"No, sir, I cannot take either one of you," he said positively.
"I have something else to do.
In fact I have got to do it.
I cannot go to Mackinac to-day under any circumstances.
But what are you two boys doing here?
You haven't explained that yet."
"We don't know," said John, "just why we're here.
About all that we know is that we are here and we want to get away."
"How do you propose to leave?"
"We want you to take us on your motor-boat."
"And I have already explained to you," said the stranger, "why I cannot do that."
"We'll pay you well for it," suggested Fred.
"It isn't a question of pay," said the man.
"It's simply a question of my not being able to do what you want."
"But how are we going to get away from this place?
Is this the mainland?"
"No, it's an island.
It is commonly called Western Duck Island."
"Which means that there are other duck islands farther to the east and that we're not on the mainland shore at all?"
said Fred.
"Oh, no.
You are several miles from shore.
About all the island is good for is for hunting.
A little later you might find a good many ducks here."
"But we don't want to be here until 'a little later,'" protested Fred.
"We want to leave right away."
"Then I don't see anything for you to do except to try to cross in your skiff."
"Your Jap says it's about forty miles from here to Mackinac."
"If he says so then he probably is correct.
I haven't known Mike to be wrong many times."
"We cannot sail back in our skiff," explained John.
"Then I don't see anything for you to do except to stay here and wait until you hail some boat that is passing."
"How long will that be?"
inquired Fred.
"Not knowing, I cannot say.
But on a day like this, which promises to be very clear and pleasant, there ought to be a good many boats passing."
"I hope we'll have better luck with them than we had with you," said John.
"So do I," responded the man, "and with all my heart.
All I can say is this, that if you don't get any one to take you away before six o'clock this afternoon I will stop here on my way back and take you aboard."
"How are we going to get anything to eat?"
asked John.
"I'm sure I don't know," said the man.
"I will tell Mike to give you some sandwiches."
"He has done that already," said John.
"Isn't there some place where we can get something to eat?"
"I don't know of any."
"We thought perhaps that man you met out here might be living here and he or his wife would be willing to sell us some food."
"What man are you talking about?"
demanded the stranger, quickly turning to the boys as he spoke.
"Why, the one that met you out here between the shore and the woods yonder," explained John.
"Did you see any one?"
"We certainly did," said John.
"We saw you meet a man out here and hand him something."
Fred was convinced that there was a momentary gleam of anger or alarm in the expression of the stranger's face, but if so the feeling quickly departed.
In a low voice the man said, "There are some great stories told about this island.
My advice to you is not to stay any longer than you are compelled to."
"And our feeling is," laughed Fred somewhat ruefully, "that any time we spend here is wasted."
"I think you'll have to stay," said the man as he went back and stepped on board his skiff.
He then pushed out from the shore and speedily resumed his place on board the motor-boat.
The anchor was hauled in and in a brief time the fleet little craft had resumed its voyage, headed now for the southern point of Western Duck Island.
"That beats anything I have ever seen.
I tell you, Fred, there's something wrong here.
Don't you think we had better go back in the woods and see if we cannot find that man who came out of there a little while ago?"
"We might as well do that as anything," assented Fred, and quickly climbing the bank once more, they started across the field which intervened between them and the woods.
As nearly as possible they were following the path taken by the others some time before.
They had not gone far, however, before John suddenly stopped and picked up an envelope which he saw lying on the ground.
"Of all things in the world!"
he exclaimed.
"What do you think of this?"
Handing the envelope to Fred he called his attention to the name typewritten on the outside: "Mr.
Button."
"That's for you, Fred," laughed John.
"If it is," said Fred, "then somebody had the pleasure of reading my letter before I did."
"The envelope has been opened," suggested John; "suppose you read the letter.
It may be for you.
Very likely some of the people here heard you were coming and they are getting ready to welcome us.
This is the royal proclamation for you.
That man told us we're on an island and if we are I guess Robinson Crusoe didn't have very much on us."
Fred meanwhile was reading the letter and it was manifest from his expression that he was startled or puzzled by what he read.
At last he handed the letter to John, simply saying, "Our patriotic and mysterious friend has made another mistake.
This letter is not for me but for Mr. Ferdinand Button."
"What do you suppose it is doing here?"
"I don't know," replied Fred, "unless the man dropped it."
"But he's not Mr. Ferdinand Button," protested John.
"No more he isn't," acknowledged Fred, "but that isn't the only strange thing about it.
Read the letter, John, anyway."
Thus bidden, John read the following letter,-Dear Sir: I enclose you an envelope with my address.
Send my your answer as soon as you possible this afternoon.
I will get it in Macinac tonight or tomorrow morning and will immediately come to see you.
To deliver you this gang which rob United States of thousands of dollars each year.
I only want two things.
1st.
My ticket to Montreal and back.
2nd.
My passage to Europe by way of the Azores Isles.
I do not want money.
You will pay me _when the gang is in your hands_.
You will get it this afternoonday.
Do not fail to send me your answer quick.
If you do so I will have the gang in your lands in 2 weeks.
They are 2 men and 1 woman and they smuggle by ways you are not at all suspicious.
Truly yours, "Mr. Button certainly has a good many friends and they are trying to keep him well informed.
What do you make of this anyway, Fred?"
"I don't make much of anything," said Fred thoughtfully.
"What's the use of going any farther?
Let's go back and take our skiff and see if we can't get somewhere.
The lake is smooth this morning and we may be able to get back as far as Drummond or Cockburn Island."
When the boys returned to the shore the motor-boat had disappeared from sight.
This strange disappearance, however, was not so confusing to the boys as the discovery they speedily made concerning the skiff which they themselves had left on the shore of the cove.
CHAPTER XV A SIGNAL OF DISTRESS "Where did that sail come from?"
demanded John, as he stopped abruptly and looked in astonishment at the little skiff.
Thrown carelessly across it was a sail and small mast.
"Where did they come from?"
he repeated.
"I didn't put them there," replied Fred.
"Who did then?"
"I don't know any more about it than you do."
"Well, somebody has been good to us and tried to help us get away from this deserted island.
What did that man say the name of it is?"
"Western Duck Island.
There are a half-dozen of these islands, I remember now."
"I shan't feel very badly if I never see nor hear of them again."
"We're all right now.
We have a sail."
"Perhaps we are, though I haven't forgotten that that little Jap said we are forty miles from Mackinac."
"What is forty miles to fellows who have got a boat and a sail?"
While the two boys were talking they had adjusted the mast and rigged the little leg-of-mutton sail.
It was plain to both boys that if conditions continued favorable they had found an easier way by which they could return to their hotel than by trying to row.
"Come on," called Fred cheerily, his courage now having returned in full measure.
"Come on.
Don't let's stay here any longer than we have to."
"I'm with you," responded John.
"Now who's going to sail this boat first?"
"You are, by unanimous consent; I think it will be safer for the crew to have you sitting in the stern than it will be to have you crawling around the bow."
The mystery of the sail had not been explained, but whoever had left it plainly had intended that it should be used.
The wind was light but the little skiff drew rapidly away from the shore of Western Duck Island, and as he glanced behind him Fred said, "I feel almost as Columbus must have felt when he set forth in his three tubs to find a new world."
"I never knew that Columbus sailed in three boats before," laughed John.
"I didn't mean that Columbus himself sailed in three boats, at least at the same time.
I used his name as the name of his whole party.
I forgot for the minute what kind of material I was dealing with."
"Never you mind that," retorted John.
"You just watch me while I sail this boat.
I'm going to head her up the shore toward Drummond Island.
If we can make that I think we'll be all right for the rest of the way."
"And if we don't make it what are you going to do?"
said Fred more seriously.
"It'll be time enough for me to explain to you, my friend, when the occasion arrives.
Meanwhile just see how smoothly we are speeding on our way."
"You're almost a poet," laughed Fred, "and there isn't wind enough to lift a feather.
I think I'll take the oars and row."
John offered no objection and Fred accordingly seated himself and began to row.
The day was warm and the beams of the sun, which now was high in the eastern sky, were strongly reflected from the smooth waters of Lake Huron.
Indeed, it was not long before the wind died away and the boys were nearly becalmed.
"We're almost as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean, aren't we, Jack?"
demanded Fred.
"No, we are not," said John.
"Not at all, thank you.
We're not idle and we're not going to be.
I'm going to have my crew keep on rowing."
"I hope you'll set a good example."
"That's just what I intend to do," said John.
"You change places with me and I'll show you how the thing ought to be done."
Without expressing the thought in his mind each boy was keeping a sharp outlook over the waters for the swift little _Gadabout_.
Both somehow were expecting that the motor-boat either had not departed from the region or would surely return when morning came.
An hour or more had elapsed, however, and no trace of the _Gadabout_ had been discovered.
Far away over the waters the faint trace of smoke left by the passing lake steamers could be seen.
"This is a great job we have been thrown into, isn't it, Jack?"
demanded Fred at last.
"Yes, I think it is," acknowledged John.
"That letter of yours seems to make it worse, though.
For the life of me I cannot understand how it came to Western Duck Island."
"Maybe that man dropped it," suggested Fred.
"Do you mean the smuggler?"
"I guess that's what he is all right.
I don't know what his name is yet, but I mean the man that has a house over there on Cockburn Island."
"That's the man I mean," said John.
"I think he's a smuggler.
He may be, but the thing that puzzles me most is how he got your letter, if he was the one that dropped it over here on Western Duck Island."
"Yes, that's hard to explain," assented Fred, "but I guess if we knew more about it we wouldn't find it quite so hard."
"What do you mean?
Do you think that man wrote the letter?"
"No, I don't."
"Well, then what do you mean?"
"I guess I don't mean very much of anything.
Fred, do you see how this boat is leaking?"
Startled by the abrupt question, Fred glanced quickly at the spot in the bottom of the boat which the little Japanese had repaired.
The water certainly was coming into the boat.
"What do you think, Jack?"
demanded Fred quickly.
"Shall we try to go back?"
"Is that the direction in which we usually go?"
retorted John.
"I would rather go back than go down."
"But I would rather go ahead than either."
"But the boat is certainly leaking.
We have seen one storm on the lake and we don't want to be caught in another, especially with a leaking old tub like this."
"There isn't any storm and we aren't caught yet.
Besides, I feel a little puff of wind," John added, as he turned his face in the direction from which the wind appeared to be coming.
John had been rowing for a half-hour or longer, and perspiration was streaming down his face.
Close to the water the air was cool, but as there was no breeze it was well-nigh impossible for any one working as hard as John had been to cool himself quickly.
"There's a little puff," he added, and once more the sail was hoisted and for a little while the skiff moved steadily forward.
"John," suggested Fred a little later, "I think the best thing for us to do is to try to get in the course of those lake boats.
We can't see the shore of Duck Island any longer and if we go far enough over to the west and our skiff sinks, it may be that some one of those boats will pick us up."
Whether or not it was the swifter action of the skiff the leak steadily was becoming more apparent.
Indeed, after a brief time Fred said, "Is there anything on board we can use to bail this boat?"
"I haven't seen anything," answered John, and a hasty search quickly revealed the fact that there was no implement on board which could be used in the manner indicated by Fred.
The latter, however, taking his cap did his utmost to dip out the water, which was steadily increasing in the bottom of the skiff, into the lake.
His efforts were unavailing, however, and in a brief time the boy, now thoroughly alarmed, arose and said, "I tell you, Jack, this boat isn't going to stay afloat very long."
John made no reply, but as he turned to look behind him Fred also glanced in that direction, but the island from which they had departed had long since disappeared from sight.
Far away in the west occasional trails of smoke could be seen, although both boys were aware that doubtless such indications of the passing of the steamers came within their vision long after the vessels themselves had disappeared from the region.
It was speedily becoming manifest that the boys would be compelled to struggle desperately in order to keep their sinking craft afloat.
They both clearly understood that they were Go Ahead Boys and were not to give up easily, but the water was entering faster now and the peril consequently became more threatening with every passing moment.
Almost in despair John looked toward the low lying streak of dark cloud in the west which he clearly understood indicated the course of a passing lake-boat.
The mast meanwhile had been taken down and no attempt was made to sail.
"Let's throw that thing overboard," suggested Fred in a voice sounding strangely, even in his own ears.
"What thing?"
"Why, the mast and sail."
"Cut the sail and throw it overboard," ordered John, "but save the mast as long as you can."
"What for?"
demanded Fred.
"Hand me your handkerchief and I'll show you," answered John.
Speedily tying his own handkerchief to Fred's he then fastened both to the top of the mast.
"Somebody may see our signal of distress," he explained.
"Pull, Fred!
Pull for all you're worth!"
he hastily added.
"We've got to get nearer the boats if we ever make shore."
While Fred rowed, John was doing his utmost to bail the boat.
He was using his hands and his cap, but even with his utmost endeavors the depth of the water in the slowly moving skiff did not decrease.
Both boys were toiling desperately now.
Their faces were red and streaked with perspiration.
There was no evading the fact, however, that in spite of all their efforts their progress still was slow and the peril of sinking was steadily increasing.
At the mast-head floated the signal of distress.
Neither of the boys was speaking now and the silence that rested on the great stretch of waters was unbroken.
CHAPTER XVI THE SINKING SKIFF "We shan't be able to stay on board much longer," said Fred in a low voice.
John made no reply, but his colorless face was clearly seen by his companion, who was fully aware of the anxiety in the heart of his friend.
Steadily the little boat was sinking into the waters of Lake Huron.
The boys now were wet to their waists and it was manifest that they would not much longer be able to remain in the little skiff.
"Maybe she won't sink," called Fred.
"Perhaps we can keep afloat if we hang to her after she settles down."
Still John made no response.
Not very long before he had been the one to try to cheer his companion.
He it was who had declared that they had never learned to go backward and that they must be Go Ahead Boys to the end.
"There's no use, Jack," called Fred.
"We can't stay here any longer.
Get your shoes off, if you can."
With difficulty each boy removed his shoes and unmindful of his sweater and their other belongings prepared to leap into the lake.
"You take the bow, Jack, and I'll hang to the stern," called Fred.
"If we each put only one hand on the boat, she may stay afloat long enough to keep us from sinking.
Don't lose your head.
Just remember that we aren't through this fight yet."
Both boys were expert swimmers, although their skill now was of slight avail.
It was impossible for them to see the shore of the island from which they had departed and only the low-lying trails of dark smoke indicated what might be on the water far to the west.
Together the boys leaped into the water.
The boat partly righted itself when it was relieved of its burden, but it was so full of water that only a few inches below the gunwale appeared above the surface.
"Come on, Jack," called Fred as the boys arose to the surface, "let's turn this tub over so that it will be bottom upward.
Maybe it will stay afloat then."
Fred was peering anxiously at his friend, fearful that his courage had gone and that he would be compelled to exert himself to his utmost in order to force John to any action.
Whether or not it was the effect of the cool water, John's courage apparently had returned.
At all events in response to the call of his friend he swam quickly toward the boat.
Acting upon the directions of Fred he placed one hand on the bow while Fred seized the stern.
"Now turn her over," called Fred and under the united action of the boys the leaking boat speedily reversed its position and lay upon the water, keel upward.
"We can keep afloat here all day," said Fred, speaking with a confidence he was far from feeling.
"We'll have to be careful, but if we rest only one hand on the boat that will keep us afloat and I don't believe she'll sink."
Both were aware now of the desperate plight in which they found themselves.
There were no indications of help within sight and each understood that unless help came before sunset they were likely to become so chilled by their long stay in the cool waters that they would be unable longer to retain their hold.
Before the mind of Fred there came a momentary vision of his far away home.
For an instant he fancied he could imagine the scene when the report was received there of the loss of their boy.
"Jack," he called, his voice breaking in spite of his efforts at self-control, "if anything happens to either of us it is understood, isn't it, that the other fellow will send word?"
It was John's turn now to manifest a strong determination and facing his friend he said, "Don't give up the ship yet!
We have most of the day before us and something will happen."
"I wish we could get that mast over yonder and rig it on the bottom of the skiff.
Perhaps some one might see that when they couldn't see us.
We are so close to the water."
"That's a good suggestion," said John.
"We're going ahead yet."
Quickly releasing his grasp John swam toward the floating mast, which had been lost when the skiff was overturned.
He easily secured it and swam back to the overturned skiff.
"Can you break a hole in the bottom, Jack?"
asked Fred.
"I don't know; I'll try it," responded John.
Pounding upon the bottom of the skiff where it had been broken when the boat had struck the rock, he succeeded in making a hole big enough to enable him to thrust the mast into the place.
"Never mind the handkerchiefs," called Fred; "they will dry out and will be floating in the breeze pretty soon.
Now the main thing for us to do is simply to hang on and wait until somebody sees that signal of distress."
The moments passed slowly and to both boys there came an increasing fear that their plight was not likely to attract the attention of passing boats.
Indeed, apparently there were no boats passing nearby.
The low clouds of smoke in the distance were tantalizing in their effect upon the minds of the watching boys.
They had no means of estimating the passing of the time.
Occasionally they glanced toward the sky into which the sun was steadily mounting, but they were neither in a condition to reflect calmly and so were unable to decide whether they had been in the water an hour or longer.
To their delight the skiff seemed to be easily able to hold them up in the water.
Occasionally Fred let go his hold and swam about in the water to 'start his circulation once more.'
Both were becoming chilled, although it was not yet midday.
At last the sun reached the zenith and slowly began its descent.
The boys now were silent, for conversation had ceased long before this time.
Each was watching the other, fearful that the strength of his friend was giving out.
In such an event he was aware that he would be unable to render any positive assistance, as his own strength was steadily departing.
"Look yonder," said Fred in a low voice when another hour had elapsed.
As he spoke he glanced behind him and John quickly looked in the direction he indicated.
Not very far distant was a lake boat which apparently was passing far out of the usual course of the steamers.
"Do you suppose," inquired Fred, "if we should shout together we might make them hear?"
"We can try it," answered John.
Accordingly both boys united in a loud and prolonged call.
For a time it seemed to both of them that their efforts were unavailing.
The ungainly boat was so far away that it was well-nigh impossible for either to determine whether or not it had veered slightly in its course.
Convinced that their cry had not been heard both again lapsed into silence though each was still eagerly watching the movements of the distant vessel.
Several minutes had passed when John said eagerly, "Fred, I believe that boat is coming this way."
For a moment Fred was silent as he peered still more eagerly at the lake boat.
"I don't see it," he said disconsolately.
"I cannot find that she's any nearer than she was."
"Well, I think it is," affirmed John sturdily.
"Hang on and we'll see if she doesn't come to us."
John's confident statement, however, was not fulfilled.
As if it was unmindful of the peril or the presence of the two boys in their plight, the boat continued steadily on its way until it disappeared from sight.
Neither of the boys spoke, but their feeling of depression was steadily deepening.
"There's a loaded boat coming from the other direction," said John after another hour had elapsed.
"That's out of its course, too.
Let's try it again."
As soon as Fred had looked eagerly in the direction indicated by John he saw another lake boat standing high in the water and evidently bound northward.
It was plain that it was not loaded as heavily as the boat which had disappeared in the opposite direction and it also was moving much more rapidly.
"Let's try another yell," suggested John when at last the boat was on a line parallel with their own.
The call of the boys was hoarse and not so loud as the one in which they had united in their former effort.
After several attempts the boys waited breathlessly, while in an anxiety they could not express they watched the ungainly craft as it sped over the lake.
"John," called Fred suddenly, "I believe that tub is changing its course and is coming in our direction."
John made no response, but when a few moments had elapsed it was plain that for some reason the boat had veered in its course and swinging to the right was plainly coming nearer to the place where the boys were clinging to the skiff.
On and still on came the noisy steamer until the strokes of its blades in the water could be distinctly heard.
Several times the boys united in shouts, but at last it was plainly manifest that their signal of distress had been discovered and that the lake boat had turned to rescue the victims of the sinking skiff.
Not long afterward a yawl was lowered from the boat and two men took their places at the oars.
With strong and steady sweeps they drew near the boys and not many minutes afterward quickly dragged both on board the yawl.
The reaction had come to both John and Fred and neither was able to sit erect.
Their teeth were chattering as if both were suffering from an ague.
Indeed, neither boy was fully aware of the events which were occurring until at last they were somehow brought on board the lake boat.
There were willing hands to assist them there and speedily they were taken below, where their wet clothing was removed and after a thorough rub-down by rough but friendly hands they were placed in bunks and covered with blankets.
CHAPTER XVII THE RESCUE OF THE GADABOUT Meanwhile on the _Gadabout_ George and Grant were having experiences that by no means added to their peace of mind.
For a time they had waited with such patience as they could command for the return of their friends.
But when the minutes became hours and there still was no sign of the coming of Fred and John both boys began to be anxious.
The little _Gadabout_ had been steadily drifting with the slowly moving current and in the dim light it was no longer possible to discern the outline of the shore which Fred and John had been seeking.
The feeling of uneasiness steadily increased.
"What do you suppose has happened to those boys?"
inquired Grant of his friend.
"I don't believe anything has happened to them," replied George.
"I think that's just the trouble.
They haven't found the shore, or any one to help."
"Well, then why don't they come back?"
"I can't tell you.
You know as much about that as I do."
"Well, I'm afraid they're lost," said Grant disconsolately.
"I don't believe anything very serious can happen to them even if they have lost their way," said George, striving to speak with an assurance he did not fully share.
"Even if they stay out there until morning," he continued, "they wouldn't have anything to be afraid of.
And then they would be able to find somebody that would pick them up and take them back to Mackinac.
Very likely we'll find them there when we get back ourselves."
"But suppose a storm comes up," suggested Grant.
"Well, don't begin to worry until the wind begins to blow," said George testily.
The fear of the same event was in his own mind, but he resented the suggestion of his companion.
"I think it is about time for us to be getting worried about ourselves," said George at last, when the first faint streaks of the dawn were seen in the eastern sky.
"Fred and John at least can be moving while we are here as helpless as a rat in a trap."
"What do you make of him?"
inquired Grant in a whisper, nodding toward Mr. Button as he spoke.
He was still seated near the wheel and had given but slight attention to his companions.
Evidently he was anxious concerning something, though what it was that disturbed him was still not clear to his two young companions.
"What do you think, Mr.
Button?"
called George.
"What's become of the boys?"
"Huh!
What's that you say?"
inquired Mr. Button, sitting quickly erect.
"What do you think has become of Jack and Fred?"
"I don't know," replied Mr. Button vaguely.
"Where did they go?"
"Why, they left in the skiff," explained Grant.
"They have been gone three or four hours anyway."
"Why don't they come back?"
inquired Mr. Button.
"That's what we want to know.
We're afraid they are lost."
"Well, they won't be lost very long," said Mr. Button.
"Somebody will pick them up and take them back to Mackinac Island.
That isn't more than forty miles away anyhow."
"Well, we're afraid somebody may not find them," said Grant.
"We don't see any boats anywhere around here."
As he spoke the boy stood erect and looked in all directions over the smooth waters of Lake Huron.
As was the case with Fred and John the only indications of boats anywhere in the vicinity were the long low trails of smoke that could be seen far in the west.
"How are we going to get back, Mr.
Button?"
inquired George.
"I don't know," replied Mr. Button.
"I think we'll have to wait for somebody to pick us up."
"But there isn't any boat anywhere around here," protested Grant.
"There may be before night," said Mr. Button quietly.
"And besides we cannot do anything to call any one."
"We might try yelling together," suggested George.
Mr. Button smiled, but made no response.
"If we had some oars or a little sail we might do something," suggested Grant.
"I'm going to look around and see if there isn't a sail on board anywhere."
His search was unrewarded, however, and at last when Grant returned it was agreed that their only hope was in being recognized by some passing vessel.
The anxiety of the two boys for the safety of their missing comrades was not relieved when later in the afternoon a lake boat changing its course approached the place where they were lying.
Evidently they had been discovered by the captain, who was still holding his glasses in his hand as the boat drew near.
"I found a megaphone under the seat," suggested Grant.
"Where is it?
Go get it," suggested George.
In a moment Grant was again on deck and handed the megaphone to Mr. Button.
"Ahoy, there!"
he called.
"Will you give us a tow?"
"Who are you?"
came back the answer from the deck of the huge boat.
"There are three of us and our motor-boat broke down last night."
"How long have you been here?"
"Why, since midnight anyway.
You are the first boat that has come anywhere near us."
"And it's just by luck that we saw you.
What will you do, come aboard?"
"No," answered Mr. Button, "if you'll give us a line we would rather have you tow us.
Are you going anywhere near Mackinac Island?"
"Yes," answered the captain.
"We're bound straight for there.
I don't know that we shall stop, but we'll fix it so that you can get ashore if you want to."
"That will do splendidly," called Mr. Button.
In a brief time the two boats were near enough to enable a sailor to cast a rope to the _Gadabout_.
After one or two attempts this was successfully seized and then made fast.
As the lake boat swung around to resume its course, the _Gadabout_, one hundred feet or more astern, followed.
"I hate to go back and leave the other fellows out here," said George when they began to move swiftly over the waters.
"You don't need to worry about them," said Mr. Button.
"If we could see them anywhere that would be one thing, but they have disappeared from sight.
They have a good skiff and I think I heard you say that they both were Go Ahead Boys.
If they are, they will get out of their trouble all right."
"I'm sure I hope so," said George dubiously.
The conversation, however, ceased, and for a time all three were silent.
The clear waters of Lake Huron bubbled and seethed as they were cut by the bow of the swift little motor-boat.
The huge lake boat evidently was not carrying a load and its speed accordingly was unhampered.
Doubtless the giant boat was returning to Duluth for another cargo of wheat or iron.
The progress was uninterrupted so that by the middle of the afternoon the high, rocky shores of Mackinac Island became visible in the distance.
At that moment the captain appeared at the stern of the lake boat and raising his megaphone to his mouth, called, "Do you want us to land you?"
"No," replied Mr. Button also speaking through a megaphone, "we'll find somebody that will take us in.
If you're not going to land there you needn't stop on our account.
How much do we owe you?"
"You don't owe us anything," called the captain.
"We're glad to lend a hand.
Whenever you say the word you can cast off and we'll haul in."
A half-hour later Mr. Button announced through his megaphone that the time had arrived when there was no longer need for them to be towed.
They could plainly see the yachts in the harbor and the people moving along the streets.
To enter the harbor would compel the huge boat to change its course, an act which no one desired.
Accordingly after hailing the crew and expressing the thanks of himself and his companions for the aid they had received, Mr. Button gave the word and the little _Gadabout_ was set free from the great steamer.
Another motor-boat near by, the occupants of which were deeply interested spectators of what was occurring, at once took the _Gadabout_ in tow and noisily proceeded toward the wharf which was not more than two hundred yards away.
There were many questions asked of the rescued party, all of which were promptly answered, but as soon as the boys landed they at once began to make inquiries for a boat which could be chartered for a search for their missing friends.
At last, however, they listened to the persuasions of Mr. Button and went up to the hotel where they obtained a dinner, which satisfied them after their long fast.
Then, quickly returning to the dock they found their boat awaiting them and at once stepped on board.
Already they had explained to the owner the peril of the friends and the reason why they had chartered the swiftest boat which could be obtained.
"We'll be there before long," said the captain confidently.
"Have you brought anything for your friends to eat?"
"Yes, we have a basket full here," explained George, pointing to a hamper which one of the waiters from the hotel had placed on board.
"We thought they would be hungry so we got it ready."
"That's all right, they will be," said the captain.
"You don't suppose anything has happened to them, do you?"
inquired George anxiously.
"That's something no man knows," replied the captain not unkindly, "but we'll soon find out."
CHAPTER XVIII THE SEARCH FOR THE LOST BOYS The impatience of the boys was manifest when the swift little boat set forth on its voyage.
Already they had made thorough investigations about the island, but not a word concerning their missing friends had been heard.
The anxiety of both George and Grant was well-nigh overpowering, although both did their utmost to heed the comforting words of the captain of the little yacht.
"Don't you worry none," he said cheerily.
"Them boys will take care of themselves.
It was a ca'm night and the only way those fellows could git into trouble would be by trying to run into it."
"That's what Fred may have done," said George dryly.
"If there's anything of that kind around he usually finds it."
"I guess you'll find the boys all right," affirmed the captain.
Striving to calm their fears the boys gazed out over the smooth waters.
For two days now the surface of Lake Huron had been almost unruffled.
Such gentle breezes as were blowing produced only the slightest ripple on the surface.
In the clear waters, objects on the shore were reflected almost as in a mirror.
None of these things, however, was in the thoughts of the two boys as they watched the bluffs of Mackinac Island fade away in the distance.
They had done their utmost to describe to their captain the location in which they had left their friends the preceding night.
That bluff individual had heartily declared that he understood just where the accident had occurred, but somehow his confidence was not fully shared by either of his passengers.
"He tries to make up for what he doesn't know by stating with all his might the things he does know," said George in a low voice to Grant when the boys had taken their seats near the stern of the boat.
"That's what some people say," answered Grant.
"'A lie well stuck to is as good as the truth.'"
"I don't believe that," said George.
"Don't believe what?"
"That a lie ever is as good as the truth."
"I didn't say that.
I said a lie well stuck to was as good as the truth."
"I don't believe it is ever right to lie."
"Well, I do," said Grant positively.
"When?"
"Why, if you were dreadfully sick and it would be a shock to you to know that you were likely to die I think it would be all right to lie and tell you that you looked well."
"I would know that was a lie just as soon as you said it," laughed George, "but I wouldn't lie even then."
"What would you do?"
"I would do nothing."
"Well, suppose you had to say something."
"I would say what I thought was true."
"Wouldn't you lie if the doctor told you to?"
"No.
I tell you I don't believe a lie is ever right."
"I don't believe in lieing in general, but I can see times when I think it might be all right."
"The trouble is, when a fellow begins he goes ahead.
He doesn't stop with lies that may not be so bad, but he keeps on and tries it in a good many other ways.
No, sir, I haven't any use for a liar.
If I give my word I intend to keep it."
Conversation ceased and both boys anxiously were peering before them.
The captain already had explained that they were doubtless near the shore of Western Duck Island where their accident had occurred and their companions had been lost.
He had explained also that in his judgment it was wisest to go again to the same spot as nearly as possible and there begin their search for the missing boys.
He sturdily maintained his feeling that the boys were not "lost," a confidence, however, that was not shared by his passengers as the boat swiftly sped across the surface of the shining waters.
"I sometimes think the captain is right," said George thoughtfully.
"Last night was as calm as a night could well be and, as he said, if the fellows got into trouble they must have tried to look it up."
"I agree with you," said Grant, although the tones of his voice failed to show any strong conviction.
"Don't you worry none about them boys," called the captain again as he saw George and Grant anxiously conferring.
"If they are any kind of boys they will take care of themselves.
Why, I wouldn't give much for a lad that couldn't protect himself in such a night as last night was.
Up on Mackinac Island I have known people who lived for months on fried snowballs.
They are not very good as a diet, but they help to keep people from thinking too much about their troubles."
Neither of the boys responded to the flippant words of their captain, although both were aware that he was speaking out of the kindness of his heart.
When nearly three hours had elapsed after they had departed from Mackinac the captain, once more turning to his passengers, said, "Yonder lie the shores of Western Duck Island."
As he spoke he pointed to a low lying strip of land that could be seen far in advance of them.
"My opinion is," he continued, "that those boys didn't stay out in their boat all night.
Maybe they landed."
"Is anybody living on the island?"
said George quickly.
"Not regular.
This time of the year though there may be parties camping out.
A bit later in the fall there are plenty of people there shooting ducks."
"That doesn't do us any good," retorted George.
"What we want is to find out where those fellows are now and if they got any help on the island."
"You wait a bit," rejoined the captain, "and we'll find out."
Swiftly the little motor-boat approached the shores of the island they were seeking.
It too passed the long strip of rushes which had been seen the preceding night by John and Fred in their attempts to find a landing place.
The motor-boat at last came to anchor off a rocky shore and at the suggestion of the captain George and Grant climbed into the skiff and hastily casting off at once rowed ashore.
"I'll wait for you here," called the captain as the boys clambered up on the bank.
"I shouldn't be gone more than an hour.
Come back and we'll try it farther down the shore."
The boys agreed to return within the specified time and then after peering eagerly all about them together started toward the woods they could see in the distance.
Just why they walked in this direction neither could explain, but there was somehow a thought in the mind of each that possibly within its shelter a camp or a house might be found.
The hour passed and all the efforts of the searching boys were unrewarded.
Not a trace of their missing friends had they discovered.
"It's plain enough they aren't here," said George dejectedly.
"That's right," answered Grant, "we've called and shouted and whistled and looked and walked and waited, but we haven't anything for all our pains.
I'm beginning to believe the boys aren't here."
"I agree with you as far as this spot is concerned," said George, "but we ought to go on farther down the island before we go back to Mackinac."
"That's right," agreed Grant.
"Let's go back to the motor-boat now."
Quickly the two boys started to return to the place where the captain was awaiting their coming.
They had gone but a short distance, however, before at George's suggestion they turned to their left and moved toward a sandy stretch of shore which they saw in the distance.
"Maybe we'll find a footprint the same as Robinson Crusoe found on his island," suggested George striving to speak lightly.
The suggestion was followed and great was the surprise of both boys when they drew near the winding sandy shore of a large cove to see swiftly approaching from the south a motor-boat in the distance.
"Look yonder!"
said Grant excitedly seizing his friend by his shoulder as he spoke, and pointing in the direction in which he had discovered the approaching boat.
"That isn't our boat, is it?"
"No," answered George positively after a brief silence.
"Our boat is up the shore farther."
"Maybe Fred and John are on board."
"That's something nobody knows.
We'll soon find out."
Quickening the pace at which they were walking the two boys soon arrived at the place they were seeking.
Save for an occasional comment the silence was unbroken while they both anxiously watched the motor-boat which could be seen swiftly approaching.
Indeed the little boat was marvelously swift and in a brief time the boys were aware that there was only one person on board.
"The fellow is in a hurry anyway," suggested Grant.
"Even if he doesn't know what he wants he wants it right away."
At that moment the sound of the footsteps of some one in their rear startled both the young watchers and as they glanced behind them they discovered a man approaching.
Apparently he had come from the woods where they had begun their search for their missing friends, but it was quickly manifest that he was as startled by his discovery of the presence of the boys as they had been at his coming.
For a moment it seemed to both George and Grant that the man was about to turn and flee from the spot.
However, apparently he thought better and at once advanced toward the place where the boys were standing.
At the same moment the boys looked again at the approaching boat and to the surprise of both of them they recognized the man at the wheel as the one in whose house they had been received on Cockburn Island several days before.
What the coming of the man implied neither of the boys understood, but at that moment, however, the man who had approached from the woods shouted in his loudest tones to George and Grant.
Startled by the unexpected sound the two boys instantly turned and fled quickly from the spot.
CHAPTER XIX SUSPICIOUS CHARACTERS So wearied were Fred and John by the exciting experiences of the day that as soon as they were left to themselves they were sound asleep.
How long they had slept neither was aware when at last both awoke.
The little cabin was dark except for a faint light streaming in through the open porthole.
"Where are we, Jack?"
called Fred in a low voice.
"Why, don't you know?"
replied John.
"We're on board that boat that picked us up."
"Oh, yes, I remember now.
How are you?"
"All right I guess, though I feel as if I had been breaking stones or lifting weights all my life."
"I guess you wouldn't feel that way if you really had," responded Fred lightly.
"A fellow's muscles would get used to the work if he had to do it all the time.
Where do you suppose we are?"
"I haven't any idea.
We're moving, though, all the time, that's plain."
"Yes, I can hear the swash of the water.
I wonder if we are anywhere near Mackinac Island."
"Let's go up and find out," suggested John and hastily the boys left their bunk and made their way to the deck.
The stars were shining and it was manifest to the boys that the morning light had not yet appeared.
Perceiving a man near the stern of the boat they at once approached him and made known their presence.
"Where are we?"
inquired Fred.
"We'll be in Sault Ste.
Marie in about a half an hour."
"What!"
exclaimed Fred.
"That's right, lad," said the sailor.
"When did we pass Mackinac Island?"
"Mackinac Island!
Why we left that a good many hours ago."
"Why didn't you stop and put us off?"
"We don't make any stop anywhere.
I guess the captain told you that we couldn't stop there.
That doesn't make any difference, however, we'll be in Sault Ste.
Marie pretty soon and then you boys can stop all you want to."
"How shall we get back to Mackinac?"
inquired John.
"I can't say," laughed the sailor, who appeared to regard the plight of the boys more or less as a joke.
"My suggestion would be to wait there and when one of the line boats come through go back on that.
There will be one out somewhere about noon."
"Probably that's the best we can do," said Fred meekly.
"You say we'll be there in about a half an hour?"
"Yes."
The boys at once returned to their cabin, but to their dismay they discovered that the clothes in which they had been rescued were still too wet to be donned.
"There's no help for it," said John disconsolately.
"If this old tub stops long enough at Sault Ste.
Marie we can go ashore even in these togs we have on.
Come on back on deck and we'll find out how long the stop is."
Returning to the deck the boys learned that the boat on which they were sailing was to remain six hours at Sault Ste.
Marie.
"That's all right," said Fred as he and John withdrew to another part of the deck.
"We'll go ashore just as we are and before the boat sails we'll have a chance to change our clothes."
The boys were interested in spite of their predicament in the low lying shores past which they were steadily moving.
It was sufficiently light to enable them to mark several parks, evidently playgrounds of the people of the little city which they were approaching.
True to the prophecy of the sailor the boat drew alongside a dock within the half-hour.
Again assuring themselves that the vessel would not depart within six hours, the boys at once leaped ashore and started together up the wide street upon which they now found themselves.
There were low buildings on each side and to their surprise the boys were soon aware that many people were moving about the street although it was not yet three o'clock in the morning.
Among these strangers they noticed numbers of Indians.
This fact, together with the decorations of many of the buildings which were to be seen, indicated that either a festival or a holiday of some kind had been celebrated the preceding day, or that the city was preparing for some event of importance.
"We didn't pay the captain anything for bringing us up here," suggested John, as he and his companion slowly walked up the street.
"That's right," said Fred.
"Besides," he added hastily, "I haven't a cent of money in my pocket, have you?"
"Not in these pockets," laughed John, whose spirits now had returned.
"We'll have to go back and get some money if we are going to get any breakfast."
"But I haven't any money in my other pockets," said Fred ruefully.
"And I haven't either," added John laughing as he spoke.
"I didn't think we would want any money yesterday so I didn't take any with me."
"My mother would say that this is another good lesson.
She says I am all the while out of money and I ought to have enough with me to provide for what I want."
"That's the difficulty," said John.
"It isn't so much getting the money as it is keeping it.
But this is no joke, Fred.
Neither of us has any money and I don't believe up here even at Sault Ste.
Marie they will give us something to eat unless we pay for it."
"I put my watch in my pocket," said Fred.
"I don't see anything for us to do except to hock that."
"Maybe some fellow that keeps a restaurant will take it as security and hold it until we can redeem it."
"We'll try that," said Fred quickly.
"I wish we could find some place open now."
"Perhaps we can, there are so many people on the street," said John.
"Come on let's go further on and try it."
In accordance with John's suggestion the boys walked rapidly up the street and soon to their delight they discovered a restaurant which evidently was being patronized at that early hour.
Several people could be seen seated at the small tables within the room, and, encouraged by the sight, the boys at once entered.
At the cashier's desk a woman was seated, but evidently she had been there throughout the night.
There were moments when her head nodded and she plainly was greatly in need of sleep.
At once approaching her Fred said, "We have been unfortunate."
"I'm afraid you're not the only ones," said the woman sitting quickly erect as she heard the unexpected statement.
"I guess that's right," laughed Fred, "but we fell into the lake and were picked up by a boat that did not stop until it got to Sault Ste.
Marie."
"Where did you want it to stop?"
inquired the woman.
"Mackinac Island."
"Where were you working there?"
she inquired.
"Working?"
laughed Fred.
"We weren't working at all.
We were staying at one of the hotels."
For a moment the woman glanced quickly at the young spokesman and then shaking her head began to laugh.
"What are you laughing at?"
demanded Fred irritated by her manner.
"I guess you had the parlor suit," said the woman still laughing at the boys before her.
"You look as if you belong to John Jacob Astor's family.
It may be that you look better than he did when he used to come there, but I guess you wouldn't pass for much more."
For the first time the boys were aware that the strange garb in which they were clad certainly did not imply that they had been guests at any prominent summer hotel.
Both suits were ill-fitting and worn, and if either had been plunged in soap and water within a year there was nothing in the garments to imply such action.
For a moment Fred was nonplussed and then hastily thrusting his hand into his pocket he drew forth his watch.
"How will that do?"
he said as he placed the gold watch on the desk.
It was a beautiful little time-piece, a present he had received on his sixteenth birthday from his father.
"You'll take that as security, I guess," he said lightly, "and when we get back to Mackinac Island we'll send you the money or come with it and get the watch."
Picking up the time-piece the woman gazed curiously at it and then again looking sharply at the boys she said, "Where did you get that?"
"It was a present," said Fred.
"Who gave it to you?"
"My father."
"Does he live on Fifth Avenue, New York?"
"He does not," said Fred slowly.
"Oh, I thought maybe he did," sniffed the woman.
"That's the kind of watches they have in New York City.
It isn't the kind that most of the roustabouts carry on the lakes."
"But I'm not a roustabout," said Fred.
"You don't need to say what you are," said the woman.
"All I can say is that I shan't take that watch.
I don't want the police in here."
"Police!"
exclaimed Fred.
"What do you mean?
What would the police come for?"
"For one thing they would come for the watch and another thing they would want would be the fellow that took it."
"Did you think I stole that watch?"
demanded Fred.
"I'm not saying nothing," said the woman.
"All I say is that if any boys on the lake are seen carrying watches like that it is most generally known how they got them.
My advice to you is to stick that watch in your pocket again and don't let anybody see it while you're in Sault Ste.
Marie."
"You needn't trouble yourself any more," said Fred as he took the watch and thrust it again into his pocket.
Then turning to John he said, "Come on, Jack, we won't stay here another minute."
When the boys were once more on the street Fred's indignation soon gave way to a feeling of alarm.
Not only were they without any means of securing breakfast, to say nothing of their passage back to Mackinac Island, but also they might be regarded as suspicious characters.
Evidently the woman keeper of the restaurant had believed they had stolen the watch.
"Never mind, Fred," suggested John.
"It will all come out right.
We'll try it again."
"We might pawn the watch," said Fred thoughtfully.
"But there's no pawn shop open."
"Well, there probably will be a little later.
There must be a good many such shops in a place like this.
I'm getting hungry."
"So am I," said John fervently, "but that doesn't do me any good.
There's another restaurant down yonder," he added quickly, pointing down the street as he spoke.
"It's almost light now and we might try it there."
"All right," said Fred.
"I'm not very hopeful, but they can't do any more than throw us out."
"Unless they arrest us as suspicious characters," suggested John somewhat ruefully.
"We'll never know until we try anyway," said Fred resolutely.
"Come on, Jack, we'll soon know what is going to happen to us.
If we get into jail we'll have to telegraph the boys to bail us out."
"But we don't know where the fellows are," declared John.
"That's as sure as you live.
I had almost forgotten about that.
We certainly are having our troubles on this trip, aren't we?"
By this time the boys had stopped in front of the restaurant they were seeking and at once entering they looked quickly about the room for the proprietor.
CHAPTER XX PENNILESS At once advancing toward the man whom they discovered walking about the room Fred said quietly, "My friend and I are in trouble.
We were out in a skiff yesterday and the little boat got to leaking so badly that we both of us had to stay in the water.
We were there a half-day, and then we were picked up by a boat which did not stop at Mackinac Island and brought us straight through to Sault Ste.
Marie."
"Where were you?"
inquired the man suspiciously as he glanced keenly at Fred.
"We were staying at Mackinac Island, but had gone over across to one of the islands on the Canadian shore."
"What were you doing there?"
"Looking for our friends."
"Where were they?"
"That's what we were trying to find out," said Fred ruefully.
"There were two other fellows with us and they got lost."
"And you want me to give you some breakfast, is that it?"
said the proprietor abruptly.
"No, we don't want you to 'give' us anything," retorted Fred.
"I have got my watch here and I thought perhaps if I left it as security you would let us have some breakfast.
We'll send you the money just as soon as we can go back to Mackinac.
These clothes we have on," he added as he perceived that the man was closely regarding their outfit, "were given us by the sailors that rescued us.
We have got some different clothes down at the dock, but they were soaked through and so some of the crew fixed us up as well as they could."
"What boat did you come on?"
"I don't know," said Fred, "it was almost dark and we weren't thinking about the name, we were so anxious to be taken on board.
After we had been in the water as long as we were we didn't stop for little things like that.
Will you take the watch and let us have some breakfast?"
Extending his hand the man took the watch and then examined it with interest.
"That's a good watch," he said after a brief silence.
"Of course it is," said Fred.
"My father gave it to me."
"You are sure that's the way you got it?"
"I'm telling you the truth," said Fred seriously.
He was in no mood now to resent any implications as to the method by which the watch had come into his possession.
The odor of breakfast was strong in the room and the appetites of both boys were so keen that other things were ignored.
"Yes, I'll take your watch," said the man.
"You give me your name and address."
As soon as these had been given the boys seated themselves at one of the tables and in a brief time were served with a simple breakfast.
It was marvelous, however, the amount of food which was eaten by the hungry lads.
It had been a long time since they had tasted anything of the kind and even the proprietor laughed as he saw the simple breakfast disappear.
At last, when the boys could eat no more and they were preparing to depart, the proprietor said, "Did you tell me that you were staying at Mackinac Island?"
"Yes, sir," answered Fred.
"At one of the hotels?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then my advice to you is to telegraph there for money."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Fred quickly.
"That's the very thing we'll do.
Come on, Jack," he added, turning to his companion.
"We'll go to the telegraph office right away.
Will you tell us where it is, please?"
he asked of the restaurant keeper.
Stepping outside his door the proprietor pointed to the office and after they had thanked him for his kindness John and Fred at once started for the place.
Their troubles, however, were not ended, for again they found their appearance decidedly against them.
The telegraph operator refused to take any message that should be paid for at Mackinac.
He also refused to listen to any of their explanations and in response to the appeals of the boys explained that he had to be governed by the rules of the office.
Even with all their protests and pleadings the boys were unable to induce the operator to change his decision.
He still refused to accept the message and as the boys were without money it was impossible for them to prepay it.
Fred and John when they withdrew from the telegraph office were not so disconsolate as they had been when they had met their first rebuff.
The ample breakfast they had secured had done much to bring back their courage and again they were Go Ahead Boys in earnest.
On the sidewalk the two boys stopped once more to think over their difficult condition.
"What shall we do now?"
asked John.
"Anybody can ask questions," laughed Fred.
"If I could answer it I would be very glad to."
"Have you anything to suggest?"
"Yes," replied Fred quickly as a sudden inspiration came to him, "it can't be very far from here to Mackinac Island.
Suppose we go back to the dock and see if we can't arrange for our passage."
"They will meet us with great enthusiasm," said John laughing slightly as he spoke.
"Probably they'll hail us as the very fellows they have been waiting for."
"But we won't look so much like tramps when we get our other clothes on."
"Maybe not," assented John, "but we'll have to find that out later.
Come on back and we'll see what we can do now."
When the boys returned to the dock their anger was almost as great as their surprise when they discovered that the boat in which they had come had resumed its voyage.
"And they said," declared Fred bitterly, "that they were going to hang up here six hours.
They have gone in less than three."
"Well, they are paid for our passage anyway.
They have got two suits of clothes and that's something."
"It is that," said Fred smiling ruefully as he spoke.
"Just now I think it's a good deal.
When I look at the things you have on, Jack, and then think of that beautiful suit sailing away over Lake Superior, I'm almost ready to weep!"
"Don't!
Don't!"
said John.
"It doesn't affect me that way.
When I see you as you are now and then think of you as I have seen you all dolled up and even your shoes polished, to say nothing of that red necktie you wear so frequently, I don't feel like weeping, I feel like yelling."
"It doesn't make any difference," said Fred.
"Our boat's gone.
Now what is the best thing for us to do?"
"To go ahead," said John.
"Come on then," said Fred briskly.
Together the two boys made inquiries at various places, but did not discover any boats leaving in the near future that would land them at the place they were seeking.
After several inquiries they were directed to the office of the great steamboats, which made the long voyage from Buffalo to Duluth and return.
The appearance of the boys, however, was so markedly against them that they were unsuccessful in arranging for their passage.
"It looks as if the Go Ahead Boys had gotten to the end of their journey," said John when the boys once more were on the street.
"Don't you believe that for a minute," said Fred.
"The only time it is necessary for a man to show that he has any grit is when he is in trouble.
If there weren't any hard things to be done there wouldn't be any need of a fellow bracing up to do them.
If everything was smooth and easy all the time everybody would get along.
It's just because the way is a little hard that there's need for us to go ahead.
We'll find a way yet, Jack.
Come on back to the dock."
Neither boy was disheartened when after three or four more attempts to arrange for a passage they found even their strongest pleadings without avail.
"We're simply up against it," said John.
"And that's the time to go ahead," declared Fred.
"Come on and we'll try that fellow yonder."
As he spoke he pointed toward a motor-boat at the lower end of the dock on which the boys were standing.
The boat was old and greatly in need of paint.
A disconsolate appearing individual whom the boys suspected to be the owner, manager, chief stockholder and captain of the little craft sat on the dock swinging his long legs over the water.
The boys were able to see that the man had bright red hair and that his face was covered with huge freckles or splotches of a dark, reddish brown hue.
He was apparently about thirty years of age, long, ungainly and awkward in his every action.
"Let's go see him," suggested Fred.
"He doesn't look as if he knew enough to run a boat even to the bottom," responded John, nevertheless joining his friend as they advanced toward the man.
"You didn't expect the most intellectual individual in the world to be running a tub like that, did you?"
demanded Fred, as they came nearer and obtained a closer view of the peculiar individual.
"If he knew more he wouldn't be around here in a worn-out old tub."
"Go ahead," laughed John, "I'll leave the interview to you."
"I'm glad to see that you have come to your senses at last," declared Fred soberly.
"It's a good thing sometimes to know that you don't know."
"That's right," retorted John, "and it's better yet not to know so many things that aren't so."
"You just listen," said Fred, as he turned toward the stranger who had glanced at the approaching boys and then resumed his former position.
"Good morning," called Fred cheerily.
"Hey?"
answered the man.
"I said good morning," repeated Fred striving to speak cheerfully.
"I hadn't noticed.
Is it?"
said the man glancing toward the sky as he spoke.
"Most of these mornings up here have been foggy.
We have had the worst weather this summer I ever see.
Seems to get worse all the time."
"Don't you know that Ruskin says there isn't any bad weather?
There are just different kinds of good weather."
"Ruskin, who's he?
I never heard tell o' him."
"He doesn't live here at the Sault," acknowledged Fred.
"Never mind the weather.
What I want to know is can you take us in your motor-boat to Mackinac Island?"
"I guess I can," said the man whose little reddish brown eyes narrowed as he gazed shrewdly at the boys as he spoke.
"Depends on whether you got the price or not."
"How much will you charge to take us?"
"Both of you?"
"Yes."
"I'll charge ten dollars."
"All right, we'll pay it."
"Will you pay it now?"
"No," said Fred.
"We'll pay you just as soon as you land us at Mackinac."
"How do I know you will?"
"You have our word for it."
"You don't look neither one of you as if that was too much of a load for you to carry alone."
The man's voice was nasal and high, and he did not smile while he was speaking.
The boys were unable to decide whether he was serious or was speaking lightly.
"If it's clothes you want," said Fred, "we'll show you some better ones just as soon as we get up to the hotel."
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said the man.
"I guess I'm a fool for my pains, but I got to go around by Cockburn Island.
If you want to go aboard and go with me I'll fetch you around to Mackinac for ten dollars.
I know I'm taking a big chance, but maybe you be too.
What do you say?"
"I say go ahead," answered Fred quickly.
CHAPTER XXI A VAGUE HINT "Go ahead it is," responded the skipper.
"I can be ready in five minutes.
Can you?"
"We're ready now," said John quickly.
"You know how it is," said the captain.
"Most always the passengers, if they want anything to eat on the way, put it on board before we start."
"Well, we cannot get anything to eat," said Fred.
"We told you why."
"So you did.
So you did," said the captain again speaking in his high nasal tones.
"Still I guess we'll be hungry before night.
Maybe I can find something.
You boys wait here until I go up the street and I'll be back in a few minutes."
When he had thus spoken the ungainly man took a basket on his arm and at once set forth on his errand.
Left to themselves the boys went on board the strange craft and the hasty inspection they made did not increase their confidence either in the boat or in its owner.
"It's about the only way there is," said John at last, "and we've got to take it.
It's Hobson's choice.
We can't stay here and we can't get passage on the big boats so we'll have to put up with what we can get."
"Next week," said Fred lightly, "we'll all be laughing about it.
I wouldn't mind this adventure at all if I was sure Grant and George are all right.
Every time I think of them I'm worried when I remember what you and I went through.
If that boat hadn't come along just as it did we might be at the bottom of Lake Huron."
"Well, we are not there," said John quickly.
"The fact is we are here and we wish we weren't.
If the other fellows were along with us I would like to go out yonder and shoot those rapids," he said pointing toward the swift rapids that were not far away.
Even while he was speaking a skiff, guided by an Indian, came swiftly through the tossing waters and approached the shore not far from the place where the boys were seated.
"That's right," joined in Fred heartily.
"I have a good mind to try it as it is."
"I guess you'll have to wait until you get your fortune changed so that you can pay a man a half-dollar for letting you shoot the rapids in his skiff."
"You're right, of course," said Fred.
"I never realized before what a convenience it is to have some change in your pocket.
Never again will I go out for a day's trip, no matter where it is, without having something in my purse."
"You mean as long as your father or some one else puts it in your purse."
"No, I don't mean anything of the kind," retorted Fred.
"You don't suppose I am always going to be dependent, do you?"
"I hadn't thought very much about it," laughed John.
"If you want my opinion, it is that--" Whatever John's judgment might be it was not expressed at the time for at that moment the tall skipper was seen returning to the dock.
"Well, I got enough to stay our stomachs a little while," said the captain as he swung the basket from his arm and deposited it under one of the seats in the motor-boat.
"It isn't the best kind and what such stylish young gentlemen as you be are used to."
It was plain to both boys that the skipper had not taken their explanations seriously and that he still was doubtful as to their real purpose.
However, he did not refer to his suspicions and in a brief time he had the motor-boat ready to set forth on its long voyage.
For a brief time after the boys departed from Sault Ste.
Marie their interest in the sights along the nearby shores was so keen that their own plight in a measure was forgotten.
Several times the little boat was tossed by the waves that were upturned by the passage of some large freight boat.
Occasionally they were hailed by people on board, for in the summer-time many of these freight boats carried a few passengers, making a delightful trip through the great lakes.
"I guess," said the skipper, at last turning to the boys, "that the best way for me to do will be to go down through St. Mary's River and then strike into the North Channel.
I'll keep close to the shore of Drummond Island and then I'll come around to Cockburn Island that way."
"Your tub,--I mean your motor-boat," said Fred correcting himself quickly, "doesn't seem to be making very fast time."
"It's fast enough," said the skipper quietly.
"Time ain't much use to me.
Some folks say time is money.
If I had as much money as I had time I wouldn't be carrying two young sprints like you down through Mud Lake."
"How long do you think you'll be before we land at Mackinac Island?"
inquired Fred.
"Not knowing, I can't say," replied the captain.
"My general feeling is that if we make it by day after to-morrow we'll be doing mighty well."
"What do you mean?"
demanded John blankly.
"I mean just what I say.
I'm not going to drive my boat very hard and by the time we have gone down St. Mary's River and into the North Channel and then around to Cockburn Island it will be some time before we can start for Mackinac."
"But where will we stay nights?"
inquired Fred.
"We'll pick out a good place somewhere.
I have got a canvas that stretches over the boat and will keep out the wind and we can crawl under that when it gets dark."
"But you haven't enough for us to eat."
"Haven't I?"
said the skipper dryly.
"That depends I guess a little on how much you want to eat.
I have got some salt pork and potatoes and if you don't like that diet all I can say is that you might have brought your own stuff."
The boys were silent as the reference to their poverty caused them both to realize how impossible it was for them to obtain even the common necessities of life, if they had no money with which to make their purchases.
"Ever been over to Cockburn Island?"
inquired the captain after a long silence.
"Yes," said John.
"It's a funny island."
"It isn't so funny as the people on it."
"That's what I thought," laughed Fred.
"Well, you weren't thinking far wrong.
I've been over to Cockburn Island every month ever since the ice went out of the lakes."
"What do you go for?"
asked John.
"If I don't tell you then you won't know, will you?"
said the captain glancing shrewdly at the boys as he spoke.
"I don't suppose we shall," acknowledged John.
"I don't mind tellin' you that I don't expect to go there many times more.
I'm going to get even with that man."
"What man?"
"Why, Mr.
Halsey."
"Who is he?"
"He's the man that stays summers on Cockburn Island.
Leastwise he stays there part of the time."
"Is he the man that has the little house that looks like an old shanty about a quarter of a mile back from the shore?
Does he have a Japanese servant and is there a little barn back of the shanty?"
"What do you know about that barn?"
demanded the skipper turning abruptly about and staring at the boys.
"We don't know anything about it.
I'm just telling you about the place and asking you if Mr. Halsey is the name of the man who lives there."
"I guess you're all correct," said the captain.
"That's his name and I guess that's the place where he lives.
He's the man I was tellin' you about."
"The one who employs you?"
inquired John.
"I don't know whether he employs me or not.
I work for him.
He has got to live up to his promises better than he has though, or I'll put him where he won't do quite so much business as he has been doin' this summer."
"What is his business?"
"Don't you wish you knew?"
said the skipper.
There was an expression in his eyes that indicated that the man was deficient.
Indeed, Fred whispered to John, "I don't believe the fellow is all there.
I guess if you knocked on his head you'd find nobody home."
"He certainly looks the part," agreed John, "but I want to find out more about Mr. Halsey, as he calls him."
"You didn't tell us what business Mr. Halsey is engaged in," added John as he turned once more to the skipper.
"Of course I didn't.
That's the question a good many folks would like to have answered."
"Does he have any business?"
"Business!
Business!"
exclaimed the skipper.
He had previously explained that his name was Rufus Blodgett and that he was commonly called Rufe by his passengers and friends.
"He doesn't work more than twelve hours a day, let me tell you, and he gets better pay than anybody around these diggins."
"And nobody knows what his business is?"
"I know," said Rufe, slyly winking as he spoke.
"What is it?"
"That's tellin'.
Maybe somebody will know pretty soon.
At least I have wrote some letters that will be likely to put somebody on his track that he won't like very much."
"Did you write those letters to Mr.
Button?"
demanded Fred.
"What do you know about any letters?"
said Rufe, his voice becoming very low as he spoke and the glitter again appearing in his narrow little eyes.
"We saw them," said Fred more boldly.
"We mean the one that you signed 'American Brother.'"
"Who showed it to you?"
said Rufe.
"Beats all, I never supposed two such youngsters as you knew anything about them letters."
"What did you write them for?"
asked John.
"Didn't I tell you this Mr. Halsey is makin' all kinds of money?
He agreed to divide with me and he hasn't done it.
I told him I would get even with him and you see if I don't!"
"Then he is a smuggler, is he?"
inquired John.
"You had better take my advice and not say that word very often around in these parts.
I guess there ain't any harm in a man buying somethin' on one side o' the lake and sellin' it on the other."
"But there's a law against it," suggested Fred.
"Nothin' but a man-made law."
"What has that got to do with it?"
asked John.
"I don't care nothin' about man-made laws.
I don't find nothin' in the Bible that says I mustn't smuggle, as you call it.
Mind you, I ain't sayin' I'm no smuggler, I'm just talkin' on general principles."
"But you have not told us what Mr. Halsey smuggles."
"No, and I ain't goin' t' tell you."
"Is that what you're going to Cockburn Island now for?"
"Don't you wish you knew?"
said Rufe, laughing as if he considered his question to be a good joke.
"Did you say," he continued, "that you had ever been out in the barn?"
"We said we hadn't been there," replied Fred.
"There's a mighty good reason why you didn't go, I guess."
"What's that?"
"That there watch dog o' the Halseys.
There was a fellow here once what was tellin' about some dog that a man named Pluto kept.
He said that dog had three heads and they all barked at the same time and all bit together."
"Did he tell you where Mr. Pluto lived?"
asked Fred soberly.
"No, he didn't," said Rufe.
"Where does he live?"
"Not very far from Cockburn Island, you'll find if you don't quit breaking the laws."
There were many conversations during the voyage similar to those which have been recorded, and the boys became more convinced that the strange skipper undoubtedly in some way was sharing in the experiences of the man whom they had met on Cockburn Island and whose name Rufe declared to be Halsey.
The little motor-boat stopped for a time on the shore of Mud Lake.
There the skipper cooked some of the potatoes and salt pork he had brought with him and the boys declared that never had they tasted food more delicious.
CHAPTER XXII A PASSENGER FOR COCKBURN ISLAND Neither George nor Grant was aware of the reason for their abrupt flight when the shout of the approaching man was heard.
"Hold on!"
called George to Grant after the boys had gone a hundred yards or more.
"What fools we are.
What are we running for anyway?"
"Because we want to get somewhere.
We don't know just where it is but we're in a hurry to get there, I guess."
As he spoke Grant glanced toward the woods in the distance from which the man that had hailed them had unexpectedly come.
"I'm not afraid.
Come on, let's go back to the motor-boat."
"Did you find them?"
inquired the captain when the boys approached the boat.
"No."
"You look so tuckered out, both of you, that I thought maybe you saw them somewhere."
"No, we didn't find them," said Grant, "but we saw--" The boy stopped as if he hesitated to refer to the fact that they had fled from a man who had unexpectedly hailed them.
"Saw what?"
said the captain.
"Do you know who lives on Cockburn Island?"
abruptly asked George.
For a moment the captain made no reply as he looked keenly at the boys.
At last he said, "I have sailed over to Cockburn Island a good many times.
Why do you want to know who lives there?"
"We had some strange experiences on that island," explained Grant.
"I don't doubt you," said the captain.
"I don't doubt your word a bit.
What did you see there?"
"Why, it wasn't so much what we saw as the fact that there seemed to be something very mysterious about the island and the people who live there.
We went into a little shanty one day.
At least it looked like a little shanty, not very far back from the shore and we found it all fitted up like a city house.
There were rugs on the floors, and chairs and tables just such as you might see in town.
The man had a Japanese servant, but there was something so strange about the whole thing that we didn't know just what to make of it.
Do you know the man who lives there?"
"I have seen him," said the captain simply.
"Is there anything queer about him?"
The captain whistled as he looked up into the sky as if he was searching the clouds for an answer.
"I know him when I see him," he said at last.
A moment later he added, "I guess I see him now."
Startled by his words the boys looked quickly in the direction indicated, and across the field saw two men approaching the shore.
One plainly was the man whom they had seen on Cockburn Island and his companion was the one who had approached from the woods and at his unexpected and startling hail the boys had fled up the shore.
"What do you suppose they want?"
said George in a low voice to Grant.
"I haven't the remotest idea.
If we stay here a little while we may know more about it."
Not a word was spoken while the boys and the captain waited for the two men to approach.
It was plain that they were walking toward the place where the motor-boat was anchored, although what their errand was neither of the boys understood.
At the same time George felt of the letter in his pocket.
The strange epistle had not only puzzled the boys but somehow they were unable to free themselves from the thought that it was directly connected in some way with the approaching man.
At that moment George pulled the sleeve of his friend and excitedly pointed toward the lake.
Not far from the shore a swift little motor-boat was passing and when George whispered, "That's the little Jap at the wheel, I'm sure it is," the excitement of both boys became more intense.
Abruptly the two men who had been approaching when they discovered that the boys were not alone, turned and walked along the shore in the direction in which the motor-boat, driven by the Japanese, was moving.
"There!"
exclaimed Grant "We had our run for nothing.
Those men didn't want us."
"I'm glad you are so well informed," said George, still watching the departing men as long as they could be seen.
"Well, boys," said their captain, "it's about time for us to start on.
If we are going to find your friends we have got to get busy or we shan't get back to Mackinac Island to-night."
His words at once were heeded and the search for the missing boys was quickly renewed.
George and Grant walked along the shore maintaining a careful outlook for their friends, or for any signs that would indicate that they had been there not long before.
Occasionally the boys advanced into the island, but in every case they returned without having discovered any traces of their missing companions.
In this way much of the afternoon passed and the sun was sinking lower in the western sky when the captain said, "There isn't much use in trying any longer, boys.
We must be starting back."
Both George and Grant were depressed now for they had been working busily throughout most of the day and all their efforts had been unavailing.
The missing boys had not been found nor had anything been discovered to indicate that their friends had even landed on Western Duck Island.
"They will be all right," said the captain, striving to cheer up his downhearted young companions.
"They'll take care of themselves.
There hasn't been any storm and two boys in such weather can't get into trouble on Lake Huron unless they try to and you say they aren't that kind."
"No," said George quickly.
"They wouldn't be looking for trouble, but trouble may have been looking for them."
"I guess not," laughed the captain.
"Most likely when we get back to Mackinac you'll find they are already there or else have chartered another motor-boat to go out and look for you."
As the boys were about to take their places on board the little craft they were surprised when they heard a hail from some one who was approaching from the woods.
In a brief time it was manifest that the man whom they had seen on Cockburn Island was the one who was now before them and that he was earnest in his request for them not to depart before he joined them.
"Are you going to leave now?"
inquired the man when at last he stood beside the boys who were ready to embark on the little skiff and row out to the motor-boat.
"Yes, sir," said Grant quickly.
"I am wondering if you'll be willing to take me on board."
"As far as I'm concerned, I'm willing."
"I guess the captain wouldn't object if I agreed to pay him.
How about it?"
added the new passenger, turning to the captain as he spoke.
"The boys have chartered the boat," said the captain, "and I haven't anything to say about it.
They'll have to decide."
"Do you want to go to Mackinac?"
inquired Grant.
"No," replied the man.
"I want to stop at Cockburn Island."
"That's out of our course," said the captain quickly.
"We shall cut right across to Mackinac.
In weather like this we're as safe as we would be on a mill-pond."
"I'll pay you well for my passage."
"How much longer will it take?"
inquired George turning to the captain as he spoke.
"We shan't get back to Mackinac before eleven o'clock if you go by Cockburn Island."
"It's very important," broke in the man.
"I ought to be there now.
I'll pay you ten dollars if you'll take me."
"All right," said George, after he glanced questioningly at his companion.
Without delaying, the man at once stepped on board the skiff and in a few minutes all three were on board of the motor-boat.
There was no delay now and the swift little boat was soon leaving Western Duck Island behind it.
Somehow the mystery in which the boys had found themselves involved during the past few days instead of becoming clearer was darker than before.
Who was their passenger?
Why was he so desirous of being carried to Cockburn Island?
These questions and many others were discussed in low tones by George and Grant while their passenger remained seated in the bow of the swiftly moving little motor-boat.
"Speaking of calm," said the captain breaking in upon the prolonged silence on board, "I knew a man once that was held up three days on one of these islands by a storm.
'Twas a regular no'-easter and blew a gale without stopping.
This man I'm telling you about managed to get ashore on one of the islands and couldn't leave until the storm passed and he was picked up by some boat.
So you see you needn't get so down-hearted about your friends.
Something may have happened to their boat or they may have landed somewhere and maybe they didn't pull their skiff far enough up on the shore.
There's a hundred things I can think of to comfort your hearts."
"That's good of you," said Grant "I wish I felt about it the way you do."
It was dusk when at last the motor-boat drew near the familiar shores of Cockburn Island.
"Some boat's ahead of you," called the captain.
"See, there's a motor-boat already there at that little landing."
The attention not only of the boys but of their other passenger was at once called to the boat in the distance.
And it was apparent too that the man was greatly excited by the discovery.
As the boys came nearer they both were convinced that they had never seen the boat before.
They were able to see that it had been long since it had been painted and its general air of dilapidation was so manifest that under other circumstances the boys would have laughed at its appearance.
Occasionally they glanced at the man on board whose surprise and excitement or alarm at the discovery of the presence of the other motor-boat had now become more marked.
"Look yonder!"
said Grant at last when they were within a few yards of the landing place.
"There's somebody coming from the house."
Both boys were silent for a brief time as they watched the approaching men.
One of them was tall and ungainly and had a strange swinging motion as he walked across the fields.
Beside him were two boys.
George suddenly grasped his friend by the arm and in a low voice said, "Do you know who those fellows are?"
CHAPTER XXIII AN UNEXPECTED MEETING "They look like Fred and John," replied Grant in a whisper.
"Where do you suppose they came from?"
"I don't care where they came from, the most I want to know is that they are here.
You don't suppose they are ghosts, do you?"
"I think you would find out whether they were ghosts or not if you tried to throw Fred.
Come on, let's go ahead and meet them."
Advancing quickly the boys soon drew near the place where the approaching forms were seen.
"Fred, is that you?"
called George anxiously.
Instantly the trio stopped and in amazement stared in the direction from which the unexpected hail had come.
"Is that you, Fred?
Is that you, Jack?"
George called again, this time speaking a little more loudly.
"Yes," replied John.
"Who is it calling us?"
"You have been gone so long you don't recognize your own friend," called back George.
"What are you doing here?"
"That's the same question we might ask you," retorted Fred.
"We didn't expect to find you here."
"Neither did we expect to find you," said George.
"We're mighty glad we have though, for we have been looking for you a long time."
"The trouble is you didn't look in the right place," laughed Fred, who was delighted to be with his friends once more.
"You don't need to tell us that," retorted Grant.
"We have had troubles enough of our own without having you twit us about them.
We looked all around Western Duck Island and up and down the shore but couldn't find any trace of you.
Now tell us where you have been and what you have been doing."
All six were now returning to the shore together, the strange companion of Fred and John walking in advance of the boys.
Several times George nudged Fred as he pointed toward the ungainly figure which was somewhat dim in the obscure light.
The peculiar gait, the strange swinging motion of the shoulders were not to be forgotten when once they had been seen.
Rufus, however, had not spoken since the meeting of the boys and because of that fact there were still further revelations to be made that were to startle the newcomers.
"How did you get here, Fred?"
demanded George unable longer to restrain his curiosity when the boys were within a few yards of the shore.
"We came in a motor-boat."
"From where?"
"Sault St.
Marie."
"Be honest, Fred.
This is no time for joking.
Where did you come from?"
"I'm not joking and I'm telling you the truth.
We started from Sault St.
Marie."
"How long have you been here?"
"About two hours."
"Why did you come to Cockburn Island?"
"Because our skipper said he had to come here before he could take us to Mackinac."
"What did he want to come here for?"
"Don't talk any more now," said Fred.
"Wait until we get back and we'll tell you all about it and there are some things worth hearing, too."
When the boys and the strange skipper returned to the shore and it was discovered that there were two motor-boats there, John quickly said to Rufus, "Our friends are going back to Mackinac and we can go with them so you won't have to go out of your course.
You can go right back to Sault St.
Marie."
"How about them ten dollars?"
demanded Rufus, speaking in his shrillest tones.
"I don't intend to let go of you until I see the color of them dollars."
"Have you got any money with you?"
demanded Fred, turning quickly to George and Grant.
"How much do you want?"
inquired George.
"Ten dollars.
That's what we agreed to pay our skipper."
"I guess we can make that up between us," said Grant, and in a brief time the money was produced and the brilliant-hued Rufus was paid.
With evident satisfaction, he said, "I don't know, boys, but I shall stay over here to Cockburn Island for three or four days.
If you show up again in these parts you might let me know and maybe I can do somethin' more for you."
"Thank you," laughed Fred.
"You certainly have helped us out of our troubles."
"Did he help you out of your clothes, too?"
demanded Grant, who now had become aware for the first time of the strange garb in which both his friends were clad.
"No, we picked them up on the lake-boat."
"On the what?"
"On the steamer.
We weren't proud.
We didn't want the crew to think that we felt above them so we put on the suits that they provided us with."
"They certainly picked out choice ones," laughed George, as he grasped the sleeve of Fred's coat.
"When are you going to start for Mackinac?"
"What's become of our friend whose house is on the island here?"
inquired Grant in a low voice.
So interested had they all been in the recent experiences that the passenger they had brought with them had been forgotten.
When the boys looked quickly about them they were aware that the man had disappeared.
However, as he had landed and their duty was done they were all ready now for the return to Mackinac Island, where they could not expect to arrive before two or three o'clock the following morning.
The ungainly Rufus was again thanked for his aid and then the four boys speedily took their places on board the little motor-boat in which the searching party had set forth early that morning.
After the boat had left the shores of Cockburn Island behind them, so eager were George and Grant to learn what had befallen their friends that they insisted that the entire story should be told them.
And what a strange story it was.
Fred or John, alternately breaking in upon each other, each insisting upon describing the perilous adventures through which they had passed, finally related the story of their rescue and the strange manner in which they had been taken to Sault St. Marie.
Stranger still was the story they had to tell of their return and the reason why they had been found on Cockburn Island.
"But that isn't the strangest part of all," explained Fred when the first of their story had been told.
"We have something else worth telling and when you hear it you'll both sit up and listen to it."
"What is it?"
inquired George.
"This man Rufus who took us in his motor-boat over to Cockburn Island is a queer Dick."
"I'm surprised to hear you say that," laughed George.
"His clothes and his voice, to say nothing of his hair and his long legs, are a small part when you stop to think of some other things," said John.
"What other things?"
"Now listen and we'll tell you.
We've about decided that the man who stays on Cockburn Island is a regular smuggler.
You know those letters we found, or rather the letter that came to me and the one we picked up on the shore of Western Duck Island, don't you?"
"Yes," replied George and Grant together.
"Well, I suspect," resumed Fred, "that this man Rufus wrote them both."
"He's almost as good a letter writer as he is a dresser, isn't he?"
laughed Grant.
"You just wait until I'm done," retorted Fred.
"That's always the trouble in this party.
Whenever I start in to give you information and try to teach you some things you need to know and don't know, there's always somebody that has to spoil it all."
"We're not spoiling it," laughed George.
"Go ahead with your story.
What makes you think he wrote those letters?"
"Be quiet, me child," said Fred, "and I will enlighten thee.
We suspect Rufus wrote them because he talked almost all the way from Sault St. Marie to Cockburn Island.
Even when we stopped on the shore of Mud Lake and he cooked our dinner for us he kept on talking just the same whether we were there or not."
"That's just the trouble with you, Fred," retorted George.
"You say he kept on talking whether you were there or not.
Now how do you know he kept on talking when you weren't there?
You see that's the reason we have to put in intelligent questions sometimes.
You are just as likely to talk about things you don't know as you are about things that you do."
"Never mind," retorted Fred.
"This man in the course of his extended remarks dropped a few words that made us think he knew more than at first we thought he did.
We suspect that he runs a motor-boat for this man over on Cockburn Island."
"Is that the reason why he took you there?"
inquired George.
"Probably," answered Fred.
"At any rate he told us that he had to go that way and that he had to be there this afternoon.
I tell you, fellows, that man is doing something he doesn't want Uncle Sam to find out and my own impression is that he's a smuggler and carrying on a regular trade at it."
"What do you think he smuggles?"
inquired George.
"I'm not just sure yet about that, but I'm pretty sure that I know where he hides the stuff before he takes it over to Mackinac or up to Sault St. Marie.
In fact I think he has two places, one on Cockburn Island and the other down on Western Duck Island and I think, too, that he has a man or two on each island.
Rufus runs a boat between Cockburn Island and Sault St. Marie and we suspect that he has another man down on Western Duck who gets rid of things there for him.
And the strangest part of all is where he hides the stuff on Cockburn Island."
"Where is that?"
demanded George and Grant, who now were greatly interested in the story of their friends.
"I think he hides it in the barn."
"Do you mean that old barn right behind his shanty?"
inquired Grant.
"That's the very place."
"What makes you think he hides the stuff there?"
"From what Rufus said.
You see, Rufus isn't more than half or three quarters witted, and he feels that he hasn't been treated by this man as he ought to have been.
So he wrote those letters to get even, as he said, with the smuggler, and then as nothing was done about them he felt just as much provoked at Mr. Button as he had at the smuggler himself.
So he has been first on one side and then on the other."
"Whose side is he on now?"
asked Grant.
"Just at the present time he's on the smuggler's side.
But he was so anxious to talk all the while that we think he let out more than he knew.
Among other things he told us why the smuggler keeps that big dog that we saw the other night.
It seems there are three of those dogs and at night two of them guard the barn and the other is taken inside the house to protect that place.
When we asked Rufus why they had to have two dogs around the barn he said that if we knew what was in the barn we wouldn't ask any such foolish questions as that.
Putting that together with some other things he said, I haven't any doubt that whatever it is that Mr. Halsey deals in it is something that is very valuable and isn't very large and can be easily carried."
"What do you suppose it is?"
inquired Grant.
"That sounds like money."
"Men don't smuggle money," sniffed Fred scornfully.
"When we get back to Mackinac I'm going to tell Mr. Button, if he's there, all about it and ask him what he thinks.
And if he goes over to Cockburn Island and makes a search I want to go with him."
"But he can't make a search on Cockburn Island," said George positively.
"That's in Canada.
An American officer can't go over there and make searches."
"Not unless he gets a Canadian officer to go with him," retorted Fred.
"At all events when we get back to Mackinac we'll find out what can be done and then we'll just go ahead."
CHAPTER XXIV TWO BOATS It was late when the party at last arrived at Mackinac Island.
"It's twenty-five minutes past two," said Grant sleepily as he looked at his watch after the party had landed at the dock.
"We've had so much excitement and so many things to do in the last two or three days that I think I shall sleep right through the bed," said John.
The weary boys almost threatened to fulfill the prophecy of John.
In spite of the excitement through which they had passed they were speedily asleep and it was late the following morning before any one arose.
"What's up to-day?"
called Fred as he opened the door between the rooms which the four boys occupied.
"Not very much," responded George, who was already dressed and had been down in the office of the hotel.
"I have learned one thing though."
"Good for you," laughed Grant.
"You couldn't learn many less, that's one thing sure."
"I have learned that Mr. Button has gone," declared George, ignoring the bantering of his companion.
"Gone?"
demanded Grant.
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say."
"Do you mean he has left Mackinac Island for good and all?"
"I didn't say that.
I simply said he had gone.
He is expected back here at night."
"That's all right," called John, who now entered the room and joined in the conversation.
"I'm glad he isn't here.
It will give us a chance to rest up.
It's ten o'clock in the morning now, but I feel as if I was almost ready to crawl back into bed again."
"We'll feel all right by night," said Fred lightly.
"I suggest that we sit around the hotel and not try to do anything very strenuous to-day."
The suggestion was followed by all four boys and save for a walk about the Island they passed the hours reading or writing letters.
Darkness had fallen before Mr. Button was seen by any of the four boys.
Approaching him, Fred said, "We have got another letter for you, Mr. Button.
It will match the one that came to me that was intended for you."
Mr. Button glanced keenly at the boy as he spoke and said, "Is the letter intended for me?"
"I think so," said Fred.
"Where did you get it?
Did it come to you through the mail as the other one did?"
"No, sir, we picked it up on the shore of Western Duck Island."
"You did!"
exclaimed Mr. Button more strongly moved by the statement than the boys ever had seen him before.
"Where is it?"
"It's in my pocket," replied Fred.
"We wish you would come up to our room, Mr. Button.
We'll give you the letter and tell you some other things we have found out besides."
Accepting the invitation Mr. Button accompanied the boys to the room which Fred and John occupied and after he had seated himself in the chair which was offered him by John, Fred at once began his story.
"We found this letter, Mr. Button, as I told you.
It must have dropped out of the pocket of that man on the island or else Mr. Halsey lost it.
At any rate we thought it belonged either to me or to you and I guess there's no question now that it is yours."
Fred handed the letter to their visitor, who at once read it through and laughing lightly thrust it into his pocket.
"It matches the other one," he said, "and sounds very much as if they both were written by the same man."
"We have found the man that wrote them."
"Have you?"
inquired Mr. Button quietly.
"Yes, sir.
When John and I were taken by that boat which rescued us we couldn't land until we came to Sault St. Marie.
It was almost morning and we had a great time, as our clothes were wet and we left them on the boat after we had put on some duds the sailors gave us.
We found we didn't have any money when we went up town and tried to get some breakfast, and when we went back to the dock we were horrified to find that the boat had gone on without us.
Her next stop probably is Duluth."
"And she took your clothes with her?"
inquired Mr. Button, smiling as he spoke.
"She did that," declared Fred ruefully, "and that wasn't all of it either, for in our pockets were all the valuable things we possessed, though I guess money wasn't among them.
By and by we found a strange man there who agreed to bring us back to Mackinac in his motor-boat if we would go with him around by Cockburn Island."
"Was he a red-haired man with big splotches of red on his face?
Was he tall and ungainly and did he have a voice that no one could ever forget if he once heard it?"
"That's the very man.
He talked almost all the way to Cockburn Island.
He can do one thing well though, let me tell you."
"What is that?"
"He knows how to cook salt pork and potatoes."
"I fancy," said Mr. Button, "that the air and the appetites of you boys helped you to appreciate the quality of Rufus's cooking."
"Maybe it did, but the strange part of it all was after we stopped at Cockburn Island."
"What happened then?"
"Why, he wanted us to stay on board the boat while he went up to that old house.
He didn't find what he wanted and when he came back he said we would have to wait there for a while.
It was almost dark then.
It seems he thinks he hasn't been treated just right by this man Halsey, who is probably the smuggler you want to get."
Mr. Button smiled, but did not interrupt the story which Fred was telling.
"While we were waiting, Rufus got to talking about his experiences and he made us think that he was the one that wrote both those letters.
He wanted to get even with the man who didn't give him his share, as he believed."
"Is that all he told you?"
inquired Mr. Button.
"No, there's another thing he spoke about and that is the barn."
"Ah," said Mr. Button quickly.
"What did he say about the barn?"
"It wasn't so much what he said as what he made us believe.
He told about two Great Danes they have to guard the barn and another one which they have to protect the house.
He said if anybody tried to get into the barn they would have their troubles."
"What did you say then?"
"Why, we asked him what any one would want to go into that old tumbled down barn for and he looked at us in a way that made us sure there was something there worth while.
Do you suppose that Mr. Halsey hides in the barn the stuff which he smuggles into the United States?"
"I'm not sure--yet."
"Are you going to find out?"
"That's one of the things that brought me to Mackinac Island."
"But the boys say," suggested Fred, "that you haven't any right to search his property over there.
He's in Canada and you belong to the United States."
"I surely do," responded Mr. Button smilingly, "but it is possible that I may try to make a few investigations, not as an officer, but simply to satisfy my personal curiosity."
"What are you going to do?"
inquired Fred impulsively.
Mr. Button laughed again and after a brief silence said, "Why not?
Perhaps I can make use of your help.
I don't mind telling you, now that you know so much, that I expect to go over to Cockburn Island to-morrow.
Furthermore I expect to make some investigations there.
It may be that I might take two of you boys with me, though they used to tell me when I was a youngster that one boy is a boy and two boys is a half a boy."
"Which two will you take?"
demanded Fred excitedly.
"I have no preference.
In fact I may be wrong in allowing any of you to go.
If either of those huge dogs should attack you there would surely be trouble.
Besides, the little Japanese cannot be ignored.
And then too, the smuggler himself, if he is caught on the ground, or finds we are making our own investigations, may make more trouble than all the rest put together."
"What's the reason," spoke up George excitedly, "that Grant and I can't take another motor-boat and go over there near the channel and spend the day fishing?
You see we would be within easy calling if you need us and the fact that we were there might help to explain why Fred and John were on the island."
"There wouldn't be very much for you to do," suggested Mr. Button.
"It will be enough for us if we can just go ahead," said Grant.
So eager were the boys and so intense was their desire to join in the expedition of the morrow that at last Mr. Button somewhat reluctantly gave his consent, explaining that if there should be any real danger he would insist upon the boys at once withdrawing in their motor-boats across the American border.
"We must start to-morrow morning," explained Mr. Button, "by four o'clock at the latest."
"We'll be ready," declared Fred confidently.
"Then, all of you boys better turn in now," said Mr. Button as he arose and departed from the room.
True to their promise all four boys were on the dock before four o'clock the following morning.
"I think we are going to have a good day," said Mr. Button to Fred and John as soon as their motor-boat was free.
"It looks so," said John as he glanced toward the eastern sky.
"I don't mean the weather alone," explained Mr. Button, "but I feel quite sure that Halsey will not be on Cockburn Island to-day."
"How do you know?
What makes you think so?"
demanded Fred quickly.
Mr. Button smiled, but did not explain his reasons for the opinion which he held.
Indeed, conversation lagged and every one in the motor-boat apparently was busy with his own thoughts.
The boat which George and Grant had secured manifestly was much slower, for it soon was left behind and had not been seen again when about ten o'clock in the morning the party drew near the shores of Cockburn Island.
"The first thing," explained Mr. Button, "I want you to do is to stay on board this motor-boat while I go up to the house."
"But you may need us," suggested John.
"If I do I shall let you know," laughed Mr. Button.
As soon as the boat came to anchor, taking the little skiff which the motor-boat had in tow, Mr. Button alone rowed quickly to the shore and soon was on his way toward the little house in the distance.
CHAPTER XXV A SMALL BOX The feeling of keen excitement, soon after the departure of Mr. Button returned in full force to the waiting boys.
And what a sharp contrast it presented to the scene all about them!
The waters of the lake were so smooth that an occasional gentle breeze ruffled the surface only in spots.
There was scarcely a cloud to be seen in the summer sky.
The shadows of the rocks and trees along the shore were so clearly reflected in the lake that the boys were reminded of the clearness of the water along the shores of Mackinac Island.
Far away the motor-boat in which George and Grant were approaching now could be seen.
Whenever the two boys looked toward the house in the distance they were again impressed by the almost unnatural quietness of the summer day.
Not a person was to be seen near the building and the silence was broken only by the noisy flying grasshoppers near the shore.
"Suppose this is all a false alarm," suggested John at last breaking in upon the silence.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I mean suppose that there's nothing in this.
Suppose the whole thing is a wild goose chase."
"Do you mean that Mr. Button may not be what he says he is?"
"Oh, I don't know that I mean that," rejoined John, "but somehow it seems so unreal.
It doesn't seem possible that men really should be trying to break the laws and smuggle goods across the border here when everything is so quiet and peaceful on every side."
"Look yonder!"
suddenly exclaimed Fred, pointing as he spoke to a man who could be seen walking rapidly toward the shore.
He was coming from the house and it was quickly manifest that it was Mr. Button himself who was returning.
He was alone and as the boys watched his rapid approach their feeling of excitement quickly returned.
As soon as Mr. Button arrived it was manifest to both Fred and John that he too had been strongly aroused.
His eyes were shining and though his manner was quiet it was plain that he was highly elated over some discovery he had made.
As soon as he was on board the motor-boat he said, "The little Jap has taken two of the dogs and gone away."
"Gone for good?"
demanded John.
"No.
The woman says he has gone out to exercise them and that he is usually gone an hour at least.
Now is the time when you boys can help me if you really want to."
"We do," said Fred eagerly.
"We'll go ahead the minute you say so."
"That's very good.
What I want you to do is just this,--while these dogs are away I'll go into the house and keep the attention of the woman there."
"What about the third dog?"
demanded Fred.
"I think I can manage that, too.
Now, while I'm in the house I want you somehow to get into the barn.
There's a small box about six inches square.
It is a wooden box, not very heavy and hidden somewhere in that place.
I am sure your eyes are keener than mine and you'll be more likely to find it.
If you get that box, almost all the difficulties will be cleared away."
"What's in the box?"
inquired Fred.
"You do not need to know that now.
Perhaps I'll tell you later.
I haven't any idea where the box is hidden, but I am sure it is somewhere in that little barn.
You won't have very long for your search.
I might say too that even if you do not find the box, if you come across anything that is suspicious or that might contain valuables, I wish you would bring it away with you."
"Shall we look under the floor?"
inquired Fred quickly.
"Yes, look under the floor.
Anywhere and everywhere.
Work as fast as you are able, but don't forget that in about an hour the Jap will come back with those two Great Danes."
"Do you want us to go straight to the barn!"
inquired Fred.
"No.
I think it will be better for you first to go up the shore about a mile.
Then you can land and I don't think you will be so likely to be seen from the house on your way to the barn.
You will be pretty well behind it anyway.
As I told you, I'll try to keep the woman busy and I do not think that will be a very hard task."
"Does she know you?"
asked John.
"Yes, in a way.
She has seen me several times and she is jealous.
She thinks I am in the same business that her husband is working in."
"Do you mean smuggling?"
"Yes."
"Smuggling what?"
"If you find that box I will tell you more about it.
Now, one of you boys take the skiff and land me and then take the skiff with you while you go farther down the shore in the motor-boat."
The directions of Mr. Button were speedily followed.
About a mile distant the boys discovered a curving, sandy shore near which the motor-boat was anchored.
Taking the skiff, the boys speedily landed and then in high excitement, all the time watchful of the house in the distance, they ran swiftly toward the barn.
A few trees and great rocks were found in the intervening distance and twice the boys stopped and concealed themselves while they tried to make sure that their presence as yet had not been discovered.
In this way they rapidly advanced and soon the two hundred yards which they were to cover had been left behind them and both now were standing at the rear door of the barn.
They were keenly disappointed when they discovered that this door was locked or at least fastened from within.
"What shall we do?"
whispered John quickly.
Before he replied Fred turned and looked keenly all about him.
He was as fearful as his friend of the return of the Japanese with the two huge dogs.
"Maybe there's some other way of getting in," he answered at last, and a moment later he announced the discovery of a slide in the side of the barn.
Quickly the slide responded to his efforts and was pulled back.
Then hastily John lifted Fred and in a moment the active lad was inside the barn.
In accordance with Fred's suggestion John remained outside.
In spite of his height it was difficult for him to enter the barn as he had assisted his friend to do.
"Let me know what you find," he whispered as Fred disappeared from sight.
Silence followed the suggestion, but John was easily able to understand how busy Fred at once became.
The barn itself was small, covering not more than thirty feet square.
On the ground floor, Fred discovered a small cart, two cramped stalls and an open piano box, which also stood on the floor.
Apparently nothing alive was in the little building.
In one corner stood a ladder which led to an opening in the loft above.
Quickly deciding to begin his search at the top Fred ascended the ladder.
He discovered only a little hay on the floor above and with a pitch-fork, which was conveniently near, he hastily began to scatter it.
There was nothing, however, to indicate that the musty hay had recently been disturbed and when a few minutes had elapsed Fred was convinced that nothing had been concealed in the loft.
Retracing his way to the floor below he was astonished to behold his friend already busily engaged in the search.
"How did you get in, Jack?"
he whispered.
"Crawled in, the same as you did.
Only I didn't have any one to give me a boost."
"You didn't need any boost with those long legs of yours," responded Fred.
"Sometimes I think it wouldn't be so bad if more of us were built on your plan.
Makes me think of a hickory nut stuck on two knitting needles."
"Don't stop for complimentary remarks," retorted John good-naturedly.
"What we want is to find that little box.
You begin on one side and I'll go on the other and we'll examine the four sides to see if there are any more sliding panels."
A hasty inspection, however, failed to reveal any concealed shelves.
Next the boys inspected the floor.
Several of the boards were loose, but the search was still unrewarded.
"I'm going up the ladder," suggested John.
"I've been up there," said Fred.
"There isn't anything up there.
I know there isn't.
There isn't much hay and what there is is old and musty.
I turned it all over with the pitch-fork.
It's like looking for a needle in a haystack," he added somewhat disconsolately.
"It doesn't make any difference," said John.
"We're going ahead with our search.
I think Mr. Button knew what he was talking about."
Diligently the boys continued their efforts, working rapidly and doing their utmost to discover the small box which Mr. Button had described, or find a place where it might be concealed.
All their efforts in the stalls, however, were as unavailing as had been those in the other parts of the barn.
"I tell you," said Fred, as the boys stopped for a moment, "there isn't any such thing here.
It's what I tell you, like looking for a needle in a haystack."
"If you want to give up you can sit down here and wait for me," said John resolutely; "I'm going to keep this thing up until I strike oil or gold."
Both boys earnestly renewed their search, but their efforts in the rapidly passing minutes were still unrewarded.
"There isn't anything here," muttered Fred.
"We've looked high and low.
Mr. Button didn't know what he was talking about."
John made no response to the declaration of his discouraged companion and perhaps abashed somewhat by the zeal of John, again joined in the search.
"Have you looked in that piano-box?"
inquired John at last.
"Yes, but there isn't anything but a little meal in the bottom.
It isn't deep enough to cover a box of matches."
"We'll look again anyway," said John as he lifted the cover and glanced within the high box.
He was about to drop the cover when once more he hesitated.
Leaning over the edge he thrust his long arms down into the meal below him.
In one corner of the box his fingers came in contact with an object which instantly aroused his keenest interest.
A moment later he brought out a small wooden box, discolored, heavy and apparently of no value.
He speedily discovered, however, that the top of the box was fastened by a small and strong pad-lock.
Holding his discovery aloft John quickly turned to Fred and said, "Do you see what I've found?"
"What is it?
What is it?"
whispered Fred as he ran to join his friend.
"It's a box."
"So I see, but how much does that mean?"
"I don't know how much it means," retorted John, "but I do know that it is a wooden box, that it's about six inches square and that it is heavy--" "Yes, to look at it," broke in Fred; "it's old and looks as if it had been left out in the weather.
Even if it is locked I don't believe that there's anything of any value in it."
"That isn't what troubles me," said John quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I mean this box is hidden here.
I don't know as we have any right to take it.
I wonder too if Mr. Button is really what he says he is.
Suppose we take this box away with us and then somebody arrests us for stealing?
What's to hinder?"
"That's nothing to hinder," said Fred, "but we'll take the box with us just the same."
Each of the boys was confident whenever his companion became fearful or discouraged.
"We'll say no more about it," said John as his turned toward the open slide by which they had entered the building.
"Don't show it to Mr. Button when that woman in there can see you," suggested Fred.
"Thank you," laughed John.
"I'll try to heed your advice, kind sir."
Abruptly, however, both boys halted and neither made any effort to depart while they both were listening intently to sounds which they heard outside the building.
"Pull back the slide!
Pull back the slide!"
whispered Fred, now plainly alarmed.
"The Jap is coming and he's got those two big dogs with him, too.
I don't know what will happen to us now."
CHAPTER XXVI CONCLUSION "Did he see you?"
inquired John, who was now as keenly excited as his friend.
"I don't know.
The only thing we can do is to wait and see what happens."
The slide had been left open an inch or more and through the open space both boys in their excitement watched the little Japanese as he drew near.
The Great Danes were romping about the place evidently enjoying their freedom.
They were still free when the Japanese turned and entered the house.
When he had closed the door behind him the three dogs, for now the one that had not accompanied the Japanese joined his mates, ran about the place as full of life and kindness in their somewhat awkward activities as a clumsy puppy.
Relieved that the Japanese had not come at once to the barn the two boys were still anxious, for they were aware that Mr. Button was yet in the house.
Indeed, as the time slowly passed, the excitement of the boys steadily increased.
"There comes Rufus," whispered John at last.
"It's time for us to leave," said Fred, after he had convinced himself that the peculiar helper of Mr. Halsey was indeed coming to the barn.
"It's time for us to go above."
Instantly Fred ran to the low ladder and swiftly made his way to the loft, an example which John speedily followed.
John still held the box which he had discovered in the meal and when both boys had found a hiding place in the loft they peered through a knot hole in the floor and watched Rufus as he seated himself in the little cart.
The interest of the boys became still more intense when after a few minutes had passed Mr. Halsey himself came into the barn and closed the door after he had entered.
"You're right on time to-day, Rufus," said Mr. Halsey.
"Be I?"
replied Rufus, apparently not strongly elated by the compliment.
"Yes, you are, and I'm going to give you that box to take to Mackinac."
"What else are you going to give me?"
"You'll get all you deserve, Rufus, if you'll do just what I tell you."
"That's what I've heard you say before."
"Well, you hear me say it now," said Mr. Halsey sternly.
"You do your part and you need not fear that I shall not do mine."
"What is it you want me to do?"
"I have told you.
I want you to take your motor-boat and carry that little box to Mackinac.
You mustn't let anybody see it, for it is valuable and much of what you will get from me depends upon how successful you are in keeping everybody away from that box, and delivering it safely just where I tell you.
I'm writing out the directions," he added, as drawing a blank card from his pocket he hastily wrote upon the back and then handed it to the ungainly man who apparently was still not strongly impressed by the words he had heard.
As soon as this had been done Mr. Halsey advanced to the piano box and lifting the cover thrust his hand into the meal.
The boys were unable to see the expression which came over his face, but in their imagination they were both confident they knew how startling his appearance was.
They were still able to see Rufus in his seat in the cart and the alarm which he quickly manifested was connected directly with the failure of his employer to find the object for which he was seeking.
"Where's that box?"
demanded Mr. Halsey, turning and approaching the cart.
"I don't know nothing about the box," grumbled Rufus.
"All I do is take your boxes over to Mackinac or down to Western Duck Island.
You promised to give me ten dollars a day and I've spent ten days for you this summer and you have paid me just twelve dollars and a half."
"If you'll find this box for me I will give you fifty dollars," declared Mr. Halsey.
His excitement was plainly manifest in his voice and John trembled slightly as he assured himself that the box he had found was still safely in his possession.
"Rufus," said Mr. Halsey sharply, "have you got that box?"
"No."
"Do you know where it is?"
"No."
"Do you know what is in it?"
"Something good, I suppose, but I don't know what it is."
"Rufus," said Mr. Halsey again after a brief silence, "I want you to give up that box."
"I tell you I ain't got your box."
"You give me that box or I shall set the dogs on you."
Instantly the smuggler ran to the door to carry out his threat.
He whistled shrilly and in response to his call the three huge dogs came bounding into the barn.
"I'll give you one more chance," said Mr. Halsey turning again to Rufus.
"You give me that box or get it and I'll give you fifty dollars.
If you don't do it, then we'll see what you can do against the dogs."
"I don't know nothing about your box," whined Rufus.
It was plain now that he was alarmed, but no one knew better than the waiting boys how truthful his statement was.
And then an almost unaccountable event followed.
Angered by the persistent refusal of Rufus, Mr. Halsey turned sharply and said to the dogs, "Bite him!
Bite him!"
A wild yell from Rufus followed when the three huge dogs at once leaped upon him.
They were, however, possessed with the spirit of play and not one of them did the trembling man any harm.
In his terror Rufus had slipped from his seat and when he tried to leap to the floor he fell in a heap.
A series of wild yells followed when the Great Danes came sniffing about him, apparently puzzled by all the commotion.
Nor did they respond to the repeated demands of Mr. Halsey to attack the prostrate man.
The screams of Rufus, however, had been heard in the house and now Mr. Button and the Japanese were seen running swiftly toward the barn.
At the same time the excitement of the dogs increased and there were loud barkings and yelpings as they ran and leaped about the place.
The little Japanese, however, as soon as he entered the barn threw back his head and emitted another of his wild, hoarse laughs.
"What's the joke?"
demanded Mr. Halsey angrily as he turned upon his servant.
Again the Japanese laughed, and ignoring the question called to the dogs, every one of which instantly obeyed his call.
Both Fred and John were convinced that if the Japanese should order the dogs to attack any one his word instantly would be obeyed.
Meanwhile the manner of Rufus again quickly changed.
Assured that he was safe from an attack, the look of cunning again appeared in his little red eyes and when the three men departed from the barn there was a swagger in his walk as he led the way to the house.
As soon as the boys were convinced that the men had withdrawn, they quickly descended the ladder and ran out into the yard.
"Look yonder," said John grasping his friend by the arm and pointing toward the shore.
"There are George and Grant and they are both coming here."
"The more the merrier," laughed Fred, relieved by the sight of his friends.
"There will be less danger now than there was before.
That man Halsey is desperate.
What have you done with the box?"
"I have got it here under my sweater," answered John in a low voice.
"Does it show?"
"Not much.
I don't believe I should notice it unless I was looking for it."
At that moment Mr. Button appeared in the doorway of the kitchen and said, "Come into the house, boys."
"Wait a minute, Mr. Button," called John.
"Come out here a minute."
The man glanced hastily behind him and then turned quickly around the corner of the house.
John at once joined him and in a low voice said, "We got the box."
"Where is it?"
whispered Mr. Button.
"Under my sweater."
"Let me see it."
Standing directly in the way so that no one coming from the house could see him, Mr. Button glanced quickly at the box and then said, "Keep it, John, and don't let any one see it and guard it as if your life depended upon it."
"Is that the box you were looking for?"
whispered John.
"Yes.
Now we'll go into the house, or at least I shall.
Perhaps you had better stay here with Fred until I call you or come out."
George and Grant now had arrived, and laughingly the former said, "What's the matter with you fellows?
You're all covered with dust and dirt."
"Maybe you would be if you had been where we have."
"Where have you been?"
John was unable to explain, however, for at that moment both Mr. Button and Mr. Halsey together came out of the house.
The appearance of the latter indicated that he was not so much angry as crestfallen and perhaps alarmed as well.
Mr. Button, however, was quiet in his manner and as he glanced at the boys his confidence and pride were instantly manifest.
Rufus too came and joined the group and whispering to Fred said, "I want to go with you when you leave."
"What's the matter, Rufus?"
laughed Fred.
"I don't want to stay here after you go.
There's something happened."
"What has happened?"
"I can't tell you."
"Well, I'll back you up, Rufus.
I know you didn't take it."
For a moment the jaw of the ungainly man dropped and he stared blankly at the boy.
"What do you know about it?"
he said at last.
"Not very much," laughed Fred.
"If you want to go with us I'll see if Mr. Button is willing."
The consent was readily obtained and in a brief time the party which now consisted of six started toward the shore where their motor-boats were waiting for their coming.
It was not long before all were on board, Rufus insisting upon taking his place with Fred and John.
It was on the same boat also that Mr. Button sailed.
For a time, until the shores of Cockburn Island could no longer be seen, silence rested upon the party.
No one appeared about the house as they looked back at the island from which they had come.
Not even the dogs now could be seen.
It was then that Mr. Button turning to the boys said, "I fancy you boys are anxious to know what all this means."
"Yes, we are," said Fred quickly.
"We know a little, but not very much about it."
"This man," explained Mr. Button, "is one of the most expert smugglers of diamonds in America.
Sometimes he comes to New York, sometimes to Boston and then again he lands at New Orleans or Baltimore."
"Why hasn't he ever been caught?"
inquired John.
"He was caught once and brought to trial, but on some technicality he went free.
I had word that he was trying a new tack.
Several times he has landed at Montreal and then coming up the river has made his way across the border hereabouts and taken his goods either to Chicago or Buffalo.
But we have run the rascal down at last."
"But you haven't got him," protested Fred.
"That's true.
I couldn't take him on Canadian soil without extradition papers.
I have his diamonds, however, and he prefers to give them up rather than take any chances of being arrested and handed over to our government."
"It's a strange way to smuggle," said John thoughtfully.
"All smugglers are strange.
I have been in the employ of the government a good many years and I never have found one that wasn't 'strange.'"
"What do you suppose those diamonds are worth?"
inquired Fred.
"According to the word we have received," replied Mr. Button, "there are diamonds in that box valued at from $10,000 to $15,000."
"Whew!"
said John.
"I guess I will hand it over to you right away.
You had better take it," he said as he drew the box from its hiding place and handed it to the Government Agent.
"I want to thank you boys for the part you have taken," continued Mr. Button, "and I shall not forget about other rewards.
I think the first real evidence I had came when the clerk at the hotel by mistake gave you my letter.
Why did you write those letters!"
he added turning abruptly upon Rufus, as he spoke.
"What letters?"
demanded Rufus.
"About the smuggler."
For a moment the ungainly man appeared to be somewhat confused; then, rising from his seat and throwing back his shoulders, he said proudly, "I could not leave those diamonds on my conscience.
I had to tell you about it."
"I wonder if that is the real reason.
Did you get all the pay that Mr. Halsey promised you?"
"Not yet," said Rufus, "but I will have it pretty soon.
What are you laughing at!"
he demanded abruptly as he turned toward the boys who were all manifestly enjoying the scene.
"We're laughing to think that Halsey gave up his goods rather than take a chance of an arrest.
Of course he did not know that we had them.
By the way, Mr. Button, do you think it is right for us to take them?"
"Right!
Why not?"
demanded Mr. Button.
"Why, they aren't ours."
"That is true.
They belong to the United States, or will very soon."
"But you took them on Canadian soil."
"Did I take them?"
inquired Mr. Button smiling as he spoke.
"No, we took them," acknowledged Fred.
"Perhaps we'll get into trouble."
"You need have no fear of that.
They were simply confiscated on one side of the line instead of on the other and really this man Halsey has no just claim to them."
"This has been a great summer," said Fred enthusiastically.
"There's been something stirring every day.
We have been going from one excitement to another about as fast as we could go.
But now we have come to the end."
"Oh, no," laughed Mr. Button.
"You haven't gotten to the end by any manner of means.
Go ahead boys never turn backward.
I think you will find that you have still more exciting experiences before you."
"Then we'll go ahead and try them," laughed John.
"But not to-night," said Fred.
"We'll be in Mackinac in a little while."
"It doesn't make any difference," declared John.
"We'll go ahead wherever we are."
THE END
[Illustration: He sprang to the instrument table, seized and adjusted a headpiece, pulled a transmitter to him, he began calling.
(_Radio Boys With the Revenue Guards_) _Page 140_] THE RADIO BOYS WITH THE REVENUE GUARDS By GERALD BRECKENRIDGE Author of "The Radio Boys on the Mexican Border," "The Radio Boys on Secret Service Duty," "The Radio Boys' Search for the Inca's Treasure," "The Radio Boys Rescue the Lost Alaska Expedition."
[Illustration: Frontispiece] A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York THE RADIO BOYS SERIES A Series of Stories for Boys of All Ages By GERALD BRECKENRIDGE The Radio Boys on the Mexican Border The Radio Boys on Secret Service Duty The Radio Boys with the Revenue Guards The Radio Boys' Search for the Inca's Treasure The Radio Boys Rescue the Lost Alaska Expedition Copyright, 1922 By A. L. BURT COMPANY THE RADIO BOYS WITH THE REVENUE GUARDS Made in "U. S.
A."
CHAPTER I TWO MYSTERIES "Not much like last summer, is it, Jack?"
"Not much, Frank."
"No Mexican bandits.
No Chinese bad men.
No dens in Chinatown.
Say, Jack, remember how you felt when we were licked in our attempt to escape from that dive out in San Francisco?
Boy, that was the time when things looked mighty blue.
Jack?"
No answer.
"Jack?"
In a louder tone.
Still no answer.
Frank turned around impatiently from where he lounged in the open doorway of the radio station, and faced his chum at the receiver.
"Oh, listening-in," he exclaimed, and fell silent.
Facing about, he gazed southward to where, less than a mile away, sparkled in the bright July sunshine the clear waters of the open Atlantic.
Frank Merrick was thinking of the adventures crowded into the lives of himself and his two chums, Jack Hampton and Bob Temple, during their summer vacation the previous year.
All three boys were sons of wealthy parents and lived on country estates at the far end of Long Island.
Jack's mother was dead.
Frank who was an orphan, lived with the Temples.
All had attended Harrington Hall Military Academy, but Jack, a year older and a class ahead of his chums, had graduated the previous spring and already had spent his Freshman year at Yale.
The previous year Jack had gone to New Mexico with his father, an engineer, who was then superintendent in charge of field operations of a syndicate of independent oil operators.
Mr. Hampton had been captured by Mexican rebels, and rescued by the boys, for Frank and Bob with Mr. Temple had joined Jack after his father's loss.
Later Mr. Temple had taken the boys on to San Francisco with him, and there they had become involved in the plottings of a gang of Chinese and white men, smuggling coolies into the country in violation of the Exclusion Act.
It is not to be wondered at that Frank, dreaming of those adventurous days as he lounged in the doorway, felt a twinge of regret at what promised to be a dull vacation by comparison.
It was true, he thought, they had everything to make them happy and keep them interested, however.
Here was the powerful radio station built by Mr. Hampton under government license to use an 1,800 meter wave length, for purposes of trans-oceanic experiment.
Then, too, Frank and Bob jointly owned a powerful all-metal plane, equipped with radio, and adapted for land or water flying.
Besides, there was the new and powerful speed boat bought for the three of them this summer by Mr. Hampton and Mr. Temple.
And their homes were admirably located for vacationing, too.
On the far end of Long Island, miles from another human habitation, with dense woods, miles of lonely beach, and the open sea--all at their command.
Well, Frank thought, after all it might not be so exciting a summer as the last, yet the three of them ought to be able to have a pretty good time.
An exclamation of anger from Jack caused Frank to face about.
His chum had taken the receiver from his head.
"That interference again?"
asked Frank.
"Yes," replied Jack, rising and joining his chum in the doorway.
"Oh, there comes Bob," he added, pointing to a tall, broad figure swinging over the top of a low sandhill from the beach.
Frank's glance followed in the direction Jack indicated.
Although Bob was still distant there was a purposefulness about his stride and about the way he waved a response to their greetings that caught his chum's attention.
"Bob's got something on his mind," he said, with conviction.
"Wonder what it is?"
"Maybe, he found something, hiking along the beach."
"Maybe, he did," agreed Frank.
"I didn't feel like hitting it up with him this morning, felt kind of lazy, as if I had spring fever.
It would be just my luck to have him make a discovery on the one morning I wasn't along with him."
Bob's figure disappeared in a fold in the sandhills, and Frank remembering Jack's disgust over interference in the radio receivers, began to question him about it while waiting for Bob to arrive.
"What was it like this time, Jack?"
he asked.
"Just the same, only worse," answered Jack.
"Tune up to 1,375 meters for receiving and then comes that snarling, whining, shrieking sound.
It's steady, too.
If it were dot and dash stuff, I might be able to make something out of it.
But somebody somewhere is sending a continuous wave, at a meter length, too, that is practically never used.
From 1,100 meters to 1,400 meters, you know, is reserved and unused wave territory."
"I wonder what it can be," said Frank.
Bob by now had approached within calling distance, and he was so excited that he began to run.
"What's the matter?"
called Frank.
"Somebody chasing you?"
asked Jack, as the big fellow ploughed through the sand and halted before them.
Bob grinned tantalizingly.
"What would you give to know?"
"At him, boys.
At him," cried Jack, making a flying tackle.
His arms closed about Bob's waist.
At the same time, Frank who had been standing to one side, dived in.
His grip tightened about Bob's legs below the knees.
All three lads rolled over in the sand in a laughing, struggling heap.
Presently, Jack and Frank bestrode the form of their big chum and Frank, who sat on his chest, gripped Bob's crisply curling hair.
"Now will you tell?"
he demanded in mock ferocity.
"If you don't----" "All right, you big bully," answered Bob.
"Why don't you pick on a fellow your size?"
With which remark, he gave a mighty heave--as Frank afterwards described it "like a whale with a tummyache"--and Frank and Jack went sprawling.
Then he stood upright, brushing the sand from his khaki walking clothes.
"Oh, is that you down there?"
he asked.
"Why, where did you come from?"
Then, as Frank made a clutch for his ankle, he brushed him aside and sat down on the sand: "Say, listen, cut out the fooling.
I've got something to tell you fellows."
Bob was so plainly excited that his chums were impressed.
Scrambling up they seated themselves beside him.
"Fire away," said Jack.
"What would you say to my finding the tracks of a peg-legged man coming up out of the sea, crossing the sands of Starfish Cove and disappearing into the trees beyond there?"
The inlet which Bob thus referred to was some three miles distant, with a patch of timber some twenty yards back from the water and a ring of low sandhills behind the woods.
"A peg-legged man?"
said Frank.
"That certainly sounds piratical.
Go on.
Your imagination is working well to-day."
"Did he arrive in a boat?"
asked Jack.
Bob nodded.
"Yes.
I found where the boat had been run up on the sand.
But--he didn't leave.
The boat went away without him.
He disappeared inland, and there were no tracks marking his return."
Jack whistled.
"Whew.
Did you follow?"
"Did I follow?
Huh.
You can just bet I did follow.
And, say, fellows----" "What?"
"I know now where that strange interference in our radio receivers comes from."
"Is that so?"
demanded Jack, excitedly.
"It was cutting up didoes just a few minutes ago, just before you arrived.
Had been for some time, too."
"Well," said Bob, "that's not to be wondered at.
For when I followed Peg Leg's tracks through the trees I discovered a radio station tucked away in a hollow behind the timber, with sandhills hiding it on the landward side.
I watched for a while from behind a tree, but couldn't see anybody.
Then I hustled here to tell you fellows about it."
Puzzled, the trio regarded each other in silence.
Presently Jack spoke.
"Look here, fellows.
There's something queer about this.
A mysterious radio station, hidden away, that sends a continuous wave on a hitherto unused wave length.
This has been going on for a week.
What does it mean?
Then there is this man, this Peg Leg, whom Bob discovers arriving from the sea."
"Let's go together and investigate," cried Frank, jumping to his feet.
"I'm with you," declared Bob, also arising.
"I would have gone up to the station and done that very thing, by myself, but--I don't know--there was something about it all--something sinister."
"Wait a minute, you fellows," said Jack, also springing upright.
"We can't go putting our heads into trouble recklessly.
Bob's good sense prompted him when he refrained from pushing up to that radio station by himself.
There is something sinister about this.
That place is isolated, there are no roads near it, nobody ever hikes along that beach except us.
How did the station ever come to be built?
Why, the material and supplies must have been brought by boat.
They couldn't have been transported overland very well."
"What shall we do, though, Jack?"
asked Frank, impatiently.
"You can't reasonably expect to have a thing like this rubbed under our noses without our going ahead and investigating."
There was so much plaintiveness in his voice, as of a child from whom a toy was being withheld, that Bob and Jack both burst into laughter.
Then Jack sobered.
"Tell you what I think," he said.
"It's only mid-afternoon.
Let's get out your plane, and take a look at this place from the air."
"I guess the old boat is working all right now," said Frank.
"How about it, Bob?
You know we haven't been up for two or three weeks, Jack.
Bob's been tinkering with it.
When I last saw him at work, he seemed to have the engine entirely dismantled.
Looked to me as if he had enough parts for three planes.
Did you get it together again, Bob?"
"Yes," said Bob.
"And she'll fly now, boy, believe me.
Well, come on," he added, starting for the hangar, not far distant but out of sight behind the sandhills.
The others followed.
CHAPTER II A STRANGE AIRPLANE APPEARS From the Hampton radio station to the hangar on the Temple estate where Frank and Bob kept their plane was a short jaunt, and the ground soon was covered.
Then Bob unlocked the big double doors and rolled them back, and the three trundled the plane out to the skidway where Jack spun the propeller while Bob manipulated the controls.
As the machine got under way, Jack ran alongside and was helped in by Frank.
Out over the sandy landing field trundled the plane rising so quickly that Bob nodded with satisfaction.
The loving work he had put in on the machine had not been wasted.
It was in fine flying condition.
They were not far from the coast and in a very short time were flying over the water, whereupon Bob made a sweep to the right and the plane headed westward.
The Atlantic rocked gently below, serene under a smiling sun and with only the merest whisper of a breeze caressing it.
On the southern horizon a plume or two of smoke, only faintly discernible, marked where great liners were standing in for the distant metropolis.
To the north, far away, showed a sail or two, of fishing craft or coastwise schooner.
An exclamation escaped Frank and he leaned sidewise, gripping Jack by the arm and pointing with his free hand.
But Jack had a radio receiver clamped on his head and was frowning.
He glanced only hastily in the direction indicated by Frank, then shut his eyes as if in an effort at concentration.
Frank continued to gaze, then bent down and unlashed a pair of binoculars from a pocket in the pit and, putting the glasses to his eyes, threw back his head and began scanning the sky.
After staring long minutes, he hastily put aside the glasses, lifted the radio transmitter strapped to his chest and spoke in it to Bob: "Bob, there's a plane overhead.
So high you can't see it with the naked eye.
But I spotted it before it rose too high, and followed it with the glasses.
The fellow's up where the sun plays tricks with your eyesight.
And, Bob, I've got a hunch he's watching us.
There's Starfish Cove below us now.
Keep right on flying.
Don't turn inland."
Bob nodded, and the plane continued its way westward offshore.
Frank again took up the glasses and searched the sky, gradually increasing the focal radius.
An exclamation from Frank and a hurried request in the transmitter presently reached Bob's ears: "Shut her off, Bob, and let's land on the water.
Quick.
I'll explain in a minute."
Obediently, big Bob shut off the engine, and the plane coasted on a long slant to a safe landing some hundreds of yards out from the sandy, deserted shore.
Bob and Jack snatched the headpieces off, and turned inquiringly to their chum.
"Here," cried Frank, pressing the glasses into Bob's hands.
"Take a look.
That plane is landing way back there, and I believe it is at Starfish Cove."
Bob was too late to see if the situation was as Frank described, however.
Putting up the glasses, he turned to his chum.
"Tell us about it," he said.
"Yes," said Jack.
"I heard what you told Bob, but not having the glasses I couldn't see.
At first, when you punched me, besides, I was thinking over that business of the strange interference with our radio and wondering what it could be.
So I didn't get to see.
I suppose you were trying to point out this other plane to me then?"
Frank nodded.
"Yes," he said, "it was just a tiny speck at that time, but I could see it with the naked eye.
However, it disappeared immediately afterwards."
"Well, what made you believe the other plane was watching us?"
inquired Bob.
Frank laughed in half-embarrassed fashion.
"Oh, one of my hunches," he said.
His two chums grinned understandingly at each other.
It was a recognized fact among them that Frank was super-sensitive and frequently, as a result, received sharp impressions concerning people and events which were unsupported by evidence at the time, but which later proved to be correct.
Frank was the slightest of the trio, of only medium height but wiry build, while Bob and Jack both were six feet tall and Bob, besides, had a broad and powerful frame.
"Seeing spooks again?"
chaffed Bob.
Immediately, they became more serious as Frank, ignoring the banter, leaned forward and made his proposal: "That plane landed, and I believe it landed at Starfish Cove.
Let's fly back and take a look.
See what's it like, at any rate."
"Good idea," approved Jack.
Bob had been taxying about slowly since landing, in order to keep the engine going and the propeller slowly revolving.
Now he picked up speed, straightened out, shifted the lifting plane, and the machine shot forward, skirled over the water and presently took the air.
For some minutes they flew in silence, at no great height, and a little distance out from the coast.
Bob's attention was devoted to the plane, but Frank and Jack scanned the shore with eager eyes.
Presently they saw what they were looking for.
A strange plane rode in the lazy swell offshore in Starfish Cove.
There was nobody aboard.
Not a soul was in sight on land.
The little stretch of sandy beach, between the two horns of the cove, stretched untenanted back to the thick fringe of trees.
Bob swooped so low the plane almost skimmed the water, and all three obtained a good view of the stranger, before once more Bob soared aloft and forged ahead.
Looking back, Frank trained the glasses on the scene.
But nobody appeared from among the trees, and, far as they could determine, they were unobserved.
They made a quick run to their own landing field, descended and put the plane away.
Not until the doors were closed and locked did they sit down on the skidway outside the hangar to discuss what they had seen.
There had been remarks made by all after they had seen the strange plane at close range and on the hasty trip home, but all had been too busy with their own thoughts for extended discussion.
Discovery of the plane had altered their original plans to fly over the secret radio station.
They had decided not to advertise their presence as, if Frank was correct in his surmise that the other plane had been watching them, their return would create suspicion and put the mysterious strangers on guard against them.
"They may be on a perfectly legitimate enterprise, whoever they are," Jack said, as all three took seats on the skidway.
"And we may be fools for butting in where we have no business to be," said Bob.
"That your idea?"
"Yes."
"But look here," said Frank.
"I have the feeling that there's something about all this business that isn't open and aboveboard.
I, for one, vote that we do our best to find out what is going on."
Jack sat silent for several moments.
"That isn't what concerns me at the present moment, after all," he said.
"Whether these people with their strange plane and their secret radio are on legitimate business or not, doesn't interest me so much.
What puzzles me--and I reckon it puzzles the rest of you, too--is the design of that plane."
The others nodded vigorously.
"What a tiny thing," was Frank's comment.
"I was busy and couldn't see much," supplemented Bob.
"But what impressed me was her short hood.
Why, she looked as if she had no engine at all."
"That's right," agreed Frank.
"I never saw a plane like it.
And I can't recall any designs of that nature, either.
It must be a foreign-built plane, one of those little one-man things the Germans and French have been building."
Jack shook his head, puzzled.
"There's something strange about it," he said, "a little thing like that, with practically no engine space.
Another thing that you fellows want to remember, too, is that probably it has been flying about here for some time, yet we have never heard it.
Now, down here the sound of most planes would travel far, in this quiet and secluded place, where there are no competing noises."
"Why do you say it has been flying about here for some time?"
asked Bob.
"Well, the familiarity with which the aviator landed shows he's been at Starfish Cove before.
Evidently, after landing he struck inland to that secret radio station, because we saw no sign of him."
"We haven't been up in the air for three weeks," said Frank.
"That plane might easily have come and gone in that time without our seeing it.
But, surely, as Jack says, we would have heard it at some time or other.
Haven't either of you heard the sound of a plane lately?"
he appealed to the others.
"I know I haven't."
Bob and Jack both shook their heads in negation.
"No planes ever come out this way," Bob said.
"They fly south or north of us, but not out here.
I haven't heard anything."
Jack rose and stretched.
"Well, I, for one, vote that we do not pursue our investigations into this mystery by going back and, perhaps, getting peppered with gunshot."
"But, Jack," protested Bob, the impetuous, "we want to know what's going on.
You can't have a mystery dumped right in your own dooryard without digging into it."
Frank was thoughtful.
"That's true, Bob, old thing," he said.
"Just the same, I agree with Jack.
What do you say to laying the matter before Uncle George and Mr. Hampton at dinner?
Jack and his father are coming over to our house to-night, you know."
"Good," said Jack.
"We can put it up to them, and, perhaps, they will know something about the man who owns that land around Starfish Cove, where this secret radio is located."
Big Bob grumbled.
Delay irked his soul.
"All right, you old grumbler," laughed Frank.
"Come on, I'll give you some action.
We have several hours of good daylight left before dinnertime.
I'll take you on at tennis.
Della and I will play you and Jack, and we won't give you time to worry about anything."
Della was Bob's sister, two years younger than he.
Frank, whose parents were dead and who lived with the Temples, referring to Mr. Temple, his guardian, as "Uncle George," was very fond of her.
The others joshed him about Della frequently.
Bob took occasion to do so now, as the three walked away from the hangar toward the Temple home and tennis courts.
"Huh," he said, "you'll be looking at your partner so often you won't be able to play.
Why, you won't even be good practice for Jack and me."
CHAPTER III THE HAUNTED HOUSE Della was lithe-limbed, quick of eye and strong of wrist, a born tennis player.
As for Frank, tennis was the one sport at which he could excel his chums.
The result was that, despite the strong game played by Jack and Bob, Frank and Della won two sets, 7-5, 8-6.
Mr. Hampton appeared on the scene when the second set stood at six-all, bringing with him an alert, thin-faced man of middle age, clad in the uniform of a colonel in the United States Engineers.
Mr. Temple with his wife emerged from the house to greet their guests, and all four were interested spectators of the two concluding games which were bitterly contested, went to deuce a number of times, but finally were won by Della and Frank.
"Well, Jack," said Mr. Hampton, jokingly, as the players joined the spectators at the conclusion of the set; "I suppose you were just being chivalrous and that's why Della beat you."
Jack grinned.
He and Bob knew they would be in for a certain amount of twigging because of their defeat, but he knew how to take it in good part.
"Chivalrous?
Oh, yes," he scorned.
"We'd have beaten that pair of kids if we had been able.
But it couldn't be done.
Della's got a serve there that would put Mlle.
Lenglen to shame.
As for Frank, the boy goes crazy when he plays tennis."
A general laugh greeted his generous praise of his opponents.
Then Mr. Hampton turned to his companion and introduced him to the players as "Colonel Graham."
After that the players hurried away to brush up and prepare for dinner.
"Shall we speak of our discoveries this afternoon?"
asked Frank, brushing his hair while big Bob peered over his shoulder into the mirror, adjusting his tie.
"Why not?"
asked Bob.
"Well, on account of this Colonel Graham.
Who is he, by the way, Jack?"
Jack did not know.
He recalled, or believed he recalled, that his father had spoken of a friend named Colonel Graham who was a famous engineer.
"But if he's a friend of Dad's," added Jack, with calm confidence, "you can count on it that he's a good sport.
It will be safe to speak about our discoveries before him."
At dinner it developed that Colonel Graham was, indeed, a friend of Mr. Hampton.
They had been classmates years before at Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
During the World War, Colonel Graham had obtained a reserve commission in the Engineers and, at the conclusion of hostilities, while thousands of other officers were being demobilized, he had been given a commission in the regular army because of his distinguished record.
At dinner, the older people took the lead in the conversation, while the boys and Della were content to listen unless addressed.
Colonel Graham was a brilliant conversationalist, and once he became launched on a series of war stories there was no time for the boys to interrupt, nor had they any inclination.
He had been one of the handful of American engineers impressed into a make-shift army by General Byng to stop the Germans when they smashed through at Cambrai, and his gripping account of those days and nights of superhuman effort to hold back the enemy until reinforcements arrived, had the boys neglecting their dinner and sitting on the edges of their chairs.
Mr. Hampton was a radio enthusiast.
It was his interest in radio development, in fact, which had caused him to build the station on his estate, for purposes of trans-oceanic experiment.
Eventually, therefore, the talk came around to the subject of radio.
Colonel Graham was well-informed, and he told of several army officers then at work on behalf of the government at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, experimenting with radio-controlled automobiles, tanks and water craft.
An exclamation from Jack drew attention to him and covered him with confusion.
"Well, Jack," said his father, in mild reproof.
And he looked expectantly at his son as if awaiting an explanation.
Frank came to his rescue.
His quick mind also had grasped the significance of Colonel Graham's remark.
"I know what Jack is thinking of, Mr. Hampton," he said.
"He's thinking of a radio-controlled airplane."
Colonel Graham smiled.
"Oh, yes," he said, tolerantly.
"I mentioned only that these government experts were experimenting with radio-controlled automobiles, tanks and water craft.
Of course, airplanes are being studied, too.
Is that what you mean?"
he asked, looking inquiringly at Jack.
"I understand you lads are interested in flying."
"No, sir," answered Jack, flushing a bit.
"To tell you the truth, we saw a plane to-day of strange design.
And we had reason to believe it was controlled by radio.
I was puzzled at the time.
I didn't think of radio controls.
But your remarks about the officers at Massachusetts Tech.
were illuminating.
I see now that this plane must have been radio-controlled."
Frank and Bob nodded approval.
Their eyes were shining.
Mr. Hampton, Mr. Temple and Colonel Graham showed startled interest.
Della leaned forward close to Frank and looked at him reproachfully, a hand on his arm.
"And you never told me a thing about it," she said.
"Didn't have any time to tell you," whispered Frank, in an undertone.
Mr. Hampton was speaking.
"Where did you see this plane, Jack?"
"Well, Dad," said Jack, "it was this way."
Then he paused and looked at his chums.
"Shall I tell?"
"Go ahead, Jack," urged Frank.
Bob nodded approval.
With that Jack told as briefly as possible the circumstances of their day's adventure, and also spoke of the recent interference in their radio receivers by a sharp and continuous dash sounded over a wave length of 1,375 meters.
A frown of growing concentration fastened on Mr. Temple's brow as Jack proceeded.
When it was apparent that Jack had concluded, Mr. Temple leaned forward.
"I suspected there was something mysterious about that man," he said.
"What man?"
asked Mr. Hampton.
The others at the table looked blank.
"Why, the chap who bought the old Brownell house and property.
You know the place.
There are about 750 acres of land, mainly timber.
This inlet, Starfish Cove as the boys call it, is on the property.
And there is an old house back in the trees.
It is isolated, there is no habitation near, and the house has a bad name to boot.
Some of the old-timers in the settlement at the crossroads declare the place is haunted."
"So that is part of the Brownell property?"
asked Mr. Hampton.
The boys looked at each other.
Della surreptitiously squeezed Frank's hand beneath the table.
This promised to be interesting.
The Brownell place was one of the delightful bugaboos of their childhood.
Old Captain Brownell, a Yankee whaling skipper, was long since dead.
The house had stood boarded up and untenanted for years.
Tradition declared he had committed acts of piracy on the high seas during the period of his whaling voyages and that, having retired uncaught, he had come down to this secluded nook and built the great house in order to hide there from some of his old associates whom he had cheated, but that they had found and slain him.
It was his ghost, it was said in the countryside, which haunted the place.
"Yes," replied Mr. Temple, in answer to Mr. Hampton's question.
"Starfish Cove and all that land around there, where Bob found this secret radio plant located, is part of the Brownell property."
"And who is this man who bought it?"
asked Bob, putting the question in all minds.
"I don't even know his name," confessed Mr. Temple.
"But what I do recall are some things told me by McKay, a real estate dealer in the city who had the Brownell property on his list for a long time.
He said this chap who bought the place impressed him as a man who only recently had come into the possession of money, and he wondered what he wanted with the Brownell property.
The newly-rich man usually wants to make a splurge, he doesn't want to buy a country home away off somewhere, in an out of the way nook, where people can't see him.
He wants to be seen.
"This man, on the contrary, apparently wanted seclusion--and he wanted a place in a secluded spot on the seacoast.
That was his impressing requirement.
So McKay sold him the Brownell place.
"Afterward, said McKay, he learned the new owner had put up signs all around the property, warning away trespassers.
McKay said he even understood guards were to be employed to keep out intruders."
"On the landward side of that old Brownell place, Dad, they've built a high fence of heavy strands of wire on steel poles," said Bob.
"I bumped into it the other day.
They haven't quite reached the shore with it, however, although I suppose they intend to."
"Well, this is interesting," said Mr. Hampton.
"I wonder----" He paused, looking thoughtful.
"What, Dad?"
asked Jack.
"Oh," said his father.
"New York undoubtedly is the center of powerful groups of men seeking to evade the prohibition law by bringing liquor illicitly into the country.
Much of the liquor is brought by ship from the Bahamas and the West Indies, and then smuggled ashore in various ways.
Perhaps, the old Brownell house, built by a pirate of yesterday, is the home of a modern pirate, who directs activities from this secluded spot."
CHAPTER IV ON THE TRAIL After a rather late breakfast next morning for, it being vacation, the boys were under no necessity to rise early and being healthy lads took full measure of sleep, Jack appeared at the Temple home, and the three went into conference.
Mr. Temple, head of a big exporting firm, had left early for the city by automobile.
Mr. Hampton, reported Jack, had done likewise with his guest.
"Fellows," said Jack, "when I got up this morning, it was with the feeling that this mystery was too good to be overlooked."
Frank's eyes brightened.
"Just the way I feel about it," he declared.
"I told Bob when we were dressing that we were in luck, because right at the moment it was beginning to look as if we were in for a dull summer, Fortune went and put an exciting mystery on our doorstep."
Big Bob yawned.
"Oh, you fellows don't know when you have a good thing," he said.
"I suppose you want to go and stir up a lot of trouble as you did last summer.
Why can't you let well enough alone?"
They were in the sitting room shared by Bob and Frank, and the latter picking up a handy pillow promptly smothered his big chum with it and then sat on him.
"Don't mind him, Jack," he panted, in the resulting tussle.
"He's always like this when he gets up in the morning."
A spirited engagement followed, from which Jack discreetly kept apart.
Presently, when the couch was a wreck and Bob had Frank over his knees and was preparing to belabor him, Jack interfered.
"Listen to reason, you fellows," he pleaded.
"I've got a proposal."
"Shall we listen to the proposal, Frank?"
asked Bob, now fully awake, and grinning broadly.
"Or shall we muss him up a bit?"
"'Ark to his Royal 'Ighness," shouted Frank, his equilibrium restored.
"'Ear.
'Ear."
"Very well," said Bob, addressing Jack with mock solemnity.
"My friend says you are to be spared.
But, mind you, it must be a good proposal.
Now, out with it."
Jack, ensconced in a deep easy chair, uncrossed his knees and leaned forward.
"You remember what was said last night about the operations of the liquor smugglers in and around New York?"
he inquired.
The others nodded.
After the conversation the previous night had been directed by the revelations of the boys regarding their mysterious neighbors, and by Mr. Hampton's comments on the operations of liquor smugglers, the boys had learned from the older men surprising facts regarding the situation.
Since the adoption of prohibition, they had been told, liquor-smuggling had grown to such an extent that a state of war between the smugglers and the government forces practically existed.
Single vessels and even fleets were engaged by the smugglers to bring liquor up from the West Indies and land it on the Long Island and New Jersey coasts, and to combat these operations the government had formed a so-called "Dry-Navy" comprising an unknown number of speedy submarine chasers.
A number of authentic incidents known to Colonel Graham and to Mr. Hampton and Mr. Temple had been related in which the daring of the smugglers had discomfited the government men, in one case a cargo of liquor having been landed at a big Manhattan dock by night and removed in trucks while a sub chaser patrolling the waterfront passed the scene of operations several times, unsuspecting.
There were other stories, too, of how the tables were turned, an occasion being cited when a sub chaser put a shot across the bow of what appeared to be a Gloucester fishing schooner which thereupon showed a clean pair of heels and tried to escape but was run down and captured inside the three-mile limit and proved to contain a $30,000 cargo of West Indian rum.
Some of these facts, of course, had appeared in the newspapers.
Others had not been made public.
But, far from New York City as they were and not interested in reading about news events, for they had their own interest to engage their attention, the boys were not familiar with the situation.
What they had been told came as a tremendously interesting revelation.
"Very well," continued Jack, as Bob and Frank prepared to listen; "remembering what we heard last night about the liquor smugglers, it certainly seems likely, doesn't it, that the man who has bought the haunted Brownell house, built a secret radio plant and introduced a radio-controlled airplane into our exclusive neighborhood, may be involved with the smugglers?"
"Righto, Jack," Frank declared.
"But what's your proposal?"
"Simply that we do a little investigating on our own account."
"If you intend to propose that we go nosing around the Brownell place, trying to spy and snoop, I vote against it," declared Bob.
"I ran away yesterday, after discovering that radio plant, because I felt danger in the air.
With a wire fence built to keep out intruders and with New York gunmen posted in the woods, I have a feeling it wouldn't be healthy to do any investigating.
If I were tiny as Frank here"--reaching over to rumple his chum's hair--"it might do.
They couldn't hit me.
But, as it is, I'd make a fine target."
Jack smiled and nodded agreement.
"Agreed on that," he said.
"Dad always tells me it is only a foolhardy idiot who puts his head into danger unnecessarily.
But that isn't the kind of investigating I had in mind."
"Then what?"
asked Frank.
"Well, first of all, this is a fine day for flying," answered Jack, pointing out the open window, to where warm sunshine lay over the country and the sparkling sea in the distance.
"You fellows lie abed so long.
You haven't had a chance yet to see what an ideal day it is; warm, cloudless, and with hardly a trace of wind."
"What's flying got to do with it?"
asked Bob.
"We saw yesterday about all we can see from the air.
Any more flying over there will make somebody suspicious."
"I was thinking of a little trip to Mineola," said Jack.
"Then we can leave the old bus on the flying field there and motor into the city in an hour.
Once in the city we might ask Mr. McKay, your father's real estate friend, who the fellow is who has bought the old Brownell house."
"Then what, Hawkshaw?"
"Oh, Bob, don't be such a grouch," protested Jack.
"What if nothing comes of it?
We'll have had a good trip, anyhow."
Bob grinned.
"I'm not grouching, Jack," he said.
"Only I wanted to see what you had in mind.
If it's just a flying trip you're after, well and good.
I'm with you.
The plane is limbered up since I worked it over, and yesterday's little spin gave me a taste for more, too.
But if you are really intent on getting at the bottom of this mystery, I have a proposal, too.
What's the matter with our hunting up the Secret Service men?
Maybe they would be glad of our tip."
"Good for you, old ice wagon," cried Frank, slapping his chum's broad shoulder.
Jack likewise nodded approval.
The previous summer the boys had been instrumental in thwarting the plots of an international gang on the California coast to smuggle Chinese coolies into the country in violation of the Chinese Exclusion Act.
As a consequence, they had made the acquaintance of Inspector Burton of the Secret Service and had even been called to Washington to receive the personal thanks of the Chief for their service and to be introduced to the President.
Their adventures during that exciting period are related in "The Radio Boys on Secret Service Duty."
"Very good," said Jack, bounding to his feet.
"Come on, let's go.
It's ten o'clock now.
If we hurry, we can cover the sixty miles to Mineola, put up the plane, and be in the city by noon.
That will give us two or three hours there, and we can be home easily in time for dinner."
"All right," said Bob.
"I'll tell Della where we are going, in case Mother isn't up yet.
She had a bad headache, and may be staying in bed.
You fellows go down to the hangar, and start getting out the plane.
I'll join you right away."
Jack and Frank hurried away, while Bob went to execute his mission.
When he rejoined them at the hangar, the plane already was on the skidways.
"You take the wheel going up, Bob," said Frank.
"I'll pilot her home."
The trip to Mineola flying field, where Bob and Frank and Mr. Temple as well had taken their flying lessons, was made without incident.
Planning not to arouse the suspicions of anybody who might be on watch, Bob was careful to steer a course over the water a good mile out from Starfish Cove.
Watching through the glass, Frank reported the little plane missing and no sign of life on the tiny beach or in the woods beyond where the radio plant was hidden.
Mechanics at the flying field, who knew them, took the plane in charge when they alighted.
Although they had planned to hire an automobile to take them into the city, they learned they were in time to catch an express train, and boarded it.
After a fast run, they emerged from the train which had borne them through the tunnel under the East River and under Manhattan and ascended to the main waiting room of the Pennsylvania Terminal.
The hour still lacked several minutes of noon.
"I'm not particularly hungry," said Jack.
"If you fellows feel the same way about it, suppose we defer luncheon until we have seen Mr. McKay.
Probably we can catch him at his office now.
But if we lunch first, there is no telling when we can get to see him.
These business men take three or four hours for lunch lots of times."
"Lead on," said Frank.
"Do you know where his office is located?"
"At Times Square," said Bob.
"I've been there once with Dad.
Come on.
We'll take the Subway.
It's only one station up the line."
The three boys were familiar with the great city, having lived on Long Island all their lives.
Although many miles distant from New York, they were frequent visitors.
Crossing the big waiting room, they entered the West Side subway, and a few minutes later disembarked from an express train at the Times Square station.
Mounting to the surface, Bob led the way to a towering office building.
An express elevator shot them to the twentieth story, and there they entered the anteroom of a handsome suite of offices occupied by the J.
B. McKay Realty Corporation, and inquired of the information clerk--a young woman--for the head of the firm.
Here, however, they met disappointment.
Mr. McKay was not in the city.
"Mr. McKay's secretary is here, however," said the clerk, taking pity on their evident dismay.
"Wait a moment and I'll call him."
She spoke into the telephone receiver, and then nodded brightly.
"Mr. Higginbotham will see you," she said.
"He is in that corner office."
Jack was undecided.
He looked to his companions.
"Shall we try him?"
"May as well," said Frank.
"Probably he can give us the information we want, just as well as Mr.
McKay."
Following directions, they entered a roomy office, furnished in walnut and with walnut panelling on the walls.
Two big windows gave a commanding view up Broadway below and west to the Hudson river and the Jersey shore.
A small, sharp-eyed man, with graying hair, immaculately dressed in gray, rose from the desk as they entered and regarded them inquiringly.
Jack wasted no time on preliminaries, but after introducing himself and his companions, stated their mission.
They wanted to know who was the man who had bought the old Brownell place, and what was known about him.
His name?
Mr. Higginbotham could not recall it.
He doubted whether there was a record of it at hand.
The old Brownell place?
Yes, he remembered the property.
Why were the young men interested.
Sharp-eyed Frank detected a slight start at Jack's query.
Moreover, he thought there was an air of guarded watchfulness about Higginbotham, for no apparent reason.
That mysterious sixth sense which so often had been of value in the past now came to the fore.
Before Jack could reply, he took over the conversation.
"Oh," said he, lightly, "being neighbors, we were just curious, we wondered who had bought the haunted house.
That's all.
My uncle, Mr. Temple, is a friend of Mr. McKay.
So, being near, we thought we would stop in and ask him.
That's all.
Sorry to have bothered you.
Good day."
And taking the bewildered Jack and Bob by their arms, he gently propelled them to the door.
CHAPTER V PURSUING THE "RADIO" PLANE Not before they had reached the street did Frank vouchsafe an explanation of his amazing conduct.
Then Jack, refusing to be put aside any more, gripped him by the arm and swung him about so that they stood face to face.
"Out with it, now," he demanded.
"Why did you hurry us away from that office?
And why didn't you tell Mr. Higginbotham our reason for trying to discover something about this man who has taken the Brownell place?"
Big Bob quizzically regarded his smaller companion.
"Guess I know," he said.
"Frank had another hunch.
Didn't you?"
"Yes," confessed Frank, "and that's about all I had to go on, too.
But it was a strong one.
Something inside of me kept saying that man Higginbotham wasn't to be trusted.
There was a look in his eyes, watchful and cunning.
And he made a little start when we asked him about the Brownell place.
I don't know.
There was nothing definite, nothing I can point out to you now.
I feel almost ashamed of myself, as a matter of fact."
Bob put an arm over his shoulder.
"You needn't," he said.
"Forget it.
I'll put my faith in your hunches every time.
Well, what'll we do now?
Look up the Secret Service men, or have lunch first?"
"Let's eat," said Jack.
He was a bit out of sorts because his plan to pump Mr. McKay had miscarried.
Bob who read him aright, grinned and slapped him resoundingly on the back.
"How much money you got, old thing?"
he asked.
"I came without any.
Do we eat at a Child's restaurant or at the Knickerbocker Grill."
They stood on the corner of Broadway and Forty-second street, immediately in front of the Knickerbocker.
Toward it Bob, who was fond of good eating, gazed with longing.
"Too high-priced for my purse," said Jack.
"Besides, we haven't the time to waste over eating there.
Takes too long.
We must be on our way.
However, I can do you better than a lunch counter, so come on.
I know a place around here on Forty-second street."
Taking the lead, Jack led the way through the busy throng that congests traffic at Times Square at all hours of the day and practically all of the night, too.
They turned in at a small restaurant on Forty-second street, and despatched lunch in double-quick time.
During the course of the meal, Bob gave an exclamation.
"I planned to call Dad and tell him we were in town and why," he said.
"But it's too late now.
He'll have gone out to lunch."
Jack knew it would be impossible to reach his father by telephone.
Mr. Hampton the night before had announced he planned to spend the day going over certain engineering plans with Colonel Graham, and Jack had only a vague idea where they would be in conference.
"Now for the Secret Service men," said Jack, at conclusion of the meal.
"Luckily I have a card of introduction from Inspector Burton in my purse.
Also it gives the address--down on Park Row.
Well, the Subway again.
Only this time, the East Side branch to Brooklyn Bridge."
Once more stemming the torrent of human traffic flowing along Forty-second street, the boys made their way eastward to the Grand Central station, boarded a southbound express train on the Subway tracks, and were whisked to their destination at lightning-like speed.
Park Row also was crowded, the noon hour crowds of workers, from the towering skyscrapers of the financial district to the south, loitering in City Hall Park and sauntering up and down the thoroughfare to which the park gives its name.
Jack and Bob felt their spirits react to the impulse of the busy life around them, but the sensitive Frank, who hated crowds, became peevish.
He urged his companions to hurry.
"Forget the sight-seeing," he said, "and let's move along.
The quicker I'm out of this mass of humanity, the better pleased I'll be.
These crowds of New Yorkers don't give a fellow a chance to take a deep breath for fear he'll crush in somebody else's ribs."
"Here we are," said Jack, turning in at a tall office building, near lower Broadway, with old St. Paul's and its churchyard, filled now with loitering clerks spending their dinner hour among the graves, just across the way.
Once more an express elevator whisked the trio skyward.
At the fourteenth floor they alighted, made their way to an office, the glass door of which bore no lettering except the number "12," and entered.
"Inspector Condon, please," said Jack, to a fat young man, smoking a long black cigar, who sat in his shirtsleeves at a desk, reading through a mass of papers.
The latter got to his feet, and held out his hand.
He had a jolly face which broke into a grin of welcome, as he extended his hand.
"That's me," he said.
Jack was rather taken aback.
He had not expected to meet so young a man in a position of such responsibility.
This man could not have been more than 26 or 28 years of age.
Passing over his astonishment, however, Jack introduced himself and his companions and then extended the card of introduction given him a year before by Inspector Burton, when they left Washington, but which heretofore had not been presented.
"So," said Inspector Condon, reading the note on the back of the card; "you are the three chaps who made such a stir in that business in California?
Mighty glad to meet you.
Sit down.
What can I do for you?"
"That remains to be seen," said Jack.
"However, we have run into something rather curious, and we thought you might be interested.
So if you have time to listen, we'll spin the yarn."
"All the time in the world, friend," said Inspector Condon, genially.
"Shoot."
Thereupon, Jack proceeded to relate the story of the secret radio plant, the mysterious plane probably controlled by radio and thus able to operate in silence, and the facts as they had obtained them from Mr. Temple regarding the occupant of the old Brownell place known as the "haunted house."
"Ha," said Inspector Condon; "if that fellow is a liquor smuggler, the 'haunted house' has spirits in it, all right, all right."
And he laughed uproariously at his own joke.
"But, now, boys," he added, sobering; "an investigation into this matter would be somewhat outside of my province.
However, I'll place this information before the prohibition enforcement officials, who will be glad to get it, I can assure you.
Let me thank you, in behalf of the government, for coming to us with your information."
After a few more moments of conversation, during which Inspector Condon made a note of their names and addresses, the boys left.
At the door, Jack turned for a last word.
"If we can be of any help," he said, "call on us.
We have a radio plant and an airplane at our command, and, besides, are admirably situated near the scene."
"Fretting for more adventure, are you?"
asked Inspector Condon, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Well, that's a kind offer, and I'll pass it along to the proper people to handle this matter.
If they need any help, you'll hear from them shortly.
I expect they won't let any grass grow under their feet on this case."
When once more they stood on the sidewalk, Jack's gaze lifted to the clock in the tower of St. Paul's.
Two o'clock.
"Well, we haven't gotten very far with our adventure," he said, a bit dispiritedly.
"I thought we would start something that would give us a bit of excitement.
But, apparently, all we have done has been to let the whole business slip out of our hands."
"Oh, forget it," said Frank irritably.
The noise, the heat and the bustle of the city had irritated his nerves.
"Come on.
Let's get out of this.
I hate all this hurly-burly.
If we take the Subway over to the Flatbush Avenue terminal of the Long Island Railroad, we'll just about have time to make an express to Mineola."
The roar of the Subway was not conducive to conversation, and little further was said until the trio boarded the train in Brooklyn, and pulled out for the short run to Mineola.
Early editions of several afternoon newspapers were purchased at the terminal newsstand, and the boys settled down to glance at the day's happenings when once ensconced in the train.
Presently Frank, his irritation forgotten now that the city was being left behind, called the attention of his companions to a first page story under flaring headlines which read: RUM RUNNERS LAND BIG LIQUOR CARGO; ELUDE "DRY NAVY."
"Say, I haven't been reading any of this stuff," said Frank.
"But after what the men told us last night about the size of these operations, and with my interest aroused by developments at Starfish Cove, I'm beginning to see that this defiance of the prohibition law is just about the most stirring thing before the Nation to-day.
At least, here on the Eastern seaboard, where these smugglers are organized and have a handy base in the West Indies."
The others nodded agreement, and the conversation proceeded in similar vein until they tumbled from the train at Mineola.
Speeding to the flying field in a taxi, they were soon aboard the plane.
This time Frank took the wheel.
And to the friendly farewells of the mechanics, they took off and began the homeward journey.
After forty minutes of speedy flying, Bob, idly scanning the sky through the glass, focussed upon a tiny speck in the distance.
All three had clamped on their radio receivers and hung the transmitters by straps across their shoulders.
Speaking into the transmitter now, Bob announced: "I think that radio-controlled plane is flying away from us, out to sea, off to the right.
I'm going to tune up to that 1,375-meter wave length, and we'll see if there's a continuous dash in the receivers."
"All right," answered Jack, "but look out for your eardrums.
The interference at that wave length is very sharp and you want to be ready to tune down at once, or your head will feel as if it were ready to burst."
A moment later the high crashing shriek, with which Jack had become familiar of late, signalled in the receivers, and Bob promptly tuned down.
"Wow," said he.
"That's it, all right.
That's the continuous dash which is being sent out from the secret radio plant to control that little plane.
Let's keep it in sight, Frank, and see where it goes.
Don't close in on it.
Keep just about this distance.
I can watch it through the glass, and I'll give you your bearings if you lose sight of it.
Probably there is only one man aboard, and he won't have a glass, and won't know we are following him."
"All right," responded Frank.
"Here's where we'd turn toward shore.
But we'll stick to his trail a while."
With that he began edging the plane out to sea.
CHAPTER VI A FALL INTO THE SEA Out over the shining sea flew the glistening all-metal plane, and the spirits of the boys lifted to the chase.
The oldest fever of the blood known to man is that of the chase.
It comes down to us from our prehistoric ancestors who lived by the chase, got their daily food by it, wooed and won by it, and fought their battles by it in that dim dawn of time when might was right and the law of tooth and claw was the only rede.
Gone was the irritability that had possessed Frank in the noise and din, the crowding walls and swarming hordes of human beings, back in the city.
Below him lay the broad Atlantic, from their height seeming smooth as a ball-room floor, with the surface calm and unruffled.
No land was in sight ahead.
The water stretched to infinity, over the edge of the world.
For a wonder, not a sail broke that broad expanse due south, although to the west were several streamers of smoke where ships stood in for port, hull down on the far horizon, while closer at hand was a little dot which Bob, swinging the glasses, made out to be a four-masted schooner.
It was a long distance off, ten or fifteen miles, judged Bob.
The tiny plane was heading in that direction.
Was it bearing away for the schooner?
The question leaped into Bob's mind.
He put it into spoken words, into the transmitter.
"There's a schooner southwest," he said.
"The plane is going in that direction.
Bear up a trifle, Frank, and slow her down.
Let's see whether the plane is heading for it."
Frank slowed the engine and altered the course sufficiently to keep the plane in view on the new tack, but not to bring them so close to it as to arouse suspicion.
In a few moments, all could see the tiny speck coasting down on a long slant and Bob, watching through the glasses, exclaimed excitedly: "The little fellow is going to land.
There, he's on the water now.
He's taxying close to the ship."
"I'm going to climb," stated Frank, suiting action to word.
"Good idea," said Jack.
"Let me have the glasses a minute, Bob, will you?"
Bob complied.
"I don't believe they know of our presence," Jack presently declared.
"Do you fellows consider the plane was forced to land?
Is that how it happened to come down near the schooner?
There doesn't seem to be any attempt to put out a boat and get the pilot."
"Forced to land, my eye," said Bob, repossessing himself of the glasses.
"Do you want to know what I think?
I believe the pilot is holding a confab with the schooner.
By Jiminy, that's right, too.
And it's ended.
He's taxying again, and starting to rise."
Frank, at Bob's words, had swung away again to the south.
After describing a long circle, which carried them so far aloft and so wide of the ship as to lose it from sight, he again turned the plane toward home.
"I expect they never saw us, either from the schooner or the plane," Jack said.
"There was never any indication of alarm.
Of course, we were too far off to tell exactly, even spying through the glass."
"Somehow, however," replied Frank.
"I have the feeling that they didn't."
"Didn't what?"
asked Bob.
"Didn't see us," answered Frank.
Frank had accelerated the speed of the engine, and was driving at eighty miles an hour, straight for home.
Suddenly, an exclamation from Bob, who again was swinging his glasses over the sea below, smote the ears of the boys.
"Something's the matter with that little plane.
Say"--a breathless pause--"it's falling.
Come on, Frank.
We'll have to see if we can help.
Swoop down.
There, to the left."
Rapidly Frank began spiralling and in a very short time was near enough to the small plane for it to be seen clearly with the naked eye.
It had been flying at a considerable height.
As the boys watched, it went into a dive, with the pilot struggling desperately to flatten out.
He succeeded, when not far from the surface of the ocean.
As a result, instead of diving nose foremost into the water, the plane fell flat with a resounding smack, there was a breathless moment or two when it seemed as if the little thing would be swamped, then it rode lightly and buoyantly on the little swells.
Descending to the water, Frank taxied up close to the other plane.
The figure of the pilot hung motionless over the wheel.
Probably, considered the boys, the man had been flung about and buffeted until he lost consciousness.
"I'll close up to him head on," Frank said.
"Then, if necessary, one of you can climb into the other plane and see what we can do to help.
Probably the thing to do will be to get him aboard here, and carry him ashore."
"Righto," said Bob, climbing out to the fuselage, behind the slowly revolving propeller.
"Now take it easy.
We don't want to smash.
I can drop into the water and swim a stroke or two, and get aboard."
As the boys swung up close, however, the figure at the wheel of the other plane stirred.
Then the man lifted his head and looked at them, in dazed fashion.
"Mr. Higginbotham," exclaimed Frank, under his breath.
"Well, what do you know about that?"
It was, indeed, the man they had interviewed earlier that day in the McKay realty offices, back in New York.
"How in the world did he get here?"
asked Jack, who also had recognized the other.
Frank had brought their plane to a halt.
It bobbed up and down slowly on the long ground swell, not far from the smaller machine.
Bob was still astride the fuselage.
"Hello," he called.
"We saw you fall and came over to see if we could help.
Engine gone wrong, or what was it?"
Higginbotham was rapidly recovering his senses.
He stared at his interlocutor keenly, then at the others.
Recognition dawned, then dismay, in his eyes.
But he cloaked the latter quickly.
"Why, aren't you the lads who were in my office to-day?"
he asked, ignoring Bob's proffer of help.
"You're Mr. Higginbotham, aren't you?"
answered Bob.
"Yes, we are the fellows you spoke to."
"What in the world are you doing out here?"
Higginbotham demanded, sharply.
"Why, we told you we lived near here.
We had flown to Mineola and then motored to the city.
And we were just flying home when we saw you fall, and came over to do what we could."
"Oh."
Higginbotham stared from one to the other.
Had he seen them pursue him and spy on him as he visited the schooner?
That was the question each boy asked himself.
Apparently, he had not done so, for his next question was: "Do you fly around here often in your plane?"
Frank took a hand in the conversation.
If big Bob were left to carry on alone, he might blunderingly give this man an inkling of what the boys knew or suspected about their mysterious neighbors.
Frank felt that his chill of suspicion, experienced when he encountered Higginbotham in New York, was being justified.
Decidedly, this man must be in with the mysterious inhabitant of the old Brownell place.
Equally certain was it that he had lied in stating he did not know the name of the man who had bought the property.
"Oh," said Frank, "we haven't had the plane out for weeks until a day or two ago, when we made a trial spin, and again to-day.
We've been busy for a month overhauling it."
That, thought Frank, ought to stave off Higginbotham's suspicions.
Evidently, the other was feeling around to learn whether they had flown sufficiently of late to have spied out the secret radio plant or seen the radio-controlled plane in operation.
"And I'll bet," Frank said himself, "that it is a complete surprise to him to find there is a plane in his neighborhood.
Probably, he thought he could operate without fear of discovery in this out-of-the-way neighborhood, and it's a shock to him to find we are here."
Some such thoughts were passing through Higginbotham's mind.
How could he get rid of these boys without disclosing to them that his was a radio-controlled plane?
"I'm very much obliged to you, gentlemen," he said, smoothly, "for coming to my aid.
As it is, however, I do not need help.
This is a plane of my own design, I may as well state, for I can see its surprising lines have aroused your curiosity.
I would prefer that you do not come any closer but that, on the other hand, you would leave me now.
I want to make some minor repairs, and then I shall be able to fly again."
"Very well, sir," answered Bob composedly, climbing back from the fusilage to his seat in the pit.
"We don't want to annoy you.
Good day."
With that, Frank swung clear, the propeller to which Bob had given a twist began anew to revolve, the plane taxied in a circle, then rose and started for the shore.
"We certainly surprised him," chuckled Jack.
"He didn't know what to say to us.
In his excitement and his fear of discovery of some secret or other, he acted in a way to arouse suspicion, not dispel it.
Well, Frank, you win the gold medal.
Your hunch about Higginbotham being untrustworthy certainly seems to have some foundation."
"I'll say so, too," agreed Bob.
"But what do you imagine happened to him?"
Bob sat with the glasses trained backwards to where the little plane still rode the sea.
"That's easy," answered Jack.
"Something went wrong at the secret radio plant and the continuity of the dash which provides the juice for the plane's motor was broken.
That's the only way I can figure it.
I say.
Let's tune up to 1,375 meters, and see whether that continuous dash is sounding."
"It's not there," Bob announced presently.
"Not a sound in the receivers.
Neither does the plane show any signs of motion.
Look here.
Suppose that whatever has happened at that fellow's radio plant cannot be fixed up for a long period, what will Higginbotham do?
Ought we to go away and leave him?"
"Well," said Jack, doubtfully, "it does look heartless.
He's four or five miles from shore.
Of course, we might shoot him a continuous dash from our own radio plant."
"Zowie," shrieked Bob, snatching the receiver from his head, and twisting the controls at the same time, in order to reduce from the 1,375-meter wave length.
"There's his power.
No need for us to worry now.
Oh, boy, but wasn't that a blast in the ear?"
Ruefully, he rubbed his tingling ears.
Jack was doing the same.
Poor Frank, whose eardrums had been subjected to the same shock, also had taken a hand from the levers at the same time and snatched off his headpiece.
"She's rising now," cried Bob.
Without his headpiece, Frank could not hear the words and kept his eyes to the fore, as he swung now above the line of the shore.
Jack, however, also was straining his eyes to the rear, and he snatched the glasses from Bob and trained them on the plane.
True enough, Higginbotham was rising.
CHAPTER VII A CALL FROM HEADQUARTERS It was not yet five o'clock when, the airplane safely stowed away and the doors of the hangar closed and locked, the boys once more stood on the skidway.
"What say to a plunge before we go up to the house?"
proposed Frank.
"There's nobody to see us.
We can strip down at the beach, splash around for ten minutes, and then head home.
It's a hot, sticky day and that trip to the city left me with the feeling that I wanted to wash something away."
The others agreed to the proposal and they started making their way to the shore, discussing the latest turn of events on the way.
"It certainly looks as if your hunch about Higginbotham, when we met him in his office, was justified," said Jack, clapping Frank on the shoulder.
"The boy's a wonder," agreed Bob.
Then, more seriously, he added: "But, I say.
Higginbotham isn't the man who flew the radio-controlled plane before.
I mean the fellow whose tracks I found in the sand.
That chap was peg-legged."
"That's right," agreed Jack.
"And where does Higginbotham figure in this matter, anyhow?
It's some mystery."
"Well, let's see what we do know so far," suggested Frank.
"It's little enough that we have found out.
But I like mysteries.
First of all, Bob finds a secret radio plant, and----" "No," interrupted Jack.
"First of all, I discover interference in the receivers at a 1,375-meter wave length."
"Yes, that's right," said Frank.
"Well, second is Bob's find of the radio plant to which he is led by tracks in the sand made by a peg-legged man.
Look here.
Bob thought at the time that man had arrived in a boat.
He saw marks on the sand indicating a boat had been pulled up on the shore.
Might not that have been the indentation made by the radio plane?"
"Just what I was thinking to myself a minute ago," said Bob.
"Anyhow," continued Frank, "we then discovered the radio plane in Starfish Cove.
From Uncle George we learned a mysterious stranger had recently bought the Brownell place, the 'haunted house,' and had built a fence about the property and set armed guards to keep out intruders.
The plot was thickening all the time."
By now the boys had reached the shore and well above the tide mark they began to strip, dropping their clothes in heaps.
Frank continued talking as he shed his garments: "So we decided to go up to the city and ask Mr. McKay who it was had taken the Brownell place.
Instead of Mr. McKay we found his secretary, Higginbotham, who professed to know nothing about the matter.
Yet, when we arrive down here, we find Higginbotham in the radio plane, visiting a schooner well off shore.
"Say, fellows," he added, as having dropped the last article of clothing, he stood prepared to plunge in; "that man Higginbotham must have left his office immediately after we interviewed him, and probably came down by motor car.
We spent two or three hours longer in the city, which gave him the chance to beat us.
Now what brought him down here?"
"Search me," said Bob.
"There may be a big liquor plot, and he may be in it.
Probably, is.
Perhaps he was alarmed at our inquiries and hurried down to keep things quiet for a while."
"That's just what he did, Bob, I do believe," said Jack, approvingly.
"I believe you've hit it."
"Oh, well, come on," said Bob.
"Let's have this plunge."
Scooping up two handsful of wet sand he flung it at his companions.
Then the fight began.
Forty-five minutes later, as they strolled across the lawn of the Temple home, Della came running to join them from the tennis court where she was playing with a girl visitor.
"Where have you been?"
she cried.
"Some man has been calling for the three of you on the telephone.
Two or three times in the last hour."
"Calling for us, Sis?"
said Bob.
"Who is he?"
"I don't know," she said.
"He hasn't given his name.
I believe he's calling from New York."
The boys looked at each other, puzzled.
Who could it be?
"Oh, there's Mary again," said Della, pointing to a maid who at that moment emerged on the side veranda, overlooking the tennis court.
"Mister Robert, you're wanted on the telephone," came the maid's voice.
Bob hurried indoors, Jack at his heels.
Frank hung behind.
"Well, Mr. Frank Merrick," said Della pertly.
"Give an account of yourself, if you please.
What were you boys doing in the city to-day?
You think you're grand, don't you, to go flying off in your airplane, on the very day I invite a girl down here to meet you?"
"Is she good looking, Della?"
asked Frank, anxiously.
"I won't meet her if she isn't good looking."
Della realized he was merely teasing, but she made a cruel thrust in return.
"You don't expect a good looking girl to be interested in you, do you?"
she said.
Frank laughed, then reached out to seize her by the shoulders, but she eluded his grasp and went speeding off across the lawn with him in pursuit.
They reached the tennis court, laughing and flushed, Della still in the lead.
There Della beckoned the other girl to them, and managed introductions.
"This is that scatter-brained Frank Merrick, I told you about, Pete," she said.
"Frank, this is my own particular pal at Miss Sefton's School, Marjorie Faulkner, better known as Pete.
If you can beat her at tennis, you will have to play above your usual form."
"That so?"
said Frank, entering into the spirit of badinage.
"Give me a racquet, and I'll take you both on for a set.
About 6-0 ought to be right, with me on the large end.
Never saw a girl yet that could play passable tennis."
"You scalawag," laughed Della.
"When it was only my playing that enabled us to beat Bob and Jack last light.
Well, here's your racquet, all waiting for you.
Come on."
Della was a prophet.
The slender, lithe Miss Faulkner, with her tip-tilted nose, freckles, tan and all, proved to be almost as good a player as Della herself.
The result was that, although both games were hotly contested, Frank lost the first two of the set.
He was about to start serving for the third game, when Bob and Jack, giving evidences of considerable excitement, approached from the house.
"Hey, Frank, come here," called Bob.
Frank stood undecided, but Della called to her brother: "He's a very busy boy, Bob.
You and Jack better come and help him."
Noting the presence of the other girl, Bob and Jack came forward, whereupon Della once more managed introductions.
Bob, usually rather embarrassed in the presence of girls, seemed at once at ease, and apparently forgot entirely his urgent business with Frank.
He and Miss Faulkner fell into the gay chatter from which the others were excluded.
Jack seized the opportunity to pull Frank aside.
"Look here," he said.
"Something has happened already.
That call was from one of the government prohibition enforcement agents up in New York.
He said Inspector Condon had carried our information and surmises about our neighbors to him immediately after seeing us.
He's coming down to-night to the house.
Said he thought he could make the trip in about three hours, and would be here at 9 o'clock."
"Is that so?"
said Frank.
"Has Uncle George come home yet?"
"No, and he won't be home.
It seems he telephoned earlier that he was running down to Philadelphia on business for a day or two.
He always keeps a grip packed at his office, you know, for such emergencies."
Frank nodded, then looked thoughtful.
"He ought to be here, however," he said.
"Well, anyway, there's your father."
Jack shook his head.
"No, Dad planned to stay in town to-night at his club."
"Well," said Frank.
"We'll have to handle this alone.
I suppose, however, this man just wants to talk with us at first hand and, perhaps, by staying until to-morrow, get an idea of what's down here for himself.
He might even ask us to take him up in the plane over the Brownell place, to-morrow."
"What did Bob say to him?"
"Told him to come on down," said Jack.
"What else could he say?
We had told Inspector Condon that we placed ourselves at the government's service.
I expect I had better put him up at our house overnight.
Then we won't have to make any useless explanations to Mrs.
Temple."
Frank nodded.
Mrs. Temple, though kindly soul enough, was so involved in social and club duties that she had little time to give the boys.
As a matter of fact, Frank was not at all certain that she would be at home for dinner that night.
As to putting up the stranger at Jack's home, that would be an easy matter.
Jack's mother was dead, and a housekeeper managed the house and servants for himself and his father.
She was an amiable woman, and all Jack would have to do would be to prefer a request that a guest room be prepared, and it would be done.
"Hey, Frank," called Bob, interrupting their aside; "see how this strikes you?
Miss Faulkner and I will play you and Della.
We shall have time for a set before dressing for dinner."
"Righto," agreed Frank, taking up his racquet, while Jack sank to the turf bordering the court, to look on.
Bob really outplayed himself, and several times, when he approached Della, Frank whispered to her that her brother was smitten and trying to "show off" before the new girl.
Della, well pleased, nodded agreement.
Nevertheless, Frank and Della played their best, and the score stood at three-all when Jack hailed them from the sidelines with the information that, unless they preferred being late to dinner, it behooved them to quit playing and hasten indoors.
Dinner at the Temples was served promptly at 7 o'clock, and never delayed.
Accordingly, the game was broken up.
"Come along, Jack," said Frank, linking an arm in that of his pal; "your father's not at home, and we won't let you dine in solitary splendor.
You are coming to dinner with us."
CHAPTER VIII A CONSULTATION "This man Higginbotham is not the chief figure in the liquor smuggling ring," stated Captain Folsom emphatically.
Captain Folsom sat in the Temple library, with the boys grouped about him.
The time was nearing ten o'clock.
From the moment of his arrival, shortly after the hour of nine, he had been in conference with the boys, and they had explained to him in detail all that they had discovered or surmised about their neighbors of the old Brownell place.
An army officer with a distinguished record, who had lost his left arm in the Argonne, Captain Folsom upon recovery had been given a responsible post in the prohibition enforcement forces.
His was a roving commission.
He was not attached permanently to the New York office, but when violations of the law at the metropolis became so flagrant as to demand especial attention, he had been sent on from Washington to assume command of a special squad of agents.
Lieutenant Summers, U. S. N., in command of the submarine division known as the "Dry Fleet," was operating in conjunction with him, he had told the boys.
Still a young man in his early thirties, he had a strong face, an athletic frame and a true grey eye, and had made a good impression on the boys.
"No," he repeated emphatically, "this man Higginbotham is not at the bottom of all this devilment.
There is somebody behind it all who is keeping utterly in the dark, somebody who is manipulating all the various bands of smugglers around this part of the world.
I believe that when we unearth him we shall receive the surprise of our lives, for undoubtedly, from certain evidences that have come to my attention so far, he will prove to be a man of prominence and importance in the business world."
"But why should such a man engage in liquor smuggling?"
asked Jack, astonished.
Captain Folsom smiled.
"My dear boy," he said, "wherever 'big money,' so to speak, is involved, you will find men doing things you would never have suspected they were capable of.
And certainly, 'big money' is involved in bootlegging, as liquor smuggling is termed.
"Evidently, you boys have not been interested in watching developments in this situation, since the country became 'dry.'
Well, it's a long story, and I won't spin out the details.
But, as soon as the prohibition law went into effect, in every city in the country bootleggers sprang up.
Many, of course, were of the lawless type that are always engaged in breaking the laws.
Others, however, were people who ordinarily would not be regarded as law-violators.
In this case, though, they felt that an injustice had been done, that human liberty had been violated, in the foisting of prohibition on the country.
They felt it was a matter the individual should be permitted to decide for himself, whether he should take a drink of liquor or not, you know.
"These people, therefore, did not regard it as a crime to break the law.
"Another salve to conscience, moreover, was the fact that tremendous sums of money were to be made out of bootlegging.
Liquor was selling for prices that were simply enormous.
It still is, of course, but I am speaking about the beginnings of things.
People who never had drunk liquor in any quantities before, now would buy a case of whiskey or wine, and pay $100 a case and up for it, and consider themselves lucky to get it.
They would boast quietly to friends about having obtained a case of liquor.
"The bootlegging industry, accordingly, has grown to astonishing proportions to-day.
Right in New York City are men who are rated as millionaires, who a few years ago did not have a penny, and they have acquired their money through liquor smuggling.
"At first these bootleggers operated individually, and elsewhere in the Nation that is still largely their method.
But here in New York there have been increasing evidences lately that some organizing genius had taken charge of the situation and was swiftly bending other bootleggers to his will.
For some time, we have been of the opinion that a syndicate or ring, probably controlled and directed by one man, was responsible for most of the liquor smuggling here."
"And do you believe," interrupted Frank, "that this man who has bought the old Brownell place may be that central figure?"
Captain Folsom nodded.
"It is entirely possible," he said.
"Moreover, what you have told me about the construction of a secret radio plant, and about the appearance of this radio-controlled airplane, fits in with certain other facts which have puzzled us a good deal lately."
"How so?"
asked Jack.
"For one thing," said Captain Folsom, "my colleague, Lieutenant Summers of the submarine division, tells me that his radio receivers aboard the boats of his fleet have picked up any number of mysterious series of dots and dashes lately.
Code experts have been working on them, but they have proved meaningless.
"He was puzzled by them.
He still is puzzled.
But, we have noticed that after every such flooding of the ether with these dots and dashes, a shipment of liquor has appeared on the market.
And one theory advanced is that the liquor was landed along the coast of Long Island or New Jersey in boats controlled by radio from a powerful land station.
The boats, of course, according to this theory, were launched from some liquor-laden vessel which had arrived off the coast from the West Indies.
Radio-driven boats, automobiles or planes, Lieutenant Summers tells me, are directed by a series of dots and dashes.
So you see, our theory sounds plausible enough, and, if it is correct, the direction probably has come from this secret radio station."
Big Bob's brow was wrinkled in thought.
He seldom spoke, but usually when he did so, it was to the point.
"In that case," he asked, "what would be the necessity for this radio-driven airplane?
Apparently, the airplane is for communication from ship to shore.
But, with a radio land station, why can't such communications be carried on by radio in code?"
Captain Folsom looked thoughtful.
"There is something in that," he said.
"Perhaps, these plotters are playing safe," suggested Frank.
"They may figure that code would be intercepted and interpreted.
Therefore, they confine their use of radio to the transmission of power waves, and do not employ it for sending messages.
The airplane is the messenger."
Jack nodded approvingly.
"Yes," he agreed, "Frank's idea is a good one.
Besides, by using a radio-controlled plane, the plotters can scout over the surrounding waters for miles whenever a ship is about to land a cargo.
The plane can make a scouting expedition over the shore, too, for that matter.
You see a radio-controlled plane has an immense advantage for such scout work, inasmuch as it proceeds practically without noise."
Captain Folsom slapped his knee resoundingly with an open palm.
"By George," he cried, "I believe you boys have hit it.
This scout plane is the answer to what has puzzled us the last few weeks.
We know liquor is being landed somewhere from ships, but despite our best efforts both ashore and on the water, we have been unable to run down the smuggling ships or the receiving parties ashore.
Well, this plane warns the ships away from the vicinity of the sub chasers, and also directs the landing of the radio-controlled boats with their cargo at lonely spots where there are no guards.
Yes, sir, I believe that is the way it has been worked."
He fell silent, and sat with brow wrinkled in concentrated thought.
The boys respected his silence, and also were busied with their own thoughts.
"There is one thing that has got to be done," said Captain Folsom, presently.
There was a gleam of determination in his eye.
"You mean the radio-controlled plane must be put out of commission?"
asked Frank quickly.
"You have read my thought," accused Captain Folsom.
"Yes, that is just what I was going to suggest.
But how to do it, with no evidence against Higginbotham or this mysterious individual living at the Brownell house, is beyond me."
"Jack's a shark at the use of radio," declared Bob.
"Perhaps he can suggest some method."
All turned toward Jack.
"It wouldn't do, of course, to make a raid and capture the plane and their radio plant?"
Jack asked.
Captain Folsom shook his head.
"No," he said.
"That wouldn't do, for a number of reasons.
In the first place, as I said, we have no evidence that would stand in court that Higginbotham or anybody else connected with the matter is a law-breaker.
It may even be that whoever is behind the plot has obtained a government license for the operation of the radio station.
The power of these bootleggers reaches far, and goes into high places.
Therefore, we cannot afford to make an open attack.
"But, in the second place," he added, leaning forward and uncrossing his legs; "what good would that do?
It would only warn the Man Higher Up that we were on his track.
We don't want him warned.
We want to close in on him.
For I do believe you boys have given us a lead that will enable us to do so.
At the same time--we do want to put that plane out of commission."
"Look here," said Jack, suddenly.
"It's strange, if with our airplane and our own radio plant, one of the most powerful private plants in the world, certainly in America, it's strange, I say, if with this equipment we are not enabled to work out some method for accomplishing your ends.
"But, let's think it over.
Let's sleep on it.
I have the glimmerings of an idea now.
But I'm tired.
It's been a hard day.
Suppose we all turn in and talk it over to-morrow morning."
"Good idea, Jack," declared Bob, yawning unrestrainedly.
"I'm tired, too."
"Very good," said Captain Folsom.
"Meanwhile, I shall have to take advantage of your kind offer to put me up for the night."
"No trouble at all," said Jack, heartily.
"Come along.
Night, fellows.
Come over to my house after breakfast.
Night."
With mutual farewells the party broke up, Frank and Bob retiring to their rooms, and Jack and his guest starting to make their way to the Hampton home.
On the part of none of them was there any prevision of the strange events the night would bring forth.
CHAPTER IX THE ENEMY STRIKES In the middle of the night, Jack awoke with a start, and lay silent a moment, listening, wondering what had aroused him.
The next moment he heard a cry outside his window of "Jack, Jack, wake up."
It was Frank's voice.
Leaping from bed, Jack sprang to the upflung window overlooking the side lawn nearest the Temple house.
Outside in the moonlight stood Frank, a pair of trousers pulled over his pajamas, hands cupped to his mouth.
He was preparing to yell again.
"What's the matter?"
called Jack.
"The hangar's afire.
Tom Barnum saw the blaze from your radio station and called the house.
I'm off.
Come as fast as you can."
Turning, Frank plunged away toward the airplane hangar, clutching at his trousers as he ran.
Jack could not help laughing a little at the ridiculous spectacle which his chum provided.
Then he turned back to the room and started feverishly to dress, ignoring everything except trousers, shirt and shoes.
While he was thus engaged, the voice of Captain Folsom hailed him sleepily from next room.
"You up, old man?
Thought I heard voices.
Anything the matter?"
"Yes, there is," replied Jack, going to the communicating door.
"Tom Barnum, the mechanic-watchman in charge of our radio plant, which isn't far from the Temples' airplane hangar, says the latter is afire.
Frank and Bob already are on the way down, and stopped to warn me."
"Afire?"
cried Captain Folsom, leaping from his bed, and reaching for his trousers.
"That's bad.
Just when we need the airplane, too, to spy on these rascals.
Half a minute, old man, and I'll be with you.
Not so devilish easy to get into trousers with one arm."
"Can I help you?"
proffered Jack.
"I'm all fixed.
Here, let me lace your shoes."
"Well, if you insist," said Captain Folsom.
As Jack deftly laced up the other's shoes, he said in an anxious tone: "Do you think, sir, those people set the fire?
It would be a catastrophe if the plane burned just at this particular time, wouldn't it?
There.
All ready."
"Mighty good of you," said Captain Folsom.
"Lead on, then, and I'll follow.
As to the fire, I'll reserve opinion until I get the facts.
But these liquor smugglers are unscrupulous, and if they feared the airplane was being used against them, they would have no compunctions about burning it."
From the side of the house on which their rooms were located, Jack and his guest were unable to see anything of the fire, as the hangar lay in an opposite direction.
But the moment they emerged outdoors, the blaze showed dully against the sky above an intervening grove of trees.
Without wasting breath in further speculation, Jack and Captain Folsom started running for the scene.
The hangar stood a considerable distance away, and so fast had they covered the ground that they arrived pretty well blown.
They found the airplane standing like a singed bird on the sands in front of the hangar, and gathered about were Frank and Bob, Tom Barnum, and Old Davey, Mr. Hampton's gardener.
"The wings are gone, Jack," said Bob, turning as his chum approached.
"But, thanks to Tom's rapid work with the extinguisher, the fire did not reach the tank, and the old bus will be able to fly again after she sprouts new wings."
Jack turned his gaze to the hangar.
The sides and roof were of corrugated iron.
Practically the only wood in the construction was that employed in the skidway.
It needed only a glance to tell him the latter had been torn up and piled inside the hangar where it was still smouldering.
"What happened?"
he asked.
There were excited answers from all, but presently the story was made clear.
Some miscreant apparently had forced open the doors of the hangar, torn up the wooden planks and flooring of the skidway, piled them inside and then set them afire.
Probably whoever was guilty employed this method in order to give himself time to escape before the fire should attract attention.
He had overlooked, however, the presence of a large tank of chemicals with which to fight fire stored at the rear of the hangar, and Tom Barnum, after telephoning the Temple home, had appeared so quickly at the hangar that, by employing the chemical extinguisher, he had managed to save the airplane from being blown up.
Old Davey, a light sleeper, had hurried over from his cottage and the pair were in the act of pushing apart the burning brands in order to wheel out the plane, when Bob and Frank arrived to help them.
"Et's mighty cur'ous," said Old Davey, shaking his head dolefully; "mighty cur'ous, the trouble you boys hev with thet airyplane.
D'ye think now et was them Mexicans comin' back?"
"No, Davey," said Jack.
"Not this time.
Some other set of rascals was responsible."
"What does he mean, may I ask?"
inquired Captain Folsom, his curiosity aroused.
Briefly, Jack related to him how the previous summer two representatives of a faction of Mexican bandits engaged in making war on a group of independent oil operators headed by his father in New Mexico, had appeared at the quiet Long Island home, stolen the airplane, and flown with it to Old Mexico where they had employed it in kidnapping Mr. Hampton.
The boys, said Jack, not only had effected Mr. Hampton's release but also had recovered the plane, as related in "The Radio Boys On The Mexican Border."
"It's too long a story to be told now, however," he concluded, after giving the above bare outline.
"Some other time I'll give you the details if you are interested."
"I certainly am interested," said Captain Folsom, regarding Jack with increased respect.
"To think of you boys having done all that!"
"Oh, it was fun," said Jack hastily, embarrassed by the other's praise.
"Come on, let's see what the fellows are doing."
The others proved to be engaged in spraying the last of the chemical on the expiring embers of the blaze, and in stamping and beating out the last of the fire.
As the light died out, Bob fumbled for and found the switch in the hangar and the electric lights sprang on.
"Whoever did this made a hurried job of it," said he.
"I wonder----" "What?"
asked Jack.
"Oh, I was just wondering why the job was left uncompleted?
Tom," he added, turning to Tom Barnum; "how big was the blaze when you saw it?"
"Nothin' much," answered the other, his round, good-natured face shining through a fog of pipe smoke.
"I was restless.
Somethin' I et for dinner, I guess.
So I got up to smoke a pipe an' stroll around outside the station a bit, to see if I couldn't get myself sleepy.
My room's back o' the power house, ye know.
Well, as I come outside I see a light over here.
Not much bigger than a flashlight.
But it was 2 o'clock in the mornin' an' I knew none o' you could be there.
So I thinks either that's fire or some rascal, an' telephoned you, then hustled over here."
"That's it," said Bob.
"That explains it.
I was wondering why whoever set this fire didn't make a more complete job of it, but I see now.
You probably scared him away."
"Might be," said Tom.
"He might a heard me callin' to Old Davey as I run past his cottage."
"Well," said Frank, "let's push the bus inside.
She's not much good till we get new wings, but we don't want to leave it out here all night."
All lent a hand, and then as he started to swing shut the doors Bob examined the lock and gave an exclamation.
"Not even broken open," he said, disgustedly.
"I must have forgotten to lock up when we left.
Good night."
This time, he fastened the lock, and then fell in with his comrades and the party started for their homes.
"Whoever did that wasn't far away," Captain Folsom said, thoughtfully.
"If we had made a search we might have gotten some trace of him.
But it is too late now.
I imagine, of course, as I said to Mr. Hampton here earlier, that our bootlegger friends set the fire.
When they discovered your airplane in their neighborhood, they feared it would interfere with their plans and decided to get rid of it."
"Well, they got rid of it, all right," said Bob, "for to-night, anyhow, as well as for some time come."
They proceeded in gloomy silence for the most part, although the voice of Old Davey, an incorrigible conversationalist, floated back to them from where he led the way with Tom Barnum.
Where their courses diverged, the pair waited for them to call "Good nights."
"I say," said Jack suddenly, to his companions as Tom and Old Davey departed; "I have an idea.
Let's go over to the radio station, just for luck, and listen in on the ether to see whether we can pick up the interference on the 1,375-meter wave length.
Maybe, we can get some of those dots and dashes, too, of which Captain Folsom spoke.
It's only a step or two out of our way."
Bob yawned sleepily but stumbled ahead for the station, without a word, and Frank fell in with him.
Jack called to Tom Barnum and ran ahead, leaving Captain Folsom to proceed with his chums.
When the others arrived, the door of the station's transmitting room stood open, the lights were turned on, and Jack already was seated at the instrument table, a headpiece clamping the receivers to his ears while he manipulated the tuner.
Bob slumped down on the outside step, and Frank took a seat beside him, with an arm flung over his shoulders.
The damage to their airplane was felt keenly by both.
Captain Folsom, with a pitying glance at them, entered the station.
"Put on that headpiece," said Jack, motioning.
The other complied.
"By George," he cried, a moment later.
CHAPTER X A NIGHT EXPEDITION For several minutes Jack and Captain Folsom listened with strained attention while through the receivers came to their ears a series of dots and dashes which to one corresponded exactly with the similar sounds picked up by the prohibition enforcement officials on other occasions, and which to the other were meaningless and, therefore, significant.
That statement is not difficult to explain.
Jack was familiar with the Morse and Continental codes.
What he heard in the receivers represented neither.
Therefore, either the station he had picked up and was listening-in on was sending in some mysterious code or, as was more likely, it was radiating control.
And, all things considered, the latter was the more likely supposition.
Meanwhile, Bob and Frank, unaware of what was forward, sat disconsolately on the stoop outside in the warm night air, glooming over the damage to their airplane.
Finally Captain Folsom took off the headpiece and, seeing that Jack had done likewise, turned to him with an air of exasperation.
"This is maddening," he declared to Jack.
"Evidently, if I know anything about it, the smugglers are landing liquor somewhere along the coast by means of a radio-controlled boat or boats."
Jack was thoughtful.
"Do you know what I think?"
he asked.
"I believe they are landing the liquor somewhere near us.
For one thing, the sounds in the receivers are very clear and distinct.
That, however, does not portend a great deal.
The night is exceptionally good for sending, clear and with practically no static.
But there is another thing to be considered, and it's that I have in mind."
"What do you mean?"
asked Captain Folsom.
"I am thinking of the attempt to destroy the airplane, and the probable reason for it."
"Hm."
"You see," continued Jack, "if the smugglers planned to operate to-night, and were made fearful by recent events that we either had learned anything about them or suspected them, they might decide it would be unwise to have us at large, so to speak.
Suppose we were to swoop down on them in our airplane, they might think, what then?
This man Higginbotham, now.
He might not have been deceived by our explanation of how we came to be on hand when he was flying in his radio-controlled plane and fell into the water.
Besides, and this is the biggest point of all, we had appeared at his office to try and find out who had bought the Brownell property.
Oh, the more I consider it, the more I realize that he could not help but suspect that we were on the track of the liquor smugglers."
Captain Folsom nodded.
"Sound sense, all of it," he declared; "especially, your deduction that they are landing liquor near us.
Look here," he added, with sudden resolution; "where does that man, Tom Barnum, sleep?"
"He has quarters opening from the power house here," said Jack, in a tone of surprise.
"Why, may I ask?"
"Well, I think so well of your supposition that I want to do a bit of investigating.
Barnum looks like a stout, reliant man.
Besides, he knows the neighborhood.
I'll ask him to accompany me."
Jack's eyes glittered.
"What's the matter with us?"
he demanded.
"Oh, I couldn't think of drawing you boys into this.
It might involve some little danger."
"Well," said Jack, "danger would be nothing new to us.
If you do not actually forbid our accompanying you, we'll go along.
I'm keen to go.
And I can say the same for Bob and Frank without questioning them.
Besides, you must remember it was their airplane which these rascals damaged.
They'll be eager for a chance to even scores."
Captain Folsom still looked dubious.
"You are unarmed," he objected.
"And we might, just might, you know, stumble into a situation where we would need to protect ourselves."
"Oh, if that's all that stands in your way," said Jack, rising, "you need not worry.
Tom Barnum keeps a whole armory of weapons here.
He has at least a half dozen pistols and automatics.
As for us, we are all pretty fair shots and used to handling weapons.
Now, look here, Captain Folsom," he said, pleadingly, advancing and laying a hand on the other's arm; "I know what you are saying to yourself.
You are saying how foolish it would be for you to encumber yourself with three harum-scarum boys.
But that is where you make a mistake.
We have been through a lot of dangerous situations, all three of us and, I can tell you, we have been forced to learn to keep our wits about us.
I can promise you that we would not be a hindrance."
Captain Folsom's face cleared.
"Good," said he, heartily; "spoken like a man.
I'll be only too glad to have you fellows."
"We'll take Tom Barnum, too," said Jack.
"He can be relied on in any crisis.
Wait here until I stir him up and tell the boys."
Leaving the other, Jack went outside and apprised his chums of the new plan.
It was just the thing they needed to rouse them from the despondency into which contemplation of the damage to their airplane had thrown them.
Then he went to Tom Barnum's quarters.
Tom had not yet returned to sleep.
He was eager to join in the adventure.
Bringing three or four pistols, Jack and Tom quickly rejoined the party.
"What is your idea, Captain Folsom?"
Jack inquired, when all were ready to depart and everything had been made tight about the station.
"First of all, how far is it to Starfish Cove?"
"Between two and three miles," answered Bob.
"But the tide is out, and we shall have good going on the hard sand, and ought to make it under forced draught in a half hour or a little more."
"Is there any other place where small boats might land conveniently, any other place reasonably near?"
The boys and Tom Barnum shook their heads.
"That's far and away the best place," said Jack.
"Well, then, I propose that we make our way close to the Cove, and then take to the cover of the trees, which you have given me to understand, come down there close to the water."
"They fringe the beach," Bob explained.
"Good.
With reasonable care we ought to be able to make our way undiscovered close enough to see what is going on, supposing a landing such as I have in mind is taking place."
"There's armed guards on the Brownell place nowadays," interjected Tom Barnum, to whom Jack had given a brief explanation of things.
"Maybe, them fellers have sentries posted."
"Well, we'll have to exercise caution when we get close to the Cove," said Captain Folsom.
"And now, if we are all ready, let us start.
Every second's delay is so much time lost.
They'll be working fast.
If we are to gain any information, we must hasten about it."
"Righto," said Bob, striding off.
"And just let me get my hands on the sneak that tried to burn the airplane," he added, vindictively.
"I'll give that gentleman a remembrance or two of the occasion."
The others fell in, and with long strides started making their way along the sand left hard-packed by the receding tide, under the moonlight.
Bob set a terrific pace but, fortunately, all members of the party were young men and accustomed to physical exercise, and none found it any hardship to keep up with their pacemaker.
On the contrary, three at least enjoyed the expedition and found their spirits uplifted by the zest of this unexpected adventure undertaken at 2 o'clock in the morning.
When they drew near the first of the two horns enclosing the little bay known as Starfish Cove, Bob pulled up, and the others came to a halt around him.
"Just ahead there," said Bob, pointing, and addressing Captain Folsom, "lies our destination.
I expect it would not be wise to make our way any farther along the sands."
Captain Folsom nodded.
"Right.
We'll take to those trees up yonder.
I'll go first with Jack."
Unconsciously, he had taken to addressing the boys by their given names.
"Do you others keep close behind."
In this order they started making their way through the grove, just inside the outer belt of trees.
The moonlight was bright on the water and the sands, and illuminated the aisles of the grove in fairylike fashion.
"Keep low and take advantage of cover," whispered Captain Folsom, as he saw how the matter stood.
And crouching and darting from tree to tree, they worked their way forward until a low exclamation from Jack halted his companion who was a bit behind him.
The others came up.
"Fence," whispered Jack, succinctly.
Sure enough.
There it was, just ahead, a high wire fence, the strands barbed and strung taut on steel poles.
"We can't see the Cove yet from here," whispered Jack.
"Our first glimpse of it won't come until we move forward a bit farther.
We'll either have to try to climb over this or go out on the beach to get around it.
It doesn't go down to the water, does it, Bob?"
"No, and I didn't see it when I was here several days ago," Bob replied in a low voice.
"I suppose it must have been here then, but I didn't see it.
There was no fence on the beach, and I was following the water's edge."
"There's a big tree close to it," said Frank, pointing.
"And, look.
There's a limb projects over the fence.
We might shin up the tree and out on that limb and drop."
"I'm afraid I couldn't do it," said Captain Folsom, simply.
"This arm----" "Oh, I forgot," said the sensitive Frank, with quick compunction, silently reproaching himself for thus reminding the other of his loss.
"I'm not sensitive," said Captain Folsom, and added grimly: "Besides, the German that took it, paid with his life."
There was an awkward silence.
"Anyhow," said Jack, breaking it, "it would be ticklish work for any of us to get over that fence by climbing the tree.
The fence is a good ten feet high, and the strands of barbed wire curve forward at the top.
That limb, besides, is twelve feet or more from the ground, and not very strong, either.
It looks as if we would have to make our way around the fence and out on the beach."
"Let's go, then," said Bob, impatiently.
"Now that I'm here I want a look at Starfish Cove.
I have one of Frank's hunches that there is something doing there."
He started moving forward toward the edge of the grove, which here was out of sight, being some distance away, as Jack had led the way well within the shelter of the trees because of the radiance cast by the moon.
"Wait, Bob, wait," whispered Frank, suddenly, in a tense voice, and he restrained his companion.
"I heard something."
All crouched down, listening with strained attention.
In a moment the sound of voices engaged in low conversation came to their ears, and a moment later two forms appeared on the opposite side of the fence, moving in their direction.
CHAPTER XI PRISONERS "I heard a fellow shouting and beat it, or I'd'a done a better job.
Anyhow, that's one plane won't be able to fly for a while."
One of the two men dropped this remark as the pair, engrossed in conversation, passed abreast of the party on the outside of the boundary fence and not ten feet from them.
The speaker was a short, broad, powerfully built man in appearance, and he spoke in a harsh voice and with a twang that marked him as a ruffian of the city slums.
He wore a cap, pulled so low over his features as to make them indistinguishable.
And he walked with a peg leg!
The moonlight was full on the face of the other, and the boys recognized him as Higginbotham.
There was an angry growl from Bob, farthest along the line toward the beach, which he quickly smothered.
Apparently, it did not attract attention, for Higginbotham and his companion continued on their way oblivious to the proximity of the others.
"The young hounds," said Higginbotham, in his cultivated, rather high voice.
And he spoke with some heat.
"This will teach them a lesson not to go prying into other people's business."
The other man made some reply, but it was indistinguishable to those in hiding, and the precious pair proceeded on their way, now out of earshot.
But enough had been overheard.
It was plain now, if it had not been before, where lay the guilt for the attempt to destroy the airplane.
Plain, too, was the fact that Higginbotham was engaged in some nefarious enterprise.
For several seconds longer, after Higginbotham and his companion had gotten beyond earshot and were lost to view among the trees, Jack remained quiet but inwardly a-boil.
Then he turned to Captain Folsom and Tom Barnum, crouching beside him.
"What an outrage," he whispered, indignantly.
"Poor Bob and Frank.
To have their airplane damaged just because that scoundrel thought we were prying into his dirty secrets.
I wish I had my hands on him."
Suddenly his tone took on a note of alarm.
"Why, where are Bob and Frank?"
he demanded.
"They were here a moment ago."
He stared about him in bewilderment.
The others did likewise.
But the two mentioned could not be seen.
With an exclamation, Jack rose to his feet.
"Come on," he urged.
"I'll bet Bob decided to go for the fellow who burned his plane and take it out of his hide.
When that boy gets angry, he wants action."
He started striding hastily down toward the beach, alongside the wire fencing.
The others pressed at his heels.
Presently, they caught the glint of water through the trees, and then, some distance ahead, caught sight of two figures moving out from the grove onto the sands on the opposite side of the fence.
Jack increased his pace, but even as he did so two other figures stole from the woods on the heels of the first pair.
Involuntarily, Jack cried out.
The second pair leaped upon the backs of the first and bore them to the ground.
The next moment, the air was filled with curses, and the four figures rolled on the sands.
"Come on, fellows," cried Jack, breaking into a run, and dashed ahead.
He broke from the trees and discovered the boundary fence came to an abrupt end at the edge of the grove.
It was here Bob and Frank, he felt sure, had made their way and leaped on Higginbotham and the thug.
For so he interpreted what he had seen.
As he came up the fight ended.
It had been bitter but short.
Frank was astride Higginbotham and pressing his opponent's face into the sand to smother his outcries.
Bob had wrapped his arms and legs about the city ruffian and the latter, whose curses had split the air, lay face uppermost, his features showing contorted in the moonlight.
Bob knelt upon him.
As Jack ran up, he was saying: "You want to be careful whose airplane you burn."
An exclamation from Captain Folsom drew Jack's attention from the figures in the immediate foreground, and raising his eyes he gazed in the direction in which the other was pointing.
Some fifty yards away, on the edge of Starfish Cove, a half dozen objects of strange shape and design were drawn up on the sand.
They were long, shaped somewhat like torpedoes and gleamed wet in the moonlight.
Not a soul was in sight.
The moonlit stretch of beach was empty except for them.
"What in the world can those be?"
asked Captain Folsom.
"They are made of metal," said Jack.
"See how the moonlight gleams upon them.
By George, Captain, they are big as whales.
Can they be some type of torpedo-shaped boat controlled by radio?"
"This is luck," exclaimed Captain Folsom.
"That's just what they are.
Probably, those two scoundrels were coming down here to see whether they had arrived, coming down here from their radio station.
Come on, let's have a look."
He started forward eagerly.
Jack was a step behind him.
An inarticulate cry from Tom Barnum smote Jack's ears, and he spun about.
The next instant he saw a man almost upon him, swinging for his head with a club.
He tried to dodge, to avoid the blow, but the club clipped him on the side of the head and knocked him to the ground.
His senses reeled, and he struggled desperately to rise, but to no avail.
A confused sound of shouts and cries and struggling filled his ears, then it seemed as if a wave engulfed him, and he lost consciousness.
When he recovered his senses, Jack found himself lying in darkness.
He tried to move, but discovered his hands and feet were tied.
He lay quiet, listening.
A faint moan came to his ears.
"Who's that?"
he whispered.
"That you, Jack?"
came Frank's voice in reply, filled with anxiety.
It was close at hand.
"Yes.
Where's Bob?"
"He's here, but I'm worried about him.
I can't get any sound from him."
"What happened?"
asked Jack, his head buzzing, and sore.
"Where are the others?"
"Guess we're all here, Mister Jack," answered Tom Barnum's voice, out of the darkness.
"Leastways, Captain What's-his-name's here beside me, but he don't speak, neither."
"Good heavens," exclaimed Jack, in alarm, and making a valiant effort to shake off his dizziness.
"Where are we?
What happened?
Frank, do you know?
Tom, do you?"
"Somebody jumped on me from behind," said Frank, "and then the fellow I was sitting on, this Higginbotham, squirmed around and took a hand, and I got the worst of it, and was hustled off to the old Brownell house and thrown in this dark room.
I had my hands full and couldn't see what was going on.
I heard Tom yell, but at the same time this fellow jumped on me.
That's all I know."
"There was a dozen or more of 'em come out of the woods," said Tom.
"They sneaked out.
We was pretty close to the trees.
I just happened to look back, an' they was on us.
Didn't even have time to pull my pistol.
They just bowled me over by weight of numbers.
Like Mister Frank, I had my own troubles and couldn't see what happened to the rest of you."
There was a momentary silence, broken by Jack.
"It's easy to see what happened," he said, bitterly.
"What fools we were.
Those things on the beach were radio-controlled boats which had brought liquor ashore, and a gang was engaged in carrying it up to the Brownell house.
We happened along when the beach was clear, and Higginbotham and that other scoundrel were the vanguard of the returning party.
When they shouted on being attacked by you and Bob, and Frank, the rest who were behind them in the woods were given the alarm, sneaked up quietly, and bagged us all.
A pretty mess."
A groan from Bob interrupted.
"Poor old Bob," said Jack, contritely, for he had been blaming the headstrong fellow in his thoughts for having caused their difficulties by his precipitate attack on Higginbotham.
"He seems to have gotten the worst of it."
"Look here, Jack," said Frank suddenly.
"My hands and feet are tied, and I suppose yours are, too.
I'm going to roll over toward you, and do you try to open the knots on my hands with your teeth."
"Would if I could, Frank," said Jack.
"But that clip I got on the side of my head must have loosened all my teeth.
They ache like sixty."
"All right, then I'll try my jaws on your bonds."
Presently, Frank was alongside Jack in the darkness.
"Here, where are your hands?"
he said.
After some squirming about, Frank found what he sought, and began to chew and pull at the ropes binding Jack's hands.
It was a tedious process at first, but presently he managed to get the knot sufficiently loosened to permit of his obtaining a good purchase, and then, in a trice, the ropes fell away.
"Quick now, Jack," he said, anxiously.
"We don't know how long we'll be left undisturbed.
Somebody may come along any minute.
Untie your feet and then free Tom and me, and we can see how Bob and Captain Folsom are fixed."
Jack worked with feverish haste.
After taking the bonds from his ankles, he undid those binding Frank.
The latter immediately went to the side of Bob, whose groans had given way to long, shuddering sighs that indicated a gradual restoration of consciousness but that also increased the alarm of his comrades regarding his condition.
Tom Barnum next was freed and at once set to work to perform a similar task for Captain Folsom, who meantime had regained his senses and apparently was injured no more severely than Jack, having like him received a clout on the side of the head.
Tom explained the situation while untying him.
Fortunately, the bonds in all cases had been only hastily tied.
"Bob, this is Frank.
Do you hear me?
Frank."
The latter repeated anxiously, several times, in the ear of his comrade.
"Frank?"
said Bob, thickly, at last.
"Oh, my head."
"Thank heaven, you're alive," said Frank fervently, and there was a bit of tremolo in his tone.
He and the big fellow were very close to each other.
"Now just lie quiet, and I'll explain where you are and what happened.
But first tell me are you hurt any place other than your head?"
"No, I think not," said Bob.
"But the old bean's humming like a top.
What happened, anyhow?
Where are we?
Where are the others?"
"Right here, old thing," said Jack, on the other side of the prone figure.
Thereupon Bob, too, was put in possession of the facts as to what had occurred.
At the end of the recital, he sat up, albeit with an effort, for his head felt, as he described it, "like Fourth of July night--and no safe and sane Fourth, at that."
"I don't know if you fellows can ever forgive me," he said, with a groan.
"I got you into this.
I saw red, when I discovered it was Higginbotham and that other rascal who had set the plane afire.
There they were, in the woods, and I set out to crawl after them.
Frank followed me."
"Tried to stop him," interposed Frank.
"But he wouldn't be stopped.
I didn't dare call to the rest of you for fear of giving the alarm, so I went along.
Anyhow, Bob," he added, loyally, "I felt just the same way you did about it, and you were no worse than I."
"No," said Bob.
"You weren't to blame at all.
It was all my fault."
"Forget it," said Jack.
"Let's consider what to do now?
Here we are, five of us, and now that we are on guard we ought to be able to give a pretty good account of ourselves.
I, for one, don't propose to sit around and wait for our captors to dispose of us.
How about the rest of you?"
"Say on, Jack," said Frank.
"If Bob's all right, nothing matters."
"You have something in mind, Hampton, I believe," said Captain Folsom, quietly.
"What is it?"
CHAPTER XII THE WINDOWLESS ROOM "I have no plan," said Jack, "except this: We have freed ourselves of our bonds, and we ought to make an effort to escape.
And, if we can make our escape," he added, determinedly, "I, for one, am anxious to try to turn the tables."
"Turn the tables, Jack?"
exclaimed Frank.
"What do you mean?
How could we do that?"
"If we could capture the smugglers' radio plant," Jack suggested, "and call help, we could catch these fellows in the act.
Of course, I know, there is only a slim chance that we could get immediate aid in this isolated spot.
But I've been thinking of that possibility.
Do you suppose any boats of the 'Dry Navy' about which you spoke are in the vicinity, Captain Folsom?"
In the darkness, the latter could be heard to stir and move closer.
All five, as a matter of fact, had drawn together and spoke in whispers that were barely audible.
"That is a bully idea, Hampton," said Captain Folsom, with quickened interest.
"Yes, I am certain one or more of Lieutenant Summers's fleet of sub chasers is along this stretch of coast.
From Montauk Point to Great South Bay, he told me recently, he intended to set a watch at sea for smugglers."
"Very good," said Jack.
"Then, if we can gain possession of the smugglers' radio plant and call help, we may be able to catch these fellows and make a big haul.
For, I presume, they must be bringing a big shipment of liquor ashore now.
And, as the night is far advanced, doubtless they will keep it here until, say, to-morrow night, when they would plan to send it to the city in trucks.
Don't you fellows imagine that is about what their plan of procedure would be?"
All signified approval in some fashion or other.
"Our first step, of course," said Captain Folsom, "must be to gain our freedom from the house.
Are any of you familiar with the interior?
Also, has anybody got any matches?
My service pistol has been taken, and I presume you fellows also have been searched and deprived of your weapons?"
General affirmation followed.
"But about matches?
Will you please search your pockets, everybody?"
The boys never carried matches, being nonsmokers.
Tom Barnum, however, not only produced a paper packet of matches but, what was far more valuable at the moment, a flashlight of flat, peculiar shape which he carried in a vest pocket and which his captors had overlooked in their hurried search.
He flashed it once, and discovered it was in good working order.
"So far, so good," said Captain Folsom.
"Now to discover the extent of our injuries, before we proceed any further.
Mine aren't enough to keep me out of any fighting.
How about the rest of you?"
"Frank's been binding up my head with the tail of my shirt," said Bob.
"But I guess he could do a better job if he received a flash from that light of yours, Tom.
Just throw it over here on my head, will you?"
Tom complied, and it was seen Bob had received a nasty wound which had laid the scalp open on the left side three or four inches.
The cut had bled profusely.
With the light to work by, Frank, who like his companions was proficient in first aid treatment of injuries, shredded a piece of the white shirting for lint, made a compress, and then bound the whole thing tightly.
Jack's blow was not so serious, but Frank bound his head, too.
None of the boys nor Tom Barnum ever had been inside the Brownell house before, although all were more or less familiar with its outer appearance.
Tom now made a careless survey of the room by the aid of his flashlight.
He would flash it on for only a moment, as he moved about soundlessly, having removed his shoes, and he so hid the rays under his coat that very little light showed.
This he did in order to prevent as much as possible any rays falling through cracks in the walls or floor, and betraying their activity.
The room, Tom found on completing his survey, was without windows and possessed of only one door, a massive oaken affair with great strap iron hinges and set in a ponderous frame.
From the slope of the ceiling at the sides, he judged the room was under the roof.
Walls and ceiling were plastered.
Not a sound had penetrated into the room from the outside, or from the other parts of the house, and at this all had marveled earlier.
Tom's report of the survey supplied an answer to the mystery.
There was little chance for sound to penetrate within.
"But a room without windows?"
said Jack.
"How, then, does it happen the air is fresh?"
"There's a draught from up above," answered Tom.
"I cain't see any skylight, but there may be an air port back in the angle of the roof tree.
Say, Mister Jack, this room gives me the creeps," he added, his voice involuntarily taking on an awed tone.
"A room without windows.
An' over in the far corner I found some rusted iron rings fastened to big staples set deep into a post in the wall."
"What, Tom?
You don't say."
"Yes, siree.
Ol' Brownell, the pirate whaler's, been dead for a long time.
But there's queer stories still around these parts about him an' his house; stories not only 'bout how he was killed finally by the men as he'd cheated, but also 'bout a mysterious figure in white that used to be seen on the roof, an' yells heard comin' from here.
You know what?"
He leaned closer, and still further lowered his voice.
"I'll bet this room was a cell fer some crazy body an' ol' Brownell kept him or her chained up when violent.
Some people still say, you know, as how that white figure wa'n't a ghost but the ol' man's crazy wife."
"Brrr."
Frank shivered in mock terror and grinned in the darkness.
"Some place to be," he added.
Nevertheless, light though he made of Tom's story, the hour, the circumstances in which they found themselves, the mystery of the windowless room, all combined to inspire in him an uncanny feeling, as if unseen hands were reaching for him from the dark.
"Getting out is still our first consideration," Captain Folsom said.
"What Barnum reports makes it look difficult, but let's see.
Have you tried the door?
Is it locked?"
"Tried it?"
said Tom.
"Ain't possible.
There ain't neither handle nor knob inside, to pull on.
No lock nor keyhole in it, neither.
Must be barred on the outside.
That's another reason for thinkin' it was built for a prison cell."
"And if the old pirate kept a crazy woman in here when she was violent," supplied Jack, "you can bet he built the walls thick to smother her yells.
That's why we hear no sounds."
There was silence for a time.
Each was busy with his own thoughts.
The prospect, indeed, looked dark.
How could they escape from a cell such as this?
Jack was first to break the silence.
"Look here," said he, "fresh air is admitted into this room in some fashion, and, probably, as Tom surmised, through an air port in the ceiling.
It may be the old pirate even built a trap door in the roof.
Obviously, anyhow, our best and, in fact, our only chance to escape lies through the roof.
It may be possible to break through there, whereas we couldn't get through walls or the door.
Let's investigate."
Eager whispers approved the proposal.
"Come on, Tom," Jack continued, "we'll investigate that angle in the roof tree.
You brace yourself against the wall, and I'll stand on your shoulders."
The two moved away with the others close behind them.
Jack mounted on Tom Barnum's shoulders.
He found the ceiling sloped up to a lofty peak.
Running his hands up each slope, he could discern no irregularity.
But, suddenly, nearing the top, where the sides drew together, he felt a strong draught of air on his hands.
Their positions at the time were this: Tom was leaning against the end wall, with Jack on his shoulders, and facing the wall.
The ceiling sloped upward on each side and it was up these slopes Jack had been running his hands.
Tall as he was, and standing upright, his head still was some feet from the roof tree above, where the sloping sidewalls joined.
When he felt the inrush of air on his hands, which were then above his head, Jack reached forward.
He encountered no wall at all.
But, about a foot above his head, instead, his fingers encountered the edge of an opening in the end wall and under the roof tree.
Trembling with excitement, he felt along the edge from side wall to side wall, and found the opening was more than two feet across.
Not a word had been said, meanwhile, not a whisper uttered.
Now, leaning down, and in a voice barely audible, Jack whispered to the anxious group at his feet: "Fellows, there's an opening up here under the roof tree.
I can't tell yet what it is, but if you hand me up Tom's flashlight I'll have a look at it."
Frank passed the little electric torch upward, flashing it once to aid Jack in locating it in the darkness.
Again Jack straightened up carefully.
Holding the flat little flashlight between his teeth, he gripped the edge of the opening and chinned himself.
Then, holding on with one hand, with the other he manipulated the flashlight.
One glance was sufficient.
It revealed a tunnel-like passage under the roof tree.
This passage was triangular in shape, with the beam of the roof tree at the peak, the sloping, unplastered sides of the roof and a flat, solid floor.
It extended some distance forward, apparently, for the rays of the flashlight did not reveal any wall across it.
The floor was solidly planked, probably a yard wide, instead of two feet-plus of Jack's original estimate, and the height from floor to roof tree was all of two and a half feet.
Laying down the flashlight, Jack drew himself over the edge of the opening.
Then, moving cautiously forward in the darkness, not daring to throw the light ahead of him for fear of betraying his presence, he crawled on hands and knees.
The draught of air through the passageway was strong, and he had not proceeded far before he saw ahead faint bars across the passage, not of light but of lesser darkness.
He decided there was some opening at the end of the passage, but could not imagine what it might be.
When he came up to it, however, the solution was simple.
Immediately under the peak of the roof tree, in a side wall, was an opening in which was set a slatted shutter.
This admitted air, yet kept rain from beating in.
And in a flash, Jack realized to what ingenious lengths the original owner of the house had gone in order to provide for his prisoner a cell that would be virtually soundproof, yet have a supply of fresh air.
So high, too, was the opening of the passage in the cell that one person could not reach it unaided.
Jubilant at his discovery and with a plan for putting it to use as a means of escape, Jack, unable to turn about in the narrow passage, worked his way backward until the projection of his feet into emptiness warned him he had reached the room.
Then he let himself down and, when once more with his companions, explained the nature of his discovery.
"We can lift that shutter out," he added, "and swing upward to the roof tree.
There is a cupola, an old-fashioned cupola, on this house, as I remember it.
Once we are on the roof, we can work our way to that cupola and probably find a trapdoor leading down into the house.
If we decide that is too dangerous, we may be able to slide down the gutters.
Anyhow, once we are in the outer air and on the roof, we'll be in a better position than here.
Come on.
I'll go up first, and then help Captain Folsom up.
Do the rest of you follow, and, as Frank is the lightest, he ought to come last.
The last man will have to be pulled up with our belts, as he will have nobody to stand on."
CHAPTER XIII THE TABLES TURNED Negotiation of the entrance of all into the passageway was made without accident, Tom Barnum staying until next to last and then, with a number of belts buckled together, aiding Frank to gain the opening.
Meanwhile Jack, who was in the lead, found on closer investigation that the slatted shutter obscuring the air port was on hinges and caught with a rusted latch.
To open the latch and unhinge the shutter and then, by turning it sideways, pull it back into the passageway and place it noiselessly on the floor, was a comparatively simple matter.
Whispering to Captain Folsom, next in line, to pass the word along that all should stay in the passageway while he investigated the situation outside, Jack squirmed partway through the opening, faced upward, took a good clutch on the shingled edge of the rooftree and gradually drew his body out and over the edge of the roof.
When, finally, he lay extended on the roof, clutching the saddle for support, he was of the opinion that Captain Folsom with only one arm to aid him, certainly could not negotiate the exit in similar fashion, and examined the shingles to see whether they could be torn up sufficiently to admit of his friends climbing through.
The moon shone brilliantly.
On that side of the house were no lights in any windows.
No sounds of any human activity came to him.
The house was large, with numerous gables that prevented Jack from seeing seaward.
Leaning over the edge of the roof, he called in a low voice to Captain Folsom who looked up from the little window.
Jack told him to wait, and explained he was going to try to rip off a number of shingles.
"But the crosspieces to which the shingles are nailed are close together," Captain Folsom objected.
"They are too close to permit of our crawling through.
And, while they are light and might be broken, yet we would make considerable noise doing so and might give the alarm."
Jack considered a moment.
"That's true," he replied.
"But, if I break off the shingles around the peak of the roof, here at the very end, you will have a better chance to climb out, then, because you will have the exposed crosspieces to cling to."
Working rapidly, Jack managed to remove a patch of shingles over a space of several square feet, in short order.
By the exercise of extreme caution, he was enabled to complete the work without making other than very slight noise.
"Now," he said, speaking through the bars made by the crosspieces, "come ahead, Captain.
Put your head backward out of the window, and place your hand just where I tell you.
I shall hook my feet under these crosspieces to brace myself.
That will leave both hands free to aid you."
Captain Folsom followed directions, and with Jack lending his support, he managed to gain the roof.
Then Bob, Tom Barnum and Frank followed in quick succession.
To make room for them, Jack and Captain Folsom had worked their way along the rooftree, which was not the main rooftree of the house, they had discovered, but that of one of the side gables, with which, as Jack phrased it, "the house was all cluttered up."
This particular rooftree was blocked ahead by the cupola, to which Jack earlier had referred.
It was a square, truncated tower with a breast-high wooden balustrade around it.
Jack climbed up this balustrade, and Captain Folsom, with Bob aiding him from the rear and Jack giving him a hand in front, followed.
Then, while the others were clambering up, Jack cast a quick look around from this eminence.
He found, however, that the trees of the grove cut off any view of the beach.
But he was enabled to see the grill-like towers of the radio station some distance to the left of the house.
With satisfaction, he noted not a light was shown, and apparently the place was deserted.
Still not a sound of human activity of any sort reached him, and Jack was puzzled.
Had their captors departed, and left them bound, in that apparently impregnable cell, to die?
He could not believe it.
No, surely they were not to be killed.
Either the house was to be abandoned by the smugglers, and their friends and families would be notified where to find them, or else, the smugglers intended to return for them presently.
If this latter supposition were correct, then, thought Jack, it behooved him to act quickly.
For, if the smugglers returned and found they had escaped from the cell, there would be only one conclusion to draw as to their method of escape, and that would be the right one.
Bending down, he saw at once in the bright moonlight the outlines of a big trapdoor under his feet.
A ringbolt at one edge showed how it was raised.
Seizing it in a firm grip, Jack started to raise the trap.
His heart beat suffocatingly.
What would he find underneath?
An inch at a time Jack raised the trap, while the others knelt at the sides, peering through the growing opening.
Only darkness met their gaze, and the smell of hot air imprisoned in a closed house came out like a blast from a furnace door.
The hinges, apparently long unused and rusted, creaked alarmingly despite all the care Jack exercised.
But not a sound came up from below.
At length Jack threw back the door, and the bright moonlight pouring down the opening in a flood of silver revealed a narrow, ladder-like stairway descending to an uncarpeted hall.
Jack started down with the others at his heels.
In the hall he paused, to once more accustom his eyes to the dimness which now, however, was not impenetrable, as in their cell, because of the moonlight.
Presently he was able to make out a long hall with only two doors breaking the double expanse of wall.
One door, on the right, was massive and over it was a huge iron bar in a socket.
"That's the door to the cell they had us in," said Frank, with conviction, as they stood grouped before it.
"Brrr.
We'd have had a fine chance to break that down."
Leading the way and walking on the balls of his feet, shoes in hand, Jack moved forward to the other door and had just laid his hand on the knob and was about to turn it, when he heard voices on the other side and the sound of footsteps mounting upward.
His mind worked lightning-fast in this crisis.
It was the door of a stairway leading to the lower part of the house.
Somebody was ascending it, not one man but several.
They could have only one purpose.
There was only one room up here on this upper floor--the cell.
Therefore, whoever was coming up intended to visit them, thinking they still were in that room.
These thoughts flashed through Jack's mind in less time than it took a man to mount a step.
And, as quickly, he thought of a plan.
Turning to his companions, he whispered: "Quick, get back to the cupola stairs, Frank, because you're nearest.
Then run up and lower the trapdoor, and crouch outside until I call you.
The rest of us can crouch down in this little space beyond the door, and we'll be hidden by it when the door swings open."
Frank was off on noiseless feet, while the other four huddled into the space indicated by Jack.
By the time the men mounting the stairs swung the door inward, Frank had succeeded in gaining the cupola.
The noise made by the rusted hinges, as the trap was lowered was covered up by the voices of the men.
Fortunately, they did not close the stair door, but left it standing open, thus hiding the four behind it.
There were three in the party, judging by the sound of voices and footsteps, and one at least carried a powerful electric flashlight.
"Thought I heard a scratching sound," said a voice, which Jack and Bob recognized as that of Higginbotham.
"But I guess it was made by mice.
This old house is filled with them."
A few steps farther along the party paused, and Jack, looking from his hiding place, saw three figures, shadowy and indistinct, before the huge door of the cell, upon which one man had thrown the light, while another was fumbling at the bar.
The door swung open, and the three walked in.
"Come on," whispered Jack.
Not waiting for the others, realizing it would be only a moment or two before their disappearance from the cell would be discovered, he leaped from hiding, tore down the little hall like a whirlwind, dashed against the great door and swung it into place.
Bob, who was close at his heels, dropped the iron bar into place.
They were not a moment too soon.
Shouts of amazement and alarm came from the room even as the door was swinging shut.
And hardly had Bob dropped the bar into the socket than those within threw themselves against the door.
So tremendously thick and strong was the latter, however, that with its closing all sound from within was reduced to the merest whisper.
As for trying to move it, as well attempt to push an elephant over by hand.
This those within must have realized, for presently they desisted.
"Got 'em in their own cage," said Jack, triumphantly.
And, pulling from his pocket Tom Barnum's little flashlight, he reassured himself the door really was barred, then mounting the stairway thumped on the trapdoor as a signal to Frank.
The latter at once raised the door.
"Come on down, Frank," said Jack.
"There were three of them, and we penned them in the cell."
Hastily he explained what had occurred.
"Now, fellows," said he.
"Let's see who else is downstairs.
Let's see if we can't get out of here, so we can radio Lieutenant Summers for help."
"But how about leaving these chaps behind, Jack?"
protested Bob.
"They can get out the same way we did, and give the alarm.
What we want to do is to bring Lieutenant Summers to the scene without letting these rascals get an inkling of what's hanging over them.
If Higginbotham and his companions escape, he'll start a search for us, and our plans will stand a fair chance of being spoiled."
"You're right, Bob," said Jack.
"But what can we do?
They can't get out of there in a minute.
It will take them some time because, for one reason, they will be fearful of our lying in wait for them, perhaps.
Meantime, we can be moving fast.
Captain Folsom," he added, deferring to the older man, "what do you think we ought to do?"
But the latter laid his sound arm on Jack's shoulder.
"Listen," he cautioned.
Muffled, but distinct, there came an outbreak of pistol shots, followed by shouts faintly heard.
"What I feared," said Captain Folsom.
"They are out on the roof already, and shooting and calling to attract help.
Come.
We have no time to lose."
Fumbling his way along the dark hall toward the stair door, he said: "Quick, Hampton, with your light.
I can't find the knob.
Ah"--as the light of the little torch winked on--"that's better."
He pulled the door open, and started down the stairs, Jack at his shoulder and flashing the light ahead.
The others crowded at their heels.
CHAPTER XIV THROUGH THE TUNNEL At the foot of the stairway was another door, and this stood open.
It gave upon another hallway, carpeted richly, and dim, yet not so dark but what Captain Folsom could see his way.
This faint illumination came up a great open stairway from a wide and deep living room below into which descended another stairway at the far end of the hall.
A male voice, not unmusical, singing a rousing chorus in Italian, and peering circumspectly through an open balustrade into that lower room, Captain Folsom saw the singer seated at a great square piano, a giant of a man with a huge shock of dark brown hair and ferocious mustaches, while a coal black negro, even huger in size, lolled negligently at one end of the keyboard, his red lips parted wide in a grin of enjoyment and ivory white teeth showing between, and at the other end of the piano, with his elbows planted on the instrument and his head pressed between his hands, stood or rather leaned a rough-looking man of medium height, his grizzled hair all awry where he had run his fingers through it, and wearing a khaki shirt open at the throat.
"Sing that again, Pete.
What d'ye call it?
The Bull Fighter Song, hey?
Well, I don't know much about music, but that gits under my skin.
Come on."
The man called Pete was about to comply, and the Negro was nodding his head in violent approval, when the door from the outside gallery was burst open unceremoniously, and a villainous looking individual whirled into the room in a state of great excitement.
Others were behind him but, evidently not daring to venture within, stood grouped in the open doorway.
"Here, Mike, wot d'ye mean, comin' in like this?
Into a gentleman's house, too.
Don't ye know any better, ye scut?"
demanded the first speaker, he who had asked for a repetition of the song.
Evidently, thought Captain Folsom, here was the leader, for the other deferred to him, although it was apparent he was a privileged character.
"Ah, now, Paddy Ryan," said the man called Mike; "ah, now, Paddy Ryan, sure an' I know 'tis a gentleman's house since you rule it.
But do them fellers on the roof know it?"
"Fellers on the roof?"
said Ryan, advancing a step, threateningly.
"Mike, ye been drinkin' again.
An' the night's work not done yet.
Out on ye, ye--ye----" "Listen," said Mike, holding up a hand.
"Listen.
'Tis all I ask.
Sure an' wid Pete caterwaulin', 'tis no wonder at all ye cannot hear wot's goin' on.
Hear the shootin' now, don't ye?"
As if he were a magician calling the demonstration into being at command, the shooting and shouting of the trio on the roof, which for the moment had died down, was now violently renewed.
Ryan's lower jaw dropped open grotesquely.
"Now will ye believe me?"
demanded Mike, triumphantly.
"Who--who is it?"
asked Ryan, still in the grip of his astonishment.
"How should we know?"
asked Mike.
"We was comin' up from the beach wid another cargo o' the stuff when we hear it."
"Mistuh Higginbotham went up to de roof wid two men," interposed the gigantic negro.
"Leastways, he done went up to see 'bout dem prisonahs an' ax 'em a few quistions."
"You're right, George," said Ryan.
"I'd forgotten.
Listen to that.
There they go again.
Come on."
He darted for the outer door, the negro George, Pete and Mike at his heels.
The crowd of mixed whites and blacks in the doorway gave 'way before him.
In a trice they all were gone.
The room was deserted.
"Now is our chance," said Captain Folsom, to the three boys and Tom Barnum, crouching beside him.
"Come on.
We must get downstairs and out of the house before they return, for return they will as soon as they understand what the fellows on the roof have to tell of our mysterious disappearance."
He darted down the stairs, two at a time, with the four others close behind him.
Halfway across the big room, however, he halted abruptly and groaned: "Too late.
They're coming back."
"Here," cried Jack, seizing him by an arm, and pushing him along.
"Quick, fellows, through this door.
It's a chance."
Jack had observed a closed door, near the piano, and the others followed pell-mell behind him and Captain Folsom.
Frank, the last to enter, closed the door and, finding his hand encounter a key, turned it in the lock.
None too soon.
They could hear shouts and curses, as the mob surged up the stairway.
Jack, meanwhile, had been flashing Tom's torch about and, discovering a wall switch, had pressed a button.
At once an electric light in the ceiling flashed on, revealing that they were in a large pantry.
Bottles of liquor stood about and, on a tray, were a number of sandwiches.
"That black butler was preparing to feed his boss," surmised Frank.
"Well, those chicken sandwiches look all right.
I'm goin' to have one.
Hungry."
And without more ado, Frank took a sandwich and began eating.
"Great stuff," he said.
"Say, you, come on," called Jack, smiling a little, nevertheless, despite his anxiety.
"Think of eating at a time like this!"
"Why not?"
said Frank, polishing off the first sandwich and taking another.
"Well, lead on, Macduff.
Where you going?"
"There's no way out of this except by the cellar," Jack replied, already having opened the other door of the pantry and shot the rays of his searchlight down the stairway.
"Shall we try it?"
"We can't stay here," answered Captain Folsom.
"They're searching the rooms above us right now, by the sound of it.
Soon they'll be down here.
And we can't go out through the living room, because I've withdrawn the key and peeped through the keyhole in the door and can see two men on guard at the foot of the stairway."
Tom Barnum up to this moment had had little to say.
Now, however, he came forward with a remark that caused the others to stare in amazement.
"There's said to be a secret passage from the cellar to Starfish Cove or thereabouts," he said.
"I don't know nothin' about it, but that's what folks say.
They say as how old Pirate Brownell was afraid his sins would catch up with him some day, and hoped to escape by the passage when the avengers came.
He couldn't do it, however.
He wasn't quick enough."
"A secret passage?"
said Jack.
"Come on.
Last man closes the cellar door and locks it from the inside."
Frank was the last to go.
Before quitting the pantry, he stuffed the remaining sandwiches into his trousers pockets, seized on a tremendous butcher knife which was lying on the butler's cabinet, and switched off the light.
Then he locked the cellar stairway door, and descended to where the others awaited him at the foot.
They stood, as well as they could discern, in the midst of a huge cellar piled high with cases upon cases of bottles and barrels, too.
"Whew," said Captain Folsom, "this looks like a bonded liquor warehouse.
If we could only raid this place right now, it would be the richest haul in the history of the country since the nation went dry."
"Is all this liquor?"
asked Frank, incredulously.
"It is," said Captain Folsom, pulling a bottle from the nearest case and examining the label critically.
"And it's the genuine stuff, too.
Brought in from the Bahamas.
English and Scotch whiskey."
Louder shouts overhead and the noise of many feet descending stairs warned them the pursuit had drawn to the ground floor, and that they were in momentary danger of discovery.
"Those two doors won't hold long," said Jack, anxiously.
"If we can't find that tunnel entrance, we are out of luck.
I think myself, we had better look for a door to the outside and try to escape that way."
At that moment, Tom Barnum's voice, low but tense and thrilling with excitement, came out of the darkness ahead.
"Mister Jack, Mister Jack, come here.
Here where ye see my light."
The others had not missed Tom before.
But immediately on reaching the cellar, he had gone exploring by the light of the matches he had found in his pockets, without troubling Jack for the flashlight.
Hurriedly, the others now made their way to where a dim gleam of light which went out before they reached it only to be succeeded by another, showed where Tom was awaiting them.
When they reached his side, they found him crouched at the foot of a wall, pushing and straining at a big barrel.
"Lend a hand," he panted.
"The entrance is back here."
Almost over their heads on the floor above, an attack was made at this moment on the door connecting living room and pantry.
They could hear the shouts to surrender, to unlock the door, and the blows being rained upon the barrier.
"Push.
It's a-movin'."
The barrel did move aside sufficiently to admit of a man getting between it and the wall, and in the rays of the flashlight appeared a small, door-like opening in the stone.
"In with ye, every one," said Tom.
"I'll pile a couple o' these cases on top of each other to cover up the entrance, an' climb over it."
The door above, the first of the two impeding pursuit, fell with a splintering crash.
There was a shout of triumph, giving way to surprise when the pantry was found untenanted.
Captain Folsom and the boys without more delay crawled into the opening.
They could hear Tom piling cases over the entrance, then a thud as, having climbed his barricade, he dropped to the cellar floor on the inside.
Then he joined them.
Once more, Jack called the precious flashlight into play, and all could see they stood in a narrow, brick-walled tunnel, with a vaulted roof above.
It was some four feet high, preventing them from standing upright, and the walls were a yard apart.
The next moment the flashlight flickered and died.
"Gone," said Jack.
"Burned out.
Now we are ditched."
"Not yet," said Captain Folsom, resolutely.
"Barnum, how many matches have you?"
"About a dozen left in this packet," answered Tom's voice in the darkness.
"But they're them paper things the cigar companies give away.
Got 'em the other day when I was to the village.
They're not much good."
"They're better than nothing," answered the captain.
"They were good enough to enable you to find this tunnel.
Come, there's no need to despair.
I've got some matches myself, big ones.
I'll give them to you, and do you lead the way."
Striking a match, he located Tom behind him.
Handing him a dozen big matches which he had found in a trousers pocket, he pressed against the wall to permit of Tom's passing him.
The others did likewise.
"Keep right behind me an' touchin' each other," said Tom.
"I can feel the wall on each side with my hands, an' so can the rest of ye as we go along.
I'll save the matches till we need them."
Without more ado, he set out, Jack, Bob, Frank and Captain Folsom at his heels in the order mentioned.
They found that, despite the pitchy-black darkness, they were able to make good progress, for the narrow confines of the tunnel permitted of no going astray.
All kept listening with strained attention for sounds of pursuit, but none came for so long they began to feel more hopeful.
Perhaps, their pursuers did not know of the secret passage.
No, that was unlikely, inasmuch as one or other of the smugglers must have seen the tunnel mouth when he placed that barrel before it.
Faint shouts from the cellar came to their ears, indicating a search for them was in progress there.
The smugglers probably would look to see whether they were hidden among the barrels and cases, and not until that search had been thoroughly prosecuted would they investigate the tunnel.
These reflections were exchanged among them as they proceeded.
Suddenly the air, which had been remarkably fresh, although earthy-smelling, became cleaner.
All felt they were approaching an exit.
The next moment Tom Barnum stumbled and fell forward.
CHAPTER XV RESCUE AT HAND For a moment Tom could be heard muttering rueful exclamations as he caressed his bruises.
Jack who was next in line was trying to help him to his feet.
His foot, too, struck an obstruction which caused him to lose balance.
To avoid falling on Tom, he put out his arms toward the walls.
Instead of meeting solid brickwork as before, however, he felt his hands encounter crumbling earth.
He lurched forward, and his face was buried in a mass of mould.
Spluttering and blowing, he scrabbled around and his fingers closed over a root.
It came away in his clutch.
The next moment a slide of earth cascaded downward and Jack found himself leaning against a bank of dirt, an uprooted bush in one hand, and a patch of moonlight and sky overhead.
It was all clear.
Where the tunnel approached close to the surface, the roof and walls had caved in.
Tom had stumbled over this mound and fallen, and Jack accidentally had torn away the screen of bushes obscuring the hole above.
"Come on, fellows," he cried, delightedly, scrambling upward, while Tom Barnum, who had regained his feet and observed how the land lay, boosted him; "come on, here's a place to get out of the tunnel."
Quickly the others followed.
They stood in the midst of a grove of trees.
Some distance to the rear twinkled lights which indicated the location of the Brownell house.
No sounds of pursuit reached them.
But, stay.
What was that?
Captain Folsom bent down, his ear close to the opening whence they had climbed out and up to the surface.
"They've found the tunnel, I'm afraid," he said.
"They are coming."
"Can't we keep 'em back here?"
said Bob, unexpectedly.
"We can kick more dirt down into the tunnel.
And we can jump down and heave out a lot of those fallen bricks, and so keep the gang back when they arrive."
"But we couldn't keep up a defense like that forever," objected Jack.
"Some of them would be bound to go back through the tunnel, swing around, and attack us from the rear.
They have weapons, and we haven't.
We'd be caught between two fires."
Bob grunted.
"Guess you're right.
But I hate all this running away.
I'd like to take a crack at them.
Never gave me a fair chance the first time, jumping on me in a gang, and when I had my back turned, too."
"I know how you feel, Bob," said Jack.
"But, without weapons, run we must.
And we had better be quick about it now, too.
They won't be long working through that tunnel, if they have lights."
"No, the shouts are growing closer," said Captain Folsom, bending down again to the hole.
"But, look here, Hampton, you make a run to that radio station which I see above the trees there, to the right, in that opening.
We'll stay here until they reach the hole.
Then we'll batter them with bricks, and flee to the left.
That will create a diversion, and give you a chance to try to raise Lieutenant Summers."
"Good idea," grunted Bob, immediately dropping into the hole and tossing out broken bricks from the crumbling walls.
"Don't let them get too close to you," warned Jack.
"They're armed.
And run toward home.
They won't follow far.
I'll rejoin you somewhere along the beach beyond the boundary fence, if you wait for me."
"We'll wait, if they don't make us run too far," promised Captain Folsom.
"In that case, make your way home.
And if you cannot get Lieutenant Summers by radio, don't endanger yourself by delaying too long around here.
Now go."
With a nod of understanding, Jack turned and darted down the forest aisles toward the radio station.
Who would he find there?
He wondered.
Or, would the station be deserted?
That it was in working order, there was no doubt, for it was the station's issue of radio control to the liquor containers offshore which they had overheard before deciding to investigate.
Clutching the big butcher knife, the only weapon in the party, which Frank had pressed into his hand as he set out on his lonely mission, Jack dashed ahead recklessly through the trees.
The radio plant of the smugglers burst full on his sight, as he came to the edge of the trees fringing a little clearing.
No lights showed.
Nevertheless, he paused to reconnoitre, asking himself how best to approach it to avoid discovery in case it should have an occupant.
As he stood there, a sudden outburst of shouts to the rear, followed by a few revolver shots, warned him the pursuers had reached the hole in the tunnel.
He hoped big Bob was controlling his recklessness, and not running into danger.
If his friends kept down, there was no great danger of their being shot, for only one man at a time could approach through the tunnel and him they could pelt into retreat with their bricks.
The shots ceased.
The shouts died.
Jack grinned in satisfaction.
The enemy had been halted.
Now, if his friends only utilized their opportunity to hurry away before being attacked from the rear, all would be well.
He listened with strained attention.
No further sounds of combat reached him.
Meanwhile, he had been examining the ground.
The moon was low down.
What time had they left home?
Two o'clock?
By the look of the moon it must be near four now.
That would be about right.
Although it seemed a lifetime, although an excess of excitement had been crowded into that period, still only about two hours had elapsed.
Having the door of the radio station in full view, and observing no signs of life, as would have been the case providing some one had been present, for he would have been drawn to the door by this new and closer outburst of fighting, Jack decided to chance crossing the glade directly.
Darting ahead, he crouched listening, heard nothing, then flung wide the door which opened outward and sprang back.
The moonlight fell full inside a long bar of light.
The sending room, at least, was empty.
Now for the power plant.
Jack entered, going warily, knife clutched in his hand, despite his growing confidence that he had the place to himself.
There was a door at the rear.
Behind that must be the power plant.
He set his ear to the door.
Only the low hum of a dynamo came to his ears.
He had expected that, for wiring glimpsed outside the Brownell house and leading in this direction through the trees had indicated the house current was supplied from the power house here.
But was anyone in that other room, in attendance?
There was a key in the connecting door.
He tried the handle softly.
The door was locked.
Good.
At least he would be safe from surprise from that quarter.
All the while, in order to guard against surprise from the outside, he had been standing sideways, one eye on the outer door.
Now something glimpsed there surprised an exclamation from him.
It was not that anyone appeared in the doorway.
No, but offshore and not far distant a bright searchlight suddenly cut athwart the night, putting the moonlight to shame.
It swung in a wide arc across the sky and then came down to the shore and began moving relentlessly along the beach.
He could not follow its movements fully.
He could not see whence it came.
The grove of trees intervening between the shore of Starfish Cove and the radio plant cut off complete view.
But a wild hope leaped into his mind.
Would the smugglers in the liquor ship offshore be likely to show a light?
He did not consider it likely.
Then, what sort of ship was it probable the light came from?
"By George," he said aloud, "maybe that's a boat of the 'Dry Navy' already on the track of these scoundrels."
He stood, gazing at that finger of light, spellbound.
What else could the ship be that would be casting a searchlight along the shore, along this particular stretch of shore of all places, and at this particular time, what else could it be than a government boat?
Breaking the spell that bound him, he sprang to the instrument table, seized and adjusted a headpiece, pulled a transmitter to him, threw over the rheostat and adjusting the tuner to the 575 meter wave length which Captain Folsom had told him the government boats employed, he began calling.
What should he say if a government boat replied?
He decided on a plan of procedure.
Presently his receivers crackled, and he manipulated the controls until the sputtering ceased, when he heard a voice saying: "U. S. Revenue Cutter Nark.
Who is calling?"
Scarcely able to control his excitement at this almost unbelievable good luck, Jack stammered in reply.
Then getting a grip on his emotions, he replied: "Speaking for Captain Folsom.
Is Lieutenant Summers aboard?
Are you offshore?"
"We're offshore, all right," answered his correspondent, in a tone of the utmost surprise.
"But how in the world do you know?"
"I want to speak to Lieutenant Summers," answered Jack, grinning to himself at the other's bewilderment.
Even at this crucial moment, he could not resist the temptation to mystify the other a little.
"As to knowing you're offshore," he added, "I can see you."
"See us?
Say, this is too much for me.
Wait till I call Lieutenant Summers," said the other.
"Did you say Captain Folsom?"
"That's the name," said Jack.
"Hurry, please.
This is a matter of life and death."
Almost at once another voice took up the conversation, and from the tone of crisp authority, Jack sensed it must be the officer he had asked for speaking.
Such, indeed, was the case.
Lieutenant Summers was aboard the Nark, directing operations, and, as the radio room was in the chart house of the cutter, he had intervened on hearing his operator mention his own name and that of his colleague, Captain Folsom.
"Now, what's this all about?"
he demanded.
"Is Captain Folsom there?
If so, put him on the phone."
"Are you Lieutenant Summers, sir?"
asked Jack, respectfully.
"I am.
Who are you?
Where are you calling from?
Where is Captain Folsom?"
"He's not here," said Jack, "but I am speaking for him.
He's in grave danger ashore.
Moreover, he wanted me to call for you, and if you are offshore near Starfish Cove--that's a little bay far down the south shore of Long Island--and if it's your ship that is playing a searchlight on the beach, then it's a miracle, sir.
I'll try to explain."
Briefly as possible, then, Jack detailed the necessary facts for putting Lieutenant Summers in touch with the situation.
"Good," said Lieutenant Summers, in conclusion; "very good, indeed.
We have received a tip liquor was to be landed somewhere along this coast to-night, and were scouting when you saw our light.
It's a piece of luck, as you say.
Do you think our searchlight has been seen by these rascals?"
"Probably," said Jack, "although I don't know.
Captain Folsom and my friends may have kept them so busily engaged, they had no time to keep a lookout at sea."
"Well, I'll throw off the searchlight at once, anyhow.
We want no advertising.
I'll come in close and land my boats.
Can you be at the beach to guide us?"
"I'll be there," replied Jack.
"Very well.
We're about a mile offshore.
We should land in fifteen minutes.
Good-bye."
Jack took off the headpiece, threw the rheostat back to zero, and looked about him, as if dazed.
He could hardly believe his luck.
CHAPTER XVI BOB REDEEMS HIMSELF After Jack's departure the group which he left at the tunnel exit worked busily making what preparations were possible to receive their pursuers.
Big Bob, who had jumped down into the opening, kept tossing out bricks at a furious rate, and Frank joined him and did likewise.
Meanwhile, by the light of his matches, aided by the moonlight, which here in the woods, however, was not direct enough to be of any great help, Tom Barnum investigated the ground about the hole.
"As soon as the boys get out o' there," he reported to Captain Folsom, "we can all four of us kick down enough dirt to block up the tunnel pretty well.
The earth is loose around here.
That must'a been a recent cave-in.
By yanking up some o' these bushes I already loosened the soil some more."
"Very good," said Captain Folsom, who had been listening closely to the sounds coming through the tunnel.
"They're getting too close for comfort.
I agree with you in believing this must have been a recent cave-in.
I believe it is unsuspected by the enemy.
They are coming along through that tunnel and making plenty of noise, as if they expected to have a considerable distance to go and fancied us pretty far ahead."
"We'll give 'em a surprise," said Tom, grinning.
The watchman-mechanic of the Hampton radio plant was still a young man.
He had served in France.
And he was enjoying the situation.
"Come out now, Temple.
And you, Merrick," said Captain Folsom, in a whisper.
"To stay any longer would be only to expose yourselves needlessly.
You have thrown out a lot of ammunition, as it is.
Besides," he added, as he and Tom helped the others climb to the surface, "we want to kick down this dirt to block the tunnel."
The others followed Tom to the lip of the cave-in, overhanging the tunnel, and, exercising care to avoid tumbling in, succeeded in kicking down sufficient earth to more than half fill the opening.
Little more than a foot of open space remained, after uprooted bushes had been thrown down on top of the earth.
Working feverishly and in a silence broken only by the dull sounds of the falling dirt, they had completed their task when the nearer approach of voices and of stumbling footfalls within the tunnel warned them to desist.
Bob and Frank on one side of the slight opening, Captain Folsom and Tom Barnum on the other, they threw themselves prone on the ground.
The bricks had been divided into two piles, one by the side of each pair.
They were none too soon.
Barely had they taken their positions when the first man of the pursuers, proceeding without a light, stumbled against the dirt they had kicked down, and fell forward into the tangle of uprooted bushes.
He let out a wild yell: "Murder.
Save me."
Bob raised himself on one hand, craned forward, took good aim at the hole, and let drive with a chunk of broken brick.
There was a crack, a howl of anguish, succeeded by an outbreak of curses, as, following Bob's example, his companions also poured in a fire of brickbats from each side.
Several scattered revolver shots rang out, but, as all again had thrown themselves prone on the ground, the bullets sped harmlessly overhead.
After waiting a moment, Bob again let drive with a piece of brick.
That his aim was good was attested by a howl of anguish, succeeded this time not by more shots but by a scurrying sound of retreat.
Evidently, the one or two men in the forefront had had enough, and had withdrawn into the tunnel.
By holding their breath and listening intently, they could, in fact, hear sounds of scuffling that indicated a considerable number of men were within the tunnel and were moving backward on each other to get away from the danger zone.
Suddenly to Bob's ears came the sound of a faint groan, not a foot from his head, it seemed to him, as he lay on the very edge of the hole, straining to listen.
It startled him, but at once he realized whence it came.
One of the pursuers, perhaps the man who had stumbled first into their barricade, must have been knocked out by a missile, and was coming to.
Then Bob had a wild idea.
Rising to his knees, he peered down into the hole, descried a dark, round object just below him which he took to be the head of a man, and bracing himself with one arm, plunged the other into the hole.
Then, while Frank gasped and Tom Barnum swore softly, from the opposite side, in wondering admiration, the big fellow rose to his feet and with a mighty tug pulled an inert body clear through the hole.
One look at the face was sufficient for identification despite the blood streaming from an ugly gash over the right temple.
It was the man called Mike.
His eyelids were fluttering.
He was recovering consciousness.
"Quick, some of you," gasped Bob, retaining his hold of the body, and holding the fellow up as a fisherman lifts up his catch to admire it; "search him.
Get his revolver."
Frank sprang to obey, being the nearest.
Running his hands up and down the man's body, he was met only with disappointment.
But then he felt something bulky at the belt.
It was a revolver in a holster.
Stripping off the weapon, he once more ran his hands over the fellow's body and, in a trousers' pocket, found a handful of bullets, which he abstracted.
Mike now began to squirm, and lash out with his heels.
"Got them?"
gasped Bob.
"Yes," said Frank.
"Searched him twice."
"Then back with you, Mister Mike," said Bob, dropping the other back into the hole.
"We want no prisoners on our hands.
And, listen," he added, "we've got your revolver.
Just tell that to your friends if they get inquisitive and want to follow us."
A curse was his answer.
Then they could hear Mike start to scramble back through the tunnel, and to call to his mates.
"My boy," said Captain Folsom, "I want to tell you that was one of the quickest bits of work I've ever seen.
You certainly have put a different complexion on matters."
"Oh, that was just a bit of luck," said Bob.
"When I heard him groan, it came to me all in a flash what to do."
"Look here," interrupted Frank, "thanks to Bob, we have stalled off pursuit.
Besides, we have a revolver now.
I don't feel like running off and leaving Jack.
The way things have turned out, we can get away without being discovered, anyhow, so we wouldn't be drawing anybody away from Jack's trail if we did go in the opposite direction.
Let's run for it before they get a chance to circle back through the tunnel and house, but head for the radio station instead of home.
What say?"
"Right," said Captain Folsom.
"You chaps certainly know how to use your heads.
Come on."
And swinging about, he started running through the trees in the direction taken by Jack a few short minutes before.
They had not gone far, however, before another volley of revolver shots broke out behind them.
"That's at the tunnel again," said Captain Folsom, pausing to listen.
"They must realize that we wouldn't stay there, so, although they will be cautious, it won't be long before they come out of the tunnel."
"Yes," said Frank, "and some of them have gotten out already, and are coming down from the house."
For, as he spoke, from farther back in the woods bullets began to fly.
The party from the house was shooting as they came.
"I don't think they've seen us yet," said Bob.
"The moon is pretty low down and these trees are thick.
Anyhow, they wouldn't expect us to take this course, as it is away from our home.
Come on."
The shrubbery was less dense now, thinning out, as they neared the clearing in which the radio station was located.
Dashing ahead, they cleared the last of the trees and started across the clearing.
As they drew nearer the station, heading for the doorway, where the outward-swinging door stood open, Jack saw the four figures in the moonlight and, believing them foes, sprang up from the seat by the instrument table, and dashed out to try to escape.
Running at top speed as he hit the sand, he started in the opposite direction.
Bob, however, had an advantage Jack did not possess.
He was looking for Jack at the station, and was quick to recognize the familiar figure.
Jack, not expecting his friends here, naturally considered the approaching figures those of some of the smugglers.
"Hey, Jack, it's us," Bob called.
Jack knew that voice.
There was no mistake.
He paused, dumbfounded, and spun about.
Then he started to retrace his steps.
The others, pretty well blown, slowed down their pace.
As they approached, Jack called: "I wasn't looking for you, and thought you some of the other fellows.
How did you happen to change your plans and come here?"
Frank started to explain.
But this was not time for explanations.
Paddy Ryan, heading a dozen of his men, had seen the four fleeing through the woods and followed.
At this moment the pursuers reached the edge of the clearing.
The first intimation which any of the five, engrossed in their meeting, had of the near approach of the enemy, was an outburst of bullets, some of which sang unpleasantly close while others kicked up the sand around them.
None, however, took effect.
Where the others had come up with Jack was near a corner of the radio plant.
All leaped for cover behind it.
With a yell of triumph, Paddy Ryan jumped out into the clearing, his men at his heels.
Frank, who carried the captured revolver and spare ammunition taken from the man called Mike, realized it was distinctly up to him to halt the enemy, if possible.
He did not want to shoot to kill, although he knew that the others had no such compunctions, especially since Higginbotham must be aware that if they escaped he would be a ruined man, as they would be able to identify him.
Nevertheless, the emergency demanded action.
All this passed through his mind in a twinkling.
Then he peered out from behind the shelter of the radio station, took deliberate aim, and fired.
The leading figure, that of Paddy Ryan, stumbled, lurched forward and fell.
Some of the others in the pursuing party paused, others came on.
Once more Frank fired.
A second man, the foremost, fell.
It was sufficient to deter the others.
While some ran back helter-skelter for the shelter of the woods, others threw themselves prone in the sand, and began to shoot from that position.
"I shot them in the legs," said Frank.
His voice trembled.
His legs felt weak, his hands numb.
It was with an effort he refrained from dropping the revolver.
Like his chums, Frank was a crack shot, for Mr. Temple early had accustomed them to the use of rifle and shotgun, and the previous summer in New Mexico Tom Bodine, their cowboy friend, had given all three valuable instructions in revolver shooting.
Nevertheless, to take deliberate aim at a human being was unnerving.
It was only the realization that the safety of his comrades hung on his aim that had nerved him to the task and steeled his arm.
"Steady, old thing," said Bob, patting him on the shoulder.
Then, turning to Captain Folsom, he added: "Well, captain, where do we go from here?
We've got all Long Island ahead of us.
I expect we had better start traveling."
"Not at all, Bob," said Jack, unexpectedly.
"If we can only hold these fellows off a few minutes more, they'll get the surprise of their lives.
I raised Lieutenant Summers by radio.
He was close offshore by the greatest of good luck.
He's sending a landing party in boats, and I was to meet them at the beach and act as guide."
CHAPTER XVII RESCUE ARRIVES Tom Barnum had disappeared.
Now he ran up from the rear of the radio station.
"Quick, Mister Frank, with that revolver," he said.
"They've split up an' the fellows in the woods are trying to work their way around to take us in the rear.
I been watchin' from the back side."
Frank nodded and started to follow.
Then he spun around, ran again to his former vantage point, and sent a couple of bullets towards the figures in the sand.
"That'll hold 'em there for a minute," he said.
As he ran after Tom Barnum to the other corner of the station on the side which sheltered them, he refilled the emptied chambers of the precious weapon.
"There," said Tom Barnum, crouching low, and pointing.
Frank tried to follow directions but saw nothing.
He pressed the revolver into Tom's hand.
"Don't waste time trying to show me," he said.
"If you see anybody, shoot."
Tom took the weapon, glanced along the barrel, and pressed the trigger.
A yell of pain was the response.
Twenty yards away there was a crash in the bushes, then silence.
"Back to the other corner," said Tom, chuckling, and dashed again to the post from which Frank originally had fired.
Frank sat down, with his back against the wall of the station and laughed hysterically.
"Golly, but this is a game of hide and seek, all right," he gasped.
Again the revolver spoke, a yell followed, and then came a rain of bullets.
"Here they come," cried Tom, and in quick succession he pumped out four more shots.
Howls and shrieks of anguish rose.
Tom was shooting with deadly intent.
The attempted rush was halted, broken.
The desperadoes composing the attacking force could not stand before that deadly aim.
They broke and ran back toward the trees, leaving three figures groveling in the sand.
"One for Mister Frank, and three for me, them two and one back behind," said Tom Barnum grimly, to Bob and Jack, who were peering over his shoulder.
"That ain't so bad."
A cry from Captain Folsom, followed by Frank's voice calling urgently, caused the three to spin around.
They were just in time to see one man go down under a terrific blow from the doughty, one-armed officer, while Frank leaped in under the arm of a second desperado, upraised to fire, and brought him crashing down with a flying tackle.
"As pretty as I ever saw," muttered Bob.
"Old Frank ought to make the All-American team for that."
Quick as thought, having felled his man, Captain Folsom stooped down and wrenched a revolver from his grasp, then spun about on his knee and fired just as a third rounded the corner.
The man toppled forward.
By this time Bob and Jack had reached the scene.
But the attack from the rear had spent its force.
The three most daring evidently had taken the lead.
And the way they had been disposed of deterred the others.
A half dozen in number, they hung uncertainly in a group along the wall of the radio station.
Captain Folsom helped them make up their minds as to which direction to take by sending several shots over their heads.
Without even waiting to reply, they ran for cover toward the trees and bushes at the edge of the clearing.
The man whom Frank had tackled capitulated without a struggle, seeing the fight had gone against him.
Frank took his revolver.
From the fellow whom Captain Folsom had shot, and who proved to be wounded only in the thigh, Bob obtained a revolver.
All except Jack were now armed, and he had the butcher knife which Frank had carried away from the Brownell house, although he laughed as he flourished it.
"The way you fellows treat our friends," he said, "I expect none of them will come close enough to give me a chance to use this."
"Look here," said Captain Folsom, approaching the boys, after having ascertained first that the man whom he had shot had only a flesh wound; "we aren't out of the woods yet.
These fellows are determined scoundrels, and they know they can't afford to let us escape.
Finding they can't rush us, they will next try to work around through the trees and attack us from this side.
I think we had better make a dash around Tom Barnum's corner and get into the radio station."
"But how about my going to the beach to meet Lieutenant Summers?"
asked Jack.
"Our position ought to be evident to him," said Captain Folsom.
"He can understand what is going on, and come up cautiously.
I can't risk having any of you lads run the gauntlet.
I've reproached myself a hundred times already for leading you into danger."
"Nonsense, Captain," said Jack.
"We volunteered.
And we're safe so far, aren't we?"
The other shook his head with a smile of admiration.
These boys were made of manly stuff.
"Come," said he, "there is no time to waste.
Any minute we may expect to be peppered from the woods on this side.
Here, you two," he added, addressing the two unwounded prisoners, "help your pal and march.
We're going into the radio station."
The men, young, smooth-shaven and looking like what they were, city toughs, were cowed.
Without a word, they moved to obey.
"All clear there, Tom?"
asked Captain Folsom of Tom Barnum, who had kept up his watch at the forward end of the side wall.
"If we move fast we can make it," Tom replied.
"There's nobody out here in front but the wounded, an' they're crawlin' to cover."
"Good," answered Captain Folsom.
"Now, altogether."
A quick dash from cover, and the party was safely within the sending room of the station.
Jack's first move was to ascertain whether any of the enemy had gained entrance to the power house.
He approached the connecting door at the rear of the room.
It still was closed and locked.
Tom Barnum had taken up his post inside the door, which he had swung shut behind him, not, however, until Frank had found and pressed a wall button which switched on a cluster of electric lights overhead.
"Lucky for us there is no other entrance to the power house than through this door," said Jack.
"At least there is none, so far as I have seen.
If there had been, they might have slipped in that other room, come through here and have gotten close enough to rush us before we could have stopped them."
Captain Folsom approached Tom Barnum, after asking the boys to keep an eye on the prisoners.
"I see you are keeping watch through a crack in the door," he said.
"But, I believe we would be better off with the door open entirely.
That would give us a clear view of the side from which attack must come.
We can push this big table across the doorway, upending it.
So."
And, suiting action to word, he and Tom dragged the heavy article of furniture into position.
"Now let us push the door open," he said.
Just as Tom was about to comply, an outburst of shooting in the clearing split the air.
"Hurray," shouted Jack.
"The 'Dry Navy' got on the job.
Come on, fellows, open the door."
As Tom Barnum, who had paused in that very act, stunned by this new development, completed the task and the door swung outward, the others crowded to the barrier of the upended table.
Jack's surmise was apparently correct.
Along the wall of the radio station were ranged a dozen men.
They had been stealing up to pour a hot fire through the door.
But Lieutenant Summers with his landing party, drawn to the clearing by the sounds of combat, had made a hurried march up from the beach, and opened fire.
His men were advancing across the clearing, scattered out fanwise, crouching and shooting as they came.
Taken by surprise, the smugglers were returning only a ragged fire.
Seeing how matters stood, Captain Folsom directed the table be pulled away and then, commanding the boys to keep in the background, he and Tom Barnum stepped out to the stoop and poured the contents of their revolvers, fast as they could pump them, into the smugglers.
The surprise of the latter was complete.
Caught between two fires, they did not know which way to turn.
They wavered a moment, then dashed away along the wall of the radio plant in an opposite direction from the door.
As they disappeared among the trees, pursued by a detachment of Lieutenant Summer's men, the latter with a half dozen followers dashed up to the radio plant and, in the lighted doorway, recognized the figure of his colleague, Captain Folsom.
Greetings were exchanged, and then Captain Folsom called the boys forward and introduced them.
"Plucky lads, if ever I met any," he said, warmly, "and resourceful, too.
Their ingenuity has pulled us through time and again to-night."
"Not to mention," said Bob, gruffly, "that it was my darned foolishness that got us into this scrape to begin with."
"Nonsense, my boy," said Captain Folsom.
"You did only what any of us would have done in jumping that rascal, Higginbotham.
Well, now, let us head for the house.
Probably that is where these rascals will take refuge.
They must be wondering who you are, Lieutenant, and how you happened to appear on the scene."
CHAPTER XVIII HIGGINBOTHAM ESCAPES A hasty marshalling of forces was first made.
Besides the three boys, Captain Folsom and Tom Barnum, Lieutenant Summers had twelve men under his command.
Thus they numbered eighteen in all.
It was decided to split this force into two equal parties, one commanded by Lieutenant Summers, the other by Captain Folsom.
Tom Barnum went with Lieutenant Summer's party as guide, the boys with Captain Folsom.
They were to move against the front and rear entrances of the house, summon those within to surrender and, if necessary, to blockade the house until surrender was made.
As an afterthought, each party detached a man, as they moved up through the woods, to stand guard over the tunnel and thus prevent any who had taken refuge either therein or in the house from making their escape.
As it proved, however, when Paddy Ryan discovered he was besieged by government forces, he surrendered without resistance, together with the half dozen men with him.
The others had scattered and made their escape.
And when the government forces came to take inventory of their prisoners, it was discovered that among those who had fled was Higginbotham.
"Ye'll get nothin' out of me," said Ryan sullenly, when he was questioned as to Higginbotham's whereabouts.
"He beat it away.
That's all I know."
Frank's quick eye, however, was caught by the gleam in Ryan's glance, and he suspected the other knew more than he would admit.
Drawing his chums to one side, he said in a low voice: "Look here, fellows, I believe Higginbotham is hiding in one of two places.
Either he is up in the attic, in that secret passage through which we made our escape from the dark room, or else hiding in the tunnel."
"Maybe you're right," said Bob.
"But we couldn't ferret him out alone.
If he is hiding in either place, he is armed, and would have us at his mercy.
A desperate man would shoot.
I believe we would be foolhardy to take such a chance."
"Let's ask Captain Folsom's advice," suggested Jack, sensibly.
Waiting an opportunity, they beckoned Captain Folsom aside and Frank propounded his suspicions.
The latter looked thoughtful.
"I agree with Temple," he said, emphatically.
"I am glad you boys told me of this and did not attempt to make a search by yourselves.
Let me see, however, if we cannot evolve some scheme to bring the rascal out, provided he is in hiding in one or other of these places."
Facing about, he called: "Ryan, come here."
The leader of the smugglers, who stood lined up with his men, including the negro, Mike and Pete, against the wall, under guard, stepped forward.
Quickly Captain Folsom explained his suspicions as to where Higginbotham might be in hiding.
Then he added: "Higginbotham knows your voice.
I want you to go to whichever place he may be hiding and summon him to come out and surrender.
Say that if he refuses, I shall not imperil the lives of any of my men by sending them to dig him out, but shall starve him into submission."
There was a slight smile of triumph on Paddy Ryan's face as he replied: "Sure, an' I'll go to both places an' whistle in the wind.
But it's in nather place he is, for he did not return to the house, I'm tellin' ye."
"Do as I say, Ryan," commanded Captain Folsom, shortly.
"Try the attic first.
The tunnel is guarded, I may as well tell you, and Higginbotham cannot make his escape that way."
"All right.
You're the captain," said Ryan.
"Follow me."
As he turned to proceed up the steps, after ordering two sailors to accompany Ryan, Captain Folsom said to the boys and Lieutenant Summers, who had joined the party: "From the way Ryan is acting, I believe he is trying to throw us off the scent, and that Higginbotham really is hidden hereabouts."
No reply, however, was received in response to Ryan's announcement of the ultimatum laid down by Captain Folsom, both at the secret passage under the roof and the other underground.
"Very well," said Captain Folsom, lips compressed, at the failure of his stratagem.
"We shall post guards here until we can decide what to do."
Ryan therefore was returned to keep company with the other prisoners under guard in the big living room.
In another room the two officers, together with the boys, gathered for a consultation.
Tom Barnum, meantime, seeing that dawn had come, and that the first faint streaks of daylight were beginning to light up the woods outside, left the knot of sailors to whom he had been recounting the events of that exciting night and re-entering the house called Jack aside.
"Mister Jack," he said.
"It'll be broad day in another hour.
Don't you think I had better go back and tell the Temples and your housekeeper what's become of you three and of Captain Folsom, too.
If they happen to notice you're missin' they'll be worried."
"Right, Tom," approved Jack.
"But do you think it's safe for you to make the trip alone?
Some of these fellows may be lurking in the woods."
"Oh," said Tom, "it'll soon be daylight, as I said.
Besides, I'll be on the beach.
And, anyhow, why should any of them attack me?
They'll be runnin' like hares to get away, and none of 'em will be around here."
Thereupon Tom set out, and Jack returned to the conference.
On his re-entry, he learned the two officers had decided to remove the liquor in the cellar to the beach and thence by boat to the Nark, as the easiest method for getting it to New York and the government warehouses for the storage of confiscated contraband.
A sailor appointed to inspect the premises had reported finding a large truck and a narrow but sufficiently wide road through the woods to the beach.
Evidently, it was by this method that liquor had been brought from the beach to the house on occasion.
This would be a long process, but it was considered better than to attempt to remove the liquor by truck to New York.
Only one truck was available, in the first place, and that would not carry more than the smallest portion of the big store of liquor.
Before the two officers departed to issue the necessary orders for the carrying out of their plans, Jack for the first time since he had had that one brief glimpse of them at the beginning of their adventure, remembered the torpedo-shaped metal objects on the beach and spoke about them.
"I am quite sure they must be great containers controlled by radio," he said.
"Probably they were launched from a liquor ship well out to sea, and then brought to shore by radio.
I suppose Higginbotham directed the current, although it might have been that thug with him whom you first attacked, Bob.
That fellow who said it was he had damaged the airplane.
Remember?"
"By George, yes," said Bob, starting up, a vengeful expression on his face.
"And that reminds me.
Where is that particular ruffian, I'd like to know.
He isn't among the prisoners."
"Maybe, he's among the wounded," suggested Jack.
"A half dozen have been gathered up, none seriously wounded, and are out in the kitchen where that apprentice surgeon is fixing them up."
He referred to one of the sailors, a medical student who because of ill health had enlisted in the "Dry Navy" in order to obtain an outdoor life.
Lieutenant Summers earlier had assigned him to look after the injured.
Despite all the shooting that had taken place, none of the sailors had been wounded, and the boys, Captain Folsom and Tom represented, with their injuries from blows, the sole casualties in the government forces.
Of the half dozen smugglers injured, moreover, none had been shot other than in the arms or legs.
As Lieutenant Summers had explained to the boys, even in pitched battle a good deal of powder and shot was spent often without anybody being injured.
Bob made hasty examination of the kitchen and returned to report the man he sought could not be located.
He found Jack and Frank awaiting him, the officers having departed to see about preparations for moving the liquor.
"Believe me, if I could find that fellow," grunted Bob, and he did not finish the sentence.
"Well," said Jack, looking out of the window, "it's daylight now.
Let's go down and have a look at those torpedo things on the beach.
Then we can take a plunge and go home.
I'm beginning to feel let down now, and I could sleep the clock around."
The others agreed, and passing through the living room made their way outdoors and headed for the beach.
Frank stopped suddenly, and emitted an exclamation of disgust.
"We're a fine crowd," he said.
"Why hasn't one of us thought of that radio-controlled airplane before?
What's become of it?"
"Oh, I guess it's somewhere along shore in Starfish Cove," said Jack.
"We'll soon see."
But arrival at the beach failed to disclose the tiny speedster of the sky.
Only the great metal objects lay outstretched above the tide, like so many seal basking in the sun.
The disappearance of the plane was temporarily forgotten, while they investigated.
As they had surmised, these objects proved to be liquor containers, from several of which the cases of bottled liquor in the holds had not yet been removed.
They were replicas of each other.
At the rounded end was a propeller driven by an electric motor.
A rudder governed by an electric compass imparted direction.
A wire trailing overside and a spiral aerial coiled upright about a mast completed the mechanism.
"Mighty ingenious," declared Jack, inspecting one of the contrivances.
"And it must have cost a pretty sum to build it, too.
These liquor smugglers certainly must have money behind them.
Until we became involved in this business, I had no idea except in a general way that all this was going on, certainly no idea that it was organized as it is."
While Jack and Bob bent above the radio boats, absorbed in examination of them, Frank pursued further search for the missing radio-controlled airplane.
Presently he rejoined his comrades with the information that it was to be found nowhere along the shore and that apparently it had not drifted away, as at first he had suspected might have been the case, because the sun had risen now and except for the Nark and her two boats drawn upon shore, there was nothing in sight.
Suddenly, as he concluded his report, another idea came to Frank and he laughed aloud.
"What's the joke?"
demanded Bob.
"Have you done----" "No, sir," Frank interrupted, "I've not gone crazy, at least not any more than the rest of you.
It just occurred to me that the reason why we couldn't find Higginbotham links up with the reason why his airplane is missing.
Higginbotham flew away in it, while that plugugly who damaged our airplane and whom Bob couldn't locate worked the radio for him."
"You mean he had the nerve to come back here while we were up at the house?
And that his man calmly walked into the radio plant and operated it for him?
Oh, say."
Bob was contemptuous.
"Why not?"
said Frank coolly.
"What was to stop him?
The airplane makes no noise, and it would be the easiest matter in the world for Higginbotham thus to make his escape."
CHAPTER XIX WARNED!
Frank's surmise was communicated to Captain Folsom, and the latter at once sent a radio message to the Custom House at New York, giving a bare outline of the details of the raid and asking that a watch be kept for Higginbotham.
Custom House communicated with the New York Police Department, and a guard was set at the bridges and ferries leading from Long Island to Manhattan.
Several days elapsed, however, with Higginbotham still uncaught.
Meanwhile the next day after that eventful night, the radio-controlled plane was found floating in the waters of Great South Bay, so near the shore as to make it practically impossible Higginbotham had been drowned but, on the contrary, to give rise to the belief that he had made his way ashore.
A fisherman made the discovery.
It was some twenty-five miles as the crow flies from the Brownell place to the point where the airplane came down.
That, Jack estimated, when told of the discovery, probably was the limit of the radio plant's radius of control.
Higginbotham, therefore, had not descended until compelled to do so.
All this, however, did not come until later.
Meanwhile, after saying farewell to the two officers, the boys returned afoot to their homes with the understanding on Jack's part that Captain Folsom, the main portion of whose wardrobe still was at his house, would return later.
On arrival, Jack learned that Tom Barnum already had explained the reason for his absence to the housekeeper and, after telling her Captain Folsom should be shown to his room on arrival, turned in and went instantly to sleep.
As for Bob and Frank, only the servants as yet were astir at the Temple home.
And the boys, after stating only that they had been routed out by a fire at the airplane hangar, went instantly to bed.
Once Bob was partially awakened by Della, who demanded indignantly if he intended to sleep his young life away and commanded that he awaken Frank in order that she and her guest might have company.
Bob merely grunted unintelligibly, and Della retired in a high state of indignation, resolved to give the boys a "piece of her mind" when finally they should arise.
That event, however, did not come to pass until mid-afternoon.
Bob on his sister's departure the first time had gotten up and locked the doors of his room and that of Frank, which adjoined.
Thus, although Della several times came to the door and knocked, she received no reply.
The "piece of her mind," however, went undelivered when once the boys did arise, for in the absorbing story which they had to tell of the night's occurrences, her sense of injury evaporated speedily.
The recital occupied considerable time.
At its conclusion, Bob, who had been looking so frequently at Della's guest, Marjorie Faulkner, as to cause Frank to chuckle to himself, suggested they play tennis.
But Della protested.
"That's all we've had to do to-day while you boys slept," she said.
"We're tired of tennis.
Propose something else."
"The airplane's out of commission, or I'd take you up for a flight," said Bob.
"Wouldn't you like that, Miss Faulkner?"
"Oh, wouldn't I, just," she exclaimed.
"I've never been up in an airplane, and I'm dying to try it.
What is it like?
Does it make you sick?"
Bob grinned.
Before he could reply, Frank interrupted.
"Say, Bob," he exclaimed, "we ought to telephone the factory over in Long Island City right away, and tell them to send a couple of mechanics over here with new wings and whatever else is needed.
First, though, we ought to make a thorough inventory to see what we need."
Bob agreed, and, accompanied by the girls, they repaired to the hangar.
After returning to the house, Frank rang up the airplane factory, and gave the necessary orders.
He was told the mechanics would arrive the next day with all that was required, but that putting the plane into condition would take three or four days at the least.
"Just when I had it all in good shape for flying," mourned Bob, on his chum's return.
"Oh, what I'd do to that little monkey, Higginbotham, if I had the chance."
He grinned as he uttered the threat, yet it could be seen that he was badly cut up by the damaging of the plane.
Frank said nothing, but threw an arm over his shoulder as they walked back to the house, and for the remainder of the journey neither had much to say, leaving it to the girls to carry the burden of conversation.
Arrived at the house, they found Jack with Captain Folsom.
The latter was introduced to the girls, whom he had not met on his arrival the night previous.
"I've come to say good-bye," he explained to Bob and Frank.
"I have to go back to the city, and Hampton is going to motor me to the railway.
I can't thank you fellows enough for your part in this affair.
If it hadn't been for your perspicacity, in the first place, we might not have gotten wind of what was going on.
And the way you all fought and acted on your own initiative time and again when we were in trouble was fine, indeed."
"You've got to come down again, Captain," said big Bob, on whom the other had made a favorable impression.
"I'd be delighted to do so, sometime," Captain Folsom replied.
"By the way, Captain," interposed Frank, "keep us posted, will you, on how this affair turns out?
Let us know if Higginbotham is located."
"I'll do that," the other promised.
"Well, good-bye."
And bowing to the girls, he crossed the lawn to Jack's side and the two swung down the drive to where Jack had left the car parked by the side of the main road at the gate.
On Jack's return, he informed his chums that the liquor at the Brownell place had been removed to the Nark, the captives placed aboard, and that then Lieutenant Summers had steamed away, leaving a detail of men on guard at the house and the radio plant to round up any of the smugglers who, thinking the place deserted, might straggle back.
"He gave me a bit of advice to be passed on to you fellows," Jack added, out of hearing of the girls.
"That was, to go about armed for a time, and to be on guard."
"Why?"
asked Bob, in surprise.
"Well," Jack replied, "he said some of those fellows who escaped into the woods undoubtedly would have it in for us for having spoiled their plans, and that it was barely possible they might have learned where we live and might try to waylay us.
He pointed out the men were a desperate lot, and that some of them were Italians who are notoriously revengeful."
"Huh," grunted Bob, contemptuously.
Frank, however, showed anxiety.
"That's all right, Bob," he commented.
"But Captain Folsom wouldn't have given Jack that warning if there were no grounds for it.
Look here, Jack," he added, "Uncle George won't be home to-night.
Have you heard from your father?"
"The housekeeper received a message while I slept that he wouldn't be out for several days," Jack replied.
"Well," said Frank, "I believe it would be a good plan for you to sleep at our house.
At any rate until your father returns home.
You can bunk in with me.
I've got a big bed.
Then, if anything happens at night, we'll all be together."
"All right, I'll do that," Jack agreed.
"Not that I expect anything will occur.
But, as you say, if there is trouble, it is best to be together.
Well, now let's join the girls.
We've still got some daylight left, and we might make up doubles for tennis."
CHAPTER XX OUT FOR REVENGE After dinner, which the five young people ate without the presence of their elders, as even Mrs. Temple was absent, having been picked up in a friend's motor car during the afternoon and whisked away to a country home near Southampton, all adjourned to the gallery.
A desultory conversation was maintained, but presently at a whisper from Frank, Della slipped indoors with him.
Then from the long french windows of the music room came two voices mingling harmoniously in the strains of an old Southern melody to an accompaniment played by Della on the piano.
The others listened until the conclusion which they greeted with spirited applause.
Then by common consent all three arose and went in to join.
Thereafter for an hour, the singing continued, with first Della and then Miss Faulkner at the piano.
When the common repertoire of songs had been nigh exhausted, Bob who had wandered off to a window and stood there in the breeze, looking out at the play of moonlight on the lawn, returned with a suggestion that they all go for a short spin in the motor boat.
The others eagerly assented.
What a lark.
A spin in a speed boat under the moonlight.
Wraps and sweaters were procured, for although the night was warm it would be cool on the water, especially if any speed were attained.
Then the party set out, Jack and Bob squiring Miss Faulkner, and Frank slightly in the rear with Della.
On the walk to the boathouse Della reproached Frank for having taken so many risks the previous night.
He regarded her slyly.
"But Jack and Bob took risks, too," he said.
Della flushed.
Was the young rascal intimating her interest in him was greater than in the others.
She was about to reply tartly, but Frank awkwardly took her hand and squeezed it, then hurriedly released it again.
Demonstrations of affection were not frequent between these two, yet they had a pretty good understanding.
They walked on in silence.
"Just the same, Frank," said Della presently, "you must take better care of yourself."
Frank nodded.
He did not trust himself to speak.
The interest shown by this girl with whom he had grown up, living in the same household with her from early boyhood, threw him into a softened mood.
Then, too, the moonlit surroundings were not without their effect.
He knew that if he spoke now, he would say something "soft."
So he maintained his silence.
The trio ahead meanwhile chattered gaily.
And at length the boathouse was reached.
Bob swung back the door and, all pushing together, the boat was trundled out on its little trucks, removed to the chute in which rollers were set, and rolled down to the water and launched.
Then all climbed in, Bob examined the fuel supply and found the boat well stocked, Jack seized the tiller, they seated themselves in the little cockpit and, with Bob manipulating the engine, the boat moved away, gathered speed and, with a roar, began zipping out to sea.
It was glorious sport, to which four of the five were accustomed, but which they enjoyed enormously no matter how often engaged in.
To Miss Faulkner it was a revelation, and bundled in a sweater, her hair loosed and flying back in the wind, her eyes dancing with the zest of the adventure, she looked like an elf, as Della told Frank in a whispered aside.
Frank nodded and grinned.
"Bob thinks so, too," he whispered in reply.
"He can't keep his eyes off her.
If we didn't have the whole sea ahead of us, he'd run into something sure."
Up and up and up went the speedometer.
The boat seemed no longer to be rushing through the water.
It spurned that heavier element, and took to the air.
It leaped from crest to crest of the swells.
The girls shrieked, the boys let out great chesty whoops of pure animal delight.
Then Bob cut down the speed and Jack, controlling the tiller, swung her about towards home.
They had been out only half an hour, but the shore was miles away.
However, the return was made without incident or trouble of any kind, the motor working perfectly, and once more they stepped ashore at the boat landing.
"Which do you like best, Mr. Temple," asked Marjorie Faulkner, as big Bob rejoined the party on the landing, after locking the doors; "boating, flying or motoring?"
"Oh, I don't know," replied Bob, "there's something fascinating about every one of the three.
To feel that powerful engine under your control, that's what grips me.
It's power, you know; you have vast power under your control.
They're all good," he concluded, with a quick look at the others who were moving away, "but to-night I like boating best."
He looked at her so pointedly that her eyes dropped.
Then she laughed.
"And think of you saying that," she declared.
"Why, Della always told me you were a perfect bear and never made a pretty speech to a girl in your life."
"Neither did I," said Bob, boldly, "before to-night."
Once more the girl laughed as she danced away after the others, but Bob following her was sure he had not displeased.
Events of the previous night were far from the thoughts of any of the boys, as they moved across the open sandhills along the beach and approached the grove separating them from the Temple home.
There was no thought of danger in their minds.
But barely had they entered the narrow trail, walking single file, Jack in the lead, followed by Frank, Della and Miss Faulkner, with Bob bringing up the rear, than from the trees on either side darted a number of men who sprang upon them.
The girls screamed in fright and alarm, their shrieks rending the silence of the night.
Cursing, several of the attackers sprang for them, too, they were seized, and rough hands clapped over their mouths.
But, attacked thus unexpectedly though they were, and without weapons, the boys fought desperately.
How many their assailants numbered they could not tell.
There was no time to take account.
Frank was bowled over by the sudden rush, Jack borne back against a tree, Bob managed to keep his footing, his arms wrapped about the body of his own assailant.
Every muscle and nerve taut, Frank sprang up as if actuated by a spring, tripped the man who had attacked him and leaped towards the fellow who had Della in his arms.
In falling, his hand had come in contact with a stone the size of his fist and he had clutched it.
Della's assailant had seized her from the rear and was bending her backward, a hand across her mouth.
His back was towards Frank.
The latter brought down the stone on the man's head with a tremendous crash, and the fellow's arms relaxed, setting Della free, then he fell to the ground, stunned.
The man whom he had tripped made a leap for Frank, but his blood up, the boy dodged aside to avoid the blind rush and, as the man lurched past, he lashed out with his right fist.
The blow caught the other under the ear, a fatal spot, and sent him toppling to the ground.
Meantime, Jack, with his back to a big tree, was hard pressed by two men.
In the hand of one gleamed a dagger.
Good boxer though he was, Jack could not ward off an attack like that for long, and Frank realized it.
He sprang forward to go to the rescue.
Then a blow on the head felled him, and all became darkness.
That blow came from a blackjack in the hands of Marjorie Faulkner's assailant.
Seeing the danger to his comrades from Frank, he released the girl and attacked Frank.
But his act brought down on him a perfect fury, tearing, scratching at his face.
It was Della, crying with rage at the danger to Frank, insensible to everything else.
She was a whirlwind and the man had all he could do to ward her off.
In fact, he did not fully succeed, for her hands found his face and her tearing fingers ripped a long gash down over his right eye, from which the blood began to spout.
Temporarily blinded, he dropped his blackjack, and stumbled back, cursing.
Della did not follow up her advantage, but dropped to her knees beside Frank and pillowed his head in her lap.
His eyes were closed.
The blow that had felled him had been a shrewd one.
Fortunately, however, instead of descending full on his head, it had glanced off one side.
As she cradled him, smoothing back his hair and crying unrestrainedly, Frank opened his eyes and gazed up.
For a moment his daze continued.
Or did it?
Was there not a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, quickly veiled, as he saw who had come to his rescue?
Then he started to struggle to his feet.
All this had taken very little time and, while it progressed, Bob had been gripped body to body with the biggest of the attacking party, a husky fellow of his own six foot height but with the added weight of a greater length of years.
As this man leaped for him from the woods, arm upraised with a blackjack clutched in his hand, Bob had seized the descending wrist and thrown his other arm about the fellow's body.
Thus they had wrestled.
As Frank shakily, with Della's assistance, was getting to his feet, there came a panting cry from Bob, another scream from Miss Faulkner.
Then through the air went flying the form of Bob's assailant.
He had fallen victim to Bob's famous wrestling grip, which lifted the man from his feet and sent him flying over Bob's head.
But into the propulsion this time Bob put all his great strength.
The result was that, instead of falling immediately behind Bob, the fellow cannoned through the air a distance of several yards.
As luck would have it, this human meteor descended upon one of Jack's assailants, and the pair went down to the ground together.
At this, the other man turned and fled incontinently into the woods.
The first round had been won.
But there were still five assailants left.
And all armed, while the boys were without weapons.
Frank saw the danger of delay and called: "Bob, Jack, quick.
We must get the girls home."
Shaking his head to clear it, he seized Della by the hand and started running towards the house.
A glance sufficed to show him the others saw the danger of delay, and were pelting after him with Marjorie Faulkner.
Bob was bringing up the rear.
But their troubles were not ended.
Thus far the attackers had refrained from using revolvers in order to avoid bringing others to the scene.
But, seeing their prey escape, several now whipped out weapons and began to fire.
Bob, the last in line, groaned: "Got me."
He fell.
Jack spun around, took in the situation, then called: "Girls, you run on home and get help.
Frank and I will stay with Bob."
"I'm not hurt much," Bob declared.
"Just put my leg out."
He struggled to regain his feet.
Several more shots whistled unpleasantly close.
Their assailants were approaching, shooting as they came.
"Run, girls," cried Jack.
They darted away.
Suddenly Tom Barnum came crashing through the woods, service revolver gripped in his hand.
He had been aroused, as he slept nearby at the Hampton radio plant, by the cries of the girls on first being attacked.
In the moonlight, it was not difficult to see at which party to fire, and Tom did not hesitate.
He sent a half dozen bullets whistling about the attacking party in quick succession.
The arrival of reinforcements completed the discomfiture of the latter.
They fled back towards the beach.
Tom was all for pursuing them, but Jack called to him.
"Here, Tom, let 'em go.
Bob's hurt.
Help us get him to the house."
CHAPTER XXI THE MOTOR BOAT STOLEN When the boys and Tom Barnum arrived at the Temples', they found the household in a great state of excitement.
Some of the maids were hysterical.
But Frank and Della, with a few sharp-spoken words, shamed the women and brought them to their senses.
However, it was not to be wondered at that hysteria prevailed, as there were few men about to give protection in case of an attack on the house, the butler being an oldish and timorous man and the chauffeur absent.
Frank assured the women, however, that they need not fear attack, and they retired to the servant's quarters.
Meantime, Jack and Tom Barnum had assisted Bob to his rooms and examined his injury.
It was found he had been struck by bullets not only once but twice.
In neither case, however, was the injury serious.
One had creased his right thigh, the other pierced the calf without touching the bone.
The wounds were bandaged and dressed.
Then a consultation was held, which both Della and Marjorie Faulkner insisted on attending.
Both had been thoroughly frightened, but were plucky spirits, and the boys were loud in praise of their behavior.
Frank could not thank Della enough for her interference to save him from the ruffian who had felled him.
It was decided that, due to their isolation and the nature of the country, it would be highly unwise as well as unprofitable to attempt to go in search of the ruffians.
Tom Barnum, however, was instructed to send a warning by radio to the government men at the Brownell radio plant that these fellows were in the neighborhood, and this commission he duly carried out on his return to his quarters.
The boys were of the opinion that they had seen the last of the smugglers, and that, thwarted in their attempt to gain revenge, the latter would now make their way to the railroad and return to Brooklyn and Manhattan.
For that the attack upon them was caused by a desire to obtain revenge, they had no doubt.
It was what Captain Folsom had told them they might expect.
What was their dismay, however, the next day when, on arriving at the boathouse they discovered the door broken open, and the new speed boat, pride of the trio, gone.
Bob who had hobbled along by the aid of a cane groaned as he stared at the vacant space where the boat had been stowed on their return the night before.
"We're out of luck," he said.
"That's all."
"Airplane damaged, motor boat stolen," said Frank.
"What next?"
But Jack refused to lament.
His eyes blazed with wrath.
"This is too much," he said.
"We'll have to do something about this.
That's all."
After a consultation, it was decided to call Captain Folsom by radio at the Custom House and apprise him of the latest turn in the situation.
By great good luck, Captain Folsom was in the Custom House at the time, on business connected with the disposal of the vast amount of liquor taken from the Brownell house.
He commiserated with the boys on their hard luck, as well as on their lucky escape the previous night when unexpectedly attacked.
He promised to notify the New York police who would keep a lookout for the motor boat along both the Brooklyn and Manhattan water fronts.
Furthermore, he agreed to undertake to notify the police authorities of towns along the Long Island shore between the Temple estate and the metropolis, so that in case the smugglers made a landing and abandoned the boat, the boys would be notified where to recover it.
In conclusion, he added that the big raid and the arrest of Paddy Ryan and others at the Brownell house had not as yet brought to light the principals in the liquor-smuggling ring.
The lesser prisoners, questioned separately, maintained that Ryan and Higginbotham were the sole principals known to them.
Higginbotham had not been found, and Ryan refused to talk.
It was Captain Folsom's opinion, however, that one or more men of wealth and, possibly, of social or financial position, were behind the plot.
"You boys have been of such assistance," he said, "that I'm telling you this, first, because I know you will be interested, but, secondly, because I want to put you on the lookout.
You have shown yourselves such sensible, clever fellows that, if you keep your ears open, who knows but what you will stumble on something of importance.
I believe the man or men behind the plot may live in the 'Millionaire Colony' down your way."
What Captain Folsom had told the boys opened a new line for thought, and they discussed the matter at some length after finishing the radio conversation.
The girls also were keenly interested.
"It's so romantic," said Della.
"Just like the olden days when smuggling was a recognized industry in England, for instance, and big merchants holding positions of respectability and honor connived with the runners of contraband."
"You needn't go that far from home," said Frank, a student of Long Island colonial history.
"There was a time when, on both coasts of Long Island, pirates and smugglers made their headquarters and came and went unmolested.
In fact, the officials of that day were in league with the rascals, and there was at least one governor of the Province of New York who feathered his nest nicely by having an interest in both kinds of ventures."
The boys knew the names of most of the owners of great estates along the Long Island shore up to Southampton and beyond, and some time was spent in laughing speculation as to whether this or that great man was involved in the liquor-smuggling plot.
"Captain Folsom said," explained Jack, "that so much money necessarily was involved in the purchase and movement of all that liquor, in the radio equipment, the buying of the Brownell place, the hiring of ships, the employment of many men, and so on, that he was pretty certain the men captured were only underlings and not principals.
And, certainly, the business must have taken a great deal of money."
Several days passed without the boys hearing further from Captain Folsom, nor was any word received that their motor boat had been recovered.
They came to be of the opinion that it had been either scuttled or abandoned in some lonely spot upon which nobody had stumbled, or else that the thieves had managed to elude police vigilance in the harbor of New York.
That the thieves might have used it to make their way to sea to a rendezvous where the ships of the liquor-smugglers' fleet gathered did not occur to them, for the reason that despite the knowledge they had gained of the contraband traffic they were not aware as yet of its extent.
Yet such was what actually had happened, as events were to prove.
Meantime, both Mr. Temple and Mr. Hampton returned to their homes, to be amazed at the tale of developments during their absence.
Over their cigars in Mr. Hampton's library, the two, alone, looked at each other and smiling shook their heads.
"I had to scold Jack for running his head into trouble," said Mr. Hampton.
"But--well, it's great to be young, George, and to have adventure come and hunt you out."
Mr. Temple nodded.
"I gave Bob and Frank a talking-to," he commented.
"Told them they had no business getting into trouble the minute my back was turned.
But Bob said: 'Well, Dad, we got into trouble when your back wasn't turned, too, out there in California last year.
And we got you out of it, as a matter of fact.'
And Frank said: 'We manage to come out on top, Uncle George.'"
Mr. Hampton laughed.
"Jack said something of the sort to me, too," he said.
"He recalled that it was only by putting his head into trouble, as I called it, that he managed to rescue me when I was a prisoner in Mexico and to prevent international complications."
"It's great to be young," said Mr. Temple, looking at the glowing tip of his cigar.
Both men smoked in silence.
Sunday came and went without further developments.
But on the next day, Monday, the fifth day after the momentous night at the Brownell place, Captain Folsom called the boys by radio.
Tom Barnum, on duty at the plant, summoned Jack.
The latter presently appeared at the Temple home in a state of high excitement.
"Say, fellows," he cried, spying his chums sprawled out on the gallery, reading; "what would you say to a sea voyage, with a chance for a little excitement?"
Frank dropped his book and rolled out of the hammock in which he was swaying lazily.
"What do you mean?"
he demanded, scrambling to his feet.
"Yes," said Bob, who was comfortably sprawled out in a long low wicker chair; "what's it all about?"
He heaved a cushion at Jack, which the latter caught and returned so quickly that it caught Bob amidships and brought him to feet with a bound.
He winced a little.
His injured leg, although well on the road to recovery, was not yet in a condition to withstand sudden jolting.
"Ouch," he roared.
"Sic 'em, Frank."
"Let up," declared Jack, warding off the combined attacks of his two chums, who began belaboring him with cushions; "let up, or I'll keep this to myself."
The pair fell back, but with cushions still held aloft menacingly.
"If it isn't good," said Frank, "look out."
"Well, this is good, all right," said Jack, and hurriedly he explained.
Captain Folsom was about to set out from New York with Lieutenant Summers aboard the Nark to investigate reports that a veritable fleet of liquor-smuggling vessels was some miles out to sea off Montauk Point, the very tip of Long Island.
On their way, they would stop off at the Brownell place and send a boat ashore with a change of guards to relieve those on duty.
They would be at the rendezvous in the course of the next three hours.
"Captain Folsom said," concluded Jack, "that it had occurred to him the smugglers who stole our motor boat might have made out to this fleet, and invited us to go along to identify the boat in case it was found.
He said there was just a bare chance of its being located, and he didn't want to arouse our hopes unduly.
Also, he added that there would be no danger, and he thought we would enjoy the outing.
This time, however, he said, he would not take us unless by the permission of our parents.
If that could be obtained, we should make our way to the Brownell place and the boat would pick us up."
"Hurray," cried Frank, executing a war dance.
"Whoo-oo-oo-oo-oo!"
"Call up your father, Bob," said Jack, "and ask him.
I'll run home and get my Dad on the long distance."
Both boys hastened to execute the commission, and when Jack returned in an incredibly short time it was with his father's permission to make the trip.
Mr. Temple proved similarly amiable.
Both men felt there could be no danger to the boys on such an expedition, as it was altogether unlikely that any liquor-runners would make a stand against an armed vessel of the United States Navy.
Also, they were struck by Captain Folsom's reasoning as to the possible whereabouts of the motor boat and, knowing how the boys were put out at the loss, they felt it was only fair to the chums to permit them to run down this clue.
"It's a good three miles to Starfish Cove," said Jack, anxiously.
"Can you make it all right on that bum leg, Bob?"
For answer Bob swung the wounded member back and forth several times.
"I'll hold out all right," he said.
"If I can't make it all the way, you fellows can carry me.
I'm only a slight load."
Frank groaned in mock dismay.
The girls had gone visiting with Mrs. Temple.
So, leaving a note to explain their absence, the boys set out.
CHAPTER XXII WORD OF A STRANGE CRAFT Picked up by the boat at Starfish Cove, to which Bob had made his way without suffering any great inconvenience, the boys were rowed to the Nark where they were greeted on deck by Captain Folsom and Lieutenant Summers.
At once the speedy craft got under way again, and was soon edging seaward yet with the low coast line on her bow, a creaming smother of water under her forefoot.
Lieutenant Summers, after greeting the boys pleasantly, returned to his duties.
Leaning over the rail with them, Captain Folsom began to speak of the liquor smugglers.
No trace had been found of Higginbotham, he said.
Inquiry had been made at the McKay Realty Company offices, but Mr. McKay who was said to be out of the city on business, had not yet returned, and nobody else could be found who could give any information of Higginbotham's haunts.
It was learned he led a bachelor existence and had rooms at a downtown apartment hotel.
The hotel had been visited, but Higginbotham had not put in an appearance nor called by telephone.
A search warrant had been obtained and the rooms entered and inspected.
But no papers of any sort that would give a clue to Higginbotham's connections in the liquor traffic were found.
A canny man, he had avoided keeping any such incriminating documents about.
Ryan and the other prisoners had been released on bail, Ryan himself putting up the bond money which amounted to a large sum.
"If only I could lay my hands on the principals behind this plot," said Captain Folsom, thoughtfully.
"The liquor smuggling is growing, and there is every evidence that some organizing genius with a great deal of money at his command is behind it.
The newest manifestation of the smugglers' activities came the other day when an airplane which fell into a field near Croton-on-Hudson and was abandoned by the aviator, who was unhurt, was found to have carried 200 bottles of expensive Canadian liquor.
And a map of the route from an island in the St. Lawrence near Montreal to Glen Falls, New York, thence to New York City was found in the cockpit.
It was well-thumbed, and showed the trip must have been made many times of late."
"But, if you do catch the principal, won't that merely result in curtailing activities of the smugglers for the time being, but not in putting a permanent stop to them?"
asked Frank.
"Aren't the profits so large that somebody else with money, some other organizing genius as you say, will take up the work?"
"Perhaps, you are right," said Captain Folsom.
"This prohibition law has brought to pass a mighty queer state of affairs in our country.
It is one law that many people feel no compunctions at violating.
Nevertheless, I feel that behind all these liquor violations in and around New York City to-day there is a man of prominence, someone who has united most of the small operators under his control, and who virtually has organized a Liquor Smugglers' Trust.
"If we can land that man," he added, "we will strike a blow that will deter others for a long time to come from trying to follow his example.
And I have the feeling that the events which you boys precipitated will lead us to that man--the Man Higher Up."
So interested were the boys in this conversation that they failed to note the near approach of the Nark to an ancient schooner.
They stood gazing at the creaming water under the bow, caps pulled low over their eyes to protect them from the sun's glare, and their radius of vision was strictly limited.
Now, however, the speed of the Nark sensibly diminished until, when they looked up in surprise and gazed around to see what was occurring, the boys found the Nark practically at a standstill while a cable's length away rode an ancient schooner, lumbering along under all sail, to take advantage of the light airs.
"By the ring-tailed caterpillar," exclaimed Frank, employing a quaint expression current the last term at Harrington Hall, "where did that caravel of Columbus come from?
Why, she's so old you might expect the Ancient Mariner to peer over her rail.
Yes, and there he is."
He pointed at the figure of a whiskered skipper, wearing a dingy derby, who peered over the rail at this moment in response to a hail from the Nark.
There was some foundation, in truth, for Frank's suggestion.
The old schooner whose name they now discerned in faded gilt as "Molly M," seemed like a ghost of other days.
Her outthrust bow, her up-cocked stern and the figurehead of a simpering woman that might have been mermaid originally but was now so worn as to make it almost impossible to tell the original intent, was, indeed, suggestive of galleons of ancient days.
This figurehead jutted out beneath the bowsprit.
"Heh.
Heh."
As the skipper of the ancient craft thus responded to the hail from the Nark, he put a hand to his ear as if hard of hearing.
"Lay to.
U. S. patrol boat," returned Lieutenant Summers, impatiently.
"Evidently our friend believes we have come up with a liquor smuggler," said Captain Folsom, in an aside, to the boys.
But the old skipper, whose craft was drawing away while the Nark rocked idly in the swell, with her engines barely turning over, merely repeated his gesture of putting a hand to his ear, and once more called: "Heh.
Heh."
Suddenly the deck beneath the feet of the boys quivered slightly, there was the report of a three-pounder, and a shot fell across the bow of the old schooner, kicking up a feather of spray.
The Ancient Mariner, as Frank had dubbed him, came to life.
He danced up and down on his deck, where two or three other figures of seamen now appeared.
He shook his fist at the Nark.
"I'm outside the three-mile limit," he screamed.
"I'll have the law on ye."
"He means," explained Captain Folsom to the boys, "that he is beyond the jurisdiction of United States waters and on the open sea."
Nevertheless, the old skipper barked out an order, sailors sprang to obey, sails came down, and the schooner lay hove to.
Then the Nark approached until only a boat's length away.
On the deck of the schooner, only the skipper stood.
The seamen had gone below, their tasks completed.
"Look here, my man," said Lieutenant Summers, "you may be outside the three-mile limit, but you are drawing the line pretty fine.
What are your papers?"
The old skipper looked at him shrewdly, quizzically, from out his ambush of whiskers.
A slow grin broke over his features.
"Ye know well as I we'm outside the three-mile limit," he said.
"So I don't mind tellin' ye.
I got liquor aboard.
But my papers is all clear, an' ye can't touch me.
I'm from Nassau in the Bahamas for St. John.
Two British possessions.
An' I'm on my course."
Lieutenant Summers's face grew red.
Captain Folsom's eyes twinkled, and the boys saw one of the Nark's crew, an old salt, put up a big palm to hide a smile.
"The old shellback has our skipper," whispered Captain Folsom to the boys.
"He has him on the hip.
We are outside the three-mile limit, undoubtedly.
To think of the old Yankee's spunk in telling us he has liquor aboard.
His papers will be as he says, too, but just the same that liquor will never reach St. John.
It is destined for a landing on our own coast."
Lieutenant Summers also was of the opinion apparently that he had been foiled.
And little as he relished the fact that the old skipper was laughing at him up his sleeve, there was naught he could do about it.
However, he decided to pay a visit to the "Molly M," for he called: "Stand by to receive a boat.
I am coming aboard."
Presently, the boys saw the little boat dancing over the waves, then Lieutenant Summers climbed to the deck of the schooner, and he and the old skipper disappeared together down the companionway.
Awaiting his return, Captain Folsom enlightened the boys about the difficulties of preventing liquor from being smuggled into the country.
"As you can see from this instance," he said, "the traffic is carried on openly, or under only a thin coating of camouflage.
That boat fully intends, no doubt, to land its cargo along our coast somewhere.
But her papers are all in order and as long as she stays outside the three-mile limit we can do nothing about it.
Of course, we can hang to her heels and prevent her from landing.
But while we are doing that, other smugglers slip ashore somewhere else.
It's a weary business to try and enforce such a law at first.
And, what makes it harder," he concluded, his brow clouding, "is that every now and then some member of the enforcement service sells out to the liquor ring, and then the rest of us who are doing our work honestly and as best we can are given a black eye, for everybody says: 'Ah, yes, they're all crooks.
I thought so.'
"But here," he said, "is Lieutenant Summers returning.
Now we shall see what he found out."
The old skipper and the naval officer appeared on the schooner's deck, Lieutenant Summers went overside, and the boat returned with him.
Once more the schooner put on sail, and began to draw away.
When he reached the deck, Lieutenant Summers sent a sailor to summon Captain Folsom and the boys below.
They joined him in the cabin.
"I have news for you boys," said Lieutenant Summers, at once.
"Captain Woolley of the 'Molly M' proved to be a pretty smooth article," and he smiled wryly, "but from a member of his crew, one of my men learned that a speed boat answering the description of your stolen craft had been seen alongside a sub chaser manned by a crew in naval uniform off Atlantic Highlands on the Jersey coast."
"Hurray," cried Frank, "one of your fleet must have recaptured it."
Lieutenant Summers shook his head.
"That's the puzzling thing," he said.
"If one of our boats had found your craft adrift or captured it with the fugitive smugglers aboard, I would have been notified by radio.
You see, the schooner sighted the sub chaser and motor boat yesterday.
This sailor, a talkative chap apparently, told my man they thought the chaser was a ship of the 'Dry Navy' and crowded on all canvas to edge away from dangerous company.
Then, he said, they could see these uniformed men aboard the chaser leaning on the rail and holding their sides from laughing at the schooner.
What it all meant, he didn't know, but at any rate the chaser made no attempt to pursue."
"And you haven't heard from any of your fleet that our boat was recovered?"
asked Jack, in surprise.
"From none," said Lieutenant Summers.
"However, I shall order 'Sparks' at once to query all the ships."
CHAPTER XXIII IN STARFISH COVE AGAIN "Sparks" as the radio operator aboard the sub chaser was known, sat down to his key at once and sent out a wireless call for all members of the "Dry Navy," requesting information as to whether any had recovered the stolen speed boat belonging to the boys.
One by one, from their various stations along the coast, the boats responded, giving negative replies.
Several hours elapsed before all had been heard from.
Meantime the Nark crisscrossed and quartered the sea off Montauk Point, in search of the rumored "fleet" of liquor runners, but without success.
Numerous sail were sighted as well as steamers, but the latter were all so large as to preclude in the opinion of the revenue men the possibility of their being liquor carriers, and the former never stood close enough to be examined.
Nor did any assemblage of vessels sufficiently large to warrant the designation "fleet" appear.
Late in the day, when the low descending sun warned of the approach of nightfall, and the boys' watches showed 7 o'clock, Lieutenant Summers again consulted with Captain Folsom, who presently rejoined the boys with word that they were going to turn back and cruise offshore and that the boys in an hour or two could be landed, not at Starfish Cove, but at their own boathouse, thus involving only a short trip afoot home for Bob.
Hardly had the boat's course been altered, however, when "Sparks" appeared from the radio room in a state of high excitement, addressed Lieutenant Summers who was on the little bridge, and the two returned together.
The wireless room originally had been the chart house.
It was equipped for the employment, both sending and receiving, of wireless telegraphy and telephony.
"I wonder what is up," said Captain Folsom to the boys, with whom he was talking in the bow.
"Something has come by radio that has excited 'Sparks.'
Excuse me, boys, a moment, while I go to inquire."
Captain Folsom, however, had not had time to reach the radio room when Lieutenant Summers again appeared on the bridge, and beckoned both him and the boys to approach.
"I'll explain in a moment," he said, "as soon as I can give the necessary orders."
A number of orders were delivered, and the men on deck leaped to execute them with alacrity.
What their purport, was not made known, of course, but the helmsman was given a course direct for Starfish Cove and, in response to signals to the engine room for full speed ahead, the craft seemed fairly to leap through the water.
"Something has happened ashore," said Frank, to his companions.
"I wonder what it is."
Their curiosity was soon to be satisfied.
Lieutenant Summers led the way below to his cabin, and, once all five were gathered inside, he lost no time in coming to the point.
"The mystery of that sub chaser seen by the crew of the 'Molly M' with your speed boat in tow is in a fair way to be solved," he said.
"Also, I have high hopes of catching the ringleader of the liquor smugglers whom Captain Folsom and I have been seeking."
"What?
What's that?"
demanded Captain Folsom, excitedly.
Lieutenant Summers nodded.
"You couldn't imagine in a thousand years where the radio call came from," he declared, "nor what it was all about.
Well, I'll not attempt to mystify you any further.
The call was from one of the guards I left posted at the Brownell place, and he was calling, not from the Brownell radio station, but from yours, Hampton."
"From our station?"
Jack was puzzled.
"What's the matter with his own?"
asked Frank.
"Our guards have been captured by raiders dressed in naval uniform who disembarked from a sub chaser," said Lieutenant Summers, exploding his bombshell.
"Only one man escaped.
And he made his way to your station, Hampton, found your man, Tom Barnum, there and began calling for me."
The eyes of the three boys shone, as the implication reached them.
The smugglers evidently had obtained possession of a sub chaser and wearing U. S. naval uniforms had carried out a bold coup d'etat, although for what purpose could not be seen at the time.
It looked as if there were a fair prospect of action, and all were excited in consequence.
Captain Folsom, however, began hunting at once for causes.
"But why in the world should such a move have been carried out?"
he demanded.
"Of course, I take it the smugglers have obtained a sub chaser somewhere, together with uniforms.
Yet why should they seek to recapture the Brownell place?
They could not hope to hold it."
Lieutenant Summers shook his head.
"It's too much for me," he declared.
"It's a mystery, indeed.
But I am not going to puzzle over that phase of the matter now.
What I am interested in is in getting on the ground."
Frank, who had been lost in thought, spoke up unexpectedly.
"Captain Folsom," he said, "isn't it pretty certain such a move would not be carried out except by a man high in the councils of the smugglers?"
"I should imagine so."
"And he would not run the risk of discovery and capture without some very good cause?"
"True."
"Then," said Frank, "is it possible his reason for this act is to drive the guards away or take them prisoner in order to obtain temporary possession of the house and remove incriminating papers--perhaps, from some secret repository--which the smugglers failed to take away or destroy when Lieutenant Summers captured the place last week?"
The others were silent a few moments.
Then Captain Folsom said: "Perhaps, you are correct.
Certainly, your theory is plausible.
And it would account for such a rash step being taken, by the smugglers."
Further general discussion was abandoned, as Lieutenant Summers felt his services were needed on deck.
The boat was nearing Starfish Cove.
Night had fallen.
Another half hour would bring them in sight of the strand.
Captain Folsom went with the boat's commander to discuss campaign plans.
The boys were left to themselves.
"Who do you think this mysterious man behind the operations of the liquor runners can be?"
Frank asked, as they leaned in a group apart on the rail, watching the phosphorescence in the water alongside.
"I haven't the least idea," confessed Jack.
"Nor I," said Bob.
"Unless, after all, it is Higginbotham."
"No," said Frank, "Captain Folsom declares it cannot be he, that he himself is not a wealthy man, and that he probably is only an agent."
"The little scoundrel," exclaimed Bob.
"He's a smooth one to take in Mr. McKay like that.
Dad always speaks of Mr. McKay very highly.
Think of Higginbotham playing the perfect secretary to him, yet behind his back carrying on such plots as this."
The beat of the engines began to slow down.
They were stealing along as close to the shore as Lieutenant Summers dared venture with his craft.
Not long before, on this same coast, although not this very spot, Eagle Boat 17 had run aground in the shallows during a fog, between East Hampton and Amagansett.
It behooved the Nark to proceed with caution.
The boys were in the bow now, peering ahead.
Starfish Cove was very near.
Ahead lay the nearer of the two horns enclosing it.
Gradually the little bay opened out around the point of land, and a dark blot showed in the water.
The moon had not yet risen high, but it was a Summer night and not dark.
Suddenly, from the bridge, the glare of the great searchlight carried by the Nark cut through the darkness like the stab of a sword.
Lieutenant Summers directed it be played full upon the dark blot ahead, and instantly the latter stood out fully illumined.
It was a sub chaser.
Smoke was coming from her funnel.
She had steam up.
She was preparing to depart.
There were a score of figures on her deck.
But what delayed her departure was the fact that she waited for a small boat, dancing across the water toward her from the shore.
The latter caught full in the glare of the searchlight contained a pair of men tugging frantically at the oars, and a third seated in the stern, grasping the tiller ropes and urging the rowers to exert themselves to the utmost.
He wore a cap pulled far down to obscure his features, and did not look up as did his companions when the light smote them.
There was excitement among those on deck of the strange sub chaser.
Men ran here and there, as if undirected, not knowing what to do.
"He's running away," cried Frank, suddenly.
"Look.
In the small boat."
He pointed.
True enough, the man at the tiller had swung her about for shore, and the rowers were bending their backs as they sent her along on the opposite course.
Moreover, a few strokes more would interpose the strange sub chaser between her and the Nark, and whoever was aboard would escape.
It was a time for quick action.
Lieutenant Summers was equal to the occasion.
Unknown to the boys, he had ordered the three pounder unlimbered, and now sent a shot ricochetting so close to the small boat that the oarsmen were spattered by the spray and the boat rocked violently.
Nevertheless, exhorted by their commander, the rowers, who had ceased at first, bent anew to their oars.
Another moment, and they were under the stern of the strange vessel and temporarily safe from danger of shot.
Jack, who had been watching developments breathlessly, ran to the bridge, and called: "May I make a suggestion, sir?"
"What is it?"
asked Lieutenant Summers.
"Whoever is in that boat is heading for the other horn of land enclosing the cove," said Jack, speaking rapidly.
"He will land far out on a narrow peninsula.
If we send a boat ashore, on a tangent, we can strike the base of the peninsula in time to cut off his escape by land."
"Good," cried Lieutenant Summers.
"I'll order the boat out at once.
Do you go in it and point the way."
CHAPTER XXIV THE MAN HIGHER UP The menace of the shot under her stern, while intended to bring-to the small boat, had the effect of overaweing the strange sub chaser also.
As Jack at the tiller, with four men bending to the oars and making the boat sweep through the water at a tremendous rate, passed close astern, he was half fearful a demonstration would be made against them.
Nothing of the sort occurred, however, and not even a curious pair of eyes stared at them from the rail.
This was to be accounted for partly by the fact that, immediately after launching and sending away Jack's boat, Lieutenant Summers dropped another overside from the davits, and, accompanied by Captain Folsom, headed directly for the ladder of the strange sub chaser, which was down.
And those aboard had eyes only for him.
At the last minute, just as he was about to enter his boat, he saw Frank and Bob watching him longingly from the rail.
He smiled.
"Want to come along?"
Did they?
The two chums tumbled down the ladder and into the boat so quickly that the invitation was barely uttered when they already occupied seats.
"Let us have a pair of oars, sir," said Bob, "for we can row, and otherwise, if you brought other oarsmen in, we would be in the way."
"Very well," consented Lieutenant Summers.
However, he detailed two sailors to take the other pair of oars.
The boat bearing the boarding party drew up at the floating stage and quickly Lieutenant Summers bounded over the rail, followed by Captain Folsom, Bob and Frank, and the two sailors.
The boys drew up in rank with the latter, while the two leaders advanced a few steps.
Nearly a score in number, the crew of the strange sub chaser were grouped at the foot of the bridge.
None coming forward, Lieutenant Summers said sharply: "Lieutenant Summers, U. S. N., come aboard.
Who commands here?"
There was no response.
Instead, a struggle seemed to be going on within the group, as if one of its members were trying to escape and the others were restraining him.
At a sign from Lieutenant Summers, the sailors loosed the automatics swinging in holsters about their waists, and prepared for trouble.
"We'd stand a fine chance of getting shot without being able to talk back," whispered Frank to Bob.
"Neither of us armed."
"Huh," Bob replied, out of the side of his mouth.
"I'd grab me somebody's gun."
The flurry, however, was short-lived.
Suddenly, a shrinking figure was expelled from the group of men, as if shot from a cannon's mouth.
The searchlight from the Nark was playing full upon the scene.
"There's your man," cried a voice, from the group.
"Tryin' to hide, he was."
The man looked up, fear and defiance in his features.
He was Higginbotham.
"Ah," cried Captain Folsom, sharply, taking a step forward, "so it is you."
Higginbotham looked about desperately, as if seeking a way of escape.
But he was cut off at the rail by the guard from the Nark and the boys, while the others had swung about him in a half-circle, barring the way.
Seeing an attempt to flee would be futile, he pulled himself together, not without dignity, and faced Captain Folsom and Lieutenant Summers.
It was to the former that he addressed himself.
"You've caught me," he said.
"The game is up."
He folded his arms.
"What does this mean?"
demanded Lieutenant Summers, taking a hand in the proceedings.
"Captain, who is this man?"
"That fellow Higginbotham, about whom I told you," said Captain Folsom in an aside.
"The man who escaped from the Brownell place."
"Ah."
Lieutenant Summers saw the light.
He addressed Higginbotham sternly: "You and your men, masquerading in the uniforms of officers and sailors of the U. S. N.," he said.
"You will pay heavily for this, my man.
Such masquerade is severely punished by the government."
Higginbotham started to reply, but Frank had an idea.
Not waiting to hear what the other had to say, he impulsively stepped forward and plucked Captain Folsom's sleeve.
"That man is trying to delay us, Captain," he whispered.
"I am sure of it.
He wants the men in the small boat to escape.
I'll bet, sir," he said excitedly, "that whoever is in that boat is the Man Higher Up whom you are so anxious to capture."
Captain Folsom was struck by the cogency of Frank's reasoning.
Signing to him to fall back, he whispered to Lieutenant Summers.
The latter listened, then nodded.
He stood silent a moment, thinking.
"I have it," he said.
"We'll call another boat from the Nark to go to the assistance of young Hampton."
Placing a whistle to his lips, he blew a shrill blast.
A hail came from Jackson, second in command of the Nark, at once.
Lieutenant Summers ordered his assistant to come aboard with four men.
Waiting the arrival of the other boat, Frank and Bob grew fidgetty and spoke in whispers, while the two officers questioned Higginbotham in low voices.
"All right," said Frank to Bob, "I'll ask him."
Approaching the officers, he stood where Captain Folsom's eyes fell upon him, and the latter, seeing he wanted a word with him, stepped aside.
"Captain," said Frank, eagerly, "Bob and I feel that we have got to go to help Jack.
Can't you persuade Lieutenant Summers to let us accompany the party?"
The other smiled slightly, then once more whispered to Lieutenant Summers.
The latter looked at Frank, and nodded.
Frank fell back to Bob's side, content.
They had not long to wait, before the boat bearing Jackson and four men from the Nark nosed up to their own craft at the landing stage, and Jackson reported to his commander on deck.
"Jackson," Lieutenant Summers said to his young petty officer, "I want you to take command here with your four men.
Disarm these fellows.
I do not believe they will show trouble, but it will be well to let them know right at the start that the Nark has them under her guns.
I am going to young Hampton's assistance."
Jackson saluted, and called his men aboard.
Without more ado, Lieutenant Summers, who was in haste to be off, turned to descend to the boat when once more Frank halted him: "We are unarmed, Lieutenant," he said.
"Ah.
Just a moment.
Jackson!"
"Yes, sir."
"I shall order these men to give up their weapons.
Stand ready, and keep them covered.
Now, my men," he added, addressing the crew; "I am going to place you under arrest.
I want you to advance one at a time and submit to being searched and disarmed.
I warn you to submit without resistance, for if you do not, the Nark yonder has orders to open fire, and you cannot escape.
Now, one at a time."
Sullenly, unwillingly, but overawed, the men advanced.
While the sailors from the Nark kept their automatics in their hands, ready for action, Jackson searched each man in businesslike fashion.
The weapons thus taken away--regulation automatics, as well as a miscellaneous assortment of brass knuckles and a few wicked daggers, all marking the men as city toughs--were placed in a heap.
Before the work had been completed, Lieutenant Summers, anxious to depart, signed to the boys to arm themselves.
They complied.
"Now, let us go," said he.
The boys and their two young sailor companions tumbled into the outside boat, while Captain Folsom and Lieutenant Summers delayed for another word with Jackson.
Then, they, too, descended.
The oars dipped, and the boat sped away.
All this had taken only a very short space of time.
However, the boat bearing the fugitives no longer could be seen, although that carrying Jack--or, at least, what they took to be his boat--was still offshore, though close to it.
It looked like a little dark blot some distance ahead, nearing the landward base of the peninsula.
On that horn of land, all felt assured, the fugitives had landed, and along it were making their way to shore.
Jack's boat now reached the shore.
Lieutenant Summers, gazing through the nightglass, spied Jack and his quartette leap to land.
Then he searched the spit of land through the glass.
An exclamation broke from him.
"Young Hampton is just in time," he said.
"I can see three figures running along the peninsula towards him.
Pull your hardest, lads, and we shall soon be up with them."
The two sailors and Bob and Frank bent to the oars with a will, and the boat fairly leaped through the water.
Their backs were towards the land and they could not see the development of events, but Lieutenant Summers, realizing, perhaps, the anxiety of the chums for their comrade, gave them occasional bulletins.
Jack and his party had taken cover, apparently, for they could no longer be seen.
Lieutenant Summers was of the opinion, however, that their presence was known to the enemy.
It could not well have been otherwise, as the latter must have seen Jack's manoeuvre to cut them off.
Suddenly a half dozen shots rang out.
"Pull your best lads.
Almost there," cried Lieutenant Summers, who was in the bow.
"Now.
One more big pull and we'll be up on the sand."
There was a soft jar.
The boat's nose tilted upwards.
Then, disregarding footgear, all leaped overside into the shallow water, and six pairs of hands ran the boat well up on the sand.
"This way," cried Lieutenant Summers, dashing ahead.
The others followed on the run.
No further shots had been fired.
But the sounds of panting men engaged body to body in the brush came to them.
As he ran, Lieutenant Summers cast the rays of a powerful hand light ahead.
Right at the edge of the trees the two parties were engaged.
But the fugitives were outnumbered, five to three, and, as the reinforcements against them arrived, the struggle came abruptly to an end.
The first upon whom Lieutenant Summer's light fell was Jack, astride a form.
Then the light fell on the fallen man's features and a cry broke from Bob's lips.
"Why, it's Mr.
McKay."
CHAPTER XXV MCKAY'S STORY After all, the Mystery Was Easily Explained; The Mystery as to the identity of the man behind the operations of the liquor-smugglers.
The explanation of the whole situation was unfolded by Captain Folsom several nights later at the Temple home.
He had come from New York City at the invitation of Mr. Temple, whose curiosity was aroused by the tales of the boys, and who wanted to hear a connected account of events.
In this matter, Captain Folsom was willing to oblige, more especially by reason of the aid given the government forces by the boys.
J.
B. McKay was the Man Higher Up.
Higginbotham was his agent.
This man, one of the wealthiest realty operators in New York, was a born gambler.
He could never resist the impulse to engage in a venture that would bring him big returns on his investment.
In his realty operations, this quality had earned him the name of "Take a Chance" McKay.
When the Eighteenth Amendment to the Federal Constitution was adopted--the prohibition amendment--he watched developments.
He felt certain that liquor smuggling would spring up.
In this he was not mistaken.
New York became a vast center of the traffic.
And as he beheld the great sums made by the men bringing liquor into the country in defiance of the law, the thought came to McKay of how these individual operators might be united by a strong and ruthless man, their methods improved, and a vast fortune made by the man in control.
Thereupon he set about obtaining this control.
It was McKay, said Captain Folsom, who organized the motor truck caravan which brought liquor across the Canadian border into Northern New York to a distributing center, a night's run to the South, whence it was sent across the land by express as china and glassware from a china and glassware manufactory.
This factory was mere camouflage.
A plant did exist, but it was nothing more than a storage warehouse at which the motor trucks unloaded their cargoes.
Police protection was needed, of course, and police protection McKay obtained.
The factory so-called was in the open country, on the outskirts of a tiny village.
The local authorities were bribed.
All along the route from Canada, money was liberally spent in order to prevent interference from police.
Big cities en route were avoided.
The Highway of Grease ("grease" meaning bribery) led around all such, for in them usually the police were incorruptible.
It was McKay, too, who organized the airplane carriage of liquor from Canada to points outside New York City and to Stamford, Conn. One of his planes only recently, explained Captain Folsom, had fallen in a field near Croton-on-Hudson, with a valuable cargo of liquor aboard after a night's flight from Canada.
But it was in organizing the importation of liquor from the Bahamas that McKay reached his heights.
He had assembled a fleet of old schooners, many of which had seen better days and lacked business, commanded by skippers who were in desperate need of money, and he had taken advantage of their necessity by making what to them were tempting offers.
Some boats he had purchased outright, others chartered for long periods.
These boats would work their way up the Atlantic coast to specified points on the Jersey and Long Island coastlines.
Then they would discharge their cargoes, and men waiting alongshore with trucks would carry the liquor to distributing points.
More recently, Captain Folsom added, McKay had begun to utilize radio.
To avoid the employment of more than a minimum force of men, was his primary object.
In the first place, big crews made a steady drain in wages.
Likewise, there was an added danger of mutiny when large crews were employed.
The men were bound to realize that, inasmuch as he was violating the law, he could not appeal for legal retaliation in case they should seize a vessel and dispose of it and its contents.
Therefore, he decided to depend on trusty skippers, whom he paid well, and skeleton crews whom the skippers and mates could control.
Thus the radio-controlled boats, which were really not boats at all, came into existence.
And for their control, the station on Long Island was established and two others, in isolated spots on the Jersey coast, were in process of construction when the end came.
At the time of Higginbotham's discovery by the boys and their interference in McKay's schemes, McKay was absent in New Jersey, personally superintending the construction of the plants.
Higginbotham, in fleeing from the Brownell place, had neglected some damaging correspondence which would have betrayed McKay's identity as the controlling power in the liquor smuggling ring.
He had fled to his employer, and told him of the danger.
At the time, McKay had standing offshore an Eagle boat, built for submarine chasing during the World War, but which two years earlier the United States government had sold during a period of reduction of expenses.
This boat he had kept in the Bahamas, but recently had brought North.
He intended to use it to protect liquor runners as escort, the assumption being that, thinking it one of themselves, other boats of the "Dry Navy" would leave the vessels alone.
How he had obtained possession of the naval uniforms for his men Captain Folsom did not know.
However, the doughty captain assumed McKay probably had bought discarded uniforms in some manner, or else had had them made on order.
When Higginbotham reached him with the news, after working his way through Brooklyn and New York in disguise, having lain hidden several days in order to avoid the first heat of the search which he knew would be made for him, McKay had decided to go to the Brownell place in the sub chaser.
He figured its appearance would disarm the suspicions of the guards left by Lieutenant Summers, and that his men in uniform would get close enough before their identities were discovered to carry the place without force.
Their superior numbers would compel surrender on the part of a handful of guards.
Such proved to be the case.
One of the guards, however, escaped and, making his way to the Hampton radio station, had sent out the call which brought the Nark to the scene just as McKay was making his escape.
CHAPTER XXVI CONCLUSION The boys received great praise for their part in breaking up the plot, and bringing the perpetrators to book.
For them, the balance of the summer went quietly.
The escaping thieves who had stolen their speed boat had made their way to McKay's retreat in New Jersey, and there later the boat was recovered.
In it, all spent many pleasant hours.
The budding romance between Marjorie Faulkner and big Bob developed considerably during the balance of her stay at the Temple home, which lasted for several more weeks.
They were together much of the time, walking, swimming, boating, flying.
For the damaged airplane was repaired and Bob took the young girl frequently aloft.
All five young people took part jointly in many affairs, but Bob got Marjorie to himself as much as possible.
The others chaffed them a good deal, but as the banter was all good-natured, it was not resented.
Della and Frank, too, drew more closely together that summer.
They had lived in the same house for years, and had grown up together.
Now as they stood on the verge of young manhood and young womanhood, a subtle change in their relations of comradeship came to pass.
They were still good pals, but there was something deeper in their feelings for each other.
Jack sighed one night, as he and his chums sat alone on the beach, after a late plunge.
The girls had gone visiting with Mrs. Temple.
"Here's Frank," he said, "getting thicker every day with Della.
Here's old Bob, who has lost his head over Marjorie.
I'm left out in the cold."
"Well, why don't you go back to capture Senorita Rafaela?"
asked Bob, slyly.
"When we flew away from her ranch that day, you said you were going to come back for her, you know."
Bob's reference was to the daughter of Don Fernandez y Calomares, an aristocrat of pure Castilian blood living in a palace in the Sonora mountains in Old Mexico.
The previous summer, the Don as leader of a faction of Mexican rebels had kidnapped Jack's father, mining engineer in charge of oil properties in New Mexico, and carried him prisoner to his retreat.
Thereby, the Don had hoped to embroil the United States with President Obregon of Mexico, perhaps to bring about American intervention, all of which would be of benefit to the rebel cause.
Mr. Temple, however, had decided the kidnapping of his friend and business associate should be kept secret, in order to prevent American intervention which he considered would be harmful to both countries.
The boys had gone into Old Mexico and, through a series of exciting adventures as related in "The Radio Boys on the Mexican Border," had effected Mr. Hampton's rescue.
Jack had fallen victim to the charms of the Don's daughter.
Now, at Bob's words, Jack said nothing, but looked away over the moonlit water.
Well, his thoughts often when he was alone were concerned with the fascinating Spanish girl.
Even the passage of a year's time had not served to efface her image from his memory.
Someday---"Come on," said he, jumping up, and pushing his two companions over into the sand.
"Beat you home."
He darted away, and they tore after him.
At the end of the summer, all three boys went away to Yale at New Haven, Conn. Jack was in his second year, a Sophomore.
Bob and Frank entered as Freshmen.
During their college year, all three kept alive their interest in radio, and followed every new development.
Jack even went further, inventing a revolutionary device for the application of radio.
Of that, there is no space to speak now.
But in an account of their further adventures it will be properly introduced.
The following vacation period, Mr. Hampton went to Peru in connection with the development of rich mining properties in a new region, and took Jack with him.
Frank and Bob pleaded so hard for permission to accompany the Hamptons that Mr. Temple gave his consent.
There, an amazing series of adventures befell them.
But they will be duly recorded in "The Radio Boys Search for the Incas' Treasure."
The End THE RADIO BOYS SERIES BY GERALD BRECKENRIDGE A new series of copyright titles for boys of all ages.
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All Cloth Bound Copyright Titles PRICE, 60 CENTS EACH CAPTAIN JACK LORIMER; or, The Young Athlete of Millvale High.
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For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK [Illustration] MARJORIE DEAN COLLEGE SERIES BY PAULINE LESTER.
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A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 East 23rd Street, New York [Illustration] MARJORIE DEAN HIGH SCHOOL SERIES BY PAULINE LESTER Author of the Famous Marjorie Dean College Series These are clean, wholesome stories that will be of great interest to all girls of high school age.
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[Illustration: Cover art] [Frontispiece: "AND WIN HE DID."
_Boy Ranchers on Roaring River._] THE BOY RANCHERS ON ROARING RIVER OR _Diamond X and the Chinese Smugglers_ By WILLARD F. BAKER Author of "The Boy Ranchers," "The Boy Ranchers in Camp," "The Boy Ranchers at Spur Creek," "The Boy Ranchers in the Desert," etc.
_ILLUSTRATED_ NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY THE BOY RANCHERS SERIES By WILLARD F. BAKER 12mo.
Cloth.
Frontispiece THE BOY RANCHERS Or Solving the Mystery at Diamond X THE BOY RANCHERS IN CAMP Or the Water Fight at Diamond X THE BOY RANCHERS ON THE TRAIL Or Diamond X after Cattle Rustlers THE BOY RANCHERS AMONG THE INDIANS Or Diamond X Trailing the Yaquis THE BOY RANCHERS AT SPUR CREEK Or Diamond X Fighting the Sheep Herders THE BOY RANCHERS IN THE DESERT Or Diamond X and the Lost Mine THE BOY RANCHERS ON ROARING RIVER Or Diamond X and the Chinese Smugglers CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY THE BOY RANCHERS ON ROARING RIVER Printed in U. S. A.
CONTENTS CHAPTER I A DANGEROUS MISSION II A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE III A SUSPICIOUS VISITOR IV THE HIDDEN GUNMAN V ARRIVAL AT THE RANCH VI THE THREAT VII A SHEEPLESS SHEEP RANCH VIII CYCLONE IX DELTON RETURNS X BUD FINDS A NOTE XI JOE HAWKINS'S VISIT XII THE STORY OF SMUGGLING XIII TRAPPED XIV TO-MORROW NIGHT XV BILLEE DOBB'S STORY XVI BUD'S ESCAPE XVII A NIGHT OF WAITING XVIII SMUGGLING OPERATIONS XIX THE CHASE XX DOWN AND OUT XXI CLOSING IN XXII FLYING BULLETS XXIII A RING OF FIRE XXIV THE RATTLING BUCKBOARD XXV YELLIN' KID FINDS HIS BRONC THE BOY RANCHERS ON ROARING RIVER CHAPTER I A DANGEROUS MISSION "Hold up there, you pint o' peanuts!
Hold up, I say!
Well, for the love of spread eagle!
I suppose you boys are lookin' for a job; eh?"
The speaker, a typical, raw-boned cowboy, looked down from his pony at three boys seated on a bench at the side of the cook-house.
"Whether we are or not, we've got it, Kid," answered one of the seated trio, a well set-up youth with light hair.
"And the funny part of it is, we don't know what the job is."
"Huh!
Got a job and you don't know what it is?
Well, Nort, guess I'll have to look into this," and the cowboy whom Nort addressed as "Kid"--or, to give him his full nick-name, "Yellin' Kid"--swung lightly from his saddle.
"Hold up there, you pony, you!"
this as the Kid's mount started to prance about wildly.
"Just got this here dust-raiser, and she ain't used to my ways yet," he chuckled.
"Hy' ya', Dick, and Bud!
How's the boy, Nort?
By golly, ranchin' is sure doin' you fellers good!
You-all got some powerful grip!"
The three boys, Nort and Dick Shannon, and their cousin Bud Merkel, grinned widely.
They were all of the same mold--clean-cut, straight-shooting lads, their faces bronzed from the prairie sun, and their eyes as clear as the blue sky above them.
"Yes, Kid, ranching has done us good--in more ways than one.
In fact it's done us up brown."
And Bud laughed a little ruefully.
"What's the matter?
Rustlers, or disease?"
The Kid's face expressed instant concern as he mentioned these two nightmares of the rancher's life.
"No, not either--but something almost as bad.
You tell him, Nort," suggested Bud.
"You started it--you might as well finish out, Bud.
You know as much about it as I do."
"Aw, get Dick to.
He hasn't said a word yet."
"Well, for Pete's sake, _somebody_ tell me before I drop dead from excitement!"
burst out Yellin' Kid.
"All right--I'll tell you, Kid," Dick started.
"Last week we were to deliver a herd of longhorns to J. K. Jackson, over to Double-O ranch.
Sold 'em at a good fat price, too, that would have put us on our feet for the rest of the year.
Well, we sent four of our men to ride 'em in.
I went along with 'em.
We started about sun-up, calculatin' to reach the Double-O before night, and everything was lovely.
'Long about noon we reached the gorge near Galgo.
I suggested we ride the cattle as far from the gorge as we could get, 'cause I know how easy a herd of long-horns are started.
But no, nothin' would do Sam Holiday but going as near to the big cut as possible, to save time.
Sam's our new foreman, you know, and I didn't want to assert myself over him.
So we drove 'em close to the edge.
I told Sam once or twice to keep away--but oh, no!
everything would be all right, and we'd have the cattle in by five o'clock.
Well, we had 'em in by five o'clock all right.
But not at the Double-O!
"Just as we were passing the deepest part of the cut we heard a most awful Bang!
and I knew in a minute what it was.
Stump-blasting.
Yes, I knew what it was--but the cattle didn't.
And nobody had time to tell them, either.
The steers on the extreme right made a sudden lunge--and in three minutes it was all over.
Nothin' left but an old cow who broke her leg in the first rush.
And the rest--every blessed one of 'em--two hundred feet down, lyin' dead or dyin' in the bottom of the gorge!"
The Kid was the first to break in on the morose stillness Dick's speech had invoked.
"Well now, say, boys, that's right sorrowful--yes, sir, that's what I call right sorrowful!
I sure am sorry for you-all!
A whole herd of cattle gone to the dogs!
Well, well--that's sad.
Say, is there anything I can do to--you know, sort of help out--like, well, maybe----" "No thanks, Kid," spoke up Dick quickly.
His glance told the Kid that he realized what the half-spoken offer meant.
In the west one man understands his friend more by feeling than by words.
"Real good of you to offer, though.
No, I guess we'll make out all right.
Can't have easy riding all the time.
I imagine Mr. Merkel has something for us to do.
He sent for us to come over to his ranch.
So here we are.
That was the job I told you about."
"A blind job, hey?
Well, I guess it's O. K. or the boss wouldn't be mixed up in it.
Anyway, here's your chance to find out.
Here comes Mr. Merkel now."
A tall, pleasant-faced man, hair slightly grayed at the temples, strode out of the ranchhouse toward the four waiting cowboys.
His resemblance to Bud--especially around the eyes--was easily noticeable.
"Hello, Nort and Dick!
How are you, son?
Say, boy, you're getting hard as a rock!
What have you men been feeding Bud--leather?
He sure looks, as though it was coming through!"
The kindly eyes of the older man lighted with pride as he grasped the hand of his son.
"No, Dad--I guess hard luck toughened me up," said Bud, but his smile belied the meaning of his words.
"Yes, I heard about your accident, boys--and that's partly why I sent for you.
I thought you might have time to do a little business for me."
"Well, I guess I'll step along, Mr. Merkel," the Kid said, as he realized he might be intruding on a private conversation.
"I got that fence fixed up all right."
"Did you?
Good!
No, Kid, you stay right here.
You're in on this too.
Where's Billee Dobb?
I want him to hear what I have to say."
"He's 'round back, boss.
I'll get him."
"Bring him in the house, Kid.
My room.
Come on, boys--we'll get settled inside and wait for the Kid and Billee."
As the boys followed Mr. Merkel each one wondered what it was all about.
Dick voiced the thought of all as he whispered: "Say, what's up?
You know, Bud?"
"Nope!
I'm as much in the dark as you are.
Dad never said anything to me.
We'll soon know, though."
By this time they had reached the ranchhouse.
As soon as the Kid arrived with Old Billee Dobb--a grizzled product of ranching who had been with the Diamond X from its start--Mr. Merkel motioned them to be seated and began: "I reckon the first thing you men want to know is the reason for this gathering.
Well, it's nothing very mysterious.
I bought a sheep ranch out near Roaring River, and I want you five to take hold of it for me.
Now--just a minute.
I know what you're going to say, Kid--that sheep nursing is no job for a cowman.
But you haven't heard the rest of it.
There's been some very funny things happening out near that ranch.
I've had a letter from the government official over at Candelaria asking whether I intend to manage those sheep, myself, and if I do would I let him know before I take charge.
Now, I'm not going to say just what is the trouble, as I'm not actually sure myself.
But I have a hunch.
And that's the reason I want you five--men I can trust--to take charge there.
Will you?"
His listeners looked at each other.
In the eyes of each--with the possible exception of Old Billee Dobb--the light of adventure was shining.
Whatever scruples the Kid had about "sheep nursing" had vanished with the word "trouble."
And he was the first to speak: "Sure we will!
What do you say, boys?
Do we go out?
How about it, Dick and Nort?
What do you say, Bud?
Billee here is just achin' for the experience!"
And the Kid laughed, for Billee Dobb's tendency to pretend displeasure at every change of conditions was well known.
"Yes I am--not!
Like as not we'll all get shot full of holes.
But if you fellers want to go--guess I'll have to trail along to take care of you-all!"
"Listen to him--Just try to hold him back if there's any shootin' goin' on!"
"Then I take it you'll go?"
Mr. Merkel asked.
"Yes, Dad--I'm sure we'll all be glad to take charge out there for you," answered Bud.
"I don't suppose you could tell us any more about this government business now?"
"I'm afraid not, son--I want to be sure of my ground before I make any statements.
Well, I guess that's settled.
You'll leave to-morrow."
Since this was the last night the Kid and Old Billee were to spend on the Diamond X, it seemed fitting to the rest of the boys that there should be some sort of an entertainment.
An entertainment to a cowboy means principally music--so after supper the boys gathered around a roaring log fire and sang themselves hoarse.
After Slim Degnan, the foreman, and Fat Milton, his chubby assistant, had rendered their duet, and Snake Purdee had given his famous imitation of a prima donna singing "Bury Me Not," Bud, with Nort and Dick, decided to take a stroll about the place to see if anything had changed.
Their own particular ranch was several miles removed from Diamond X, owned by Mr. Merkel.
"See your Dad got a new building up," observed Dick, as they came to a newly-painted shack, clearly visible in the bright moonlight.
"So he has.
Looks like a new bunk house.
Perhaps he----" "Listen!
There's somebody inside!
No one is supposed to be in there at night.
It isn't open yet."
This from Nort, in a low tone.
"Let's find out who it is," Bud whispered.
Silently three boys crept toward the door.
Two voices could be plainly heard, and as they came closer they could distinguish words.
One voice was that of a foreigner--evidently a Mexican.
The other spoke with a typical cowboy accent.
"You have got the money ready--yes?"
the boys heard the Mexican say.
"Sure--as soon as you deliver the Chinks you get the money.
But no double-crossin'--remember that!"
and the speaker emphasized his statement by clicking his revolver ominously.
"Don' you worry--you get the Chinks all right.
Shuss--there's someone outside!"
The boys knew they had been discovered, and made a sudden rush for the door of the shack, to see the two men who were inside.
But the Mexican and his companion were too quick for them.
They ran through a back door, and all the three boys could see of them was two dark forms disappearing in the bushes.
"They beat us to it," Dick said in a disappointed voice.
"But if ever I hear that Mexican accent again I'll sure remember it!"
"Me too!"
asserted Bud, positively, if not grammatically.
"No use hanging around here any longer.
We've got to get started early in the morning, and it might be a good idea to get in a little bunk-fatigue.
Let's hit the hay, boys!"
And wondering and speculating on the meaning of what they had seen and heard, the three went to bed.
The next day dawned clear and cool, and the boys arose with the sun.
On their way down to breakfast they met the Yellin' Kid.
He was evidently the bearer of startling tidings, as his face was more flushed than usual, and his eyes were shining with excitement.
"Heard the news?"
he burst out.
Then, without waiting for an answer, he went on: "The marshal at Roaring River has been shot by a gang of Chink smugglers!
They captured one, but the rest got away with an auto load of Chinks!
Roaring River, boys--that's where we're going!"
Chink smugglers!
That conversation in the new bunk house last night--in a flash it all came back to the boys.
"Say, Dick, I'll bet that's what we heard the Mex talking about!"
cried Bud.
CHAPTER II A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE Yellin' Kid looked at Bud in surprise.
"You heard someone talkin' about this here shootin', Bud?"
he asked.
"Not exactly about the shooting of the marshal, but last night Nort and Dick and myself were wandering down by the new shack that Dad put up, and inside two men were talking--one of them was a Mexican.
We heard this Mex say something about getting some money for the delivery of Chinks.
That sure means smuggling, doesn't it?"
"That's what it means all right.
Couldn't you see who the two men were?"
the Kid wanted to know.
"We tried to, but they got away," said Dick.
"We went in the front door and they ran out the back."
"Aw say, do you know what I think, fellows?
I'll bet what we heard was just some rancher asking a friend to send him a Chinese cook," suggested Nort, with a faint grin.
"Cook, hey?
Why did they sneak in a deserted bunk house to talk about a cook?
And how about that remark of 'double crossin'?'
And what did they run for?
Why?"
demanded Dick.
"Oh, all right--all right!"
cried Nort, who was now grinning widely.
"Have it your own way, Dick.
It was probably a great Mexican plot to send a million Chinese to this country and form an army to capture Texas.
And after they captured Texas they'd set up a kingdom and the king would have Snake Purdee sing 'Bury Me Not' for him every morning before breakfast."
"You can jolly all you like, Nort--just the same, I'm willing to lay odds that we see some excitement when we reach Roaring River.
Let's go, boys--that bacon will be frozen by the time we get to breakfast."
And Dick led the way toward the dining room.
Although they were cautioned several times by "Ma" Merkel to eat more slowly, the boys hurried through the meal.
Each of them was "rarin' to go," as Kid expressed it, and lingering over the ordinary occupation of eating seemed a waste of time.
Within an hour the five--Bud Merkel, Nort and Dick Shannon, Yellin' Kid and Old Billee Dobb--were standing by their ponies, ready to spring to the saddles and be off.
There was a sudden cloud of dust as the five urged their mounts into a gallop.
With one last yell to those watching, they streaked across the ground in a typical "cowboy start."
Within two minutes they were lost to view behind a ridge.
Now for a moment let us leave them while we learn something of their earlier adventures.
The three boys, Bud Merkel, and his eastern cousins Nort and Dick Shannon, were introduced to you in the first book of this series, called "The Boy Ranchers; or Solving the Mystery at Diamond X."
In that book was related how Nort and Dick Shannon went on their vacations to the Diamond X ranch, owned by Mr. Merkel, Bud's father.
While there they were confronted with a strange situation, regarding the searchings of a college scientist, Dr. Hendryx Wright, who was discovered digging near the Diamond X holdings.
At first it was thought that he was looking for a lost gold mine, but later developments brought to light the fact that his purpose was to unearth the bones of a prehistoric monster for his college museum.
The adventures of the boys while on the ranch were also concerned with Del Pinzo, a villainous half-breed, who nearly succeeded in bringing the career of all to a sudden close.
After successfully overcoming all their difficulties, Nort and Dick decided to form a partnership with their cousin Bud, and they located on a ranch in "Happy Valley" which Bud's father bought for them.
In the several volumes following was related how the boy ranchers went to camp, and how they took the trail, and the exciting times they had in rounding up a band of Yaqui Indians who had escaped from their reservation and were raising havoc with the neighboring territory.
Following this the boys went to Spur Creek, where they had many startling adventures among the sheep herders.
The book immediately preceding this present one is called "The Boy Ranchers in the Desert," and tells of the difficulties they had in their search for some lost gold.
After the first wild dash, the five travelers pulled their ponies into that long loping stride which carries the cowboy for days and days over many miles.
Bud and Dick were in the lead, with Nort and Kid and Old Billee Dobb following close behind.
"Say, Kid," Bud called back, after a while, "what would you do if you saw a smuggler come along now with a herd of Chinks with him?"
"Tell you what I'd do, Bud," Yellin' Kid replied, "I'd stop the Chinks and find out what happened to a shirt I sent out to be washed the last time I was in Dallas!"
"You mean that shirt with the yellow dots on, Kid?"
Dick asked with a grin.
"If that's the one, I can tell you what became of it.
They thought it was an oil painting that got in the wash by mistake, and they had it framed and hung up in the picture gallery!"
"Never you mind about the color of that shirt, Dick--it was a shrinking violet compared with the vest you bought over to Alamito.
Purple and green--wow!
First time I saw it it was three o'clock in the afternoon, and I had to look at a watch to make sure it wasn't morning.
Thought the sun was comin' up."
"Got you that time, Dick!"
Nort laughed.
"That's one you owe him.
Say, is that a new pony you're ridin', Kid?"
"Yep!
What do you think of her?"
"Looks good.
How far can she go on a gallon?"
"Twice as far as yours can--and twice as fast!"
"Think so?
Try it--see that bush up ahead?
Race you to there!"
"Right!
Let's go!"
"Hey, hey!
Wait a minute, you fellows!
We're not goin' on a picnic, you know.
We've got a good long ride before us.
Take it easy."
This from Billee.
"What's the matter, Billee?
Gettin' old?"
asked Bud mischievously.
"Old?
Who, me?
Say, young feller, I can give you a head start half way to that bush and still beat you there!"
"How about me?
If there's a race, I'm in it too!"
cried Dick.
"All right.
Tell you what--we'll start from here, and the last man there has to kiss a sheep!"
"Right!
All set?
Ready--go!"
"Ye-e-e-ow!"
"Yip-yip-yip-yipee-ee!"
"Ride 'em cowboy!"
"Leggo that leather!"
"Gangway--gangway!"
The five riders flashed over the ground almost on a line.
Kid's mount was running easily, head well up.
Dick pulled a little ahead.
Nort just touched his pony with the spurs, and in a moment he was even with Dick.
There was a sudden rush behind them--and Old Billee Dobb, hat fanning his pony's withers, hair streaming in the wind, streaked to the front!
"Look at the old boy go!"
"Stay at it, Billee--stay at it!"
"Two bits he wins!"
And win he did.
He reached the bush a full length ahead of the others, who were laughing so hard they could hardly stay on their horses.
The spectacle of the gaunt, elderly man sitting straight up in the saddle, teeth clenched and bowed legs wrapped around his pony, was too much for them.
They leaned on their pommels weakly and roared with laughter.
"Attaboy, Billee!"
"Golly--did you see the old boy streak it out!"
"Oh, cracky!
hold me up, somebody, or I'll fall off!"
"Now--who's gettin'--old!"
panted Billee.
"Beat me, hey?
Not in--a million years!"
"What do you say, boys--we give Billee a salute!"
Four guns flashed out of the holsters and were raised aloft.
"Bang!"
They roared as one.
"Sure sounds like a celebration," chuckled Nort as he blew the few remaining grains of burnt powder from his smoking barrel, and replaced the gun.
"Billee, accept my congratulations!"
"Granted, youngster--if that's what I'm supposed to say," Billee retorted, his eyes twinkling.
"And just remember--a man's not old out here until he can't ride no more."
"You look as though you might be good for several hundred years yet, if that's the case," laughed Dick.
"Anyway, you sure showed me a few things.
Say, that race made me pretty thirsty.
Is there a water hole near here, Kid, or shall I use my canteen?"
"Save it--I think I can find water for you.
Guess the ponies could use a little too.
Let's see now--'pears to me there should be a water hole right over here to the left.
You boys stay here while I go look.
Be back in a jiffy."
Leaving the four on the trail, Yellin' Kid rode swiftly away to the left.
Water holes are few and far between in that section, and a cowboy who rides a country a great deal knows the location of every single one.
Often that knowledge means the saving of a human life.
The Kid had been gone ten minutes when Bud said: "Thought Yellin' Kid said he'd be right back?
I guess he's all right though.
He knows the country about here pretty well, doesn't he, Billee?"
"Like the palm of his hand, Bud--like the palm of his hand!
But maybe his pony broke his leg in a prairie dog hole--seein' as how it's a new pony, he might do that.
Tell you--I'll just have a look.
You fellows wait here for me."
The three boys watched Billee ride off in the direction the Kid had taken.
It was a deserted, lonesome place.
Fifteen minutes later Billee rode back--alone.
"The Kid show up yet?"
he asked as he pulled up.
"No--couldn't you find him?"
Dick asked, a look of anxiety on his face.
"Nope!
Neither hide nor hair!
Something sure must have happened.
The Kid isn't one to go wanderin' off and get lost.
I'm afraid he's in trouble, boys!"
CHAPTER III A SUSPICIOUS VISITOR The three looked at each other in alarm.
"Golly, I never thought anything could happen to the Kid," Bud said slowly.
"He was brought up in this country, and always said he could find his way about blindfolded."
"Perhaps the water hole was farther away than he thought," suggested Nort hopefully.
"It's easy for any man to go astray on a matter of distance, you know."
"Well, maybe--but I doubt it.
What I think happened is that his pony stumbled into a hole and lamed hisself.
Well--we'll have to go looking for him, that's all.
Nort, you and Dick branch out here to the right.
Bud, you take the left trail.
I'll try straight ahead.
Now remember your trails, boys--we don't want no more accidents to happen.
We'll all meet here in one hour.
If anything happens, fire three shots.
Git along there!"
And Billee Dobb, together with the rest set out to find Yellin' Kid who was so mysteriously and unaccountably lost.
Nort, who was riding with Dick, was the first to pick up a possible clew.
"Looks as though someone passed here in a hurry," he said as he pointed to a newly beaten path through some heavy brush.
"Now if I was just going along easy like I'd have ridden 'round that bush.
The pony that went through there got a few scratches."
"Wonder if it could have been the Kid?"
Nort mused.
"Though why he should be in such an all-fired hurry I can't understand.
Unless he was chasing someone."
"Or being chased," Dick added.
"Perhaps he met a smuggler, Dick."
"Smuggler--'way up here?
Not a chance!
Say, Nort, you've got smugglers on the brain.
You seem to think they ride around with big signs pinned on them--'I am a smuggler--shoot me.'
Suppose the Kid did meet a smuggler--how'd he know him from any other man?"
"That's right--guess he wouldn't," admitted Nort, a trifle shamefacedly.
"But you know what he told us about that marshal being shot."
"Oh, yes, but marshals get shot nearly every day, somewhere--and maybe it wasn't a Chink smuggler that shot him after all--maybe it was just an ordinary gang of rustlers."
"Well, you can say what you like, Dick, but I'll lay odds we see some excitement when we reach Roaring River."
"We'll see some excitement sooner than that, if we don't find the Kid.
See here--if he made this trail, he was going fast--and in this direction.
Let's get on our way."
"Better go back, do you think?"
Nort asked as he looked up toward the sun.
"We've been gone at least an hour, and Billee said to return within that time."
"Yes," Dick responded, a little sadly, for he and Yellin' Kid were close friends.
"I sure hope the Kid's all right.
Perhaps some of the others picked him up."
"Perhaps.
Let's hope so.
At any rate, we haven't had much success--and I doubt even that the torn brush we saw was done by the Kid."
"Can't tell, he may have ridden through there and then taken a sudden turn to the right or left.
Or back again, for that matter.
Well, let's get started."
As the two arrived at the agreed meeting place there was no need to ask the others if they had had any luck.
The Kid was nowhere in sight.
"We saw a trail through some bushes that might have been made by the Kid, Billee," said Nort to the old rancher.
"Yes, and it might have been made by any number of other things, too," Billee declared, in a despondent tone.
"Not that I am sure it _wasn't_ the Kid's trail.
It _might_ have been--but that doesn't help us much.
No, I guess the only thing for us to do is to go right on lookin'--and hopin' he's O.K."
It was almost dusk when the four gathered together again.
The Kid was still missing, and anxiety was written on the faces of all as they prepared to camp for the night.
Each man carried a blanket with him, and also a small snack of food and a canteen of water.
As darkness settled down a fire was started, and huddled in their blankets the boy ranchers prepared to make the best of it.
The silence of the night hung close over the four blanketed figures.
The firelight threw weird shadows about them, but above the stars shone calmly on, quietly reassuring.
A light breeze rustled softly through the mesquite bushes.
Now and then a coyote yowled in the distance.
Suddenly Bud jerked upright.
He nudged Dick, who was lying beside him.
"Dick!"
he whispered, so as not to disturb the others, "do you hear anything?"
"Eh?
What?
What's that?
You speak to me?"
Dick muttered sleepily.
"Listen!
Can't you hear a noise like a horse walking?"
Dick sat up, now wide awake.
"Say, I believe I do!
Wait a minute--" and he tossed some wood on the fire--"let's have a look!"
"Kid?"
Bud called hopefully.
The approaching pony gave a sudden leap forward.
"Yea boy!"
yelled its rider.
"Home again!"
"It is the Kid!"
Dick cried exultingly.
"Nort!
Billee!
The Kid's back!"
In a moment Yellin' Kid was surrounded by the four who shot questions at him as fast as they could talk.
"Where in the name of the spread eagle have you been?"
"What happened?"
"Did you get lost?"
"Are you all right?"
"Hey, hey!
Not so fast!
Gimme time!
Wait 'til I get down off this here pony.
Oh, baby--that feels good."
And the Kid stretched long and high.
"What a ride!
Say--got anything to eat?"
"Sure!
Sink your teeth in this," Billee said, handing him a cold beef sandwich from his kit.
"And here's some water.
Are you all right, Kid?"
"Me?
Sure!
Except tired and hungry.
Been ridin' most of the day an' night.
S'pose you-all would like to know what it's all about, hey?"
"Well, if you haven't anything to do at present, you might let us in on the secret.
We looked all over Texas for you," Dick said, grinning, happy now, that their lost comrade had returned.
"Just a second while I put this little paint pony of mine over with the others.
Old boy--you sure had some journey to-day!"
and the Kid rubbed the horse's nose.
"Stood up well, too.
To-morrow I'll give you a big feed--what you need now is rest--like me.
Well, boys, guess I'll turn in."
"You'll what?"
"You will not--not until we hear what happened!"
"He'll turn in--well for the love of Pete!"
"All right boys--all right!"
the Kid laughed.
"Seems you want to hear something about my trip, hey?
Well, to start from the beginning, the day dawned clear an' bright.
The wind was ticklin' my ears as I rode----" "Cut it out!"
"Let's have the story, you locoed dust-raiser!"
"All right, we'll cut the kiddin'.
Tell you what really happened.
I found the water hole where I thought it would be, and I found something else, too.
There was a horse standin' near it, and by the side of the horse was a Chink--on his hands an' knees, crawlin' around on the ground.
Thinks I, here's a crazy man.
So I rides up slow, and when I got up close I asks he Chink what he's lookin' for.
He don't pay no attention to me whatever.
I gets off my horse and says it again.
Then the crazy Chink looks up at me and says "Chock Gee."
That's all.
Just "Chock Gee."
Me, not knowin' Chinese, I can't tell what he's after.
But I see it won't do no good to insist on knowin' so I starts to help him up, thinking maybe he's hurt.
Soon as I touched him, what does the crazy Chink do but jump like a cat for his saddle, give my paint a terrible crack with his quirt, and set off like a scared rabbit, my pony after him, leavin' me stranded, high an' dry!"
The Kid looked at his eager listeners and grinned.
"That new pony of mine--she's sure got some speed.
She was out of sight in two seconds.
An' then, boys--I had to depend on the ole legs!
So I went huntin' for her.
Caught her about four miles from where her an' me parted company.
Then I went huntin' for you-all, but you was nowheres to be found.
And from then 'til now, I was ridin' around, lookin' for you."
"And the Chink--what happened to him?"
"Blessed if I know!
But if I ever see him again I'll give him something to remember me by."
"So that's where you were all that time!
We thought you'd been blown to Dallas on a cyclone.
Anyway, we're glad you're back.
Reckon you could stand a little sleep, eh?"
Bud said.
"You bet.
I'll sling my blanket down by you, Dick, and we'll get started for Roarin' River as early as possible.
It's still a good ways ahead.
Good night, boys!"
"Hey, you men!"
From the darkness came a sudden voice.
All five turned swiftly, five hands reaching for revolvers together.
Into the firelight rode a tall horseman.
"Hey, boys!"
he called again.
"Any of you see a Chink wanderin' around here?"
CHAPTER IV THE HIDDEN GUNMAN "Who wants to know?"
the Kid asked, staring hard at the mounted visitor, his hand firm on the butt of his gun.
"Now, boys, take it easy--take it easy!
I've got good reason's for wantin' to know, which same I'll explain if you give me a chance.
If you don't mind I think I'll park here for the time bein'."
And he dismounted and came closer.
By the light of the fire the ranchers saw a tall, rangy cowboy of about forty.
Two deep-set eyes above a hooked nose gave him a hardened, desert look which his manner emphasized.
He was, evidently, one to whom life had proved anything but a pink tea party.
Yet, withal, he had something about him which seemed to inspire trust.
"Well, stranger, you're welcome, but we haven't much to offer," Bud said.
"We weren't expecting to camp to-night, and we're somewhat shy on provisions.
But I guess we can rustle up something for you."
"No need of that--no need of that at all," the stranger heartily assured them.
"All I want is a little information.
Guess I'd better introduce myself first.
I'm Joe Hawkins, special deputy over at Roaring River."
The others exchanged glances in the dim light of the fire as the visitor continued: "Here's my badge.
Don't know whether you heard about the trouble we had, but if you didn't, I'll tell you.
Roaring River is right on the Mexican border, you know, and there's been a lot of Chink smugglin' goin' on, with Roaring River as the key to the whole smugglin' situation, so to speak.
We don't know who's the boss of these smugglers, but we'd give a lot to find out.
Two thousand dollars, to be exact.
"Well, anyway, two days ago we had a tip that a car-load of Chinese was about to be rushed over the border just outside of town limits.
So we got all set.
Sheriff Townley and me and three other deputies hid in the bushes where we thought the car was goin' to pass.
But we lost out.
"The car came by all right--and we hopped into the roadway to stop them.
They never stopped a-tall.
Goin' like a crazy steer they flew by on two wheels, lettin' ride with every gun they had.
Got poor Townley good.
We buried him yesterday.
So--now you know what it's all about."
"And the car--did you see it again?"
Dick; asked excitedly.
"No--but last night a Chink came to town and got oiled-up on pulque, and said a few things more than he meant to.
When I jumped him he lit out for the open spaces.
This morning I thought I'd take a look around, and see if I could spot him.
Sure enough I did, but the old yellow-skin got away before I could reach him.
I don't suppose you boys saw anything of him?"
"Well now, that's mighty strange," drawled the Kid.
"It so happens that I _did_ see your man--at least I'll take odds that he was the one you're after.
This afternoon I was trapin' around for that water hole over yonder about three miles--you know the one," and the Kid told of his adventure with the "crazy Chink."
"That's him, for all the money in the world!"
the deputy exclaimed.
"Lookin' for a 'chock gee' was he?
I'll chock gee him if I catch him."
"Say, what's all this about a 'chock gee'?"
Nort wanted to know.
"Well, it's a government immigration office paper every Chink in this country is supposed to have, showin' they're here legitimately.
Those that haven't got 'em try to get one from another Chink, and there's unlawful trading goin' on all the time."
"Like a passport, eh?"
Billee Dobb suggested.
"Something like that.
Where you men bound for--if you don't mind me askin'?"
"To a ranch just outside of Roaring River," spoke up Bud.
"My father, over at Diamond X, bought it, and we're going to take charge."
"Your father Mr.
Merkel?"
Joe Hawkins asked suddenly, with new interest.
"Yes--do you know him?"
"Not exactly.
But I know of him.
When I heard that the Shootin' Star was changin' hands I wrote to Mack Caffery, the boy on the job over at Candelaria, askin' him to get in touch with the new owner.
That's how I got the name Merkel.
Did your dad hear from him, do you know?"
"Yes, he did.
So that's what Dad meant when he said there might be trouble, eh?
Well--we're ready for whatever comes.
What do you say, boys?"
"Right!"
the others chorused.
"Say, mister, what was that there you said about two thousand dollars?"
Billee Dobb broke in.
"There's two thousand dollars' reward, offered by the government, for the capture, dead or alive, of the head of the Chink smugglers," the deputy said impressively.
"Two thousand bucks!
Say, boys, with that you could buy yourself a new herd of cattle, to make up somewhat for the bunch you lost!"
cried Yellin' Kid.
"We sure could--and then some," Bud agreed.
"But I guess there's not much chance of us collecting the reward.
We'll be busy enough at the ranch without trying to round up any smugglers.
Say, Mr.--what did you say your name was?"
"Hawkins--Joe Hawkins."
"Well, how about bunking with us to-night?
We can all start out in the morning together, and perhaps we'll come across your Chinese friend.
It's pretty late now, and you can't make Roaring River 'til long after daylight."
"Well, now, men, that's right kind of you to suggest that--but I don't want to butt in.
I can just----" "You're not butting in at all!"
insisted Bud.
"We'll be glad to have you.
Got a blanket?"
"Oh, I got a blanket, thanks.
Thought I might need it on this Chink hunt of mine.
Well, since you boys don't mind, I'll put up my pony and flop down here by the fire.
Feels good at a time like this.
Good-night, all!"
The remainder of the night was uneventful.
The six slept soundly, tired out as they were, and with the morning they all awoke refreshed and eager to be on the way.
After a meager breakfast they set out for the water hole the Kid knew of, as they wanted to let their steeds drink before starting for the Shooting Star, which was the name of their new ranch.
Joe Hawkins went with them.
"What time do you calculate we'll hit the ranch, Kid?"
Bud asked.
"Be there in about three hours, Bud.
It isn't so far from the water hole.
Why?
You anxious to begin sheep herdin'?"
"Not exactly," Bud laughed.
"But I do want to see what the place looks like.
Hope we don't have to do much repairing."
"No, the Shooting Star is in pretty fair shape," Joe Hawkins said.
"Your father got a good buy--if you can get hold of it all right."
"What do you mean, get hold of it all right?"
asked Bud curiously.
"Well, the feller that's got it now isn't exactly a pleasant customer.
There's something queer about him--we've been watchin' the Shooting Star for over a month now.
I couldn't say for sure that there's anything wrong--but it looks suspicious.
That's the reason I wanted to have the government official find out who the new owner was going to be.
I'm right glad I met up with you boys.
You may be able to help me out some time."
"And collect that reward," Billee Dobb put in.
His mind seemed set on the two thousand dollars the deputy had spoken of.
"You might," admitted Hawkins.
"It's waiting for the person who brings in the head of the smuggling system."
"Well, we'll do our best," the Kid said, with a side glance at Bud.
"Say, Kid, we're not down here to capture smugglers!"
cried Bud.
"We've got to take charge of the Shooting Star.
Of course, if we _do_ happen to run across----" "I knew that would get a rise out of you!"
laughed the Kid.
"Catch Bud duckin' any excitement!
Why, even Billee here wants to trail the smugglers--don't you, Billee?"
"Never you mind!"
came back the old rancher.
"Want another race?"
"'At-ta-boy, Billee!"
Nort yelled.
"Guess that'll hold him!
You didn't know Billee Dobb was a champion racer, did you?"
Nort said to Hawkins.
"I didn't, no," responded the deputy with a smile.
"But I believe it.
Takes old birds like us to show these youngsters up, eh, Billee?"
"Sure does!"
"Well, here we are," declared the Kid, as they came in sight of the water hole.
"Right down there is where I saw the Chink on his hands and knees.
Hey, take it easy there!"
This to his pony, who strained toward the water.
"I know you're thirsty, but so are the others.
Easy--easy!"
The Kid dismounted and led the panting horse toward the water.
Leaning over he filled his hat, and held it to the mouth of his pony.
"Start in on that.
Slow!
Or you don't get any.
'At-ta-boy.
Here's another hatful for you.
Feel as though you can control yourself now?
All right--go to it!"
By this time the intelligent animal got the idea, and drank in small mouthfuls.
The other ponies, restrained by their masters from drinking too fast, did the same.
"So it was here that you saw the Chink, eh!"
asked Joe Hawkins.
"Yep--right in this spot.
He was leanin' over here by this little bush, lookin' for--" the Kid stopped suddenly and picked up something from the ground.
It was a folded paper.
The Kid looked it over swiftly.
"Lookin' for--_this_!"
he exclaimed, holding it out.
"What is it?"
"Let's have a look!"
The deputy walked over to the Kid.
"Mind if I see it?"
he said quietly.
Without a word the Kid handed it over.
He recognized the fact that it was the deputy's right to demand it.
"That's what the Chink was looking for," Hawkins declared after a moment.
"See here!
This paper----" "Bang!
Bang!"
"Duck!"
cried the Kid.
His hand reached for his gun as he hit the ground.
"Bang!"
Billee's hat went sailing from his head.
"He means business!"
Dick yelled.
"Down, everybody!"
CHAPTER V ARRIVAL AT THE RANCH Another report rang out, and a bullet went singing overhead.
By this time guns were out ready for action.
From behind a small knoll, about one hundred and fifty yards away, hazy smoke could be seen arising.
"Dick, you stay here and keep me covered," said the Kid in a low voice.
The boys were all hugging the ground in the shelter of the brush.
"I'm goin' to sneak around an' see if I can't connect with the onery skunk that's doin' the shootin'."
"Take it easy, Kid," Dick cautioned.
"You can't tell how many men there are over there."
"Right!
Now you pass the word to the others to keep that hill peppered with lead.
As soon as you see a sign of life, let ride.
If you can keep whoever's doin' all this out of sight, I'll have a chance.
So long!"
Yellin' Kid had started.
With a simple "so long" he was off on a mission which might--and very likely would--end in his death.
Men who spend their lives on the prairies have no time for heroics.
They do their job--and say nothing.
Slowly the Kid crept forward.
The hidden gunman seemed to be withholding his fire.
In the brush by the water hole lay the five watching men--Billee Dobb and Joe Hawkins with long-barreled Colts ready for action, Dick, Nort and Bud squinting along the barrels of their shorter guns.
Closer, closer, the Kid crawled.
Seventy-five yards!
Seventy!
Now, Kid--now---"Well, by the ghost of my aunt Lizzie's cat!"
The Kid was standing upright, his mouth open, his gun hanging loosely by his side.
Not a soul was in sight!
A quick look about verified this.
The country beyond the knoll was perfectly flat, and for over five hundred yards was bare of even the smallest bush.
Whoever the mysterious shooter was, he had, apparently, vanished into thin air.
"Hey, you guys, come over here!"
yelled the Kid.
"We been blazed at by a ghost!"
One by one the men by the water hole got to their feet.
Dick was the first to reach the Kid's side.
"He's right, boys!"
called back Dick, as he saw the empty space behind the little hill.
"Nobody here.
But let's have a look at the ground.
We can tell if it's been disturbed, anyway."
A careful search revealed not only the traces of someone having lain down on the loose earth, but also two empty shells.
"That makes me feel a little better!"
cried the Kid as he saw this.
"I don't hanker to be shot at by someone I can't see.
Now the thing to do is to find out what happened to our late playmate."
"He's gone, ain't he?"
asked Billee Dobb incredulously, as he came shuffling along.
Off his horse Billee was a bit awkward.
"You don't say!
Well, now, I never noticed that!
Say, Billee, you a de-tect-a-tive by any chance?"
"Go on, laugh, Kid!
You spent enough time sneakin' up on a whole lot of nothin', didn't ye?"
"What do you think about this, Mr.
Hawkins?"
Bud asked of the deputy, who was looking around quietly.
"Not much, youngster, not much!
Seems mighty funny to me.
Doesn't hardly appear likely that a man could get away in this flat country without us seeing him.
But that's what happened all right.
Never knew a cowpuncher to have that much sneakin' ability in him."
"Maybe it wasn't a cowboy," Nort suggested.
"Maybe it was a--Chink."
"Never knew a Chink to use a forty-four in my life," the Kid declared.
"These here shells come from a gun big enough to knock a Chinee clean off his slippers.
Nope, this here job was done by a puncher--or--" and he stopped a moment--"or a Greaser."
"A Mexican!"
cried Bud.
"Say, Dick, remember the conversation we heard in Dad's new bunk house?
Maybe it was the same Mex that did the shooting!"
"What's this all about, boys?"
asked Joe Hawkins.
"Anything I ought to know?"
"It might help you," offered Dick.
"It was two nights ago."
And he told of hearing the voices in the shack.
"Well, I don't know.
I don't mind telling you that the crowd we're after for the smugglin' is Mexican--at least we're pretty sure they are.
Think you'd recognize the voices if you heard them again?"
"Certain sure I could tell that Greaser's tones in a million," Dick declared.
"I'll never forget him."
After another survey of the terrain, it was decided to start for the Shooting Star ranch.
Joe Hawkins said he would ride to Roaring River with them and make his report, and see if anything had developed in town.
So, filling their canteens, the six set off.
On the way the Kid offered a tale of a tarantula fight.
These bouts were carefully arranged by the cowboys, the scene being set in a deep washbowl.
Two females were the combatants, and the one who first amputated all the legs of the other was declared the winner.
Occasionally a particularly vicious spider would forsake his natural enemy and leap high at one of the spectators, inflicting a painful, though not necessarily dangerous, bite.
Hence these contests were not without excitement.
"I used to have a pet tarantula I called Jenny," told Yellin' Kid.
"She was absolutely the meanest critter I ever see!
She could just about straddle a saucer, that's how big she was.
Had a coat of hair like a grizzly.
She won five fights for me, and I was all set to match her against a spider some puncher brought all the way from Oklahoma, when she took a sudden likin' to Jeff Peters, and her ca-reer was brought to a sudden close.
I cried fer near a week--but Jeff, he was more sore than what I was.
She got him good before he killed her!"
And the Kid chuckled rememberingly.
By this time the riders had come in sight of Roaring River.
They had all been through the town, if it might be so dignified by a name, and of course Joe Hawkins lived there, so it was no new sight to them.
But it was a change from the surroundings the Boy Ranchers had been used to, and when they remembered that it was here all the smuggling was going on, all were conscious of a feeling of excitement.
They decided to feed-up in town before going to the ranch, which lay about three miles out.
They headed for "Herb's Eating Place," the one and only restaurant with tables.
The meals they ordered would have done justice to a hungry bear.
"We have arrived!"
cried Bud, when he swallowed sufficiently to allow himself to talk.
"After a long and hazardous journey through the bad-lands of Texas, we finally came to this little gem, nestling among the hills, resplendent in----" "Roas' biff, roas' pork, and lem'," Nort finished.
"How do you get that way?
Food always do that to you?
Look at the Kid here.
Not saying a word."
"Good reason for that," laughed Bud.
"He couldn't talk if he wanted to.
Hey, Kid, they serve supper here, you know."
"Yea?
But I'm takin' no chances!
This place may not be here to-night.
Wow!
What a meal!
Help me up, boys!
Help me up!"
And the Kid struggled slowly to his feet.
"Guess that'll hold me for a while," he sighed.
"How about some more pie, Kid?"
asked Dick with a grin on his face.
"Pie?
More pie?
Well, now--what kind is there left?"
"Apple, and apple, and--apple."
"Huh!
Don't like them.
Guess I'll take apple.
Yes, a small piece of apple would just about finish me off."
Billee Dobb put down his fork and gazed up at the Kid.
"Did I understand you to relate that you was goin' to eat some more pie?"
he asked carefully.
"You did--why?"
The veteran rancher arose and, walking over to another table, he seized a bunch of artificial flowers that were set in a vase.
Carrying them over to the Kid, he held them reverently out before him.
"My little offering," he murmured, "to one who will be with us no longer."
The diners in the restaurant, all of whom were observing the scene, let out a roar of laughter.
It was so ludicrous to see the old puncher indulge in a joke that it seemed twice as funny as if anyone else had done it.
Billee Dobb certainly scored heavily.
As the ranchers were leaving the restaurant they passed a Mexican who was coming in.
Dick looked sharply at him.
Something about the shape of his back seemed vaguely familiar, and the boy was about to say something when Joe Hawkins, who was the last out, exclaimed: "Did you see that Greaser just going in Herb's?
One of the worst men in town.
I'm telling you because he works on the next place to yours.
If I were you I'd leave him entirely alone.
Not that you'll have trouble with him--but forewarned, you know.
Well, boys here's where I leave you.
Got to get back to the office, and see how things are.
I reckon I'll see you right soon, as you're so close, and anything I can do for you, let me know ime-jit!
Think I'll take a run out to your place within the next week, and see how you make out.
Well, _adios_, boys.
Good luck!"
With a wave of his hand he was off.
The boys were sorry to see him leave, for he was very pleasant company.
"I have an idea he'll be a good friend," declared Nort as they rode toward the ranch.
"And if anything turns up, we may need a couple of such friends."
"He's regular, all right," the Kid agreed.
"Looks as though he could handle himself in a fight, too.
Doesn't talk much, but when he does--he says something.
Yep, he suits me to a T." "Good thing we met him," Dick said.
"Well, boys, here we are!"
In front lay the ranch.
As the five drew closer, they could see that the houses were well built.
It was indeed in good shape.
"Say, here comes somebody that's sure in a hurry," Billee Dobb said suddenly.
"Wonder what he wants?"
Riding toward them, dust raising under his bronco's feet, came a lone horseman.
CHAPTER VI THE THREAT Pulling their ponies to a halt, the five gazed curiously at the approaching rider.
As he drew closer, they noticed he carried a sawed-off "scatter-gun," otherwise a shotgun.
This in itself was strange.
No true Westerner ever sports one of these, and they are looked upon with derision by the regular "gun-totin'" cowboy.
A long-barreled Colt is the puncher's favorite weapon.
The stranger reined up sharply as he came within talking distance and looked piercingly at the ranchers as he called out: "Anything I can do for you?"
"Well, I don' know," answered the Kid slowly.
"You might, and then again you might not.
What happens to be your special line?"
The stranger scowled.
"That's my business.
What I'm aimin' to find out is, what's yours?"
"This is the Shooting Star, isn't it?"
broke in Bud.
"It is."
"Well, we're the new owners.
My name is Bud Merkel--my father just bought this ranch, and we came over to take possession.
This is Dick Shannon, and his brother Nort.
Billee Dobb and Yellin' Kid on my right.
Will that do you?
Now how about tellin' us who you are?"
"Me?
Oh, Jim'll do, I guess.
I happen to be the boss hand on this here sheep ranch.
So you're the new owners, hey?
Wonder what old 'J.
D.' will have to say to that.
You got papers, I suppose?"
"Certainly.
Here is the bill of sale, and----" "Take it easy, Bud, take it easy," Billie Dobb cautioned in a low tone of voice.
"I don't exactly care for this feller's looks."
"Who's 'J.
D.'--the one tendin' the ranch now?"
asked the Kid.
"Yea--only he's not exactly tendin' it.
He's here, and something tells me he's goin' to stay here--new owners or not.
'J.
D.' don't care much about owners.
What he's interested in is keepin' what he's got.
And as far as I can see, he's still got the Shootin' Star."
"I don't like to dispute your word," Nort said hotly, "but we might have something to say about that ourselves.
Come on, boys, let's ride in."
"Just a minute--just a minute!
Where you-all countin' on headin' for?"
sneered the lone horseman.
"The ranch house, of course!"
"Now just you let me give you-all a little piece of advice.
I won't charge nothin' for it, and it _might_ be useful.
If I was you boys, I'd turn _right_ around and ride the other way.
Tell you what you do, youngster--" this to Bud--"you tell your father you couldn't find the ranch."
There was a moment's ominous silence.
The Kid was the first to speak.
"Well, now, stranger, that's kind of you.
Yes, sir, I think that's right kind of you to take an interest in us like that," he drawled.
"But you know how it is.
We sort of want to find out things for ourselves.
So if you don't mind--" his tone changed suddenly.
"We'll be gettin' along to the ranch.
Out of the way, puncher!
Let's go, boys!"
The stranger's eyes narrowed.
He half raised his rifle, then apparently thinking better of it, let it drop again.
As the five moved forward he rode slowly along in the rear.
They reached the corral at the side of the house, and Bud and Dick dismounted.
Nort, Billee, and the Kid stayed on their ponies.
Walking to the door of the house, Bud knocked boldly.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, this time a little harder.
Still no result.
"Wonder if there's anyone around?"
asked Dick.
"Suppose we take a look at the side."
"Here's someone," Bud declared as there was a sound of a key grating in a lock.
"They certainly keep things tight down here."
The door opened slowly.
In its frame stood a man of slight build, and, by cowboy standards, dressed effeminately.
He wore a "boiled" collar, small black string tie, low cut vest and gray trousers.
His long black hair, with a slight shine on it, was brushed straight back.
"What'll you have, gents?"
he asked.
"Lookin' for me?"
"We're looking for the man in charge of the ranch," Dick said slowly.
"If you can qualify, then I guess it's you we want to see."
"Right!
And what can I do for you?"
"This will tell you," spoke Bud, handing him a copy of the bill of sale for the ranch.
"We're the new owners.
You rent the place, don't you?
I believe the deed says your term was up last month.
Sorry to have to put you out, but business is business.
Can you get ready to shift by to-morrow morning, do you think?
We'll make out down in town for to-night."
The man in the doorway didn't answer.
He read over the paper Bud had handed him and then looked up.
His expression was anything but friendly.
"And I'm supposed to beat it out of here, hey?"
he asked coldly.
"Afraid so," answered Bud.
The man suddenly stepped to one side.
"Come in a minute, boys," he suggested.
It was evident that his manner had undergone a change.
He seemed more friendly.
"You just get in?"
he asked.
"Yes--we were delayed on the way, or we would have gotten here sooner."
"Sit down, boys."
As the slightly-built man was drawing up chairs Bud cast a quick glance at Dick.
"Watch out"!
his look signaled.
But there seemed no need for suspicion.
"J. D.," as they had heard him called, appeared harmless.
"I take it you boys are sensible?"
he began when they were seated.
"Hope so," Dick answered with a slight grin.
"We've never been in any asylum that I know of."
"Check!
Now I'd like to talk business with you.
First of all, could you use one thousand dollars?"
At this surprising query Dick and Bud started.
One thousand dollars!
It represented a small fortune.
Bud thought of the herd of cattle they had just lost and was about to reply affirmatively, when he felt, rather than saw, a cautioning look come into Dick's eyes.
"That's a lot of money," declared Dick, before Bud could speak.
"We could certainly use it, but you know it pays to be careful how one earns it.
Robbery is a bit out of our line."
"Oh, it's nothing like that--nothing like that at all," the other assured them quickly.
"This thousand that I speak of can be yours for just doing me a favor."
"Sounds like a high price to pay for a favor," Dick said.
"But let's hear the proposition."
"Sure!
It's simply this: you boys let me stay on at the ranch here, for, say, six more months, and as rental I'll pay you one grand."
"But certainly this place can't be worth that much to you," broke in Bud thoughtlessly.
It was a very unwise remark, for it was obvious that this excessive figure was offered for something more than the mere use of the ranch.
"J. D." had made the mistake of going too high in his offer, and it instantly awoke suspicion in the minds of Dick and Bud.
But now that Bud had blurted out this suspicion, the possibility of being able to secretly find out why they had been offered a thousand for the place disappeared.
The cards were on the table.
"As to that, I'm the best judge," "J. D." said sharply.
"If you want to accept, say so.
If you don't--well----."
"Can we have until to-morrow to think it over?"
asked Dick.
"Nope--sorry, but I have to have your answer now.
All you have to do is to sign the present owner's name to a renewal clause--and since he's your father, he won't object to that," said the man, turning to Bud.
Evidently he was anxious to get things settled as soon as possible--perhaps before the boys had a chance to investigate.
Dick looked at Bud, and saw that he had permission to take things into his own hands.
Dick arose.
"Well, sir, we can't do it, and that's that.
We were sent out here to take charge of this ranch, and we're going to do it, unless Mr. Merkel tells us to do otherwise.
You must get in touch with him if you want a renewal of your lease.
And until that time we must take control here.
We are sorry, but we must ask you to make ready to leave by to-morrow morning."
The man seated opposite did not move.
"Is that your last word?"
he asked, slowly.
"Yes, it is.
If we can offer you any assistance in getting ready we'll be glad to do it."
The man made no response.
He arose suddenly, walked over to the door and flung it open.
Then he turned to the two boys and with a sneer upon his face, said: "Very well!
You've had your say, and now I'll make my little speech.
You guys come over here and think all you have to do is to tell me to move out, and you move in.
I don't know who you are--never saw you before.
For that matter I don't want to know.
You show me some kind of a paper that you may have written yourselves, and expect me to accept it as a bill of sale.
Well, that's out.
I don't go.
"And another thing!
I don' know how many men you brought with you, but I've got twelve here that will stick close to me.
So don't start anything.
Good-day, gents!"
It was a moment before Bud and Dick realized the import of what had just been said.
Then, tight-lipped, they started for the door.
Neither said a word as they passed out, and behind them the door slammed shut.
As they approached the three waiting by the corral they must have shown by their expressions that things had not gone well, for Nort said: "What's the trouble, Dick?"
"Let's ride around a bit," spoke the Kid quickly.
The rider with the saw-off shot-gun was still within hearing.
"Great weather we're havin', ain't it?
Though it might rain soon," and he looked over to where the other sat with one leg resting against his saddle horn.
"Not so good, hey?"
this cowboy called over.
"Come see us again, when you can stay longer," and he chuckled at his joke.
"We will," answered Nort grimly.
"In fact, we intend to----" "Now do you know, I think it looks a mite like rain myself," interrupted Billee Dobb in a musing tone of voice.
"Them clouds over there are pretty heavy.
You say you want to ride around a bit, Kid?"
"Yea.
Just a little.
Let's go, men."
CHAPTER VII A SHEEPLESS SHEEP RANCH With as few words as possible Bud told the Kid of their talk with "J. D." Riding slowly along, the Kid made no comment for several minutes.
Finally Dick burst out: "For Pete's sake, Kid, let's hear you say something!
Don't you think it's mighty queer behavior for a tenant of a sheep ranch?
The way I understand the facts, he hired the place to raise sheep on, about thirteen months ago.
Now when his year is up he refuses to get off.
There are plenty of other farms further back from the border he could get.
I don't think your father bought the sheep with this ranch, did he, Bud?"
"I believe he contracted with the owner that one thousand heads of woolies were to be sent to him within a month of taking possession.
This tenant, whoever he is, will walk his sheep when he goes, of course.
I thought it was unusual to hire a ranch to raise sheep on for only one year, but Dad said the sheep get some sort of a disease if they're not walked frequently, and I guess this fellow sort of figured on trying it out for a year before settling down to a permanent place.
The owner of the ranch lives up north somewhere, and Dad simply bought him out.
Why Dad wanted to go in for woolies I don't know, but he must have had his reasons."
"Then we won't have to start sheep nursin' right away," Nort said.
"We'll have to get this 'J.
D.' out before we can do anything," declared Bud.
"What do you think about it, Kid?
I don't want to run to Dad at the first sign of trouble, but it looks as though we had a job on our hands before we really begin herding."
Yellin' Kid pushed his sombrero to the back of his head and looked up.
"Well, boys, I'll tell you," he said slowly.
"While Bud and Dick were inside gassin' I took a good look around.
And I'll tell you a funny thing; I didn't see no sign of sheep ever being on this here ranch at all.
No feedin' troughs, no hurdles, no nothin'.
Billee, how about it?
Did this look like a sheep ranch to you?"
"Not any," the veteran puncher answered laconically.
"Of course I'm no sheep expert, but I can tell a sheep ranch when I see one.
Usually they have a feedin' ground around somewhere, for the woolies to feed in durin' the winter.
And they have troughs to put the fodder in when they can't get to the range to graze, for sheep are dam perticular what they eat off of.
Maybe it was away 'round the back somewhere, but I couldn't spot it."
"That's what I thought," went on the Kid.
"Of course he may have sold all the sheep a while back, and cleared his truck away at the same time, but it don't hardly seem likely he could get rid of all traces.
Where ever sheep go, you can usually tell they been there."
He paused reflectively and added: "Sort of queer that deputy we met didn't say something about there bein' no sheep here.
Did you tell him we was expectin' to find a sheep ranch?"
"Now that you mention it, I don't believe I did," Bud answered.
"I said we were going to take charge of a ranch.
He probably thought we were bringing the cattle over later."
"Probably.
So your friend in the house told you he'd give one thousand bucks if you'd let him stay, did he?"
"Yep.
That made me suspicious right away, and I foolishly spoke up and told him as much.
Then he said it was his affair if he wanted to pay that much to stay on.
I knew that Dad wouldn't want me to allow him to do that without his permission, so I refused--asked him if I could let him know later.
But no, that wouldn't do.
He wanted me to sign an extension right away.
Then when I told him I couldn't do that, he threatened to stay anyway, and practically dared us to put him off."
"He did, hey?
That sort of puts it up to us, don't it?"
"You know what I think would be a good idee?"
Billee Dobb broke in.
"We ought to go down and have a talk with Joe Hawkins.
Tell him what we found, and ask him if he's got any advice he'd like to dish up.
Seemed to me he was a pretty reliable feller."
"Not bad--not bad," said Yellin' Kid approvingly.
"He said he'd be glad to help us any time.
Not that we're goin' to need any help gettin' this dude off," he added quickly.
"But it might be a good idea to have the law on our side."
"We can see him and get him to sign a dispossess notice," Nort suggested.
"I don't know whether he knows what that is, but it's just a paper saying we have a right to put out whoever is on the land."
"We'll do that, Nort," agreed Dick.
"Then we can start right.
Let's get on, fellows.
It's getting late, and we want to catch Hawkins before he leaves for home."
Spurring their broncoes to a faster pace, the five made their way toward the town.
The suggestion that they were to confer with the friendly deputy seemed a wise one, not because they were afraid to tackle the job of removing "J. D." alone, but because they wanted to know just how things stood.
Perhaps by inquiry they could gain some clew as to why the tenant refused to vacate.
If he sincerely wanted an extension of his lease to legitimately conduct the business of ranching, he was going about it in a queer way.
As the riders reached the town, they stopped a cow puncher and asked where they could find Joe Hawkins.
"Right down the street a ways," they were told.
"Can't miss it.
Jail, court house and sheriff's office all in one.
Some shootin' been goin' on?"
"Not that we know of," Dick laughed.
"Though there might be soon," said Bud impetuously.
"How's that?
You figgerin' on pluggin' someone, youngster?"
the cowboy inquired with a grin.
"Not hardly," the Kid spoke quickly.
"We just want to see Hawkins about some land.
Thanks for the info."
Their friend looked back at Bud and grinned again as he rode away.
"Evidently thinks you're an amateur bad man," said Billee Dobb.
"You'll have a reputation in this town before you know it, Bud."
By this time they had reached the sheriff's office.
All dismounted and went in.
They found Hawkins seated in a chair talking to another man who was leaning against the side wall gazing out of the window.
The deputy sprang to his feet as he saw the boys, the light of welcome in his eyes.
"Come in, boys, come in.
Jerry, I'd like you to meet some new friends of mine.
This here is Bud Merkel.
Over here is--er----" "My cousins, Nort and Dick Shannon," finished Bud.
"And Billee Dobb and Yellin' Kid--if he ever had another name I've forgotten it, and I guess he has too."
The deputy's friend laughed and Joe said: "This is Jerry Adler, boys.
Say, I thought you fellers were headed for the Shootin' Star?"
"We were," Bud answered, "but something happened that we want to ask you about."
"Guess I'll be goin'," said Jerry Adler.
"I'll drop in to-morrow about that matter, Joe.
No hurry, you know."
"All right, Jerry.
Glad to see you any time.
Now, boys," and he turned to the five standing near him, "what can I do for you?
Or is it just a friendly visit?
If it is, I'm right glad you stopped in.
Now that you're here, you must come over to my place for supper.
Got the best cook you ever saw."
"Thanks, Mr. Hawkins," responded Bud.
"We may take advantage of that later.
But just now we want to ask your advice."
"Go right to it, Bud.
If I can help you I'll sure do it!"
"When we went over to the Shooting Star," Bud began, "we expected to find a sheep ranch.
Instead we find a place that could be used for sheep, but certainly isn't now.
We went in and showed our credentials, and asked the occupant, who was called 'J.
D.,' I think, if he could move out by to-morrow, so we could get ready to move in.
"Whoever this 'J.
D.' is, he isn't a cow puncher, nor a herder either.
He's dressed like a Chicago dude," stated Bud.
The deputy nodded understandingly.
Evidently he was not surprised at Bud's description of the Shooting Star and its tenant.
"Well, as I say, we asked him to leave.
He not only refused, but threatened trouble if we tried to put him out.
Said he had twelve men who'd help him, too.
So we thought, if you'd give us a dispossess notice, we could go up there with authority and if he still turned ugly--well--we could do as we thought fit."
"I see.
He told you he wouldn't leave?"
"Yes."
"He has no right to stay there, has he?"
"None at all.
He rented the ranch from the man who formerly owned it, but his lease was up a month ago.
Dad bought the place free and clear.
We were to manage it for him, and take charge of the sheep when they came in.
I believe they are to be driven over in about two weeks."
"In about two weeks?
Well, boys, I can't exactly say I'm surprised at your story.
I don't mind sayin' we've been puzzled at the actions of this 'J.
D.'--James Delton, I think his name is--for some time now.
When he first came he did have some sheep--not many, and he sold them a month after he took the ranch.
Since then it's been empty, though, as he says, he's got a number of hands on the place.
They keep it in good shape, as you may have noticed.
But what his business is nobody seems to know.
Of course out here a man doesn't go pryin' into other people's affairs unless he's fairly certain there's something wrong.
I'll go to Shooting Star with you!"
Taking his belt and pistol holster from a hanger, the deputy led the way from the office.
Mounted once more, the party swung away toward the Shooting Star ranch.
Nort looked over at the Kid.
"Why that smile, Kid?"
he asked.
"Was I smilin'?
I didn't know it.
Say, Nort, looks as though we might hand ourselves somethin' of a time before we finish with this 'J.
D.' feller."
"And you're kind of hopin' we do, hey Kid?
The last time I saw you smile like that was just before we had that fight with the Del Pinzo gang.
Hope you don't expect another ruckus out here, as bad as that one."
"And if we did, I suppose you'd run away and hide your head," laughed the Kid derisively.
"Yes you would not!
You'd be in the thick of it with the rest of us."
"Perhaps," admitted Nort with a grin.
"However, I really don't think we'll have any trouble.
From Bud's description of Delton he's sort of a weak-kneed type.
We'll just have to tell him what's what, and I'm sure he'll back down."
"Can't tell," the Kid averred.
"Those Dudes have sometimes got a mean lot of fight in them."
Up ahead Joe Hawkins and Bud were talking in low tones.
Finally Bud turned about and called to the rest: "Close up a minute, fellows.
Mr. Hawkins has something to say before we reach the ranch."
"It's just this," began the deputy, when they had gathered around him.
"The way I figure, there's no sense of us all going in to see Delton.
If we call on him like a delegation, he'll get het up, and be more disagreeable than if we went about this thing quietly.
Now Bud and I will go in.
You four stay around the corral, and Kid and Billee, while you're waiting, you might take a ride around and size up the place.
See if you can discover traces of sheep bein' here in the last six months, and whatever else you can find out.
All right, boys, here we are.
Remember what I told you, Kid.
Let's go, Bud!"
The two dismounted.
Turning their horses over to Nort, they walked toward the ranch house.
The deputy stepped to the door and knocked.
"He took quite a while to answer when we were here before," Bud suggested.
"Better knock again."
The deputy did so.
"'Pears like he don't care for no visitors.
Wonder if we can see anything by lookin' in the window?"
"I'll have a try," volunteered Bud.
Stepping to the side of the house he peered in the casement.
"Too dark," he reported.
"Can't see a thing!"
"Must be somebody around," Hawkins declared, as he knocked again, this time more loudly.
Within all was quiet.
"Funny," he commented.
Then suddenly he turned the doorknob.
The door swung open.
After a quick glance the deputy walked in.
"Not a soul in sight!"
he called after a minute.
"The place is sure deserted.
Not only have they got no sheep on this place, but even the men are gone now!"
CHAPTER VIII CYCLONE Following the deputy into the house, Bud looked about.
The place _felt_ vacant.
It had an atmosphere of emptiness.
The furniture in the rooms had a tossed-about appearance, as though the occupants had made a hurried exit.
A cheap vase lay on the floor by the mantel, broken.
Rugs were kicked up.
"Well, what do you think of that?"
Bud said slowly.
"They're gone!
Vamoosed!
And quick, too.
Must have done some tall hustlin' to get out in that short time.
Wonder what the idea was?
Do you think Delton might be around back, or somewhere outside?"
"Better look, anyway."
Hawkins stepped to the doorway and suddenly let out a yell.
"Yo-o-o-o, Kid!
Over here!"
"Yo-o!"
came the answer.
"Right there!"
and Yellin' Kid, together with Billee Dobb, rode to the ranch house.
"What'll you have!"
the Kid called as he came up.
"Take a ride around the place and see if you can locate someone; will you?
The house is empty."
"Right!
Billee, you ride to the left and I'll go this way.
Back in two shakes."
"Mighty queer where everyone has disappeared to," Hawkins commented.
"When you were here before, Bud, did they look as though they were getting ready to light out?"
"Nope--just the opposite.
As I told you, Delton insisted that he was going to stay.
I can't imagine what scared them off.
Unless Delton decided discretion was the better part of valor.
It certainly doesn't seem logical that they'd make tracks like this, after what Delton said."
"Here comes the Kid.
Got someone with him; hasn't he?"
asked Bud.
"He sure has--a Mex, I'd say."
"The lone survivor!"
the Kid yelled as he rode toward them.
"Bud, recognize him?"
and he pushed the Mexican, whom he held by the collar, forward.
"Why, he's the fellow we saw in the restaurant!
Remember, Mr. Hawkins?
The one you pointed out; isn't he?"
"You mean Pete Alvido?
Come 'ere, son--let's have a look at you."
The deputy peered closely.
"Nope!
Sure looks like Pete, but it isn't.
'Nough like him to be his brother, though.
Hey, Mex, what's your name?
What are you doin' around here?"
The Mexican didn't answer.
He simply shrugged his shoulders, and stood silent, his face expressionless.
"Speak up, boy!
What's your name?"
Still no reply.
"Lost your tongue, Mex?"
the Kid broke in.
"Take my advice, and answer when you're spoken to."
The Kid touched his gun suggestively.
Not that he would have thought of enforcing his half-uttered threat, but he simply wanted to show the Mexican they meant business.
At this the man gesticulated toward his throat, and a guttural sound came from his lips.
"Why the pore cuss means he's dumb!"
exclaimed Billee Dobb, who had ridden in.
"Can't speak!
Hey you!
No spik?
No _habla_?"
The Mexican shook his head forcibly.
"A dumb Greaser!"
cried the Kid.
"Well, he's not much of a find.
He's the only one left of this outfit, though.
Hey, Mex!
Where's the boss?
Gone?"
With a widespread gesture of his arms the man indicated his lack of knowledge of the subject.
At least he seemed to understand a little English.
"Can't get much out of him," Hawkins commented.
"Well, boys, seems like you'll have no more trouble takin' possession of the Shootin' Star.
It's yours.
Say--" and he turned to their captive.
"What's your job?
Vaquero?
Herder?
Cook?"
At the last word the Mexican nodded vigorously.
"You're in luck, boys.
Here's a cook all ready for you.
Got any food inside?
Eats?"
the deputy asked the Mexican.
He was answered with another affirmative shake of the head.
"Now you're all fixed up for the night.
Might as well call in the other two.
What's their name again?
Shannon, isn't it?
Kid, you give 'em a yell.
You seem to be able to do that particularly well."
Nort and Dick came riding over in response to the Kid's summons.
"Who's this you got, Kid?"
asked Nort.
"Some friend of yours?
Why, he's the Mexican we saw in Herb's!"
"No he isn't--that's what I thought too," Bud said.
"Mr. Hawkins says it's another--though it sure looks like him.
This one's dumb."
"What do you mean--stupid?"
"No--can't talk.
At least he says he can't--I mean he wants us to understand that he can't."
Bud corrected himself.
"I've got to be getting back," interrupted the deputy.
"I suppose you men will settle here, now that you've got a cook and food.
That is, if he'll cook for you and you want to take a chance that he won't poison you.
Hey, you--cook for _hombres_?"
Again that vigorous nod.
"Seems agreeable enough.
Now if you want anything, you know where to reach me.
If it's at night, you'll find me down the street 'bout half a mile from the office, on the same side.
Anyone will tell you where Joe Hawkins's place is.
So long, boys.
Again, good luck."
"Good-bye, Mr. Hawkins.
We're much obliged to you for riding over with us."
"Glad to do it, Bud.
Any time at all.
Git along there, bronc.
_Adios_!"
"So-long!"
"'Bye!"
"At last we're here," Nort declared.
"No trace of anyone around; hey Bud?
Wonder what became of them.
I wouldn't mind seeing our little friend with the sawed-off shot-gun again."
"Let's not look for trouble," Dick suggested.
"I think what happened was that this fellow you call 'J.
D.' decided to take the opportunity to get out without trouble.
I don't believe we'll see him again."
"Maybe not.
We've got enough to worry about without him.
Kid, suppose you take charge of getting things ready for the night.
Those sheep won't be here for a week or so, and in the meantime we can fix things up a bit.
To-morrow I'll go scouting around for a good sheepman.
There ought to be plenty in town.
All right, Kid, we're under your orders."
"Check!
Nort, you take the horses to the corral and see that they get fed.
I guess you'll find some feed around somewhere--there's a barn down there a piece--look there.
Dick, you go see what sort of sleepin' quarters they got here.
It might be well for us to stay here in the house for the night.
We can settle on a bunk house later.
The rest of you can make yourselves generally useful.
I'll go 'tend to the eats.
Mex, we need food!
Where's the kitchen?"
Apparently understanding, the Mexican led the way toward the rear, followed by the Kid.
The lay-out of the place was a great deal like that of the ordinary cattle ranch.
Indeed, if one were not wholly familiar with the types of dwellings which dot the Texas border, he would be hard put to show the difference between a cattle and a sheep ranch.
The corral of the cattle ranch would be built of stronger boards, and on the sheep ranch, or "farm," there would be huge vats for "dipping" the sheep, to cure them of any disease they might have contracted.
But except for these minor differences the two ranches are much the same.
Of course the personnel of the sheep ranch would not be as extensive as that of the cattle ranch--one herder being able to adequately care for two thousand head of sheep.
In shearing time the ranch hands are increased, to take care of this added labor.
So it is not strange to find five hands prepared to take over the management of a whole sheep ranch.
Naturally it would be necessary to hire some "sheep man" to handle the technical part of the venture, for sheep are delicate creatures, and a green manager could easily lose his whole herd in short order.
It was now five o'clock.
With a fire roaring in the kitchen and the ranchers hurrying here and there about the place, it seemed home-like and cheerful.
"Be all set in half an hour," the Kid called to Bud as he stepped out in the yard for a moment.
"Found plenty of bacon and beans, and enough other stuff to make a pretty fair meal.
Reckon you-all can eat, if you're anything like me.
What do you think of the place, Bud?"
"Pretty fair, Kid, pretty fair.
Looks as though we may be able to make something of it.
I've been thinking of buying a radio outfit to keep us company on long winter evenings.
You know we bring in the sheep then, and we'll have to stick close to home to take care of them."
"A wireless!
A sparkin' outfit!
What are you goin' to do, Bud, put them woolies to sleep with music?"
"Hardly that," Bud laughed.
"You'll be glad we got it when you hear some of the big fights being reported, just as though you were at the ringside.
But apart from that, what do you make of this situation, Kid?"
"You mean comin' back here an' not findin' anybody?
Gee, I don't know, Bud!
Might be any one of several reasons why this 'J.
D.' bird skipped out.
'Course I didn't actually see him, but something tells me he couldn't stand a close look-in to his ways and means of business.
"'Course I shouldn't run down a guy that I never saw.
But there's been a lot of funny work goin' on in these parts, and if anyone wanted to be crooked, this is the best place in the world for it.
You know this ranch property is right on the border line between Mexico and U. S." "Say, Kid, look how dark it's getting all of a sudden," Bud interrupted as he looked up into the sky and tested with his hand the direction of the slight breeze blowing.
"Wind's in the east.
Rain, I guess.
Getting hotter, too.
Why yes, Kid, I guess you're right about this ranch being a good place to pull shady work.
But I don't believe we'll have any trouble."
The Kid whirled around.
The next moment he was on his way inside.
"Get the others together!"
he yelled.
"There's a cyclone comin'!"
Bud scarcely heard him.
He stood still, fascinated by the tremendous spectacle.
CHAPTER IX DELTON RETURNS Cyclones are somewhat rare visitors on the prairies, but when they do come they make up for lost time.
Bud, though he had lived the greater part of his life on the range, had never seen one.
Now he stood with his face to the east, drinking in the awesome sight.
The eastern sky was covered with a blanket of black, ominous-looking clouds, which quickly expanded and filled the whole heavens with their darkness.
The breeze had died away and a deathlike stillness hung in the air.
Nature seemed to be hesitating, gathering up her forces for a tremendous onslaught.
Suddenly the black clouds in the east were tinted to a coppery color, which slowly turned to a dark green.
And still Bud stood, oblivious to all else save the grandeur of the scene before him.
Within the ranch house the men were scurrying about, shutting windows, glancing out now and then to see the progress of the approaching storm.
Billee Dobb ran to where the Kid was struggling with one of the sashes.
"How about the horses!"
he yelled.
Though there wasn't a sound without, by a curious phenomena the men talked in shouts, as though they were trying to make themselves heard above a roaring.
"Isn't Nort out there?"
the Kid answered, also loudly.
"Better make certain, Billee!
They'll be killed sure if the funnel takes them sideways!"
"If the funnel hits us we won't care whether we ever saw a bronc or not!"
answered the veteran rancher.
"We'll all be usin' wings then, not ponies.
I'll take a look outside."
"Take Dick with you!
I'm finished here.
We've only got about six minutes before she hits.
What a fine welcome this is!
We no sooner get settled, after havin' a time doin' that, when we're all set to get blown away."
The Kid was hurrying to the back of the house.
He hesitated as he reached the kitchen, and looked in.
"By the ghost of my aunt Lizzie's cat!"
he cried as he saw through the doorway.
"If that crazy Mex ain't still fryin' bacon just as calm as if he was on Fifth Avenoo!
Hey, you locoed Greaser, big wind comin'!"
He gesticulated vigorously.
"Whosh-whosh!
Whee!
Zip-zip-bang!
All over!
Savvy?"
He stopped his dramatic explanation of the oncoming cyclone to see if the Mexican understood.
To his surprise the cook nodded several times and pointed toward the sky, turning his other arm windmill fashion.
His lips gave forth a whistling sound.
After this demonstration he motioned to his bacon, rubbed his stomach, shrugged his shoulders, and went on with his cooking.
No words could have said plainer: "Sure!
I know.
Cyclone coming.
What of it?
Can't stop it now.
Must eat.
Might as well stay here and cook.
Hey?"
"Well, if you're not a cool customer!"
the Kid cried, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and tilting back on his heels.
"Cook!
Go ahead an' cook!
You might just as well say hello to St. Peter with a fryin' pan in your hand as not.
How does she look, Nort?"
he asked as the boy rancher came in the door.
"Not so good!
Where's Bud?"
"Bud?
I thought he was with you.
Maybe he's helping with the broncoes.
I'll take a squint here in back--" as the Kid stepped into the yard he saw Bud--standing silent, widened eyes staring at the sky.
The Kid started back in surprise.
"Another guy that's gone locoed!
First the cook, and then you!
Hey, Nort, take a look at Bud.
He's in a trance or something!
Wake up, time to get up!"
"Wonderful!"
murmured Bud, without turning his head.
"Isn't that wonderful, Kid?
See those colors!
The most marvelous thing I ever saw.
If I could only paint that!
It would be a sensation!"
"Sensation ain't all you'll be if you don't start movin' quick!"
the Kid declared.
"Nort, take Bud with you and see if everything is all O. K. We've got about three minutes before the show starts.
I think we'll be able to tell if the funnel is goin' to hit us, and if it does, we've got to let things ride and head for the cellar."
He stopped suddenly.
The five leaned forward, tense, still.
A low moaning filled the air.
First like the drone of a huge bumble-bee, it gradually increased in intensity.
The ranchers strained their eyes toward the east, where the copper tint had merged to a sickly green.
A light breeze sprang up, hot, suffocating.
"Here she comes, boys!
Heads up!
Get ready to make a dive for the cellar!"
All looked around to make sure that the door of the cyclone cellar--a dugout ten feet from the house--was within easy reach.
They moved a bit closer.
Then it happened.
From out of the greenish clouds tore a huge black funnel, tip down, capped with a wreath of lightning.
With a roar it beat its way across the prairie.
As it rushed along it took with it all movable things.
Lined with brushes, trees and dust, it seemed to head straight for the ranch.
The five waited no longer.
With a leap they reached the cyclone cellar.
The Kid was the last in, and just before he disappeared below ground he looked again at the roaring funnel of wind.
It was almost upon them.
In another moment, unless a near-miracle occurred, there would be nothing left of the Shooting Star but a few timbers.
The ranch lay directly in the path.
Cyclones are freaks of nature.
Even as the Kid watched, hoping that the terrible funnel might be diverted, nature gave a demonstration of one of its most startling feats.
The funnel lifted.
Within three hundred yards of the ranch the tip raised above the ground.
As though a giant hand had pulled it up into the heavens, the whirling, twisting cyclone merged into the blackness overhead.
A tremendous pressure beat against the Kid's body.
The air about was tingling with electricity.
And there, directly above the Kid's head, sailed the terrible funnel, Its tip held harmlessly aloft from contact with the ground, thundering and screaming in disappointed rage.
For several seconds the "twister" remained suspended.
Then two hundred yards past the ranch it dipped to earth again, and went smashing along on its mission of destruction and death.
The ranch was saved.
The Kid silently led the way out of the cellar.
As the five stood once more above ground, they looked about at the surroundings.
Off in the distance the cyclone could be seen whirling along, gradually growing smaller and smaller as it departed.
As they watched the terror disappear, a prayer of thankfulness was in the heart of each.
It was indeed a near-miracle that had saved the ranch from complete annihilation.
Bud was the first to speak.
His utterance was not exactly fraught with elegancy, but it expressed the feelings of all.
"Whew!"
he said with a long, drawn-out sigh.
"And then some!"
cried Dick.
"What a show that was!"
"Boy!"
Billee Dobb breathed.
"I'm sure glad we got missed!
When I saw that ole baby comin', I says 'raise yore sights, buster, raise yore sights!
You got the wrong range!'
An' blamed if she didn't raise, too!"
A laugh started--the kind that relieves the soul after a tense and dangerous moment.
Bud broke out in a loud guffaw.
Then the Kid let loose--and for two minutes the air re-echoed with the shouts of glee of the five ranchers.
Nothing really to laugh at; this laughter was not exactly in appreciation of Billee's remark.
It was more in the nature of a celebration.
"Whusch!"
cried Bud weakly, when he could get his breath.
"You crazy coot!
So you're the one that lifted the cyclone, hey?
Well, you sure did a good job of it!"
The ranchers made their way over to where the horses had been tied.
"O.
K.!"
Dick yelled as he came up.
"They're all there.
Not a hair on 'em touched.
Bet they thought it was the end of the world, though!"
"Sure!"
assented Nort.
"Now, now, old hoss!"
Dick said soothingly as he stroked the nose of his pony.
"Scared, eh?
Well, I don't blame you a bit.
Look at this one shake!
Take it easy, boy--it's all over.
Easy, there!
Feel better now?
That's the stuff--walk around a bit.
Do you good.
Steady!
Steady!"
The horses were quickly calmed.
Assured by the presence of their masters that they were safe, they soon stopped quivering, and breathed easier.
A good horse trusts implicitly in his rider.
"I'll take 'em over nearer the house," declared the Kid.
"They'll feel better when they get movin'.
By the way--wonder what happened to our cook?
Last time I saw him he was fryin' bacon.
Take a run to the kitchen, Dick, and look, will you?"
"Sure.
Say, there's one shack down," Dick said as he pointed to the wreck of a small building.
"Probably was a bunk house.
We won't need one of those for a while, anyway.
Well, will you look at that roof!"
The Kid indicated another out-house.
Its roof was turned directly around, so that the back was where the front should be.
Not a board on it was broken.
"Looks like a crazy-house down at Coney Island!"
laughed Nort.
"Dick, I thought you were going to see about eats?
I'm starved."
Dick walked toward the kitchen.
Before he got there the aroma of cooking bacon told the waiting cowboys that the Mexican was still on the job.
"Must have the whole place full of food by this time," Bud commented.
"Think I'll take another look around, Kid.
Billee, you want to come along?
I just want to make sure we haven't missed anything."
The two set off on a tour of inspection.
It was growing dark now, and it would soon be too late to repair that night anything that was damaged.
"Guess we haven't lost much," Bud said to the veteran rancher.
"We're pretty lucky, eh, Billee?"
"Sure are!
We'll just look around the corner of this building, however, and then go back.
I'm sort of hungry myself."
"Me too.
Hope that Mex has--" Bud broke off suddenly.
He peered hard at the earth in the shadow of the shack.
Then he walked swiftly over.
On the ground lay the body of a man, face down.
Bud grasped him gently by the arm and turned him over.
On his forehead was a long cut, from which blood was flowing.
Bud looked sharply at his face, then started back in surprise.
"Well, I'll be jiggered!"
he said slowly.
"It's Delton!"
CHAPTER X BUD FINDS A NOTE Billee Dobb approached deliberately and gazed long and earnestly into the face of the recumbent man.
"So that's Delton, is it?"
he said.
"He sure took a funny way to come back.
Wonder if he's--" the rancher stooped swiftly and laid his hand on the breast of the man.
"Nope!
Still living.
We'd better get him to the house soon as possible.
Grab hold there, Bud."
Lifting him as gently as they could, so they might not cause the blood to flow more strongly, they carried the injured man toward the ranch house.
They laid him on the couch in the living-room, which was known as the "parlor," and generally reserved for funerals.
"I'll get some water and bandages--if I can find any," said Bud when he had disposed of his burden.
"That white shirt of the Kid's will do," Billee suggested as Bud made for the door.
"He's got it rolled up in his saddle pack."
The man on the couch seemed to be breathing more strongly now.
The blood from the cut had partly clotted, and the flow was greatly diminished.
But a glance at his face showed that he was in a very weak condition.
"Must have been lyin' out there quite a spell," Billee commented, as Bud returned with the shirt and a basin of water.
The news of the unconscious visitor had traveled fast, for Dick, Nort and the Kid followed Bud into the room.
"Who is he?"
asked the Kid as he bent over.
"Little feller, ain't he?"
"Recognize him, Dick?"
Bud said, kneeling down by the man's side and dipping one end of the shirt in his basin.
"No, can't say that I--yes I do, too!
It's the fellow that was here when we came--the one who offered us the thousand!
It's 'J.
D.'!"
"Right.
We found him lying over by a shack, dead to the world.
Billee and I carried him in here.
Seems to have a nasty cut, but I don't believe it's dangerous.
Way he talked to me here awhile ago, he's too ornery to die."
"Must have been caught in the big wind," Nort said.
"Hit by a board, probably."
"So that's Delton, hey?"
Yellin' Kid drawled.
"Well, mister, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.
You don't look pertikerly dangerous to me.
But you can't tell about these quiet ones.
Liable to fly up any minute.
Don't wash that blood off, Bud!
Leave it lay.
Have him bleedin' again if you don't watch out.
Nort, mosey out an' see if that dumb Mex has got the coffee ready.
Bring in some, will you?
Leave the 'Canned cow' out of it.
When this boy wakes up he wants something strong."
The man's eyes opened for a minute, then closed again.
The dusk outside was settling rapidly now, and the room was growing darker.
Dick ran to the kitchen and returned with a lighted candle, which he held close to the head of the recumbent figure.
By this time their visitor had regained consciousness, and was staring wide-eyed at the group surrounding the couch--three men leaning expectantly over his body, while a fourth held a lighted candle aloft like a weird statue.
Little wonder that a man awaking to such surroundings would be somewhat bewildered.
"How do you feel, mister?"
Yellin' Kid asked solicitously when he saw that Delton was conscious.
"Not so--good," was the jerky answer.
"Stomach--sick--head feels--" "Swally this," urged Billee holding to his lips the steaming coffee Nort had brought from the kitchen.
"Sure it's hot!
Don't want cold sody, do ya?
'At's-a-boy--drink 'er down!
Better now?"
"Yea," the man answered in a weak voice.
"What happened?
Woolworth tower fall on me?
Wow!
What a head!
Seems to me I remember takin' a subway train at Times Square--or was that last year?
Can't just think straight now----" "New York," whispered Bud to Dick.
"Thought he didn't look like a westerner!"
"Just you lay quiet," advised Yellin' Kid.
"Won't do you a bit of good to talk now.
Got lots of time to do that.
You stay here to-night, an'----" "I remember now!
That storm!
I was riding over toward the Shootin' Star ranch, when the sky got black, and that dumb-bell horse of mine started to act up.
The next minute I got hit by a ton of bricks."
He was silent a moment, thinking.
"Say--" he suddenly propped himself up on one elbow and glanced around.
"I know where I am!
Yes.
And I know you--and you!"
pointing at Bud and Dick.
"You're the two galoots that--oh!"
he finished weakly, and sank back.
He closed his eyes again.
It was not evident to the watchers whether he had really fainted, or whether he realized he was talking too much.
At all events it was useless to expect him to say more.
At Bud's suggestion he was carried upstairs, and after his heavier clothing had been removed he was laid in one of the beds.
He seemed to be resting easily, and if his sleepy attitude was simulated at first, it certainly was not now, as his regular breathing and relaxed condition indicated.
"Better let him sleep," Dick said in a low voice.
"He'll be all right when he wakes up.
The bleeding from his head has stopped, and if he had anything else the matter he would have told us.
I think we'd all better eat.
Let's get out of here, anyway--we'll disturb him if we talk much."
"Eat!"
exclaimed the Kid when they had all left the room wherein Delton lay.
"Let's see now--have I heard that word before, or did I dream it?
Believe me, when I sit down to this chow nothin' is goin' to drag me away--fire, wind or flood!
Seems like that Mex cook of ours is a hoodoo.
Every time we start to eat something happens."
"Guess we'll go through with it all right this time," Dick remarked with a laugh.
"Here we are, boys.
Set!
And go to it!
Enough bacon here for an army.
Kid, go easy on that bread!
You want to choke?"
The five were seated around a table in the rear of the house.
In the middle of the table was a huge plate of bacon, and next to this was a mess of beans, steaming hot.
Bread, butter, coffee and condensed milk or "Canned cow" completed the repast.
"Wonder where the Mex got all this food?"
Nort asked as he reached for the bread.
"Real good, anyhow.
Guess we'd better keep the Greaser, if he'll stay."
"Keep him 'til we get settled," added Dick.
"I don't exactly like his looks.
He's too much like the Mex that Joe Hawkins pointed out--the one he said to watch out for--remember?--to suit me."
"Don't be tryin' to find trouble, Dick," advised Bud.
"That Mex is just as good as the next one.
But it is funny why he should be lingering around here when all the rest lit out.
And to have this food all ready for us.
Well----" "Got a few suspicions up your own sleeve, eh?"
laughed Dick.
"Boys," Billee said slowly, "I want to tell you something.
You remember what your Dad said about smugglin', Bud?"
At the word the men at the table gave a slight start.
"Yes, smugglin'.
You'd forgot all about it, hadn't ye?
Well, I ain't.
While we were in Hawkins's office I noticed a bill-head on his desk.
I took it.
Here it is."
He passed over the paper to the Kid.
The others got up and leaned over the Kid's shoulder, reading it.
"Two thousand dollars' reward," said the Kid haltingly, "for the a-rest and con-viction of--the person whose picture is below, and who is known in New York as Dapper Dan Craven.
He is wanted for smuggling Chinese.
Escaped custody at----" He stopped.
His eyes sought the picture.
"By the ghost of my aunt Lizzy's cat!"
he exclaimed.
"If it ain't our friend Delton!"
Bud reached over and slowly took the paper from the Kid's nerveless hand.
"Delton!"
he cried, as he saw the picture.
"Just as sure as I'm living, that's who it is!"
"But why didn't Hawkins arrest him, then?"
Nort asked in a puzzled tone of voice.
"He knew where he was.
He could have come out any time and put the bracelets on him and he'd have his man."
"Now, boys, if you'll give me a little time, I'll--" started Billee Dobb in a calm voice.
"Go ahead!"
"We're listenin'!"
"Well, in the first place, I don't think Joe Hawkins ever saw this Delton.
You know what a hard job we had gettin' to the ranch--I bet if we had had Hawkins with us we would have had to fight our way in.
That's what that guard was out for--the one that tried to stop us.
He knew we weren't deputies, so he let us go through.
"Also, that bill was just printed and sent to Hawkins.
Perhaps he didn't have time to look at it.
And say--that accounts for Delton's quick get-away, too.
One of his men rode in an' told him that there was a price on him, and he got, fast.
He must have made this ranch his headquarters.
No wonder he didn't have no sheep around!
Boys, we can expect some right excitin' things to happen, in the next few weeks!"
Silence followed Billee's long speech.
The veteran rancher had thrown a veritable bombshell into camp.
Delton--the man lying asleep upstairs--the head of the smugglers!
Two thousand dollars' reward!
Why, all they had to do was to tie him up and carry him to town--over to the deputy's house.
Capturing the smuggling king the first night at the Shooting Star!
It seemed too good to be true.
"There's a catch in it somewhere," commented Dick.
"No man with a reward like that on his head is going to dump himself into our hands."
"Why not?
It wasn't his fault.
He came sneakin' around the place to spy on us and got caught by the cyclone.
Then a board or something hit him on the head and he fell where we found him.
Nothing strange about that!
We got him and got him good!
Wow, what can't we do with two thousand dollars!"
"There's one thing we forgot, boys," the Kid broke in.
"And what's that?"
"We're downstairs, an' Delton is upstairs."
"That's soon fixed!"
Bud cried, as he sprang for the steps.
"Let's go, boys!"
"Take it easy!"
cautioned the Kid quickly.
"What's the use of scarin' him?
We'll just go up there and truss him up while he's asleep.
Won't hurt him.
That cut on the head was all that ailed him.
Now, take your time!"
The ranchers moved quietly toward the room in which they had left Delton.
As he reached the door, Bud opened it slowly and peered in.
Not a sound.
Then he stuck his head in a bit further.
Still no action.
In the darkness he could see the outline of the bed but faintly.
Softly he turned the covers down.
Farther--farther!
Then he let out a yell.
"Hey, come here!
Quick!"
"What's the trouble?"
The Kid called as he entered the room.
"He's gone!
He beat it!
Look!"
In the bed, molded into the shape of a man, were two pillows.
Delton had escaped, leaving the pillows in such a way as to make it appear that he was still in the bed.
"Here's a note!"
Bud cried.
"He left it on one of the pillows.
Let's have that candle, Dick."
By the flickering spluttering light of the candle Bud read aloud: "Sorry I got to go so sudden, but this bed is too hard.
I wouldn't sleep well.
If you guys want a little advice, you'll move along out of this section.
It ain't healthy.
A word to the wise.
J. D." CHAPTER XI JOE HAWKINS'S VISIT "Can you beat that!"
Nort ejaculated when Bud finished reading.
"Nerve--that Delton certainly has his share of it!"
The feeling which the note aroused was not just one of disappointment.
The Kid seemed highly amused at the turn events had taken.
Billee Dobb assumed an "I-told-you-so" expression which sat comically on his grizzled features.
The rest looked slightly bewildered.
"Got away, didn't he?"
Dick asked in a flat tone of voice.
"Through the window, I guess.
Yep.
Slid down the rain water leader.
Well----" "An' he took with him your wireless and your new bunch of cattle," the Kid remarked sardonically.
"Never count the chickens before they scratch.
Mr. Delton is a slicker article than we figgered on."
"Let's see the note a minute, Bud," Nort said.
"Huh--'bed too hard--couldn't sleep!'
Wise sort of a bird; isn't he?
Say, he must have written this as soon as we left the room."
"Why?"
"Because if he waited too long he couldn't have seen to write--too dark.
That means he's far away by this time.
He probably----" "The horses!
Ten to one he grabbed one of them an' beat it!"
Yellin' Kid cried.
Without further parley the boys and men filed from the room and made for the corral.
The horses had been tied to a pole nearest the house, and they were not long in reaching them.
They could be easily seen in the moonlight which now flooded the prairie.
"Mine's there!"
Bud yelled as he came within view of the animals.
"Guess you're wrong, Kid.
Seems like there's--no there isn't, either!
Only four!
Whose mount is missing?"
"You might know it," the Kid said disgustedly.
"The coot took mine--out of all that bunch to pick from, he had to rustle my new bronc!
By golly, if ever I set eyes on you again, you old----" "Take it easy!"
laughed Bud.
"Could be a lot worse.
He might have turned the rest of 'em loose, too."
"No use beefin' about it," said Billee Dobb.
"All over now.
He's gone--an' so's the Kid's bronc.
Talk about it in the morning.
Me, I'm tired!"
The night passed uneventfully.
At sun-up the Kid appeared at the door of Bud's room and grinned in at him.
"Ready for work?"
he cried.
"You mean trailin' your horse, Kid?"
Bud asked mischievously.
The grin left Yellin' Kid's face and his eyes flashed.
"No," he said shortly.
"I'll leave that for later.
When I got some time on my hands that I want to use up in enjoyment.
Then I'll go after your friend Delton."
"He's no friend of mine," retorted Bud.
"But let's not chop about it until after breakfast, anyway.
Think that Mexican cook is on the job?"
"Heard him movin' around a while ago, Bud.
Let's go down an' see.
Billee is downstairs, and I guess Nort an' Dick are too."
When they reached the dining room they found the others waiting for them.
"Sleep good, boys?"
Dick asked.
"Sure did.
Felt like I'd never wake up.
Say, steak this morning!"
Nort cried as he saw the table loaded with food.
"We got _some_ cook here!"
"Don't it strike you all kind 'a funny that the Mex has got so much stuff on hand?"
Billee Dobb wanted to know.
"Course it _might_ be that this Delton feller had just stocked up before we came.
Hey, Mex!"
he yelled into the kitchen.
"_Aqui_!
_Pronto_!"
The Mexican strolled calmly to where the five sat waiting.
"Where you get all this?"
Billee pointed to the plates of meat.
The Mexican shrugged his shoulders and motioned toward the kitchen.
"Boss leave it here?"
Another shrug.
"Now listen, Mex.
You know what I mean.
You nod or shake your head when I ask you questions."
Yellin' Kid walked over and stood before the Mexican.
"First, did you work for this guy Delton?"
A nod.
"Then when he beat it, you stayed here, hey?"
A nod.
"Why?"
"He can't answer that with his head, Kid," Nort broke in.
"I know it, but maybe he can tell us by motions.
Hey?
Why you no go with Delton?"
The Mexican pointed toward himself, then to the kitchen.
His hands simulated the job of peeling potatoes.
Then he flung both arms wide, and moved his head in a semi-circle, eyes opened as though he were looking for something.
"So he went when you were in the kitchen, hey, an' didn't say nothin' about it.
Well, that sounds logical."
"Kid, for Pete's sake, let's eat!"
Bud interrupted.
"You did fine--give you a badge as a special detective.
All right, Mex, outside.
Gee, you certainly are curious, Kid!"
"I just want to know a few things, that's all," Yellin' Kid protested.
"I don't want to get poisoned.
Can't tell who that Mex is--for all we know he may be one of Delton's men left here to watch us."
"Say, I was thinking the same thing," Dick put in.
"But his graphic explanation as to why he's here seems to be at least plausible.
If, as Billee suggested, Delton cut out when he found there was a price on his head it doesn't seem reasonable that he'd bother taking the cook along.
How about it, Billee?"
"Ain't makin' no statements," the veteran rancher replied slowly.
"Want to think things out a few minutes first."
"Billee's going to solve the great mystery for us!"
Nort laughed.
"Never you mind, ole horse, you knew your stuff when you grabbed that bill-head from Hawkins's office.
The trouble with us was, we were too slow."
The conversation hit on the topics of the night before as the ranchers made a healthy breakfast.
When they had satisfied their hunger Bud leaned back in his chair and said: "Well, what's on the program this morning, Kid?
Beckon you better take charge for a while.
Then Dick can be head boss, and so on--'til we get the sheep in.
O.
K.?"
"All right with me, Bud," the Kid agreed.
"One of us wants to take a ride into town and see about gettin' hold of a sheep-man.
I got to get me a pony, too."
"I'll go," offered Nort.
"Think I'll look up Hawkins.
He might like to know what happened."
The five walked slowly into the yard.
The meal seemed to change their ideas, and set them quietly to thinking.
Bud was leaning against the side of the ranch house.
The Kid strolled over to the corral and looked longingly at the four horses tethered there.
Billee Dobb was seated on the steps smoking his pipe, when he noticed a cloud of dust in the distance.
"Rider," he said, more to himself than to the others.
"Got a hunch who it is."
The dust cloud grew quickly nearer, and from it emerged the figure of a man on horseback.
"Someone coming," Dick called.
"Who is it?"
Bud asked.
From where he stood he was unable to see.
"Don't know yet.
Looks familiar, though.
Here he comes."
"It's Joe Hawkins!"
exclaimed Bud, as the horseman rode into view.
"Hi, Joe--Mr. Hawkins, I mean."
"Joe'll do, son," the deputy said with a smile as he dismounted.
"Looks like you was havin' a convention here."
"Just thinking things over," the Kid, who had walked up, explained.
"Glad you came, Mr.
Hawkins."
"Thought that was you," Billee Dobb said, rising to his feet and removing the pipe from his mouth.
"Seen you way off, and says to myself, bet that's Joe Hawkins."
"You got good eyes," laughed the deputy.
"Oh, it wasn't exactly my eyes.
I had a hunch."
"Billee Dobb is our official detective," Bud said with a grin.
"Tell him about the hand-bill you copped, Billee."
Explanations were in order, and with continuous interruptions the deputy finally heard the story of the cyclone and what followed.
He questioned the boys as to the appearance and talk of Delton, and at last confessed that he must be the man wanted.
"Though I didn't think they knew just who he was," Hawkins added.
"All I knew was that the reward of two thousand was for the head of the smuggling system.
So they got him spotted, have they?
That means we won't have to work in the dark.
It's a wonder the central office wouldn't give a man the whole story when they're about it, instead of lettin' it trickle through.
Well, boys, it's time you knew what this smuggling is all about, hey?"
CHAPTER XII THE STORY OF SMUGGLING "Between this country and Mexico," began the deputy, "there's a strip of land called the border--on one side U. S., and on the other Greaser-land.
You know all about that.
Across this border run several roads--passages into and from Mexico.
And each of these roads is patroled by United States officers.
"These men are placed there for a purpose, and one purpose among others is to prevent the illegal sending into the States of Chinamen.
You see only so many foreigners from each nation are allowed to settle in the United States each year, and once that quota is reached, no more will be admitted.
Naturally there are always men who want to come to the "Land of Plenty" and make their fortunes, but unless these men are within the quota for that year, they are forbidden to enter.
All Chinese are forbidden entry and have been for several years.
"But there are ways and means of getting around that situation.
Suppose a Chinaman wants to become rich.
The first thing he thinks about is America.
All he has to do in America, he thinks, is to bend over and pick up the gold pieces that are lying in heaps all over the streets.
"So the Chinaman makes up his mind to come to America.
He goes to Foy Lee, a slick friend of his, to find out about it.
Foy Lee says 'Good thing you see me.
Sure.
I fix you up.
Easy.
You want go America?
All light.
Can do.
You got fifteen hundred dollah?'
Now where would a poor Chink get fifteen hundred dollars?
He tells Foy Lee there ain't that much money in the world.
So Foy Lee starts thinkin'.
He rubs the top of his head, blinks his eyes, and grunts twice.
Then he says, 'you still want go America?'
'Sure!'
our Chink answers.
'All light,' says Foy Lee.
'You come with me.'
The rascal knows all the time what to do, only he wants to make it seem hard, so he can get his little rake off.
"Foy Lee takes his friend to an office over on a side street in some Chinese city.
There he meets a man who guarantees him passage to U. S. if the Chink will just sign the paper.
That's all--no money nor nuthin'--only sign the paper an' he gets to America.
What is the paper?
Oh, just a promise that the Chink will pay the company that's sending him all his future wages--less enough for food--until fifteen hundred dollars have been paid.
Just a mere matter of slavery, that's what it amounts to.
"But the Chink signs.
What's fifteen hundred in the land of 'plenty dollah?'
Now our Chink is put on a vessel bound for Mexico.
There he is met by an agent of the same company that put him on board in China.
"This agent takes him to a town, near the border--say Presidio, or some such place.
Then the real fun begins.
The company notifies their man at headquarters that the Chink has arrived and is ready to be shipped across the border.
Headquarters looks up the Chink's bond that he signed in China, and which has been received through the mail, and sends back word that everything is O. K., that the Chink, with several others, is to be handed to a smuggler at a certain spot, to be smuggled over the border.
And when the Chink is so delivered the company's part ends.
"After this the Chink's fate is in the hands of the smugglers, and if they get caught, and the poor coot is sent back to China again by the emigration authorities, he's still got to pay that fifteen hundred, although all he got for his money was a long ride and hard treatment.
"The border runners take their consignment of Chinese and either pack them in the back of an auto or wagon, or arrange to smuggle them across some other way.
If they're lucky, they get through.
If not they get hauled up by the border officers, and the runners get jail and the Chinks are sent back to their native land.
And even if they do get through the lines the Chinks' troubles aren't over, for at any time they're liable to be pulled in for not having what they call a 'chock gee,' which is a government paper signifying they are here lawfully and not by smuggling.
I told you about that before.
"And that's how the game works.
These smugglers get hold of a ranch near the border so they can hide their Chinks when they get them across, until the time is set to turn them loose.
'Course I can't say that's what this place has been used for.
But it would be great for it."
The narrator paused and the Boy Ranchers drew long breaths of excitement.
"Well, boys, what do you think about it?"
The tall deputy looked from one to the other.
He was prepared for a deluge of questions, and they came.
"Can't the Chinese counterfeit this 'chock gee'?"
"Who gets the fifteen hundred dollars?"
"Has that smuggling been going on here--near the Shooting Star?"
"Cease firing!"
the deputy laughed.
"I'll answer Bud's question first.
Yes, it _has_ been going on here--right past Roaring River.
That's how our marshal got shot up--tryin' to stop a load of Chinks from gettin' through.
"That fifteen hundred, Dick, is divided between the men who actually do the running, and the company that ships the Chinks to Mexico.
The smugglers get about five hundred a head for every man they get in.
The 'chock gee' is often counterfeited, but not very successfully.
It's printed like a government bank bill, and is just as hard to fake."
For some time the discussion about smuggling went on.
The deputy told of the different tricks resorted to by the border runners in getting their human cargo safely into the United States, and to what lengths they will go to prevent capture.
Boats are also used to transport the Chinese to the American seacoast, Hawkins said, and if, by chance, the runners were caught with a load of prospective undesirable Americans they got out of the difficulty by the simple expedient of dumping the Chinese into the sea.
Another method of transportation was for the smugglers to put off in a small craft from a Mexican port, with a cargo of barrels and Chinese.
When the boat neared the United States coast the Chinese would be nailed in the barrels and thrown overboard, to trust to the mercies of Fate to bring them ashore.
Often the wind blows in an offshore direction, which spells death to the floating Chinese; weeks later they are found dead, when the barrels pile up on some distant coast.
This system of sneaking Chinese into this country was well established, said Hawkins, and the smugglers make use of scouts in small cars before they attempt to bring a load of Chinese across the line.
These scouts ride swiftly along the route of the proposed entry, and locate, definitely, the position of each border patrol, so that when the run is actually made the driver of the car filled with Chinese knows the spots to avoid.
Of course the Boy Ranchers were chiefly interested in the part their new Shooting Star property might have played in this game of smuggling.
"And the fellow that lived here is the local head of that system!"
Bud exclaimed.
"Say, we let a rare bird go when he escaped."
"We've still got a chance to get him," Dick declared.
"He must be around somewhere.
That note--you saw the note we found, didn't you, Mr.
Hawkins?--well, that indicated we might look for another visit from the coot.
The Kid will be glad to see him, eh, Kid?"
"An' I don't mean maybe!"
Yellin' Kid exploded.
"Stealin' the best bronc I ever had--just when I was gettin' him broken in proper--an' me away out here in the wilderness with nothin' to ride----" "I'll get you a pony," the deputy offered.
"There's one I know of that's a beaut--fast and strong.
Friend of mine wants to sell her."
"I'd be sure grateful if you'd do that, mister.
It sort of hits me hard, losin' a good bronc like that."
"It wasn't your fault, Kid," Bud hastened to say.
"And Dad will insist on buying you another.
So if Mr. Hawkins knows of one that will suit you, take it.
You'll fix him up with a horse then, Mr.
Hawkins?"
"Depend on it," the tall deputy declared.
"Now to business.
I've told you boys all I knew about the way smuggling is being done around here, but I didn't do it just to be interestin'.
I want you-all to help me."
"Sure!"
"That's what we're here for!"
"No, we're not, Kid," Bud corrected.
"We're here to herd sheep.
But we'll certainly help Mr. Hawkins all we can."
"Here's the dope, boys," and the deputy leaned closer.
"This Delton may or may not have been doin' business here at the ranch.
If he has been, an' I'm goin' to figger that way, his friends still expect him to be here.
He left in too much of a hurry to send out word.
An' here's where you-all come in.
"I want you to pretend the ranch hasn't changed hands.
Just lay low for a while, not travelin' 'round much, an' we'll see what happens.
I don't mind tellin' you we got another tip, that some Chinks were goin' to be rushed across within the next few days.
Can't say just when, but soon now.
It's a big load this time, an' if things work the way I think they will, they'll try to land them at this ranch."
"You mean they'll think Delton is still here?"
Nort inquired excitedly.
"Yes.
Of course I may be wrong--that may not be the plans at all.
But I've got pretty good reasons for thinkin' I'm right.
We sort of suspected that the Shootin' Star was bein' used for illegal purposes, but we never had a chance to prove it.
The place was too well guarded, and without a warrant you can't go on another's property.
I knew we'd not find anything if we did search the place, for the Chinks are only landed at night, and shipped away the next morning; scattered all over the country.
They all look so much alike it's hard to tell 'em apart."
"So you never really saw Delton?"
asked Nort.
"Nope--never have.
He never came to town--whatever stuff he wanted he sent his men in for."
"Told you!"
Billee Dobb cried.
"I knew he never saw the geezer!
Just like I said--nobody was allowed in here with a badge on."
"Right again," the Kid said with a grin.
"Billee's the only one of this gang that seems to know his stuff."
"Well, that's the plan, boys," stated Mr. Hawkins.
"Are you with me?"
"You bet!"
"Bring on the smugglers!"
"Kid, here's your chance to find out what became of your shirt!"
"Wait!"
the deputy held up his hand.
"We can't go into this thing like that, boys!
It's too dangerous.
Enough men have been killed now by the smugglers, and I don't want to add to the list.
I thought a long time before I came over this morning, and I finally decided I'd take a chance on you.
When I met you first I knew you were dependable men.
Remember--this is no joke!
We've got to be ready to take what comes!"
The faces of the boys sobered in an instant.
"I guess you'll find you weren't far wrong," Bud said quietly.
"We've been in a few tight squeezes before--I suppose you heard of Del Pinzo?"
"Certainly.
He was captured and jailed a while ago.
Don't know whether he got out since or not."
"Well, we are the ones who put him there," Bud went on in a quiet tone.
"No!
Why say,--I remember you now!
I saw you bring him in!
Well, well!
So that's the way of things!
Boys, I'm sure glad I met you!
Between us we ought to make a go of this.
So you captured Del Pinzo!
Now here's another job for you.
What do you think of this idea?"
The boys leaned close as they prepared to hear the deputy's plan.
CHAPTER XIII TRAPPED For some minutes the boys listened to the details of the deputy's scheme.
It involved danger, there was no doubt of that, but it also gave a chance for success.
If luck held in their favor--and Kid said after the run of misfortune they had met with it was time for a change of weather--they might hope for a rich prize--possibly Delton himself--though this last did not seem likely.
The whole success of the plan depended on fooling the smugglers into thinking the ranch was still held by Delton.
"And there we are," finished Hawkins.
"Any questions, boys?
You-all know what to do?"
"All set!"
Yellin' Kid answered.
"Now that's over with, guess I'll mosey down to town."
"Rather you stayed around, Kid, if you don't mind," said the deputy.
"Anything particular you wanted?"
"Well, just to see about that bronc you mentioned.
And we got to get hold of a sheepman soon."
"I'll fix that up for you," Hawkins offered.
"Dick, how about you riding back with me?"
"Glad to, Mr. Hawkins.
Anybody want anything?"
"Better find out about food," suggested Nort.
"And we could all stand a clean shirt or two.
Before you go, Dick, we all better take inventory.
Didn't bring much, you know.
What do you say, boys?
Speak up, and Dick can collect your stuff while he's in town."
"Where's that Mex?"
the Kid asked.
"Wait a minute while I head for the kitchen."
He bounded up the steps and flung open the door.
To his surprise a figure stumbled away and ran back.
But Yellin' Kid was faster, and in a moment he had collared the man.
It was the Mexican cook.
"Hey, what the mischief you doin' here?
Huh?
Listening weren't you?"
The Mexican shook his head.
"What, then?
If you weren't listenin' what were you doin'?"
The cook pointed toward the kitchen and then to his mouth.
He spread both hands, palms upward.
"No more grub?
Oh, I see.
An' you was comin' to tell us?"
"What's the matter, Kid?"
the deputy called.
"Who you talking to?"
The Kid dragged the Mexican out into the yard.
"This bird," he said.
"Cook.
The one we found here.
He was hidin' behind the door--wants me to believe he came out to tell us there was no more eats.
Why you run, hey?
What's the idea of that?"
He tightened his grip on the Mexican's collar.
"Oh, let the poor Greaser alone, Kid," Bud objected.
"He's all right.
Just scared, that's all.
The way you jerked open the door was enough to scare anyone."
"Yea?
Maybe.
Anyway, I don't like this coot's looks.
Back you go, Mex.
Next time don't be snoopin' around like that.
We'll get your stuff for you."
He released his grasp, and the Mexican slunk back into the house.
"Funny gink," commented Billee Dobb in a drawling tone of voice, as he stared at the door through which the cook had disappeared.
"Queerest Mex I ever saw."
"The old detective still on the job," the Kid laughed and grinned.
"Well, Mr. Hawkins wants to get started.
Guess you can order a whole stock of food, Dick.
The store got a buckboard, deputy?"
"Believe it has."
"Then you can tell 'em what you want and they'll cart it over.
Flour, bacon, bakin' powder, canned tomatoes, some yellow clings--don't forget them, Dick--and whatever else you can think of.
Shirts can wait.
All right, boys.
Stay here, Dick, I'll bring your bronc."
"The Kid wants to handle a pony again," Nort said, when the Kid had left.
"He hated to lose that one of his."
"Mighty fond of it," declared Bud.
"While you're gone, Dick, I think I'll take a look around and see what I can find."
"Wouldn't go too far," Hawkins cautioned.
"Here's your bronc, Dick.
Let's be on our way.
See you fellers later.
So long."
The two--Dick and the deputy--rode toward the town.
Billee Dobb resumed the smoking of his pipe.
The effect of the exciting plan they had just heard seemed to have departed with the deputy, for the minds of those at the ranch turned again to the business of sheep farming.
Billee spoke of "washes," and "dips," and of buying a few "hurdles."
These terms were Greek to the boys, being experienced as they were only in cattle and not sheep raising, but Billee explained to them some of the peculiarities of the "woolies."
He in a varied career had seen most of the life of the range, and it was no surprise to the boys to find he had once herded sheep.
As the morning wore on, the ranchers busied themselves in the doing of many tasks about the place.
The Kid made a thorough inspection of the roofs and sides of the several shacks, to check up on the repairing needed.
Nort investigated the state of their living quarters--the bunk and cook house.
Bud decided to ride a bit through the surrounding country, to observe the extent of their range, and to see to the fences.
Bud was not exactly "fence riding."
This means following the fence until a break is seen, repairing it, and going on to the next break.
It is difficult and tiresome work, no task to occupy an idle morning with.
As Bud rode along, his mind was busy with the thoughts of all that had happened in the short time the boys had been on the Shooting Star.
The plan that the deputy had outlined for the capture of the smugglers called for work, and it had only a fair chance of success.
Nevertheless there seemed no other way to achieve results, and the advantages of the control of the Shooting Star had to be realized early in the game.
"I'd like to run across Delton," thought Bud, feeling unconsciously for his gun.
His hand encountered no holster, and he suddenly realized that he had not bothered to arm himself before starting out.
"Just as well that I don't see Delton," he said to himself a trifle ruefully.
"Wouldn't do me a lot of good to meet him when I haven't a ghost of a show of bringing him in.
Yet I might take a chance on him if I saw him first."
The pony he was riding stepped carefully so as to avoid prairie dog holes, which would throw him and his rider if he stepped in one suddenly.
"Might be a good idea to turn around," thought Bud aloud.
"Don't want to leave the work of the ranch to Nort and the Kid and Billee, though there isn't an awful lot to do yet.
When those sheep come in we'll have our hands full.
Oh, well, guess I'll ride a bit farther.
See how much more work this fence needs."
He was riding slowly now, looking carefully about him.
The country appeared vaguely familiar.
Certain bushes looked as though he had seen them before--there was a small tree that he had certainly passed some time before.
The cowboy's sight is so trained by years on the prairie that even the shape of a bush will be remembered subconsciously.
There is so much land in the west that it is necessary to have some means to guide oneself about, else a rider could very easily get lost along a trail that should be familiar.
"Seems to me I've been here before," Bud said.
"Let's see now--that bush.
Know I saw that sometime.
That little hill there--why--I'll bet that is--" he spurred his mount to a faster gait and made for a small knoll that rose in front of him.
As he reached it he gave a yell.
"I know now!
This is where we got in that fight with the hidden gunman!
And over there ought to be--sure enough!
The water hole!
I didn't think we were so near it.
I must have come further than I thought.
Well--might as well take a look around.
Right here is where the bird that did all the shooting must have lain.
Come here, bronc!"
The boy dismounted and slipped his horse's bridle rein on his wrist.
Then he threw himself down on the sand in the position their antagonist might have taken when he fired at them.
"Here I am with a view of the water hole, and in a good place to shoot from without being shot.
Now I want to get away quick.
What do I do?
If I roll to the left, I expose myself to fire.
If I roll to the right, I--" there was a little clump of mesquite by his right elbow.
Bud pulled himself toward this.
"That would afford protection, but once I get in here how can I get out?
Now--" The boy was rolling to the center.
With a "Hold it, bronc!"
he released the reins and his hand slid off the clump.
Suddenly a queer thing happened.
Bud felt the ground below him give way, and the next moment he found himself in a hole just large enough to admit his body, and about four feet deep.
Above him the bushes had closed again, effectively screening him from the view of anyone above ground.
He had accidentally solved the mystery of the gunman's strange disappearance.
For a few seconds Bud lay still, so sudden was the shock of the fall.
He was not really stunned, however, and as soon as he recovered from his surprise he struggled to his feet and parted the brush above him.
His horse was near by, moving slowly and cropping grass.
Then he saw how easily it would be to escape observation by falling into the small pit.
The bush was certainly not large enough to conceal a man, and for this reason no one would imagine it could serve to screen a hole.
It afforded a perfect hiding place.
On either side was flat prairie, and no one would suspect the presence of a hidden person in that country.
"So that's how it all happened!"
Bud gave a low whistle.
"No wonder we missed the fellow.
Say, this is one bird of a hiding place!
All a man has to do is to roll in it, like I did.
Anyone who can tell this hole is here without being in it is a better detective than I am.
"But what a crazy spot for a hiding place!
Surely whoever dug it didn't know he'd use it to fire on us and then escape.
Must have been some other reason for making it, and then it came in handy when whoever shot at us wanted to get away.
He must have just lain quiet while we looked around, then, when we left, he just came out and walked away.
Clever, all right.
Now who'd think of a stunt like that?"
He looked more closely at the hole.
It was well walled up, and had evidently been dug some time ago.
By parting the bushes and kneeling on a mound of earth at the bottom, a perfect sight of the surrounding territory could be obtained.
A gun could be poked through the bush and all the ground, except a very small part directly in front of the hill, would be covered.
The person who dug it evidently had in mind the advantages of firing from a hidden spot.
"Well, no use in staying in here any longer.
Hope that fool bronc of mine is still there.
Don't want to lose her like the Kid did his.
Won't the rest be surprised when I tell them about this!
The Kid will want to come right out and see it, and try it out.
And Billee Dobb will say 'I thought there was sumpin' like this!'
Gosh, this thing is pretty deep."
Bud put both hands on the sides and pulled himself toward the top.
He threw one leg over the edge and was just about to spring out when that unconscious something which often warns us of the presence of another caused him to look up.
What he saw almost caused him to fall back into the pit again.
Looking down at him was a man.
In his hand he held a gun, the muzzle pointed at Bud's head.
And as the boy saw the man's face he uttered a cry.
"Delton!"
"The same!
I see you decided to visit us.
Well, buddy, you're in for a good long visit!"
Delton's lips curled in a sardonic smile.
CHAPTER XIV TO-MORROW NIGHT Back of Delton Bud saw another man--and after a moment he recognized him as the cowboy with the saw-off shot-gun who had warned them away from the Shooting Star.
"Up out of that!"
Delton commanded.
"Keep your hands high.
Don't try no funny work or you'll be eatin' breakfast with St.
Peter."
Discretion was easily the better part of valor, and, realizing this, Bud made no hostile motion.
He climbed meekly out of the pit.
"What do you think of our little hide-an'-seek hole, Merkel?
Or perhaps you had some experience with it before.
Hey?"
"So you're the one who shot at us!"
Bud cried hotly.
"Well, let me tell you that it was a coward's trick.
If you----" "Say, buddy, I want to tell _you_ something.
The less you talk the better it will be for you."
Delton's eyes held a dangerous glint.
"I don't know what you're talking about.
No--never mind!
Don't answer me.
Sam--" this to the puncher who stood behind Delton--"if this bird says another word shut him up--quick!"
Sam nodded and stepped a little forward.
"Turn around," Delton ordered shortly.
As Bud turned he felt his arms grabbed and forced back until his wrists were held firmly together.
A neckerchief was wound around his wrists and tied tightly.
Then Delton "frisked" him, or searched him, for weapons.
Finding none he forced Bud at the point of his gun to walk ahead some fifteen yards, where the ponies stood--Bud's and the two others.
"Upstairs, Merkel."
Delton motioned toward Bud's pony.
"You're goin' for a little ride with us.
Step on it, now."
With some difficulty Bud succeeded in mounting his bronco.
The little pony was trembling, as though it realized something of what was going on.
"Well, sonny, how does it feel to be talked to and not be able to talk back?
Something like that Mexican cook of yours, hey?"
"The Mexican cook!"
Bud turned swiftly in his saddle.
"So he's one of your men too!
I thought--" he began hotly.
"You thought nothin'!"
the one called Sam interrupted in a rough voice.
"You heard what the boss said.
If you want to enjoy good health a while longer, keep your mouth shut!"
There was nothing for it but to obey.
It would do no good to persist in questioning his captors, and not only would he learn nothing, but the questions would only serve to antagonize them more.
The three rode along silently.
Now and then Bud would shift in the saddle, for it is no easy thing to ride a long ways on a nervous pony with one's hands tied behind.
Finally they seemed to reach their destination--the house Bud had seen in the distance.
It was a ramshackle affair, with the roof partly torn away and no vestige of paint.
Evidently it had once been used for a farm house, for about it were several other shacks, probably to store grain in.
Delton dismounted and held the bridle of Bud's pony.
"Your new home," he said, with a grin.
"Come right in.
Sorry we can't fix you up better, but you see all the servants are away."
The lad hesitated a moment.
"Off you come!"
Delton seized Bud by the belt and pulled.
The boy tumbled off his pony and hit the ground.
"That wasn't--necessary!"
the boy panted, as he lay there with most of the breath knocked out of him.
Luckily he had fallen on his side, and not on his face, which would have meant a real injury, his hands tied as they were.
"Maybe not, but I figger it'll do you good.
Give you an appetite for dinner," and Delton laughed harshly.
"Where I come from we treat 'em worse than that."
"Aw, let him alone," Sam growled.
"No use hurtin' the kid!
That won't help us any.
If we get caught it won't be so good havin' a lot of enemies."
"Who said we were goin' to get caught?"
Delton walked over to where Sam sat on his pony.
"Sam, I haven't liked your actions lately.
Now you yell about getting caught.
You know what happened to that last bird who arranged for me to meet up with the cops?"
"Yea, I know."
Sam moved uneasily in his saddle.
He did not meet Delton's eyes.
"You don't think I'd tell on you, do ya--an' get twenty years myself?
Ain't likely.
Anyway----" "All right!
Pipe down.
Get this kid inside.
I want to see if Slim got back yet."
"Come on, kid.
Here, I'll help you up.
Hurt yourself?"
Sam had dismounted and assisted Bud to his feet.
"No, I didn't.
Thanks.
What was his idea in pulling me off like that?
If ever I get him I'll remember it."
"Oh, he always pulls stunts like that.
Wants everybody to know he's a hard guy.
Comes from New York, and thinks he can put it all over the West.
One thing I will say for him, he sure can shoot.
That's enough, now."
Sam's tone changed, and a warning light came into his eyes.
"I ain't paid to talk to you.
Let's go," he growled.
He led Bud up the steps and into the house.
The shades were pulled down tight, and the gloom made it very difficult for Bud to see much.
He noticed some sort of a hat-tree in the hall, and as they walked toward the back he saw the doors of several rooms which opened off the lower hall.
Into one of these Sam led his captive.
"Here's where you stay," he said.
"No use tryin' to get out, for the windows are barred.
And that door is oak.
Here--" and Sam struggled with the knot which bound Bud's wrists behind his back.
"Make you feel a little comfortable, anyhow.
You can't do much without a gun.
There's water in that pitcher.
I'll try to sneak you in some bread about noon."
Without another word Sam stepped out of the room and closed the door.
Bud heard a key grate in the lock, and then a bolt shot home.
"Taking no chances," he thought.
"My, it feels good to get my arms free!"
He stretched lustily.
"Wonder where on earth I am?
Let's take a look at those windows.
Bars, hey?"
He pulled the shade aside.
Surely enough on the outside were several iron bars, making the room a veritable jail.
"They sure got me penned up here proper!
Now why did they go to all this trouble?
Just because I found that pit by the water hole?
"That doesn't seem reasonable.
Must want me for something besides that.
Guess I'll know soon enough.
In the meantime I'll take a look around.
Water!
That's right--I am thirsty.
Funny how you forget that when you're excited."
Bud was talking to himself now.
There are people who seem to be able to puzzle things out better if the problem is put into words than if they just revolve it over in their minds.
Bud was one of these, and as he investigated his prison he kept talking in a low tone to himself.
With the shades up he was able to get a better view of the room.
It was small, and had only that one window in it.
The furniture consisted of a chair and a table.
The floor was bare.
The walls were painted a dull gray.
Bud pushed experimentally against one of the sides, but to no purpose.
It was as solid as iron.
There was one more thing to be tried, that was the door.
Bud was reconciled to spending at least the morning within the room, and it made very little difference to him whether the door was of oak, as "Sam" had said, or some softer wood.
However, he thought, he might as well take a crack at it.
Try anything once, he reasoned.
He walked over and turned the knob softly.
It refused to budge an inch.
Then Bud applied more pressure.
This time it turned slowly.
Hope rang in Bud's heart as he felt the latch click back, then as he remembered hearing the door bolted his heart sank again.
Still he turned the knob as far as it would go, and pushed.
The door opened about half an inch.
Then it stuck.
Bud's hand dropped from the knob, and he ran his fingers along the crack.
Half way up they encountered cold metal--a chain which allowed the door to open only a little, then held.
Bud seemed as securely fastened as though he had been unable to budge the door at all.
Then he thought it was possible the bolt worked on a slide, and if he could reach through the crack and ease it out of the slide, he would be free.
"A knife would do the trick," he thought.
"Nothing like that around here.
I wonder if my belt buckle would do?"
He tried forcing it through the crack.
"Nope.
Not long enough.
Isn't there something about the room I could use?
Chair--that's no good.
Neither is the table.
Water pitcher--can't see what good that is.
Porcelain, I guess."
He ran his hand over the pitcher.
"Yep.
Well, that doesn't seem to help.
Unless--" he hesitated.
A thought struck him.
"If I could break it and use a piece of it like a knife I'll bet I could scrape that bolt over!
But how can I break it without making a racket and bringing Delton and his gang rushing in?"
Bud thought a moment.
Then he snapped his fingers softly, and his eyes lit up.
"I've got it!"
he whispered.
Taking off his vest and shirt he wrapped the pitcher well in them, after pouring out the water.
Then he tapped it gently against the window-sill.
It made almost no noise, so he hit it harder.
After a few tries he felt it break.
As he unwrapped his bundle of shattered porcelain he saw he had, luckily, broken a piece just the size he wanted.
He replaced his shirt and vest and with the piece of pitcher in his hand he made once more for the door, this time with a real hope of escaping.
"Just the right length!"
Bud exalted as he slid the narrow knife-like porcelain through the crack in the door and against the bolt.
Then he started to coax the bolt from its slide.
Softly, softly he scraped against the iron, and to his delight felt it move ever so little.
He could not open the door to its full extent in his endeavor to slip the bolt, for this would tighten the chain and hold the metal piece more firmly in its slide.
He had to work with his left hand holding the door at the proper angle and his right hand using the piece of the water pitcher.
It was tiresome work.
Several times Bud halted as he heard footsteps in the hall outside, but they went on their way without stopping.
The porcelain was rapidly wearing down.
Its edge had already become dulled, and no longer offered the purchase on the iron that it did at first.
But finally Bud succeeded--the bolt slid back.
Cautiously he tried the door.
It opened!
In obedience to Bud's push, the door swung wide.
For a moment the lad stood still, listening intently.
The low murmur of voices came to his ears.
"Down the hall," he thought.
"Must be in that large room I passed coming in."
He stepped gently forward.
A board creaked under his foot, and froze him into instant stillness.
The murmur of voices droned on, and once more Bud moved forward.
Down the hall he tip-toed.
Nearer and nearer to the room wherein the men were talking he came.
Now he was directly opposite.
The door was tightly closed, but he could make out the conversation distinctly.
"A cinch!"
he heard someone say.
"There's nothing to it!
Even if Jake doesn't know about the Shooting Star, he can run the bunch through all right.
And the sooner the better."
"You know when the run is planned for?"
someone asked.
"Sure!
And I think we'll be lucky on the weather.
Looks like rain to me."
"Well, I hope so.
It's all set for to-morrow night, then?"
"Check!
All set.
To-morrow night it is."
Outside Bud was listening intently, his heart thumping in his breast.
CHAPTER XV BILLEE DOBB'S STORY Back at the Shooting Star ranch the three others, Nort, Billee Dobb and Yellin' Kid, were occupying themselves with the business of the day.
The Kid having reported on the condition of the "shacks," Nort decided that a new bunk house would be necessary before the shearing season to accommodate the extra men.
He and Yellin' Kid, together with Billee Dobb, then lazed about the place, awaiting the return of Dick and Bud.
It was eleven o'clock before Dick came riding into the yard.
"Bring any grub back with you?"
"No.
The store said the buckboard would be right over, almost as soon as I got here.
Is the kitchen all cleaned out?"
"Pretty near, I guess.
That's what the Mex meant when I caught him at the door.
Gee, I wish----" He was interrupted by a rattling and creaking, and the sound of horses beating a fast tattoo on the hard earth.
Above this bedlam arose the sound of a voice in loud and vigorous denunciation.
"Here she comes!"
Nort cried.
"The food!
Say, that team must have been stepping right along.
Got here almost as soon as you did, Dick."
With a final roar and crash of wooden timbers, and a last invocation to: "Hold up there, you two wildcats, or I'll bust you wide open," the cart drew up to the ranch house door.
From its swaying side the driver, a grinning youth in a blue shirt and red bandanna 'kerchief about his neck, climbed down.
"Get here in time?"
he called.
"Sure had these here babies rollin' right along."
Then without even a halt for breath he went on: "What do you think of this here team?
Best pair of ponies in the state!
Lean down, baby, 'til I smooth those ears of yours.
Down, I say!
Why, you spavin-boned piece of horse meat!
Come down here or I'll chew you up!
Throw your head back at me, will you?
Of all the knock-kneed, wall-eyed chunks of locoed craziness, you're the worst.
Pete, you pink-headed, glandered cayuse, drop that neck or I'll skin you alive.
That's the stuff!
Best little pair of broncoes in the state, boys!"
"You sure got some vocabulary!"
laughed Dick.
"Think a lot of your team, don't you--sometimes!
Yes, you got here in plenty of time."
"Bring them yellow clings?"
the Kid asked, anxiously.
"Yep!
Two dozen cans of the best yellow cling peaches.
An' flour, bacon, an' all the rest.
Help me unload, boys."
With five pairs of willing hands on the job, the wagon was quickly relieved of its load.
The food was carried into the kitchen, and left there for the cook with an admonition to: "Get busy, Mex.
We're starved!"
"Thanks for bringing the stuff over so promptly," Dick said to the youthful driver.
"You must have hit only the high spots to get here so quick."
"Should say I did!
One time we left the ground and stayed up while a coyote ran under the whole length of the wagon.
Can't beat this here team of mine for speed.
Well, guess I'll be gettin' back.
All set, ponies?
Don't strain yourselves, now.
Got plenty of time.
Just go along nice an' easy.
Yes, sir, boys, I love these animals like brothers!
"Get along there, Pete.
Get along, I say.
Pete, you lop-eared wangdoddle!
Quit draggin' that other bronc around!
Hear me?
Dodgast your hide, I'll blow your fool head right off your worthless carcass if you don't quit that.
You will, will you?
How do you like the feel of that?
Now we're off!
At-a-baby, get goin'!
So long, boys!
You, Pete!
Gosh darn your senseless hide, I'll--" the rest was lost.
"He loves 'em like brothers!"
shouted the Kid, holding his sides with laughter.
"Oh, boy!
'Take your time, ponies!'
Sure, they'll take their time!
Bet he's half way to Roarin' River by now.
Wow, what a driver!
Ho-ho--I haven't had a laugh like this in years!
'Don't strain yourselves!'
Oh, baby!"
A cloud of dust marked the disappearance of the grinning youth with the "best pair of ponies in the state."
He left behind him an appreciative audience.
"Hope that Mex gets a wiggle on," Nort said when the laughter had quieted down.
"He ought to be able to rustle a pretty fair meal with all that junk."
"And in the meantime we might as well sit," Yellin' Kid suggested.
"Look over the landscape."
The punchers made their way to the corral.
Without explaining, each knew the Kid's suggestion to "sit an' look over the landscape" meant a view from the top rail of the corral, which was several feet high.
This is the cowboy's favorite resting place while waiting for "chuck."
They will sit there and survey a perfectly familiar scene until called off by the cook's horn or the cry to "come an' git it."
"Bud ought to be back for grub," said Dick as he swung his leg over the top rail.
"Ought to," Nort agreed.
"Said he wasn't going far."
"That might mean anything out here," Billee Dobb broke in, "from a two-mile jaunt to a ride of twenty mile or more.
Bud's O. K. though.
If he don't show up fer his meals he's got a good reason."
"You're probably right," Dick said, "but with all this trouble around here I don't like to see anyone stay away too long.
If he doesn't come in before afternoon we'll have to take a ride around and see if we can't spot him."
"No use crossing bridges before we come to them," Nort declared.
"After all this talk Bud will probably come riding in with a bear cub he chased.
Bud's funny that way.
Anything that's a bit out of the ordinary, and Bud will go miles out of his way to see it.
Remember how he stared at that cyclone coming until he forgot where he was?"
"I don't think he's so funny," the Kid declared in a thoughtful tone.
"Just doesn't like to miss any of the show, that's all.
Me, I'm like that sometimes.
A pretty sunset gets me here somehow," and the Kid placed his hand on his stomach in a general way.
"Have you tried eating raw onions?"
Nort asked in a solicitous voice.
"They say they're awful good."
"Aw, you guys make me sick," said Yellin' Kid disgustedly.
"Just as soon as a feller gets--well--poetical like--you hop all over him."
"Ex-cuse me, Kid!
I didn't know you were getting poetical.
Why, if I had known that I wouldn't have said a word.
I thought you were telling us about your indigestion."
"Go ahead--go ahead!
I'll get you sometime, Nort.
Billee, do you think it's nice to run me around like that?"
"Do you good," Billee said with a grin.
"When I was young an' worked out with a bunch from Two-bar Cross--the roughest outfit you'd ever laid eyes on--I wasn't let to open my mouth without someone hoppin' down my throat.
That was a gang, let me tell you!"
"They were the old-fashioned punchers, weren't they?"
Dick asked, winking at the Kid.
"The kind that used a buck-strap and ate his coffee out of a frying-pan."
"Buck-strap!
Buck--say, boy, if any man on that there Two-bar Cross outfit ever heard you speak of a buck-strap they wouldn't know what you was talkin' about.
No, sir!
Those boys were rough customers."
A buck-strap is a leather thong fastened to the saddle in such a way that if the pony suddenly bucks, its rider can hold himself on by inserting his hand within this thong and pulling hard.
The user of one of these contraptions is never proud of it, needless to say.
"You used to work a lot in the summer, didn't you, Billee?"
the Kid asked with a concealed grin.
"Yes, and in the winter, too.
Mostly in the winter.
I remember one time----" "Now he's off," the Kid whispered in an aside to Dick.
"This'll be good."
"I remember once when I was ridin' for the Two-bar Cross bunch an' we had four thousand head of cattle on the range.
'Long about December, when the first snow starts, me an' Joe Heldig was sent out to see how the bunch was makin' out, and if they needed anything, one of us was to ride back an' tell the rest while the other watched.
Well, we set out about seven o'clock one morning to see if we could spot the herd.
"It was clear an' cold when we started.
Not a cloud in the sky.
Thinks I, we're pretty lucky, havin' such fine weather; that late in the season, too.
Joe Heldig, he don't say nothin'.
We took with us our blankets, some sour-dough, coffee an' bacon, an' that fryin'-pan you was talking about, Dick.
We rode along easy like, not worryin' nor nothin', an' talkin' about the best way to skin a steer, an' whether it's best to split two pair on the draw to try for a flush.
That used to be a trick of Joe's.
"Around about noon it started to get warmer, an' off in the east a few white clouds showed up.
Me, I don't worry none, but I see Joe lookin' kind of anxious now an' then.
"We found the bunch at three o'clock, not as far out as we figgered they'd be.
Seemed pretty contented an' easy.
Had a good grazin' spot, too.
An' just as we was about to call it a day I felt something wet drop on my nose.
Then another.
Joe looked at me an' I looked at him.
Snow!
Know what that means on the range?
"Well, there was nothin' for it but to stick around an' see how bad it was goin' to be.
By five o'clock we knew.
The flakes was comin' down so thick you couldn't see, and a wind had sprung up.
An' Joe an' me had a bunch of cattle on our hands.
I told Joe one of us better try to make the ranch and bring back enough men to get the cattle to a sheltered spot, so they wouldn't die.
I knew we couldn't move them alone, and where they were grazin' it was all open.
So Joe started.
He knew the general direction, an' what would be sure suicide for anyone else was just a chance for Joe, havin' lived for twenty years right in that section.
"I could easy keep track of the cows by their moanin'.
It was real cold now, an' the poor bunch of beeves stood in the snow with their heads held low, with icicles hanging from their eyes, groanin' something pitiful.
They never moved.
Just stood there while the snow drifted up around their haunches.
What I was afraid of was a drift.
Not a drift of snow, but a drift of cattle.
"I knew those steers would only stay still a certain length of time, then one of them would start movin' leaward, with the whole bunch followin'.
And they'd march that way into the snow, until every blessed one of them dropped, and died where it fell.
First the little calves.
Then the mothers, who'd stick by their babies until they died, too.
Then the cows of the herd who weren't so strong.
An' last, some big, proud long-horn would drop in his tracks an' die.
An' there wouldn't be nothin' left of the herd except dots in the snow along the path.
That's what we call a drift.
"I knew if they ever started driftin' I couldn't save them.
I could try to turn them by rushin' my bronc into them, but it wouldn't do no good.
It needs at least six men to do that job.
An' even then, if they once get well started, I don't think they'd turn aside fer _nothin'_.
So I just sat on my pony an' waited.
The snow kept gettin' higher, and the wind colder an' colder.
The cows were moanin' heavy now.
I saw 'em shift once or twice, an' my heart went in my throat, but they settled down once more to just breathin' hard.
How I did hope that Joe made the ranch.
I sort of felt that if help didn't come soon the drift would start.
It takes so long for a cow to get the idea she wants to move, and when she gets the notion into her head, her legs start goin' themselves, an' keep goin' until something bigger and stronger than she is stops her.
I knew that the only thing would stop this bunch, once they started, would be death.
"All of a sudden the moanin' of the cattle grew louder.
I rode up close to them an' saw what the reason was, and it made me catch my breath.
A big cow was steppin' slowly out, head low, right into the gale.
The drift had started.
"I rode hard at the brute that was leadin'.
She never paid no attention to me whatever.
Then I drew my gun and shot her, but the cow behind kept right on goin'.
An' back of her the rest started movin'.
Unless something happened quick the show was over.
"Then I heard what I'd been hopin' an' prayin' for--a yell!
Through the screamin' of the wind I could hear Joe's voice whoopin' it up, an' believe me, it was the most welcome sound I'd ever heard.
The next minute the whole gang from the ranch, in a flyin' wedge, rode right into that bunch of long-horns, and split them wide open!
"That saved them.
They was scared out of the drift, an' we soon drove them down behind a hill, where the wind wouldn't get at them, and they could reach the grass through the snow.
Joe had made it just in time, though how he found the ranch in that storm is still a mystery, even to him."
The boys on the rail sat silent for a moment.
Then out from the kitchen of the ranch house there came the blast of a horn.
"Grub!"
Yellin' Kid shouted.
"Let's eat, boys!"
CHAPTER XVI BUD'S ESCAPE Bud stood listening, with bated breath, to the conversation on the other side of the closed door.
He heard the words "to-morrow night" and "all set" repeated several times.
With his ears strained he leaned forward until his shoulder was almost touching the door.
If they would only talk just a little bit louder---Suddenly Bud lost his balance.
He had been so tense that he had not realized how precarious his position was, the smallest noise being sure to alarm the occupants of the room.
Now his foot slipped, and, with a crash, he went headlong against the door!
There was a quick scraping of chairs within, and voices raised in excited outcry.
Bud recoiled from the fall as fast as he might, and, springing down the hall, he made for the front door.
By this time the plotters had emerged from the room and had seen Bud in his wild sprint for safety.
"Grab him!"
someone shouted.
"Get him, Jack!
He's been listening!
Jump on his neck!"
"Jump on him yourself!
What's the matter, are you tied to the floor?"
"Never mind those wise-cracks!"
came Delton's voice.
"Out that door quick, and nab him!"
Bud had reached the porch, and looked desperately about him.
Where were the horses?
A sudden neigh answered his thought, and he dashed around to the side of the house.
The ponies were tethered to a rail not one hundred yards away.
Luckily Bud's horse was among them.
"All you've got, bronc!
We're holding our own, anyway.
Gee!"
A report sounded behind him and he heard the whine of a bullet.
"They mean business, all right!
On your way, pony!"
The feet of his mount scarcely seemed to touch the ground, so fast did he travel.
On and on they flew, keeping their distance and even gaining.
"Stick to it, old boy!"
Bud exhorted his bronco.
"We're as good as they are, any day!
Can't last forever!
Wow!"
Another bullet sang through the air.
"That was a close one.
If I had a gun you wouldn't be so free with your lead.
All I've got to depend on is what's under me.
But you'll do, old boy, you'll do!
Step on it!"
Across the open prairie flew the chase, Bud in the lead about five hundred yards.
His pony was tiring now, the breath was coming in short gasps.
Bud consoled himself with the thought that his followers' mounts were probably in worse case.
"Just a little more, bronc!"
he coaxed.
"Soon be home!
At-a-baby--yo-yo-yo!"
He kept in cadence with his pony's gallop, and it seemed to him that she responded with a further burst of speed.
He looked back again.
Certainly he was increasing the distance between himself and his pursuers!
They appeared a greater distance from him than when they had started.
Now the country they were passing through assumed a familiar aspect, but Bud was too excited to notice it until he reached the water hole.
"Luck!"
he exulted.
"I headed in the right direction.
Don't think I'll be followed much beyond this.
Let's see--" He turned in his saddle.
To his surprise there was no one in sight.
"Made it!
Bronc, old boy, I offer you my sincere thanks!
No, don't slow down just yet.
A little more--" He kept up his fast pace until he was well beyond the water hole, then, with a final look behind him, he pulled down to a walk.
"Guess we're O.K.
now.
What a chase!
Say, bronc, it's too bad we didn't have a movie camera somewhere around.
Hero being chased by the villains.
Bang--bang--another Indian bit the dust!
Anyway, I'm glad we're out of _that_ mess.
What was the idea of the whole thing, anyhow?
"Don't see what they wanted with me.
And 'to-morrow night'!
Evidently they figure on some sort of dirty work.
Now that they know I've heard part of their plans they may not pull anything."
Off in the distance Bud could now see the buildings of Shooting Star.
As he rode up, the Kid was nailing a board to the lower part of the ranch house, and had his back to Bud.
He turned swiftly as he heard the hoof-beats of Bud's horse.
"Come in--come in!"
he called.
"Have a good trip?
How are all the babies--and Aunt Sarah?
You must be plumb worn out, ridin' all the way from Arken-saw on a hot day like this."
"Quit your kidding," Bud answered with a smile.
"When I tell you what did happen you'll think I have a good right to be worn out.
First, though, is there any chuck left?"
"What--they didn't even feed you?
Well now, I thought you'd had a chicken dinner.
Sure, Bud, come on in, an' we'll get Mex on the job."
The best they could do in the culinary line on short notice was beans, but Bud filled up mightily on them.
When the edge had been taken off his hunger he asked the Kid: "Where's the rest of the bunch?"
"Town, most of 'em.
Billee Dobb is at the back fixin' his saddle.
Nort and Dick went on into town again after a load of grub came, to see if they could pick up that sheep-man Hawkins told us about, and to grab me off a pony.
Where were you, Bud?"
"Therein lies a tale," answered Bud, "and I don't mean maybe.
Listen, Kid, and try to control your well-known faculties for humor 'til I get this off my chest."
In as few sentences as possible, Bud related to Yellin' Kid the events of the morning.
Contrary to his expectations, his story was taken as it was told, seriously.
"Delton, hey?
Didn't see my missin' bronc around, I suppose?"
"No, I didn't, Kid.
Saw enough besides that.
Well, what's the dope?
What do you think about it all?"
"I think you were pretty lucky, for one thing," declared the Kid.
"Another thing I think is that the plan they set for to-morrow night--whatever it is, will be carried out."
"What makes you think that?"
"Didn't you say you heard someone talk about 'even if Jake doesn't know about the Shooting Star'?"
"Yes--I did hear that."
"Well, that means they're going to take a chance on going through with their plan, because they can't get word to the other side that this place has changed hands.
An' they won't stop because they caught you listenin'."
"Say, you might be right at that, Kid.
That's going some, though, to push things like that, when they know their plan has been overheard.
Of course I didn't actually hear it all, but I heard enough to know it has something to do with this ranch.
And the time is to-morrow night."
"That will hurry up the deputy's idea, won't it?
If things break right, we might have a chance to collect that reward."
"Let's not think about that now.
What we have to do is to get hold of the rest and tell them what happened, and ask Mr. Hawkins if this will change his plan.
He's in town, isn't he?"
"Should be.
Dick'll know--he rode in with him."
"Say, Kid, before I forget it--I heard something that didn't sound so good about that Mexican cook of ours.
Delton let slip the hint that he was one of his men--didn't exactly say that, but he led me to believe he was."
"Did, hey?
Well, I've been kind of suspicious of that Greaser ever since we found him here alone, when the rest had beat it.
Don't seem reasonable that one man would stay at a ranch that has been cleaned out, unless he had some business there.
Delton's idea may have been to let him stay and spy on us.
Think we ought to kick him out?"
"That means we've got to find another cook.
No, I think it will be all right to let him stay if we watch him carefully.
He sure is one peach of a cook--I'll say that for him--and I don't think he'd deliberately try to poison us."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of that.
Of course we could make him taste each dish he cooks for us, like they do in stories, but he'd sure suspect something then.
I believe in keeping a secret to yourself."
"You mean not letting him know we suspect him?"
"Yep!
That's it.
We can watch him if he doesn't know he's bein' watched, but as soon as he knows we got something on him, we're through."
"You're right about that, Kid.
Say, where did you say the others were?"
"In town.
Ought to be back soon, though.
Billee Dobb is around some place in back.
Want to see him?"
"No, I'll wait till Nort and Dick get here and spill it all at once.
Let's go out."
The two arose and walked toward the yard.
As they passed through the door the Kid looked sharply about him, but the Mexican cook was nowhere in sight.
His lesson had been learned when the Kid had caught him listening before.
They hadn't long to wait before they heard the approach of two riders.
Dick and Nort had returned.
"Something happened," Nort exclaimed after he had dismounted.
"How do you know?"
Bud asked with wide-open eyes.
"I mean to us.
Why, did something happen to you, too?"
"I'll tell you about it in a minute.
Let's hear your story first."
"Not much of a story," Dick said.
"We saw Delton."
"You did!
Where?"
"You remember that water hole the Kid found the Chinaman at?"
"Yes--go ahead!"
"Well, Nort and I decided to take another look at it on our second trip back from town, so we rode over.
It isn't so far from here.
And as we reached it--only about an hour ago--we saw a group of men talking.
We rode up easy, but they heard us and beat it.
We saw one of them, though.
It was Delton."
"And do you know what he was doing there?"
Bud asked with a quizzical smile.
"What?"
"Chasing me!
I found the water hole, too, and something else and this Delton dragged me for miles and locked me in a room.
Then I got out and his gang followed me to the water hole, where I lost them."
"Hey, take it easy!
Start from the beginning.
Let's hear it, Bud."
Nort and Dick listened eagerly as Bud once again told the tale of his capture.
CHAPTER XVII A NIGHT OF WAITING "The old rascal!"
Nort exclaimed after Bud had finished.
"So that's what they were doing at the water hole?
If we had known that we would have taken a chance and rushed them."
"Just as well you didn't," Bud declared.
"Wouldn't have gained anything by it.
And anyway, we don't want to upset their plans for to-morrow night.
The Kid, here, thinks they'll go through with the idea."
"Don't be too sure," warned Dick.
"It may never come off, since they know Bud overheard them planning."
"Yes, but don't you see they can't get word to the others in time?"
the Kid insisted.
"They can't call it off.
The other end of the smuggling line has already made plans that they can't break, so this end has to go through with their scheme.
At least that's the way I look at it."
"Seems reasonable," Dick agreed.
"But just the same I think it's better to be prepared."
"Naturally.
What did you find out about the sheep-man, Dick?"
The latter spoke of one tentatively engaged and told the Kid his new horse would be sent over in a day or so.
The remainder of the day went quickly.
When evening came the boys were excitedly making plans for the following night.
After "chuck" they gathered around the table in the sitting room and discussed ways and means.
The Kid was in favor of drastic action.
"No, we've got to go slowly," Dick cautioned.
"This isn't strictly our affair, you know.
The government is interested in it.
And it's anything but a joking matter.
The other adventures we had--at Spur Creek and in the desert--were our own concern entirely.
This is different.
Hawkins hasn't said so, but I think it means a lot to him if we aid in capturing the smugglers."
"Thought you were out here to herd sheep?"
Billee Dobb put in.
"We were--at first.
But there's no use trying to dodge the issue--from now on until this business is finished, we have one job on hand--to help stop Chink smuggling.
The sheep can wait."
"That's the stuff!"
Yellin' Kid burst out.
"I was waitin' to hear you say that, Dick.
Might as well look things in the face!
We've gotten too deep into this to drag freight now!"
"You're right, Kid," approved Bud.
"And truth to tell, I'm not a bit sorry.
I don't care for Delton a-tall.
We'll go through with this, and finish it up right."
"And get my ole bronc back," the Kid said loudly.
"We might do that, too," Dick laughed.
"Well, let's hit the hay.
Plenty to do to-morrow."
The night passed quietly.
The punchers were up with the sun, all eager for the task on hand.
Directly breakfast was over, Dick and Bud rode to town in order to see Hawkins.
All thought it best that the deputy should learn, as soon as possible, of the new development, for he might want to change his plans in accordance.
The boys found him in his office.
"Come in, boys!"
he invited when Dick and Bud stood in the doorway.
"How's everything?
Any more cyclones?"
"Not yet," answered Bud with a laugh.
"The weather is quiet, but that's the only thing that is."
"What do you mean?"
the deputy asked quickly.
Without any preliminaries Bud told the story of his capture and escape.
The deputy listened carefully, now and then asking a question.
When Bud had finished he sat silent for a moment, drumming his desk with his fingers.
Suddenly he brought his fist down with a bang and looked up.
"That settles it!"
he cried in a decided tone of voice.
"Delton is finished!
From now on we go after him tooth and nail!
And I want you boys to know something.
I can rely on you, of course, to keep it a secret."
Strangely the deputy's western accent seemed to leave him, and he assumed a more cultured tone of voice.
He held a shiny piece of metal out toward Bud.
"I'm from Washington--Secret Service--here's my badge."
Bud took it silently.
It was, indeed, the badge of a federal official.
"I took this job as an ordinary deputy to disarm suspicion," Hawkins went on.
"I knew if I came to Roaring River as a stranger I'd be investigated, and perhaps have to give myself away.
So I just got myself appointed a deputy, and then I could work openly.
No one would suspect a western deputy of being a federal man--there's too many of them.
Now you know why I'm so interested in this smuggling.
We've simply _got_ to stop it--somehow!
Even the Chinese who are in this country legitimately don't like to see their countrymen come in by the back door.
And what good are immigration laws if we can't enforce them?
I'm just telling you this to impress upon you the seriousness of the project."
"It is certainly no joking matter," Bud agreed, handing back the badge.
"So you're a federal man!
I should think if you wanted to trace the smugglers secretly you'd take another position than deputy."
"You'll see how it will work out," Hawkins said.
"It's sometimes best to seem almost what you are, to avoid seeming what you really are.
Figure that one out.
What I mean is, if I openly assume the aspect of a man of the law, no one will look further than that.
Understand?"
"I do," responded Dick.
"And now let's decide on our plan of action.
Do you think what happened to Bud will change any of the details, Mr.
Hawkins?"
"Don't see why it should.
In fact I think it makes our scheme all the more advisable.
Personally, I believe the run will go through to-night.
There's no doubt but that's what you heard referred to, Bud, for I had a tip concerning the same thing.
They will depend on the element of surprise and the superiority in number to succeed.
We'll have our hands full, at any rate."
"Somehow this doesn't seem real," mused Bud.
"Here we are planning to capture a gang of smugglers who _know_ we're after them, yet they go right ahead and play into our hands."
"My dear boy," said Hawkins grimly, "you don't quite understand.
Delton is far from playing into our hands.
In fact, if truth be told, our chances are rather slim that we'll ever see Delton.
He's no baby.
But I think we've got him beaten in one way--the gang across the border doesn't know what we know.
Now here's the situation."
Dick and Bud came closer.
"A shipload of Chinks have just landed in Mexico.
Never mind how I know, but I do.
These Chinese have got to be smuggled over the border within three days, to make room for another bunch.
All right.
This gang in Mexico corresponded with Delton last week, telling him that he was to receive the Chinks on a certain night.
"There's one thing we want to make sure of--and that is to avoid frightening them off.
Has there been much action around your ranch?"
"None at all.
We've kept things pretty quiet."
"That's good.
Tell you--I think it would be best if you fellows would stay as close to the ranch house as possible, until this thing is over.
You see the smugglers might send out a one man auto patrol, some time to-day or this evening, to look over the lay of the land, and if he sees anything suspicious the chances are that he'll choose another route to ship the Chinks over the border by.
But I don't think they'll go far from Roaring River.
They got away with it so easy last time, that they'll probably try it again.
Well--" Hawkins tightened his lips grimly--"they won't work it twice."
"Any more instructions?"
Dick asked.
"No--I'll be over to the Shooting Star sometime this afternoon.
May bring a friend with me--Larry O'Connor--one sweet shot with a revolver.
That is if I think we need him."
"Well, we've got five men all told," Dick declared.
"And all of us are fairly used to handling guns.
Target practice at tin cans keeps your eye in, and we do lots of that."
"Good idea, if you can afford the money for ammunition.
Never know when you'll need to rely on a well-placed shot."
"Are you just going to ride over to the ranch openly?"
Bud asked.
"Won't someone see you?"
"Even if they do, they won't suspect anything.
But to make sure I'll wait until after dark.
Guess that would be best.
No attempt will be made until well on into the night, and we'll have plenty of time to get set for them."
"Then we'll see you to-night?"
inquired Dick as he arose.
"Sure thing!
Oh, by the way--keep an eye on that Mex cook of yours, will you?
I want him where I can grab him quick if I need him."
"We will.
Good-bye until to-night, Mr.
Hawkins."
"So-long, boys."
Bud and Dick rode back to the Shooting Star.
As soon as possible they told the others of their talk with Hawkins, and of his being a secret service official.
Billee Dobb said he "opined as much long ago."
The day dragged on.
The boys were all slightly nervous, though they wouldn't admit it.
Several times one would catch the other fingering his gun unconsciously.
But evening finally came, and while they were eating supper Joe Hawkins arrived.
He was alone.
"Thought you were going to bring someone with you?"
Bud said when the greetings were over.
"Decided it wasn't necessary.
We've got plenty here.
Now, boys, are you all set?"
"All set!"
the Kid said loudly.
"Bring 'em on!"
"They'll come without us bringing them," Hawkins declared a trifle grimly.
"Turn that lamp low, Dick, and let's get out of here."
"What about the Mex?"
inquired the Kid.
"Bring him along," the agent declared.
"Want him where I can keep an eye on him."
In spite of his wordless protests, the cook was dragged out of the kitchen and made to accompany the punchers to a place near the side of the house.
And there the six men watched, each with his hand on his gun and with ears strained for the sound of a car.
There was a road which ran past the ranch and into the town.
It was over this road that the watching men expected the smugglers to come.
And now all settled down to a night of waiting.
CHAPTER XVIII SMUGGLING OPERATIONS Hardly a breath of wind stirred.
The sky had become partly clouded, blotting out the moon.
Now and then a horse whinnied, softly, as though frightened.
The waiting men moved about uneasily, talking in whispers.
Nine o'clock passed.
Then ten came.
The air grew chill and damp, and the clouds overhead gathered more thickly.
"Gonna rain," said the Kid in a low voice.
"We sure are favorites with the weather man."
"May hold off," Bud observed softly.
He moved over to where Hawkins was standing, eyes peering down the road.
"What do you think of it?"
he asked the agent.
"Not much," was the quiet answer.
"Looks like rain.
That means we'll have a hard job to see them when they do come."
"Hey, the Mex wants to go back," the Kid said, lowering his voice.
"He's cold, I guess."
"You tell him to stay where he is, or he'll be colder yet," Hawkins said in a grim voice.
"We can't afford to take any chances now.
Bring that Mex over here.
I want to talk to him."
"What's that?"
Dick suddenly asked.
They all listened tensely.
In the distance they could hear a low rumble.
"Thunder," Nort said.
"First night storm we've had in a long while."
"Where's that Mexican?"
inquired Hawkins again.
"Bring him here, Kid."
Yellin' Kid led the cook to where Hawkins was intently watching the road.
The agent turned to the Mexican and stared hard at him.
"You know Jose Salvo?"
he asked suddenly.
The Mexican nodded vigorously.
Then he pointed to himself and held up two fingers.
"His brother?
Well, what do you know about that!"
plainly the secret service agent was surprised.
"No wonder you look like him!
Bud, you remember that Mexican we saw in the restaurant the first day you hit town?
The one I told you to watch out for?
Well, this bird is his brother!"
"I thought it was the same one, when we first saw him!
His brother, eh?
And what's he doin' at this ranch?"
The Mexican apparently heard the question, and endeavored to answer it.
In the gloom they could see his arms and hands motioning forcibly, but none of them were able to understand the message.
"Better wait," suggested Billee Dobb.
"The poor critter is almost scared out of his wits.
He may have a bad brother, but I think he's O. K. himself.
I'll watch him for you.
Over here, Mex!"
he ordered sharply.
The cook walked slowly over to Billee, and squatted down beside him.
He looked up at the old rancher as a calf might look for protection to a cow.
"I'll depend on you to see that he doesn't pull any funny work," Hawkins said to Billee.
"When the show starts we'll have our hands full, and we don't want any slip-ups."
Yet they could not afford to give up now.
If things worked out as the agent had hoped, they might succeed in arresting Delton and his gang.
"And that reward will come in right handy," Billee Dobb said.
"Will we really get a reward if we capture these smugglers?"
Nort asked Hawkins.
"You certainly will!
And the government will be glad to pay it, too."
"I don't care so much about the reward as I do about getting Delton," declared Bud, as he remembered how he was mistreated at the hands of the smuggler.
"An' I'd like to get my bronc back," Yellin' Kid asserted, as he moved his arms briskly about to warm himself.
The night wore on, minutes seeming like hours.
Billee Dobb stood motionless, leaning against the side of the ranch house, and at his feet sat the Mexican, seemingly oblivious of the cold.
Hawkins moved slowly about, glancing every now and then down the road.
The others stood about, talking in low tones.
The storm seemed to have been blown aside, as the rumble of thunder no longer reached the ears of the waiting men.
Still the moon was covered with clouds, making the night almost pitch-black.
A soft glow from the low-turned lamp within the ranch house was the only illumination.
"Say, I'm goin' to take a walk around to the corral," exclaimed the Kid suddenly.
"This waitin' is gettin' me woozy.
Just want to see if the ponies are all right."
"Watch your step," Bud cautioned.
"It's pretty dark.
And don't make too much noise."
"I ain't goin' on any picnic," Yellin' Kid answered.
"Be back soon."
He left the protection of the house and in a moment was lost sight of in the darkness.
It wasn't far to the corral, and as he approached the horses stirred uneasily.
"All right there, ponies," the Kid called softly.
At the sound of a familiar voice the restless moving stopped, and the animals suffered the Kid to walk in among them.
"Lonesome, hey?"
he said in a low tone.
"So am I.
Don't like this hangin' around nohow!
Wish we'd have some action."
He stroked the nose of one of the steeds.
The horse whinnied softly in response.
"Wish I had my own cayuse here," the Kid mused.
"Hated to lose her.
Best bronc I ever had.
Golly, it's dark!"
As though to dispute him the moon suddenly slid from behind the clouds.
The Kid looked about him--at the ranch house, standing gaunt and silent, and at the little group of men waiting motionless--and at the moonlit road, stretching far out over the prairie.
There'd be no smugglers to-night.
Why, you could see for miles down that road, now.
Not a thing in--what was that?
The Kid stared harder.
There, about a mile away, lurching from side to side?
It must be--a car!
Coming fast, too!
For a moment the Kid stood quietly.
Then with a leap he made for the ranch house.
As he reached the men the moon disappeared again, and the scene was blotted out.
"Hey!"
he called in a repressed yell.
"They're comin'!"
"What!"
The group turned like a flash, as one man.
"Who's coming?
Where?"
"Down the road!
An automobile!"
Excitement spread like a wave.
"Easy!"
Hawkins cautioned.
"Not so much noise!
What did you see, Kid?"
"Saw an auto comin' down the road like a locoed steer!
Just when the moon came out then, I happened to be lookin' that way, and I saw----" "Listen!"
Bud held up his hand, forgetting that they couldn't see him in the darkness that had now settled down again.
"Don't you hear something?"
Through the air came the sounds of a car--the throttle wide open.
"Can't see it, but I can hear it!"
Hawkins exclaimed.
"Must be driving without lights.
They sure are coming!
All set, you men?"
"One of us better get the ponies ready, in case we miss them!"
the Kid declared.
"Billee, will you do that?"
"Suppose so," the rancher grumbled.
"I allers seem t' miss the fightin'!"
"You'll get plenty of that," asserted Hawkins.
"But let's not waste time talking.
They'll be here in two minutes.
Listen, you fellows, and listen good!
Billee, you get the horses ready for a quick start.
Nort, you and the Kid get around to the other side of the house, fast.
Dick, Bud and I will stay here.
"Now here's what's going to happen--the car will pull up right here, and the Chinks will be unloaded.
We take them--don't forget, we're Delton's men.
As soon as they hand the Chinks over to us we cover the men in the car, and get them.
Then when Delton comes we get him, too--if we can.
He should be here now--must have been a slip-up in the time.
All the better for us.
Quick--do you understand?"
The roar of the approaching car could be heard plainly now.
There was not much time left.
"You want Nort an' me to watch the road in the other direction?"
asked the Kid.
"Yes--and we'll be here when they unload the Chinks.
All right now?"
"All set!
Let's go, Nort!"
Yellin' Kid and Nort ran swiftly to the other side of the ranch house, in which position they would be hidden from sight of the road until they chose to show themselves.
Billee Dobb went around to the corral.
The oncoming car was plunging along the road, and would reach the Shooting Star ranch in another minute.
It couldn't be seen, due to the blackness of the night--the clouds seemed to have thickened in the last few minutes--but the noise was sufficient indication of its approach.
The six men awaited its arrival with breathless excitement.
If the plan only worked!
Delton would surely show up sooner or later, he couldn't risk too long a delay--and the capture would be complete.
The boys felt their hearts beating fast as the moment approached.
Guns were out now, and ready for action.
Suddenly another sound came to the ears of the waiting ones--the sound of rapid hoof-beats.
Those on the farther side of the house from.
where the car was coming peered down the road in the direction of town.
They held their breaths.
"Hear it?"
the Kid asked excitedly of Nort.
"Horses!
and coming this way!
It must be Delton--he timed it perfectly--he'll arrive just as the car does!
Kid, we've got more than our hands full this time!"
"Shall we tell the others?"
"No time--we've got to try and head them off, until Hawkins stops the car, gets the Chinks and covers the smugglers!
Come on, Kid!"
The two, with guns drawn, ran down the road in the direction of the approaching horsemen.
It was a foolhardy thing to do, for they had no means of telling how many of Delton's gang were coming.
Louder and louder sounded the gallop of the ponies, and nearer came the smugglers' car.
The night was still pitch-black.
The moon was as if it had never shone.
In the distance thunder muttered, but the boys were too excited to notice it.
Overhead the clouds were growing heavier.
"Here they come, Kid!
Stop them!"
Nort threw himself in front of one of the ponies just as the group of horsemen were about to dash through.
Yellin' Kid jumped to Nort's side, gun drawn.
"Hold up there!"
he yelled.
"Stick 'em up!
High!"
There was a vivid flash of lightning.
In the glare the two challengers saw that Delton was directly in front of them, and behind him were four others.
Delton reached for his gun.
Then the heavens opened with a crash of thunder and the rain poured down in a deluge.
CHAPTER XIX THE CHASE Through the darkness came many and varied sounds.
The thunder rolled long and continuously.
The angry voices of men rose loud and hoarse.
Along the drenched road came the smugglers' car, its exhaust roaring.
And over all the rain came down in torrents.
"Out of the way there, you!"
came a voice.
"We ain't got no time for foolin'!"
"Stick to it, Nort!"
the Kid yelled.
"Don't let them through!"
The two boys were standing in the middle of the road, guns out, determined to prevent Delton and his men from closing in on Hawkins, who was grimly awaiting the smuggling car.
If they could be held off until the auto pulled in and stopped, the party at the other side of the ranch house might succeed in capturing the Chink runners.
There was a sudden shot.
"Hurt, Nort?"
the Kid called anxiously.
"Nope!
Missed!
Put those guns up, you!
We've got you covered!
Climb down off those horses quick, or we'll fill you full of holes!"
There was a desperate ring in the boy rancher's voice, and Delton must have recognized this, for he yelled something to the men back of him and they all halted.
The thunder was less frequent now, although the rain had not let up.
The boys standing in the road were soaked to the skin.
Still they remained firmly in their place, listening to the roar of the approaching car, and hoping they could hold Delton until it reached the ranch.
By the sound it was almost to the Shooting Star ranch now.
In another moment---"Hey, you guys, what's the idea?"
through the night came a questioning voice.
"Don't you know it's rainin' here?
How about lettin' us in the ranch to get dry?"
"You stay where you are!"
the Kid yelled.
"You'll have plenty o' time to get dry all right!"
"Kid--here's the car!
Watch out now!"
Nort was at the Kid's side, but facing the other way.
"Can you see anything--any of Delton's bunch?"
"Nope--only hear that guy that was talking!
Can you?"
"No but--what's that?"
From the other side of the house came three shots in rapid succession.
Then someone yelled.
The next moment Dick came splashing around to where the Kid and Nort were waiting.
"They--they fooled us!"
Dick panted.
"Delton and three others got to the car before we did and warned the smugglers!
They all got away!"
"Delton!"
the Kid exclaimed.
"Why, we had him here----" "Yes you did!"
came a mocking voice.
"You big cheese--all you had was a good talk!
So long!"
There was the splashing noise of a horse rapidly departing for parts unknown.
"Can--you--beat--that!"
Nort ejaculated.
"Fooled!
Taken in like suckers!
While we stood here talking----" "Yes, and while we're standing here talking now, the smugglers are getting farther and farther away!
Come on!
We've got to chase them!"
Dick turned and made for the corral.
"Chase an auto on a horse?"
the Kid yelled.
"What's the sense of that?"
"They can't go fast in this wet--and we can spot them by the noise.
Hurry up!"
"But I ain't got no pony!"
wailed the Kid.
"Wish I had my bronc!
What am I supposed to do; stay here?"
"No--one of Delton's bunch lost his seat and we've got his animal--use that.
He got away in the auto.
But for the love of Pete, hurry up!"
The rain had abated a little when the boys reached the corral.
Billee Dobb was waiting with the ponies untied and ready.
It was but the work of a moment to mount and lead the other horses over to where Hawkins and Bud were standing.
"Where's my new bronc?"
the Kid asked as he came up.
"Here--this do you?"
Bud was holding a little black pony.
"Sure--as long as it's got legs!"
The Kid swung himself upon the horse's back.
"Right!
Let's go!"
"We've no time to lose, men!"
Hawkins called out.
"We messed that up proper!
This Delton is more clever than I thought he was."
All were mounted now and ready to take up the chase.
The Kid was letting his pony walk about, and the rest were awaiting Hawkins's word to start.
The six riders set out into the night.
Hawkins said the car had taken a route at right angles and to the left of the road, and all went in that direction.
They pushed their ponies as fast as they dared over the soaked prairie, hoping to catch sight of the car before they had ridden too far.
It was obvious that no auto could make great speed over the rough surface of the plains, and to add to this rain must certainly slow them up still more.
So the punchers had a fairly good chance of overtaking them.
Delton would probably be acting as convoy to the car, and if they were able to take that, they would capture him also.
With these thoughts in mind the ranchers beat along through the rain, which was not now so heavy.
"What happened?"
asked Billee Dobb.
"Just this," Bud answered.
"Mr. Hawkins and I were waiting for the car to reach us.
We couldn't hear what was happening on the other side of the house, and Mr. Hawkins and I were all set to grab the gang in it, when four men came riding by like mad and reached the car before we did.
They yelled something, and in a second the car was off the road and away, the horsemen after it.
But one of the riders fell, and didn't wait to get on his horse again--just hopped on the running board of the car."
"What were those cracks we heard?"
"I took a couple of pot-shots at the tires, but I don't think I hit anything.
Too dark.
And it was raining cats and dogs, you know."
"Don't I know it!
Nort an' me sure had our hands full.
Five men to stop!
We figured if we could hold them until you had the fellows in the car covered, we could capture them too.
Say, see any Chinks in the car?"
"Didn't see anything!
The car turned off before we could get close enough to see in it."
"Too bad we couldn't work it, boys," Hawkins ruefully said.
"We've still got a chance to nab them, though.
They can't get far over this ground with a car."
"They can lead us a merry chase," Dick asserted.
"Wonder what time it is?"
"One o'clock," Bud suggested.
"Not much more, anyway.
Think they came over this way, Mr.
Hawkins?"
"Yes--I do.
Know where we are?"
"Comin' to the water hole, I think," answered Yellin' Kid.
"Say, maybe they're going to try and make for the place where they held me!"
Bud exclaimed.
"That's over this way somewhere."
"Can you find it again?"
the agent asked, an anxious note in his voice.
"Think so."
"Then if we don't make out to-night we can have a try at that in the morning."
"How far do you want to go?"
Bud asked Hawkins.
"Let's see now.
I have an idea, and I want to see what you fellows think about it.
First, though, are you sure that you can find that ranch where they held you, Bud?"
"Can in daylight.
Maybe not at night."
"If you started from the water hole do you think you could spot it at night?"
"Might.
I could try it, anyway."
"Hold up a minute, then."
The six riders drew rein, and waited for the agent's next words.
"It's not much use trailing them much farther.
What I think they did, is to make for that ranch house where Bud was, and stay there.
Now here's the point.
Even if we did come upon them now, we'd have a hard job taking them.
I think this is a better plan.
Listen, now."
The boys drew closer around Hawkins.
"This idea I have calls for two men to stay up all night.
Who'll do it?"
"Me!"
"Let me in on that!"
"What is it--keeping guard?"
"Yes, Nort, that's exactly what it is--keeping guard.
Now here's the dope.
We followed that bunch pretty far.
There's no doubt but that they headed for that house, and intend to unload their Chinks there.
Now if we can only keep them in that house until morning, we can get the whole gang--including the Chinks--like rats in a trap.
Now do you see what I mean?"
"You mean you want some of us to watch the place and do a little shootin' so that they won't come out?"
"That's it exactly, Kid!
If two men can get close to the house, and keep firing at intervals, they'll think that we've got them cold, and will stay there long enough to allow us to get them by morning."
"What's the matter with all of us going up there now?"
"Wouldn't do any good, and besides, someone has got to be at your ranch.
And some of us have got to get a little sleep.
We may have to do some more riding to-morrow."
"Well, if you think that's best, I'll do it, for one," spoke Dick.
"And I'll go with you!"
Bud exclaimed.
"I owe Delton quite a good deal for the way he hauled me off my horse!"
"All set for this new plan then?"
asked Billee.
"Yes, I think that would be best," Hawkins said slowly.
"Bud, you know something about the lay-out of the place.
We'll ride part of the way with you, in case anything happens.
Then when we get near it, you'll have to go on alone.
You and Dick can decide on a plan of action.
We will ride back, and return before dawn.
This time we won't fail!"
"You'll ride with us to the place now, you mean?"
"Almost to it.
Then I'll know the way to find it again.
Come on, let's get started!"
The moon was now struggling to shine through the clouds as the six took up the ride again.
Bud was in the lead.
They had ridden for ten minutes when, suddenly, Bud uttered an exclamation, and pulled up his horse.
"Look there!"
he cried, pointing.
Ahead loomed a dark mass.
The boys rode up to it.
As they approached slowly the moon finally came out fully, and before them they, saw the wreck of an automobile.
CHAPTER XX DOWN AND OUT "It's a car!"
Dick cried.
"Must be the smugglers' machine, and they wrecked it and got away!
Now we know they're at that ranch!"
"Wonder what happened to the Chinks?"
the Kid said as he examined the wreck more closely.
The mass of twisted metal lay still in the moonlight like some once-living thing that had met its sudden doom.
"Probably dragged them along too," Hawkins suggested.
"Yep, I think this is the smugglers' car, all right.
Looks like the one we had a short glimpse of, just before it turned off.
And, if that's the case, our plan may succeed.
Having a harbor close at hand, it's natural for them to make for it.
Now it's up to us to see that they stay there until we capture them."
"That's our job, and we'll do it too," Bud said in a determined tone of voice.
"Might as well get going.
The longer we stay here, the more time we give Delton."
"True enough," commented Dick.
"I wonder if anyone was hurt when this car crashed?"
"Doubt it," Hawkins said.
"Those boys are too lucky!
If they weren't they never would have gotten away with the stunt they pulled to-night.
Imagine riding right into our hands and getting away from us!
Every time I think of it I feel like kicking myself around the block."
"It wasn't any more your fault than the fault of the rest of us," Nort declared.
"They were too many, and too clever.
Let's forget it and go after them again, and this time we'll win.
What do you say, boys?"
"Sure will!"
"No more foolin' around for us!"
"Well, on our way," Bud called.
He took one more look at the auto lying on its side in a small depression, and spurred his horse onward.
The rest followed quickly.
The night was well spent, now, and but little time remained to reach the ranch and post the guard.
However, it was not far now, and by dint of hard riding, following directions from Bud, they reached the vicinity of the ranch house in half an hour.
They halted well away from the house itself.
"Take it easy now," Hawkins cautioned.
"We don't want to make too much noise.
Bud, have you and Dick decided what you're to do?"
"Practically--he is going to take one side, and I'm to take the other, and if we see anyone come out we'll fire over their heads.
That'll keep 'em in all right, for they can't see us in the dark.
No one likes to be fired on by someone he can't see--as we all found out.
Now it's time to give them some of their own medicine."
"Yes sir!"
exclaimed the Kid.
"I wish I could stay with you, Dick, and have a crack at them myself."
"You come along with us, Kid.
We'll be back before dawn, and you'll see plenty of action then.
Now is there anything you boys want before we leave?"
asked the secret service man.
"Might bring back a snack for us," Bud suggested.
"It's cold and hungry work waiting in the dark.
Not that we mind it," he added quickly, "as long as it helps capture Delton.
And if you can make it, Mr. Hawkins, please get back as soon as you can.
They may try to make a rush for it."
"We will--we'll be back as soon as we get things right at the ranch and maybe snatch an hour's rest.
Depends on how much time we have.
But we'll surely be back before it's light."
This conversation was being carried on near a small group of trees, just out of sight of the old farm or ranch house.
Now Hawkins and the rest turned their ponies toward home.
Dick and Bud, of course, were due to remain and watch Delton's retreat.
"Now we're on our own," Bud said as he listened to the hoof-beats of the horses gradually dying away.
"Let's get up to where we can see the house."
"What about the broncs?
Think we better leave them?"
"Well, what do you think?
We want them near us so we can get going quick if we have to.
Suppose we tie them as close to the house as we can without being seen?"
"That's a good idea.
Well, there's the place.
Somebody's sure in it.
All lit up!"
The boys stood and looked at the old farm house which loomed in the moonlight before them.
It was certainly inhabited, for several lights were glowing on the ground floor, and every now and then a figure would pass in front of the lamps, casting a shadow plainly visible from the outside.
"Got a lot of nerve, walking around like that in front of lamps," Bud commented.
"Easy to take a pot-shot at them."
"Guess they don't figure us as the kind for that sort of thing," Dick responded.
"And we're not, either--though it would serve them right if someone did let ride at the window."
The two boys now took up their positions agreed upon--Dick around to the left, and Bud to the right.
They were thus separated from each other by about three hundred yards.
"Mustn't start thinking foolish things!"
Dick exclaimed to himself.
"Got enough on my mind now."
He shook his head as though to rid it of fancies which hung around it.
The boy was certainly not of a morbid type, and it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be a bit uneasy, considering his situation.
Yet he would not even admit to himself that he was anything but wholly composed.
"Wonder how Bud is making out?"
he thought.
"Perhaps I'd better sneak over and see.
But no, there's no sense in that."
Thus did he dismiss the craving for company.
"Besides, I've got my job cut out for me here."
He looked more intently at the house, seeking to concentrate his attention on the everyday affairs of life.
Smuggling.
The reward if they caught Delton.
What they could do with it.
A new herd of cows.
The Kid's bronc--whether he would see it again.
How Delton timed the arrival at the Shooting Star ranch just when the smuggling car got there.
The getaway.
How it did rain!
Still, in spite of himself, that uneasy feeling was stealing over the boy.
Surely there was no one around but Bud, away over on the other side.
Of course it was night, but there was plenty of moonlight, and there was not much chance of Delton's men prowling about.
Perhaps it was because there were trees back of him that Dick felt restless.
Might be better to move more out in the open.
The boy arose, then suddenly froze into stillness.
That peculiar feeling that there was someone behind him became stronger.
It seemed as though a pair of eyes were boring into his back.
He listened intently.
Suddenly he heard a voice.
"Hey, Dick!"
The boy turned swiftly, hand on his every nerve a quiver!
"It's me, Dick!
Billee Dobb!"
What a relief!
The boy now recognized the old rancher's voice, and the next moment Billee appeared, walking as noiselessly as possible.
"What on earth are you doing here, Billee?"
"I decided to come back.
Didn't want to miss all the fun."
"Yes, but you weren't supposed to, were you?"
"I told Hawkins, an' he said go ahead.
So here I am."
"So I see."
Dick could now afford to laugh at his foolish fears.
"But let me tell you, you gave me a thrill for a moment.
Now that you're here, what are you going to do?"
"Watch with you.
That's what I came back for."
"Nice of you to do it, Billee.
What time is it, do you know?"
"'Bout two.
Lots of time yet."
The rancher was observing the activity within the old house.
Nothing could be seen but the passing and re-passing of the figures in front of the windows, but for some reason it appeared that more persons were moving about.
"Looks as though something was goin' to happen," Billee commented in a low voice.
"Think so?
Well, we've just got to wait, that's all."
The time passed slowly.
Billee and Dick were observing the situation within the house as best they might, without necessarily exposing themselves.
"Say, Dick," said the veteran rancher after an hour that seemed like a year, "I'm goin' to investigate."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm a-goin' up and have a look inside an' see what's happenin'."
"I don't know, Billee--they might spot you and let ride with some lead."
"Don't worry about that, Dick.
They'll never know I'm there.
Now you wait here an' I'll be right back."
"Well, for the love of Pete, be careful!
We don't want anything to go wrong."
"Nothin's goin' wrong.
Now you wait."
Billee Dobb moved softly in the direction of the ranch house, walking so easily it seemed as though he were stepping on wool.
Unlike most other punchers, who spend most of their time on horseback, Billee was exceptionally surefooted.
Much tramping about the country did that for him, and there were some who said he had been active in Indian warfare, long ago.
He would be the first to deny this, however, as it would add too much to his age.
So while Dick waited impatiently, the rancher went toward the house, shoulders low, making himself as inconspicuous as possible.
The distance between the house and where Dick was waiting was not far, but it was all open, and with the moon lighting up the scene almost like day, a person crossing might be easily seen.
Nearer and nearer Billee crept.
Dick could see him picking his way like a dancer, so that he might step on no branch or twig which would break and give him away.
Now he was almost at the side of the house.
Dick saw him lean forward and cautiously peer in the window.
Then it happened.
Dick saw a flash of fire from within the room, and the roar of a gun awakened the stillness of the night.
Billee staggered back.
He fell to the ground, but was up in a moment, and ran swaying toward Dick.
The door of the house flew open, and a man with a gun in his hand burst out on the porch.
Like a flash Dick had his gun out and fired.
The man ducked back as the bullet struck the side of the house with a resounding "ping!"
With a supreme effort Billee reached the shelter of the trees.
Dick ran to him.
The old man's face was twisted with pain, and he sank to the earth.
"Dick--Dick--" he gasped, "they got me!
They got me!
I'm down--and--out!"
CHAPTER XXI CLOSING IN Nort, Mr. Hawkins and Yellin' Kid rode as fast as they might toward the Shooting Star.
It was their intention to reach the ranch and return as soon as possible, after having taken a bite to eat.
The idea of resting was given up as the hours flew by.
It seemed no time at all before the stars grew dull, and the gray fingers of dawn spread out in the east.
"Have to hurry," Hawkins commented as he fumbled around in the dark kitchen of the ranch.
"Where in thunder is that lamp?
Haven't you got one out here?"
"Sure--I think so," Nort answered.
"Have to hunt for it, though.
I'm not so certain of my ground here.
It's all new to me, you know.
"Well, it's not in the corner, that's sure.
Let's have another match, Kid.
Ah, here we are!"
The soft illumination of an oil lamp flooded the room.
"Got any non-exploding sand in this machine, Nort?"
"What's that?"
"It's something the gold-brick artists used to sell to farmer's wives to keep lamps from exploding.
Nothing hut plain, ordinary sand, but the directions that came with it said to always keep the lamp clean, not to put too much oil in it, trim the wick, and so forth.
Then put the sand in and the lamp would never explode.
Of course it wouldn't, if the directions were followed.
But the sand didn't help any.
It was the cleaning that did the trick.
Yet the buyer bought peace of mind and security for ten cents, so the game wasn't so bad as it sounds."
"Pretty good!"
the Kid laughed.
"Never heard of that trick before, but a feller was out here last year sellin' an electric belt, guaranteed to take off ten pounds.
All you had to do was to live on bread an' water for five days an' run two miles every morning, wearin' the electric belt.
Didn't do no business here, though, 'cause most of the boys wanted to put on weight, not lose it."
"Some graft," Hawkins declared.
"Well, that's neither here nor there.
Find that bread and meat, Nort?"
"Yep.
Got it all fixed up.
Say, by the way, I wonder where that Mex cook of ours went?"
"That's so too!"
exclaimed Hawkins, as they hurriedly ate a lunch.
"Forgot all about him in the excitement.
No use looking for him now, I suppose.
He may turn up."
"Then again he may not," the Kid spoke grimly.
"We're well rid of him, I think.
Don't like them Greasers nohow, and this one was no prize beauty.
Didn't Bud say he was one of Delton's men?"
"Said he might be.
He's not so bad, Kid.
He may be dumb, but I don't think he'd pull anything really raw."
"You seem right interested in him, Nort."
"No, it isn't that, but I just don't like to see you get him wrong.
Well, never mind.
Let it ride.
How about starting back, Mr.
Hawkins?"
"Right.
Blow out that lamp, Kid, and let's be on our way."
The three made their way toward the door, moving by sense of touch.
As they reached their ponies, tied up near the house, the moon was a pale disc hanging on the edge of the horizon.
The chill wind of dawn stirred restlessly, and the men shivered slightly.
Though their wet clothes had nearly dried, they were still a bit damp, and not conducive to comfort on the open prairie.
"Just about make it if we step along," Nort said, looking up at the dimming stars.
"Takes a long while to get light out here," Yellin' Kid asserted.
"We'll get there before dawn.
But let's go.
I'm frozen."
The three threw their mounts into a gallop and set out once more for Delton's ranch.
"I had an idea that Billee Dobb wanted to stay with Bud," Nort said as they sped along.
"The old boy hates to miss any action."
"Well, I thought as long as he really wanted to go back, he might as well go," Hawkins declared.
"He might be of some help, after all.
Never can tell what will happen when you're trailing a gang like Delton's."
"You mean pretty rough, hey?"
"Sure!
They have to be, to get along in their business.
It's no child's play, smuggling Chinese.
And it's no picnic capturing them, either."
Over the darkened range the three rode, like avenging angels.
No time now for hesitating, and seeking a sure footing for the horses.
They must take their chance.
And if one spilled--well--it was all in the game.
They must reach Bud and Dick before dawn.
To Nort, sticking tight to his galloping pony, it seemed to have been a waste of time to ride all the way back to the Shooting Star.
But on second thought he realized that it was necessary for them to have food, for they might be gone some time.
A man can neither fight nor ride well on an empty stomach.
"Nearly there!"
commented the Kid.
No one was wasting words now.
Breath was too precious.
The only sounds heard were the even beats of the ponies' feet on the earth, and the creaking of the saddles.
Hawkins was riding well, the Kid saw, even though he did come from the east.
To the cowboy all places not west are "east," and so it was that the Kid looked upon Washington.
"Make it?"
Nort called to the Kid.
"Sure!
Coming to the water hole now."
The Kid's thoughts were racing along, keeping pace with the horses' flying feet.
As is the case when one is engaged in work of a monotonous nature, such as riding, one's thoughts seem to whirl about in a circle, the same subjects recurring with regularity.
The Kid was thinking about his lost bronco.
Then Delton.
Then the reward.
Then back to the bronco again.
And all the while the miles were disappearing behind him.
Suddenly the Kid pulled his mount to a stop.
"Wait!"
he cautioned.
"Isn't that where we left Bud, just ahead?"
A group of trees rose in front.
They had a familiar aspect.
"Sure looks like it!"
Hawkins agreed.
"Let's take it easy.
Kid, you lead, and go slow."
The three walked their horses toward the trees.
As they came nearer, they made certain that they had reached their destination.
And just in time.
The sky was graying rapidly.
"You two wait here, and hold my new bronc," Yellin' Kid directed softly, "an' I'll go around on foot.
See how the land lays.
All right, Mr.
Hawkins?"
"All right, Kid.
Go ahead.
Then come back and tell us."
The Kid dismounted and handed his bridle rein to Nort.
Then he walked carefully into the trees, and disappeared from view.
"See some action soon," Hawkins declared.
He and Nort were waiting on their horses about three hundred yards from where the Kid had disappeared into the trees.
"The old ranch house is right back there.
And this time I want to make sure of getting the whole gang."
"Don't you think they figured we followed them, and are all set for us?"
"Maybe.
Can't help that.
But I'm not so sure, Nort--you know they had to get those Chinks to a place of safety.
Couldn't let them wander around loose.
And this was the only place they could go to.
They had no choice.
And whether they figured we'd follow or not, they had to dig in here."
"They sure got away neat before," Nort said, as he thought of the escape.
"And if they hadn't wrecked their auto we'd probably never have seen them again.
Now we've got a chance."
"Yes, and a little more than a chance.
Wonder what's keeping the Kid.
Told him to come right back."
"And here he comes--runnin'!"
exclaimed Nort suddenly, as a figure burst into sight.
"Something must be the matter!"
They spurred their horses toward the Kid, and met him half way.
"What is it?"
Hawkins asked sharply.
"Billee Dobb!"
Yellin' Kid panted.
"He's--" It was an ominous pause.
"Not so loud!
Easy!"
"It's Billee!"
the Kid exclaimed in a lower voice.
"They shot him!"
"Shot him!
Is he dead?"
"Not yet.
Looks pretty bad.
Bleedin' hard.
By golly, let's go after those yellow sneaks, an' get 'em!"
"Shot Billee Dobb," Nort said slowly, as though he couldn't believe it.
"Poor old Billee!
Well--" he looked up sharply.
"Let's go!"
The boy's lips were closed grimly.
In his eyes shone a wild light.
Whatever quarter would have been extended to the smugglers before, they could expect none now.
The chase had turned--had changed into a personal venture.
They had been seeking the capture of the smugglers because it had been their duty.
Now---"Men," Hawkins spoke in a low voice, clipping his words, "let's get started.
We got work to do!"
There was not another word spoken.
Belts were tightened, and guns loosened in their holsters.
Dawn was just breaking.
The three men closed in on the ranch house in silence.
CHAPTER XXII FLYING BULLETS Finally Nort spoke.
"What about Billee?"
he asked.
"Dick's taking care of him as best he can.
Poor old geezer--" the Kid bit his lip sharply.
"He told me--he was sorry it happened, 'cause now he'll miss the fun."
"How did he look, Kid?
I mean----" "Can't tell, Nort.
He's hit pretty bad.
Course we don't know for sure--he's pretty old, you know----" "But tough as a board," Hawkins broke in.
"I know his kind.
Don't worry boys.
I'm sure he'll pull through O. K. Kid, is Bud coming with us?"
"Said he'd be right here.
Want to wait he comes, before going closer?"
There was a halt in the determined march toward the ranch house.
There seemed to be but little formal plan in the boys' attack; simply to "get those guys an' get 'em good," as the Kid expressed it.
But now that the first shock of learning of Billee's wound had passed, all realized how hopeless it would be to simply go up and take Delton.
Some sort of a scheme of attack was necessary if anything was to be accomplished.
"Here's Bud now," Hawkins said as the boy rancher rode toward them.
There was a sober look on his face.
"How goes it?"
the Kid asked, anxiously.
"Pretty fair.
He's got a chance, I think.
Bleeding's stopped.
Dick's got him covered up with a saddle blanket over there a ways.
If I get a crack at Delton----" "How'd it happen, Bud?"
asked Hawkins quickly.
It was evident that he wanted the boys to control themselves.
It was dangerous work they were about to start, and thought must be clear and quick, unimpeded by external circumstance.
"From what I gather from Dick, Billee sneaked up to take a look in one of the windows, and someone snipped him.
He just made the shelter of the trees and fell unconscious."
"Well, men, that means we have an additional reason for taking Delton."
Mr. Hawkins looked about him to be sure all were listening.
In the east the red rim of the morning sun was bulging over the horizon.
The time for action had come.
"Nort, come over here a minute, will you?
Hold my bridle rein while I see if I've got that paper with me."
The boy, wondering a little, seized the rein while Hawkins went through his pockets.
The agent's eyes were riveted on Nort's hand.
It was as steady as a rock.
"Never mind--guess I won't need it.
All right."
Hawkins took the reins from the boy, satisfied by his little ruse that Nort was not affected by his lack of sleep.
The business before them called for a firm hand and nerve.
Hawkins was speaking in a low voice.
"Can you men all hear what I'm saying?
If not, get closer.
Now listen.
We've got to figure this thing out, or fail again.
And if we don't take Delton this time, I'm afraid we never will.
At least that's the way it seems to me.
Here's what I thought.
We'll ask him to surrender and come with us peaceably.
We are bound to do that.
They know by this time that we are on their heels, and can cause trouble for them if they attempt an escape now.
I believe they'll bide their time, and make a rush for it.
That's what we have to be ready for.
I'm going up there with a flag of truce, and demand that they give in to the law."
The agent dismounted and, drawing his gun, he tied to the barrel of it a white handkerchief.
"You mean to say you're goin' to walk right up there in broad daylight, after what they did to Billee?"
Yellin' Kid asked in a tone of surprise.
"I am.
It's my duty.
Besides, it's safe enough.
No one but a fool would shoot a man bearing a white flag, when they're in Delton's position.
It'll go hard enough with them as it is.
I have an idea they might agree to come peaceably.
"Well I haven't," the Kid said grimly.
"The only way we'll get those skunks out of their hole is to pull them out!"
Hawkins shrugged his shoulders and prepared to set out.
They all walked to the edge of the trees, and just as the sun burst forth in all its glory Hawkins started across the open space toward the ranch house.
The boys watched him with anxious eyes.
Would he cross safely, or would he be shot down like a dog?
There was no sign from the ranch house.
All activity had ceased as though the occupants had been frozen into stillness.
Nearer and nearer walked the agent, head up, the gun with the handkerchief tied on it held in front of him.
Still there was no sign of life inside the house.
When the agent reached within ten feet of the place, the boys saw him stop and look closely at the quiet house.
"Hey, you!"
he yelled.
"Nervy guy," the Kid commented, "He might easily get creased, standin' there yellin'.
Me, I wouldn't put it past that bunch!"
Suddenly a window flew up and a head poked out.
It was a stranger, none of the boys ever having seen the fellow before.
"What do you want?"
the man demanded in a truculent tone.
"I call upon you to surrender, in the name of the law!"
said Hawkins.
"You what?"
Without waiting for an answer, the head drew in but the window remained open.
In a moment the head reappeared.
"What are you talking about?
Why should we surrender?"
"You're under arrest for smuggling, and for assault and battery with intent to kill!"
"You don't say!"
The head popped in.
Then in a moment---"Who are you--John Law?"
"I happen to be a federal agent.
But I'm not here to give you my history.
Do you surrender?"
The boys could hear the sting in the agent's words.
"Wait a minute."
Once more the head disappeared.
This time it stayed back for some minutes.
The watching boys were moving uneasily.
Finally another came to the window--it was Delton.
The agent gave no sign that he knew him.
"Want to speak to me?"
asked Delton, an imperious note in his voice.
"Makes no difference who I speak to.
I want to know if you'll surrender, and give yourselves over to the law."
"What for?"
"You know well enough!
Smuggling, and shooting!"
"It was that bird's own fault that he got shot.
What's he want to come sneaking around for?
Serves him right!
As for smuggling, who said we were smugglers?"
"Never mind about that."
The agent was speaking quickly now.
"I ask you once more, do you surrender?"
Unwittingly Hawkins lowered his gun on which was the flag of truce.
There was a sudden report, and a spurt of dust arose at the agent's feet.
"There's our answer!"
Delton yelled, and slammed down the window.
Hawkins wasted no time in returning to the waiting boys.
"That's that," he said grimly, and he removed the handkerchief from his gun.
"We got to go after them.
Kid, where's Billee Dobb resting?"
"Over there behind that bend.
Want me to go over and see how he's makin' out?"
"Yes.
In the meantime, where's that meat and bread you brought, Nort?
Everybody grab some.
Got water over there for Billee, Kid?"
"Yep; Dick's got a canteen full, and he's got Billee's shoulder tied up with his shirt.
We can't do anything more for him 'til we get home."
"I hate to think of Billee lying out there hurt," Bud said a trifle sadly.
"Think we all better go over and see him?"
"No, I don't," Hawkins said decidedly.
"The Kid knows what he's talking about, and if he says we can't do anything more for Billee, there's no use tracking over there and getting him excited.
Here, now, everybody get some of the food Nort brought."
"Not so hungry," Bud said, looking longingly toward the window where they had last seen Delton.
"Eat anyway, Bud.
You'll need it.
And stop worrying about Billee.
I'm sure he'll make out all right."
On his way to the injured man the Kid brought some of the bread and meat for Dick.
The others, though they protested they weren't hungry, ate as much as Nort carried.
All felt better after this refreshment.
Within five minutes the Kid was back.
"Better!"
he called as he came up.
"Dick says he's getting along O. K. Took some of the food and wanted to know if he could be shifted to where he could see the fireworks.
He's quiet now, though.
Dick's afraid he'll start a hemorrhage if he moves around much."
"He might, too," Bud agreed.
"It's best to keep him as quiet as possible.
Well--when do we start?"
Hawkins had been standing by the side of his pony.
Now he mounted and faced the house.
"We start now!"
he said.
"First we have to decide how to close in.
I think Nort and I had better come in from the left.
Kid, you and Bud get around to the extreme right.
In that way we can cover the whole ground.
Nort and I will start first, and try to make the door.
"When I shoot, you start, Kid.
If we can get into the house, the rest is easy.
I know that bunch.
Fine when they're on top, but as soon as anyone gets under their guard, they welch.
That's the reason I think we can make it.
But listen--" and the agent's voice dropped.
"This is a mighty risky business.
I don't want anyone to get in this against his will.
No telling what may happen.
Are you boys willing to take a chance?"
Bud was the first to speak.
"Mr. Hawkins," he said, "I think I know the others well enough to speak for them.
When we started this thing, we did so because it was our duty, and, I might as well admit it, because of the excitement.
Since then something has happened.
Billee Dobb was shot.
Are you answered?"
"I am," said the agent, with an understanding look.
"All set then, boys.
Around that way, Bud.
Wait for three shots, then close in--fast.
Let's go!"
Bud and Yellin' Kid started for the right of the house.
The moment had come.
Before many more minutes passed, the plan would have either succeeded, or there would be fewer men able to walk around the ranch house.
Hawkins and Nort drew their guns, and headed their ponies to the left, throwing them into a gallop.
They crouched low in the saddles.
What was in their minds as they made ready for that desperate charge?
Fear?
Hardly that.
A turmoil of excitement, probably.
As they dashed out into the open Nort gave a quick glance toward the window.
He could see nothing save darkness within.
It took but a few seconds for them to reach the side of the house.
Hawkins looked over at Nort.
The boy nodded.
Now!
They raced madly toward the house.
Bang!
A shot rang out, and a puff of smoke came from one of the windows.
Nort's hat went sailing away as though it were on a string.
Bang!
Nort saw the agent's pony falter, then recover and go dashing on.
Now they were almost to the house.
It had seemed as though one of them surely would be hit, for they were speeding across perfectly open territory and the occupants of the house were firing rapidly.
But, somehow, luck was with them.
They reached the porch safely.
And just as Hawkins was about to give the signal for Bud and the Kid to attack, he saw something that stayed his hand.
From the rear of the house a volume of black smoke was pouring.
CHAPTER XXIII A RING OF FIRE "Wait, Nort!"
Hawkins yelled.
"Stick close to the house!
Get in close!
Not the front--this way!
This way!"
He pulled his horse over to one side and held him as near the side wall of the ranch house as he could get.
Nort followed him, also hugging the wall.
In that way they were protected from the bullets of Delton's men.
"See what happened?"
the agent exclaimed.
"The place is on fire!
Now they've got to get out, and they'll run right into our hands.
How I hope the Kid has sense enough to stay away and nab them when they come out!"
The smoke was billowing out in huge clouds, now.
It was a frame house, and a firetrap if there ever was one.
Now the flames licked through, and the boards started to burn as though they had been soaked with gasoline.
"Can you sneak around the corner and signal to Bud?"
suggested Hawkins.
"Tell him to stay back.
Wonder how in thunder this fire ever got going?"
Nort walked his mount toward the front, still keeping as close to the side of the house as possible.
All gun-fire from within the burning place had now ceased, but the boy was taking no chances.
There were but two windows on that side of the house, and their rooms were not occupied, so that as long as the ranchers kept hugging the wall they could not be shot at.
The firing as they approached had evidently been done from an angle.
Hawkins's horse was prancing wildly about.
His eyes were focused upon the tongues of flame that spurted out of the rear of the building.
"They can't stay in there much longer!"
Hawkins yelled.
"How about their ponies?
Know where they keep them?"
"Easy to find out.
Let's do it--quick.
We ought to get around to where the Kid and Bud are and join forces.
Ready?"
Hawkins nodded, and once more the two flashed across the open ground, this time away from the danger zone.
But there was no need for such haste, for not a shot followed them.
"The horses!"
Nort yelled as he rode up.
"Get them, Bud, and Delton won't have a dog's chance!"
"Got 'em!"
Bud answered.
"Soon as we saw the fire I went to where they had them tethered and led 'em over here.
There they are, by that tree.
Say, I wonder who started this thing?"
"What makes you think someone started it?"
Hawkins asked, looking at him closely.
"Well, I figure it couldn't set itself--and it's not likely an accident would happen."
"Can't tell--like as not a lamp turned over.
Wow, look at that roof go!
Where can those birds be keeping themselves?
What chance have they got now?"
"Probably trying to put it out from inside.
Foolish thing to do, but they know as soon as they come out they're finished.
I wouldn't deliberately set the place on fire, but it sure solved our problem for us."
As the fire raged more fiercely, the ranchers looked at each other.
What had happened to Delton?
Could it be that he determined to stick it out until the last moment, and risk a horrible death?
Surely he must realize that in peaceful surrender lay his only hope.
Suddenly Bud uttered a cry.
"Here comes someone!
Out of the cellar!
Look!"
Running toward them was a bedraggled figure.
Clothes torn, face blackened with smoke, it presented a truly pitiful picture.
As it ran it waved its arms wildly.
Something in the appearance, or possibly its gesture, caused Bud to exclaim: "Say, he looks familiar!
Kid, Nort--know who that is?"
The boys looked curiously at the wretched man.
Now he was almost upon them, and they could see his eyes glaring wildly.
He reached them and fell to the ground, exhausted.
Bud dismounted quickly and bent over him.
"Get up!"
he commanded.
"Let's have a look at you!"
The man dragged himself to his feet.
At a sight of his face, blackened as it was by the smoke, all started back.
"Well, what do you know about that!"
the Kid cried.
"It's our Mexican cook!"
"What are you doing here?"
Nort asked sharply.
"You with Delton?
Hey?
Tell the truth now or I'll hit you!"
"He can't talk!"
Bud protested.
"Give him a chance.
He's all in.
Come here, Mex."
The boy held out his arm and the Mexican seized it and steadied himself.
"Were you with Delton?"
Bud asked.
The Mexican shook his head negatively.
Then he pointed to the burning building and waved his arms wildly.
"Steady up!"
Bud commanded.
"Take it easy!"
The man took a deep breath and regained control of himself.
But his gestures were still inexplainable.
After a minute of vain gesticulating the Kid suddenly exclaimed: "I think I get it!
Mex, listen here: Did you set that fire?"
A vigorous nod of the head.
The boys looked at each other in surprise.
"What for?"
The Mexican pointed to himself, then held up two fingers.
Then he pointed to the house, and shook his fist.
"Be means his brother!"
the Kid said.
"What about him, Mex?
Did Delton get hold of him?"
Another nod, and more furious gestures.
"I see!"
cried the Kid.
"He means Delton put his brother up to some dirty work.
That right, Mex?"
Eagerly the man signified yes.
"And he did this to get back at him.
But where is Delton, Mex?
Why doesn't he come out?
He'll be burned to death in there!"
The fire had eaten its way through to the front of the house and now the whole upper story was ablaze.
It seemed impossible that any living creature could withstand those flames.
"Where's Delton, Mex?"
the Kid persisted.
The cook pointed to the house then to the ground.
"The cellar!"
Bud cried.
"He means they're hiding in the cellar!
That's the reason they can stay in there so long.
We should have thought of that before."
"They'll soon be out," spoke Hawkins a trifle grimly.
"The fire is reaching the lower story.
We may expect a rush any minute now."
The men were standing in a group at the edge of the trees.
With the house directly in front of them, and the country about perfectly flat, there was no chance of anyone escaping unseen.
The flames mounted higher.
There was a certain amount of awe in the faces of all as they thought of the tortures a person would endure if he were trapped in that furnace.
And for all they knew, men might be burning to death in front of them!
It was a harrowing situation.
Even though they had shot Billee Dobb, it was an inhuman thing to wish, or even think, of them being caught in a burning building.
If they would only come out, even though they came shooting!
Bud saw a huge tongue of flame shoot out of the roof.
"I can't stand this any longer!"
he shouted.
"Those men must be burning to death!
I can't stay here and watch that.
I'm going to----" "But what can you do?"
Nort asked.
"They want to stay there until they're good and ready to leave.
I don't see how we can help them.
Certainly I don't want to see anyone burned to death, but I don't think we can do anything, except go in and get them, which we can't do; and if they won't come out, they won't."
"Perhaps they're trapped!"
"You'd know it if they were.
They'd yell or something.
No matter how much they want to escape, they won't risk getting burned.
No man would."
"Then why don't they come out?"
Bud persisted.
"Ask me something easier!
Maybe the Mex can tell us something about it.
Hey, Mex!
Why they no come out?"
But this time the cook shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands wide in a gesture expressing ignorance.
They could get no information there.
"I'm going to ride over and see!"
Bud exclaimed, a ring of determination in his voice.
"Well, if you want to--then I'll go with you.
Kind of wonder where they are myself."
This from Nort.
They had to force their horses to head toward the fire.
The sparks were flying high, and the heat could be plainly felt even at the distance the boys stood.
But finally Bud and Nort got the ponies started.
The animals approached the fire with mincing steps.
The boys had to force them continually onward, for no beast will go toward fire willingly.
A few more steps and Nort said: "Say, Bud, there's not much point in this.
The broncs will never go near enough for us to see anything.
What say we get off and walk?
I don't think there's much chance of Delton shooting at us.
If we really want to find out anything we better get off these horses."
"Guess that's right," agreed Bud as his mount reared high.
"Fast, though--snap to it, Nort!"
The boys turned their ponies away from the fire and rode swiftly back.
They dismounted and without hesitation, ran again to the burning house.
They made for the side, from where the Mexican cook had staggered out.
"There ought to be an entrance to the cellar about here," Bud panted as he ran on.
"The Mex said they were down there!"
As they neared the building they saw that this was so.
A small door indicated the way to the cellar.
The heat was tremendous, and Nort wondered if their errand hadn't been in vain.
It didn't seem possible that there living creatures were voluntarily remaining within.
Just as Nort was about to tell Bud his thought, a figure emerged and staggered toward them.
It was the man who had protested at Delton's treatment of Bud when the boy had been taken, bound, to this very house.
The man was in sad case.
His breath was coming in sobs, and he maintained an upright position only by a supreme effort.
One side of his face was badly burned.
"Help--" he gasped.
"Help--men in there----" "What is it?
Speak quick!"
Bud commanded.
"Can't they get out?
Are they in danger?'
"Trapped!
Delton--in there--can't move--hit on the head----" The next moment the man collapsed at their feet, unconscious.
CHAPTER XXIV THE RATTLING BUCKBOARD "Quick, Nort!
Pull him back out of the heat and call the others!
We've got to save those men!"
"What's the matter?"
Dick cried as he came up.
"Aren't they out of that furnace yet?"
"No--they're trapped inside!
We've got to get them out!
Billee Dobb--is--is he dead?"
"No--he's better!
He insisted on my coming over when he saw the smoke.
Thought I might be needed.
No time for talk now--we've got to get busy!"
"It's sure death to enter that!"
Hawkins cried as another huge tongue of flame shot heavenward, sending the boys reeling back.
"You'll only throw your lives away!"
"I can't help it--we must do something!
We can't see them burned to death!"
At that moment Bud felt a tug at his sleeve.
He jerked around.
At his elbow was the Mexican cook.
He motioned to himself, then toward the cellar.
Then he leaped forward.
"Follow him!"
Bud cried.
"He knows how to get in safely!"
With a rush the others were on the heels of the Mexican.
"Someone has got to stay here--help them out if we do get them!"
exclaimed Hawkins.
"Nort--you and Dick wait!"
Bud was directly behind the Mexican.
He saw the man disappear down into the smoke, and taking a full breath, the boy followed.
He found himself below ground, and for a moment hesitated to get his bearings.
The air was choking, but the heat was not intolerable.
The fire had not quite reached the lower floor.
There was no time to be lost, for any minute the building might collapse and bury them.
Bud plunged on.
He could see faintly now, and he caught a glimpse of a figure in front of him, beckoning.
"Go--ahead!"
the boy gasped.
"Coming!"
A few steps further and he stumbled against a door.
At his side was the Mexican, pointing.
Bud pushed frantically, but the door refused to budge.
Then he found the reason.
It was bolted.
"You--you locked them in!
You inhuman----" He saw the Mexican shrug his shoulders.
Even in the burning building the Latin's philosophical mind did not desert him.
Bud struggled with the bolt.
It stuck.
He strove with all his strength--and the door flew open.
The boy stumbled in.
His foot struck a body stretched upon the floor.
He reached down and lifted the unconscious man to his shoulder.
Behind him he heard a voice.
It was that of Yellin' Kid.
"Give him here!"
The Kid seized the limp form and passed it to someone at his side.
"We'll get 'em out like a bucket-brigade!
Pass 'em to me, Bud!"
Through the smoke Bud groped his way.
His hand encountered another body.
In a moment he lifted the man and passed him to the Kid.
His head felt as if it were bursting, but on he struggled, seeking, hands outstretched.
He passed another body out to the Kid.
Another.
Then he heard a moan and turned toward it.
A man lay against the wall.
His hands moved feebly, and even in the smoke and gloom Bud, could see blood streaming from a cut on his head.
The boy bent over and grasped the man's arm.
His face was within an inch of the other's.
"Delton!"
The boy's cry was involuntary.
Here, under his very hands, was the man who was the cause of their misfortunes--who had committed crimes, no telling how many, and who had perhaps shot one of their comrades.
And yet Bud was risking his life to save this creature.
Was it fair to ask----?
A low moan came from the wretched figure.
Bud looked for a long moment at the blood-stained face.
Then with a sudden heave he lifted him and staggered to the door.
"I'll take him!"
he gasped to the Kid, who had reached for the burden.
"See if there are any more!"
He heard Yellin' Kid smashing against the walls in an effort to locate other senseless figures.
Then he followed Bud.
"Can't find any more.
Ask the Mex how many----" The cook heard the inquiry and flung his arms wide, indicating that the rest had made their escape.
The Kid, gasping, plunged out into the open.
As he gulped in great mouthfuls of the welcome fresh air the Kid heard a sudden crash.
He turned quickly.
A shower of sparks and flames shot into the air, like the eruption of a volcano.
There was another roar, and the next moment the building was in ruins.
The walls had collapsed, and nothing remained of the structure but a pile of embers.
With horror written on his face, the Kid looked wildly about him.
"Bud!"
he almost screamed.
"Bud--is he in there?
Get him out--get him----" "All right, Kid--all right--" said a voice by his side.
It was Bud.
The Kid stared at him for a long minute, with a suspicious moisture in his eyes.
Then he laid his hand on Bud's shoulder.
"Thought--you were--" he said in a husky voice.
And he did a strange yet a boyish thing.
He withdrew his hand from Bud's shoulder and planted it hard under the other's ribs.
"Baby!"
he exclaimed.
"We sure did clean up that place!
Threw them out like bags of corn.
Anybody hurt bad?"
The two, their faces blackened and with clothes torn, walked toward the group of men gathered about the injured.
They saw the forms stretched on the ground, and for a moment feared that their rescue work had been in vain.
The boy ranchers looked at the figure upon the ground.
The man groaned and opened his eyes.
He stared straight into the eyes of Bud.
For a moment hostility glared out at the boy, then Delton half closed his eyes as though he were trying to think.
The men gathered about were quiet, watching their prisoner.
He wet his lips with his tongue.
"Thanks," he murmured, and held out his hand with a feeble gesture.
Bud reached down and grasped it with a smile.
"Don't mention it," the boy said quickly.
Then he straightened up and looked over to Mr. Hawkins.
"Say, are you thinking the same thing I am?"
he asked the agent.
"You mean, where are the Chinks?
You bet I'm wondering that!
Wait, I believe I can find out.
Hey, Mex!"
The agent called to the cook who was standing on the edge of the group.
"Come here!
You know him?"
He pointed to a man seated on the ground, leaning against a tree, with one of his sleeves burned entirely away.
The arm was scorched.
But with his other hand the man was calmly holding a cigarette.
The Mexican cook looked at him and then nodded briefly.
"He's your brother, isn't he?"
Another careless nod.
"Then you ask him what became of the Chinks!"
"Why don't you ask him yourself?"
Dick wanted to know.
"Tried it--won't answer.
I think his brother can make him talk."
This proved to be correct.
The cook bent over his brother and made a few rapid motions with his fingers.
The seated man muttered something.
Again the cook's fingers moved.
This time his brother answered more at length, and the cook walked in the direction of a small shed, motioning to the others to follow.
Nort and Mr. Hawkins trailed along behind.
When they reached the shack the cook pointed to it.
"In there?"
the agent asked doubtfully.
It didn't seen large enough to hold more than two men.
It had probably been used to shelter a calf when the place had been run by a farmer.
The Mexican nodded.
Hawkins stepped to the small door and jerked it open.
A bundled-up mass of humanity almost tumbled into his arms, and when they untangled themselves, there were not two Chinese, but five!
"How in thunderation did you all ever get in there?"
Nort inquired wonderingly.
"Hey, you!
Quiet down!
We're not going to hurt you.
What do you think this is, a circus?
Gee!
They were like sardines!"
The Chinese were as excited as rabbits, and chattered away in evident fear.
None of them spoke English, and it was some time before they could be made to understand that no harm was intended them.
As the agent returned to the little group of wounded and others, he saw them centered about something and all talking at once.
He quickened his pace and in a moment saw the cause of the commotion.
"Billee Dobb!"
he exclaimed.
"Golly, I'm glad to see you moving again!
How did you get over here?"
"Dick and Yellin' Kid carried me," the veteran rancher answered with a smile.
"Like a silly baby!
They jest lifted me up an' brung me along.
Said I had to see the last act, anyway."
"How are you feeling?"
Hawkins asked anxiously.
"I wanted to go to you soon as I heard about it, but I couldn't, Billee."
"Sure, I know you couldn't.
I was all right.
Dick stayed by me until I had to threaten him with a six-gun to get him to help you people.
Why, I'm feelin' O. K. now.
Jest got me in the shoulder.
Laid me out for a spell--I ain't as young as I was--why, I remember the time when I got an arrow full in the side--didn't phase me none--went right on and got the guy that shot it--I was a man in them days--I remember----" "Now, Billee, take it easy," Bud said gently.
"Tell us all about it later.
You got lots of time.
Thirsty?"
"A leettle," the rancher replied with a sigh.
Bud leaned over and held his canteen to the other's lips.
Billee took a long drink and sighed again.
"Tired," he said weakly.
"Want to sleep."
He lay back on the blanket.
Bud drew the edges over him and motioned the others away.
"Let him sleep.
Best thing in the world for him.
We'll take him back later.
I don't want to move him until that wound gets good and quiet."
"What about these others?"
Nort inquired.
"We want to get them out of the way.
There are five men who can't walk.
Then there's two more who managed to get out without being burned.
They're here too.
We've got to get them all back some way.
Can't walk them, and we haven't enough horses.
What do you think, Mr.
Hawkins?"
"Let me see," the agent said.
"It is a problem, Nort.
Bud, have you a suggestion?
The sooner we can get the bunch to town the quicker we'll get something hot to eat.
And a little sleep wouldn't harm us any.
Think of anything, Bud?"
"Well, if--" The boy stopped and listened intently.
In the distance he heard the sounds of horses.
Then as they approached nearer the creaking noise of a wagon traveling fast came to him.
The next moment all heard a voice yelling: "Get along there, boys!
Watch it--watch it!
Pete, you spavin-back cayuse, come out of that!
Quit side-steppin'!
At a baby--now yore goin'!
Out of that hole!
Out of it!
Pete!
Pete!
You dog-eared knock-kneed bleary-eyed paint, if you don't swing wide I'll skin you alive!
You, Pete!"
A rattling buckboard popped into view like the presiding genius of a jack-in-the-box.
"It's our friend from town--from the store!"
Nort exclaimed.
"Yes, and look who's with him!"
Bud yelled.
"It's Dad!
Yea, Dad!
Golly, I'm glad you came!
You're just in time!"
CHAPTER XXV YELLIN' KID FINDS HIS BRONC The wagon came to a sudden stop, and Mr. Merkel jumped out.
"Hello, son!
Howdy, boys!
Say--what happened here?
Bud--how did you get burned?
You hurt?"
There was a note of anxiety in the father's voice.
"Not a bit, Dad!
Just blackened up a little.
Had a fire, and we had to pull some men out.
Look at that!"
The boy pointed to the mass of embers that was once a house.
The fire had died down until now there was only glowing bits of wood left.
It had started quickly and ended as suddenly.
"Anybody seriously burned?"
Mr. Merkel looked at his son keenly, as though to satisfy himself that he was uninjured.
The father's glance evidently convinced him that Bud was all right, for he turned quickly and said to the others: "Where's Billee Dobb?
I don't see him."
"Billee is the one who is really hurt, Uncle," Nort answered.
"He's got a piece of lead in his shoulder.
He's asleep now--be all right later, I think."
"Shot!
The rascals!
They'll suffer for that!
You want to get Billee to a doctor as soon as possible, before infection sets in.
We'll bring him back in the wagon."
"How did you happen to come here, Dad?"
Bud asked curiously.
"I didn't think you knew where we were."
"I didn't, exactly.
I have a confession to make, Bud.
You weren't sent out here to herd sheep.
You were sent to do just what you did--to capture the smugglers."
"But--but why didn't you tell us?"
"I couldn't, Bud.
I gave my word to the government that I'd not let on the reason I was sending you out here.
You see, no one could tell just what would happen.
If you knew that you were sent to go after smugglers, and you went after the wrong gang, things would be in a pretty mess.
So they concluded that it was best to leave you in the dark.
I'll admit I favored telling you, boys, but as it turned out, the other way may have been best.
Even as it was, I let slip something about it.
And when you weren't at the ranch I figured you might be in this direction.
I sort of suspected this place.
Well, all's well that ends well.
Now what, boys?"
"If we can get that wild buckboard man to drive slowly, we have a load of passengers to take back.
Oh, say, Dad, do you know Mr. Hawkins?
I don't know whether you--" Bud paused suggestively.
"Yes, indeed," Mr. Merkel said with a smile.
"We're old friends.
He came to me long ago and arranged most of this scheme.
Sorry we had to do it, boys--but the government seems to know its business!"
"I'm glad you look at it in that light, Mr. Merkel," the agent said as he shook hands.
"We have to be very, very careful--and a slip that may seem trivial to others may mean success or failure to us.
But let me say that these boys have more than come up to expectations.
I have never seen a better----" "Hey, hey, take it easy!"
the Kid laughed.
"It might go to our heads.
But one thing, Mr. Hawkins.
It's about----" "I know--the reward!
And you get it, too, boys.
As soon as we get to town I'll give you a check that's in my office safe.
You have certainly earned it."
"Now we can get a new bunch of longhorns!"
shouted Dick gleefully.
"Great stuff!
That's worth going without a night's sleep for!"
"And the radio," Nort broke in.
"We get that, too!"
"You and your sparkin' outfit," Yellin' Kid scoffed.
"You want music with your grub, I guess!"
"Say, Mr. Hawkins, what's the penalty for smuggling in this state?"
Bud inquired.
"I just wondered----" "Ten years," the agent answered briefly.
"Delton's due for quite a long stretch.
He'll have time to think over his errors."
"Ten years," Bud said musingly.
"Ten years in jail!
Mr. Hawkins, if we testified that Delton wasn't so bad as he's supposed to be, and that----" The boy stopped.
Hawkins looked at him long and hard.
Then he walked over and held out his hand.
"Son," he said simply, "that's the whitest thing I've ever seen a man do.
I'll try to fix it up for you.
We'll do what we can to lighten his sentence."
"Thanks," Bud said gratefully.
"Well, when do we start?"
Mr. Merkel asked.
"If you men are hungry, we'd better get going.
Did I understand you to say we'd have a load going back, Bud?"
"And then some!
Now let's see how we can arrange this.
Billee Dobb goes back in the buckboard.
And so do the others who are badly hurt.
How many do you think can ride, Kid?
You know we've got their horses at the back, and some can come along on them."
"Figure Delton and two of those other guys should go in the wagon.
The rest can fork the broncs.
They're able.
Well, let's get those fellers that are going along with this wild man in the wagon.
Think you can take it easy a short spell?"
Yellin' Kid asked the grinning driver.
"Sure!
Like an am-bu-lance.
They'll never know they're ridin'."
"All right.
Now about these Chinks.
Guess they'll have to get along on the ponies."
"But maybe they can't ride," Nort suggested.
"Maybe they can't--but they're gonna take a lesson right now!
Their first an' last.
Let's get hold of Billee an' lift him in the wagon.
Still asleep?"
"Yep.
Easy now.
That does it----" As they raised the form of the old rancher he stirred uneasily.
Then he opened his eyes.
"Boss!"
he exclaimed.
"What do you think of me bein' carried around this way.
Wait a minute, boys, I can walk.
I want to----" "You're to lay right still," admonished Yellin' Kid.
"Think we want you bleedin' all over the landscape?
Now go slow, an' Mr. Merkel will shake hands with you when we get you in the wagon."
"How are you, Billee?"
the cattle owner asked warmly.
"Heard you had an accident!
Well, we'll feed you up good for a couple of days and you'll soon be on horseback again."
"Sure will!
Can't say I like this lyin' down idea.
But the boys won't let me get up."
The buckboard carrying Billee and the other injured men went first, and the rest of the procession followed, with Mr. Hawkins and Dick in the extreme rear, to see that everything went well.
And thus they started for town.
They had scarcely gotten under way when all heard the sound of a horse behind them.
They turned and saw a riderless pony galloping toward them.
"What the mischief--" Bud cried out as he saw the horse nearing them.
"He wants to visit!
Look--his halter has been broken.
Must be a runaway.
I wonder----" "Runaway nothin'!"
yelled the Kid.
"He's comin' home!
That's my bronc!"
The horse made straight for Yellin' Kid.
"Look at that--knows me!
Well!
Well!
Well!
Come home to papa!
My bronc, sure as you're a foot high!
See that spot above his eye?
I'd know it in a million!
Come here, baby--where you been?
Huh?
I been lookin' all over for you."
There was a sudden exclamation from one of the smugglers who was riding in front of the Kid.
"Got away!"
the man muttered.
"Thought I tied her----" "So-o-o you're the coot that had her, hey?
An' you tied her up tight, hey?
So she couldn't get loose?
Well, let me tell you that this little paint can bust _any_ halter, if she wants to.
Can't you, baby?
By golly, I----" "Sing it, Kid, sing it!"
Dick laughed.
"Do you tuck her in bed at night, too?"
"Well, she's the best bronc I ever had!"
the Kid said definitely.
"An' I'm goin' to ride her in.
Dick, hang on to this pony, will you?
Lead her in for me.
Well!"
As he got into the saddle of his own mount.
"Here we are again, baby!
Now I won't need that other horse that you were goin' to get me, Mr. Hawkins.
'Scuse me a minute, boys----" He threw the bronc into a gallop and tore across the plain.
Then he wheeled and came rushing back.
"He's happy," Nort said with a grin.
"Never expected to see his bronc again, and she runs right into his hands.
Hey, you--where did you keep her?"
"Around the side," the man who had spoken before answered with a scowl.
"Thought I might need her in a hurry.
His horse, was it?
Well, he was ridin' mine.
A fair exchange is no robbery.
Now he's got her back he's got no kick comin'."
"Hasn't, hey?
Don't know about that.
If he finds any marks on her----" "She wasn't touched," the man said quickly.
"Fast enough without that."
"Lucky for you," Nort commented, meaningly.
After his mad dash the Kid returned in easier fashion.
And so the strange procession wended its way back to Roaring River.
It took them rather a long time to get there, as the buckboard had to be driven slowly on account of the injured.
True to his promise, the young "wild man" held his verbally much-abused horses down to a walk.
The smugglers were removed to jail, with the assurance from the warden that those who were injured would be treated by a local doctor.
The Chinese were also jailed, to be held for the federal officers.
Deportment, first back to Mexico, and, eventually, back to China was their portion.
They seemed to realize it, for they were a sad and silent bunch.
Billee Dobb was given a room to himself in the ranch house where he could rest and get well, and then the others washed up and "filled up," as Nort expressed it.
"Now comes the reward," said Mr. Hawkins, and he arranged to have it paid to the Boy Ranchers, with Yellin' Kid and Billee Dobb sharing in it.
There was an additional reward for capturing the smuggled Chinese as well as the smugglers, so there was a fund large enough for all to share.
"Let's go up and see Billee now," proposed Bud, when they had eaten and quieted down.
They found the old rancher restlessly picking at the coverlet of his bed, his weather-tanned face in strange contrast to the white pillow cases.
As the boys and Mr. Merkel entered, Billee grinned.
"Fust time I ever been t' bed by daylight in seventeen years," he said.
"Don't know what to do with myself.
Now if Snake Purdee was only here, he could----" "An' here I am!"
exclaimed a voice outside the door.
"Hello, Billee!
Heard you was receivin' callers an' I came right over.
What'll you have--a song?
All right, boys--come on in!
Billee wants us to sing for him!"
Into the room shuffled Billee's companions of Diamond X: Slim Degnan, Fat Milton, and the rest.
"Hello, Billee!"
"Howdy, you old de-teck-a-tive you!"
"How's it feel to be a hero?"
"Now boys--are you ready?
Ta da--let's go!"
They all joined in the song.
And as Billee Dobb "smiled a smile" that reached to the corners of the room, the notes of "Bury Me Not On the Lone Prairie, With Variations," filled the house and flowed over into the outer air.
And Billee Dobb just lay there, smiling and smiling.
As for the Boy Ranchers--they were happy, too.
They had done a good job.
They had covered themselves with glory.
"And maybe there are other jobs ahead," remarked Bud.
THE END
[Illustration: The Sea Lay Sparkling in the Sunlight.
_Frontispiece_.]
The Meadow-Brook Girls by the Sea OR The Loss of The Lonesome Bar By JANET ALDRIDGE Author of the Meadow-Brook Girls Under Canvas, The Meadow-Brook Girls Across Country, The Meadow-Brook Girls Afloat, The Meadow-Brook Girls in The Hills, The Meadow-Brook Girls on The Tennis Courts THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY Akron, Ohio New York Made in U.S.A.
Copyright MCMXIV _By_ THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY CONTENTS I.
A DELIGHTFUL MYSTERY II.
WHAT CAME OF A COLD PLUNGE III.
HARRIET HAS A NARROW ESCAPE IV.
A QUESTION OF POLITICS V. THE ROCKY ROAD TO WAU-WAU VI.
AT HOME BY THE SEA VII.
A SUDDEN STORM VIII.
A NEVER-TO-BE-FORGOTTEN NIGHT IX.
A SURPRISE THAT PROVED A SHOCK X.
SUMMONED TO THE COUNCIL XI.
A REWARD WELL EARNED XII.
MYSTERY ON A SAND BAR XIII.
A STRANGE PROCEEDING XIV.
A VISITOR WHO WAS WELCOME XV.
TOMMY MAKES A DISCOVERY XVI.
TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE XVII.
WHEN THEIR SHIP CAME IN XVIII.
FIREWORKS FROM THE MASTHEAD XIX.
SAILING THE BLUE WATER XX.
OUT OF SIGHT OF LAND XXI.
AN ANXIOUS OUTLOOK XXII.
IN THE GRIP OF MIGHTY SEAS XXIII.
WAGING A DESPERATE BATTLE XXIV.
CONCLUSION CHAPTER I A DELIGHTFUL MYSTERY "I think we are ready to start, girls."
Miss Elting folded the road map that she had been studying and placed it in a pocket of her long dust coat.
There was a half-smile on her face, a merry twinkle in her eyes.
"Which way do I drive?"
questioned Jane McCarthy.
"Straight ahead out of the village," answered Miss Elting, the guardian of the party of young girls who were embarking on their summer's vacation under somewhat unusual circumstances.
"It's the first time I ever started for a place without knowing what the place was, or where I was going," declared Jane McCarthy, otherwise known as "Crazy Jane."
"Won't you pleathe tell uth where we are going?"
lisped Grace Thompson.
Miss Elting shook her head, with decision.
"Do my father and mother know where we are going?"
persisted Grace.
"Of course they know, Tommy.
The parents of each of you know, and I know, and so shall you after you reach your destination.
Have you everything in the car, Jane?"
"Everything but myself," nodded Jane.
The latter's automobile, well loaded with camping equipment, stood awaiting its passengers.
The latter were Miss Elting, Jane McCarthy, Harriet Burrell, Grace Thompson, Hazel Holland and Margery Brown, the party being otherwise known as "The Meadow-Brook Girls."
"Get in, girls.
We'll shake the dust of Meadow-Brook from our tires before you can count twenty," continued Jane.
"If Crazy Jane were to drive through the town slowly folks surely would think something startling had happened to her.
Is there anything you wish to do before we leave, Miss Elting?"
"Not that I think of at the moment, Jane."
"Oh, let's say good-bye to our folks," suggested Margery Brown.
"I have thaid good-bye," answered Grace with finality.
"We'll give them a farewell blast," chuckled Jane.
With that she climbed into the car, and, with a honk of the horn, drove down that street and into the next, keeping the horn going almost continually.
As they passed the home of each girl the young women gave the yell of the Meadow-Brook Girls: "Rah, rah, rah, Rah, rah, rah!
Meadow-Brook, Meadow-Brook, Sis, boom, ah!"
It was shouted in chorus at their homes, and as the car passed the homes of their friends as well.
Hands were waved from windows, hats were swung in the air by boy friends, while the older people smiled indulgently and nodded to them as the rapidly moving motor car passed through the village.
"I think the town knows all about it now.
Suppose we make a start?"
suggested Miss Elting.
"We haven't therenaded the pothtmathter yet," Tommy reminded her.
"Nor the butcher, the baker and the candle-stick maker," answered Harriet Burrell laughingly.
"How long a drive have we, Miss Elting?"
"Four or five hours, ordinarily.
Jane undoubtedly will make it in much less time, if she drives at her usual rate of speed.
Straight south, Jane.
I will tell you when to change."
The faces of the girls wore a puzzled expression.
They could not imagine where they were going.
Miss Elting had made a mystery of this summer vacation, and not a word had the girls been able to obtain from her as to where they were to go: whether to tour the country in Crazy Jane's automobile, or to go into camp.
Tommy declared that it was a perfectly delightful mythtery, and that she didn't care where they were going, while Margery on the contrary, grumbled incessantly.
The start had been made late in the afternoon.
The day had been cloudy.
There were even indications of rain, but the girls did not care.
They were too well inured to the weather to be disturbed by lowering skies and threatening clouds.
In the meantime Jane McCarthy was bowling along to the southward, throwing up a cloud of dust, having many narrow escapes from collisions with farmers' wagons and wandering stock.
They had been traveling about two hours when the guardian directed their daring driver to turn to the left.
The latter did so, thus heading the car to the eastward.
"I think I begin to understand," thought Harriet Burrell aloud.
"What ith it that you underthtand?"
demanded Tommy, pricking up her ears.
"You know where we are going, don't you?"
"I can make a close guess," replied Harriet, nodding brightly.
"Oh, tell uth, tell uth," begged Tommy.
Harriet shook her head.
"I couldn't think of it.
Miss Elting wishes it to be a surprise to you."
"Well, won't it be jutht ath much of a thurprithe now ath it will be thome other time?"
argued Grace Thompson.
"Perhaps Harriet just imagines she knows.
I do not believe she knows any more about our destination than do the rest of our party," said the guardian.
"But why worry about it?
You will know when you get there."
Jane stopped the car, and, getting out, proceeded to put the curtains up on one side, Harriet and Hazel doing the same on the opposite side.
The storm curtain, with its square of transparent isinglass, was next set in place to protect the driver from the front, the wind shield first having been turned down out of the way.
"Now let the rain come," chuckled Jane, after having taken a quick survey of their work.
"Yes; it is nice and cosy in here," answered Miss Elting.
"I almost believe I should like to sleep in here during a rainstorm."
"Excuthe me," objected Tommy.
"I'd be thure to get crampth in my neck."
"She would that," answered Jane laughingly, starting the car and a moment later throwing in the high-speed clutch.
The party was not more than fairly started on the way again when the raindrops began pattering on the leather top of the car.
"There it comes," cried Jane McCarthy.
"Sounds like rain on a tin roof, doesn't it?"
The downpour rapidly grew heavier, accompanied by lightning and thunder.
The flashes were blinding, dazzling Jane's eyes so that she had difficulty in keeping her car in the road.
It was now nearly evening, and an early darkness had already settled over the landscape.
There was little hope of more light, for night would be upon them by the time the storm had passed.
True, there would be a moon behind the clouds, but the latter bade fair to be wholly obscured during the evening.
Despite the blinding storm that masked the road, and the sharp flashes of lightning that dazzled the eyes of the driver, Crazy Jane McCarthy went on driving ahead at the same rate of speed until Miss Elting begged her to go more slowly.
Jane reduced the speed of the car, though so slightly as to be scarcely noticeable.
The guardian smiled but made no further comment.
Being shut in as they were, they would have difficulty in getting out were an accident to befall them.
All at once, however, Jane slowed down with a jolt.
She then sent the car cautiously ahead, this time driving out on a level grass plot at the side of the road.
There she shut down, turned off the power, and, leaning back, yawned audibly.
"Whoa!"
she said wearily.
"Why, Jane, what is the matter?"
cried Miss Elting.
"Like a sailboat, we can't make much headway without wind.
As it happens, we have no wind on the quarter, as the sailors would say."
"I don't understand."
"She means the tires are down," explained Harriet Burrell.
"Yes.
I told Dad those rear tires were leaking, but he declared they were good for five hundred miles yet."
"Can't we patch them?"
queried Harriet.
"We can," replied Jane, "but we aren't going to until this rain lets up a little.
Please don't ask me to get out and paddle about in the wet, for I'm not going to do anything of the sort."
Jane began to hum a tune.
Her companions settled back comfortably.
It was dry and cosy in the car and the travellers felt drowsy.
Jane was the only really wide-awake one.
Margery finally uttered a single, loud snore that awakened the others.
The girls uttered a shout and began shaking Margery, who pulled herself sharply together, protesting that she hadn't been asleep for even one little minute.
"That ith the way thhe alwayth doeth," observed Tommy.
"Then thhe denieth it.
I'm glad I don't thnore.
Ithn't it awful to thnore, Mith Elting?"
"Having too much to say is worse," answered Jane pointedly.
"The storm has passed.
Let's get out and fix things up.
Harriet, will you help me?
Miss Elting, if you will be good enough to engineer the taking-down of the side curtains and the lowering of the top I shall be obliged.
We shan't need the top.
We aren't going to have any more rain to-night, and I want all the light I can get, especially as we are going over strange roads.
Have you been this way before?"
"No, Jane, but I have the road map."
"Road map!"
scoffed the Irish girl.
"I followed one once and landed in a ditch!"
"That ith nothing for Crathy Jane to do," lisped Grace.
"Right you are, Tommy," answered Jane with a hearty laugh.
"Just as I thought, the tires, the inner tubes, are leaking around the valves.
We shan't be able to do much with them, but I think we can make them hold until we get in.
I'll have some new inner tubes sent out to us.
By the way, are we going to be where we can send for supplies and have them delivered?"
questioned Jane shrewdly.
"Oh, I think so," was Miss Elting's evasive answer.
"Aren't you glad you found out?"
chuckled Harriet.
Jane grinned, but said nothing.
The work of patching the two inner tubes occupied nearly an hour before the tires were back in place and the car ready to start.
Harriet, in the meantime, had lighted the big headlights and the rear light.
"All aboard for Nowhere!"
shouted Jane.
The girls again took their places in the car, which started with a jolt.
"Is it straight ahead, Miss Elting?"
"Yes."
"I hope you know where you're going.
I'm sure I don't," remarked Jane under her breath.
They had gone but a short distance before the driver discovered that which displeased her very much.
The lights on the front of the car were growing dim.
Her companions noticed this at about the same time.
"The gas is giving out," exclaimed Jane.
"Isn't that provoking?
With us it is one continuous round of surprises."
"What are we going to do?"
questioned Margery apprehensively.
"Just the same as before: keep on going," replied the Irish girl.
"I've driven without lights before this.
I guess I can do it again.
I can see the road and so can you."
"Please reduce your speed a little," urged Miss Elting.
The driver did so, for Jane was not quite so confident of her ability to keep to the road as she would have had them believe.
"There comes some one.
Please stop; I want to ask him a question."
A farmer on a horse had ridden out to one side of the road, where he was holding his mount, the horse being afraid of the car.
Miss Elting asked him how they might reach the Lonesome Cove.
The girls were very deeply interested in this question as well as in the answer to it.
They had never heard of Lonesome Cove.
So that was to be their destination?
They nudged each other knowingly.
The farmer informed Miss Elting that the Cove was about eight miles farther on.
"Take your third right hand turn and it'll lead you right down into the Cove," he said.
"It's a pretty lonesome place now," he added.
"Yes, I understand," replied the guardian hurriedly, "but we know all about that.
Thank you very much.
You may drive ahead now, Jane."
Jane smiled and started on.
"I keep watch of the turns of the road.
You pay attention to your driving exclusively," added Miss Elting.
"And, girls, you keep a sharp lookout, too."
"Where ith thith Lonethome Cove?"
questioned Tommy.
"I don't like the thound of the name."
"You will like it when you get there," answered the guardian.
"But I said I would not tell you anything about it.
Time enough when we reach there.
You shall then see for yourselves.
You are going too fast, Jane."
"I'd like to reach there some time before morning.
The road is clear and level.
I'm going only twenty miles an hour, as it is.
That's just a creeping pace, you know," reassured Jane.
"Yes, I know," answered the guardian, with a shake of her head.
They continued on, but without much conversation, for Jane was busy watching the road, her companions keeping a sharp lookout for the turns.
They had already passed two roads that led off to the right.
The next, according to their informant, would be the one for them to take to reach the Lonesome Cove.
"Here is the third turn," announced Jane finally, bringing her car to a stop.
The highway on which they had been riding was shaded with second-growth trees, as was the intersecting road.
The latter was narrow; but, from Jane's investigations, she having stepped down to examine it, it was hard though not well-traveled.
"Have you been here before, Miss Elting?"
"No, Jane; I have not.
Go ahead and drive carefully, for I hardly think it a main road."
"It's a good one, whether it is a main road or not."
They moved on down the side road, and, gaining confidence as they progressed, Jane McCarthy let out a notch at a time until she was traveling at a fairly high rate of speed.
Their way wound in and out among the small trees and bushes that bordered the road, the latter narrowing little by little until there was barely room for turning out in case they were to meet another vehicle.
However, there seemed little chance of that.
The motor car appeared to be the only vehicle abroad that night.
The road now was so dark that it was only by glancing up at the tops of the bordering trees, outlined against the sky, that the driver of the car was able to keep well in the middle of it.
She was straining her eyes, peering into the darkness ahead.
"How far?"
demanded Jane shortly, never removing her gaze from the trees and the roadway.
"We must be near the place.
Surely it cannot be far now," answered the guardian.
"I thought we should have seen a light before this."
"We're coming into the open," broke in Jane.
"I'm glad of that.
Now we needn't be afraid of running into the trees or the fences, if there are any along the track.
I can't make out the sides of the road at all.
I--" A sudden and new sound cut short her words.
The girls, realizing that something unusual was occurring, fell suddenly silent.
The roadway beneath them gave off a hollow sound, as if they were going over a bridge.
The fringe of trees had fallen away, while all about them was what appeared to be a darkened plain or field.
Yet strain their eyes as they would, the travelers were unable to distinguish the character of their surroundings, though Harriet Burrell, with chin elevated, had been sniffing the air suspiciously.
"I smell water," she cried.
"Tho do I," lisped Tommy.
"But I don't want a drink."
Jane began to slow down as soon as the new sound had been heard.
The car was rolling along slowly.
For some unaccountable reason the driver put on a little more speed.
Then came Jane McCarthy's voice, in a quick, warning shout: "Here's trouble.
Jump, girls!
Jump!
We're going in!"
They did not know what it was that they were going into, but not a girl of them obeyed Jane's command.
Margery half-arose from the seat.
Hazel pulled her back.
"Sit still, girls!"
commanded Miss Elting.
"Stop the car, Jane!"
The driver shut off and applied the brake.
But she was too late.
The automobile kept on going.
The roadway underneath it seemed to be dropping away from them; for a few seconds they experienced the sensation of riding on thin air; then the car lurched heavily forward, and, with a mighty splash, plunged into water.
A great sheet of solid water leaped up and enveloped them.
"Everyone for herself!"
cried Harriet Burrell.
"Jump, girls!"
This time they _did_ essay to jump.
Before they could do so, however, they were struggling to free themselves from the sinking car, the water already over their heads.
CHAPTER II WHAT CAME OF A COLD PLUNGE Five girls and their guardian struggled free from the sinking motor car and began paddling for the surface.
All knowing how to swim, they instinctively held their breath when they felt the water closing over them.
Fortunately for the Meadow-Brook Girls, the top had been removed from the car, else all would have been drowned before they could have extricated themselves.
Jane had the most difficulty in getting out.
She was held to her seat by the steering wheel for a few seconds, but not so much as a thought of fear entered her mind.
Crazy Jane went to work methodically to free herself, which she succeeded in doing a few seconds after her companions had reached the surface.
"Thave me, oh, thave me!"
wailed Tommy Thompson chokingly.
There followed a great splashing, accompanied by shouts and choking coughs.
About this time Jane McCarthy's head appeared above the water.
She took a long, gasping breath, then called out: "Here we are, darlin's!
Is anybody wet?"
"Girls, are you all here?"
cried Miss Elting anxiously.
"Call your names."
They did so, and there was relief in every heart when it was found that not a girl was missing.
But they had yet to learn how they happened to be in the water.
The latter was cold as ice, it seemed to them, and their desire now was to get to shore as quickly as possible.
Which way the shore lay they did not know, but from the looks of the sky-line it was apparent that they would not be obliged to go far in either direction to find a landing place.
"Follow me, girls," directed the guardian.
"We will get out of here and talk about our disaster afterward.
Harriet, please bring up the rear.
Be sure that no one is left behind."
The splashing ceased, each girl starting forward with her own particular stroke: Tommy swimming frog-fashion, Margery blowing, puffing, and groaning, paddling like a four-footed animal.
"Oh, help!"
she moaned.
"I'm glad I'm not tho fat ath you are," observed Tommy to the puffing Margery.
"That will do, Tommy!
Buster is quite as well able to take care of herself as are you.
I've touched bottom!
Here we are, girls.
Oh, I am so glad!"
"Where ith it?
I can't thee the bottom."
"Stop swimming, and you'll feel it," suggested Jane, who, having reached the shore, waded out of the water and ran, laughing, up the bank.
"My stars, what a mess!"
One by one the others emerged from the cold water and stood shivering on the beach.
"Wring out your clothes," directed Miss Elting.
This, some of them were already doing.
Margery sat down helplessly.
Harriet assisted her to her feet.
"You mustn't do that.
You surely will catch cold.
Keep moving, dear," ordered Harriet.
"I can't.
My clothes weigh a ton," protested Margery.
"Buthter thinkth it ith her clotheth that are heavy," jeered Tommy.
"It ithn't your clotheth, Buthter; it'th you."
"Make her stop, Miss Elting.
Don't you think I am suffering enough, without Tommy making me feel any worse?"
"Yes, I do.
Tommy, will you please stop annoying Margery?"
"Yeth, Mith Elting, I'll thtop until Buthter getth dry again.
But I'm jutht ath wet at thhe ith, and I'm not croth."
"Girls, we have had a very narrow escape.
I dread to think what would have happened had that automobile top been up.
We should give thanks for our deliverance.
But I don't understand how we came to get in there, or what it is that we did get into," said the guardian.
"I know.
It wath water," Tommy informed her.
"It wath wet water, too, and cold water, and--" A shivering chorus of laughs greeted her words.
Some of the girls began whipping their arms and jumping up and down, for all were very cold.
"Can't we run?"
asked Harriet.
"Yes, if we can decide where the water is, and where it isn't," replied Miss Elting.
"Suppose we find the road?
We can run up and down that without danger of falling in."
"It is just to the left of us; I can see the opening between the trees," answered Harriet.
She moved in the direction she had indicated, "Here it is.
Come on, girls."
The others picked their way cautiously to her.
Harriet started up the road at a run, followed by the others and accompanied by the "plush, plush, plush!"
of shoes nearly full of water.
Tommy sat down.
"What are you doing on the ground?"
shrieked Margery, as she stumbled and fell over her little companion.
"Why don't you tell me when you are going to sit down, so that I won't fall over you?"
"You wouldn't, if you weren't tho fat."
"Tommy!"
broke in Miss Elting.
The whole party had come to a halt, following Margery's mishap.
"I beg your pardon, Mith Elting.
I forgot.
Buthter ithn't dry yet.
What am I doing?
Yeth, I'm bailing out my thhoeth.
Ugh!
How they do thtick to my feet.
Oh, I can't get them on again!"
wailed Tommy.
"What a helpless creature you are," answered Harriet laughingly.
"Here, let me help you.
There.
You see how easy it is when once you make up your mind that you really can."
"No, I don't thee.
It ith too dark.
Help me up!"
"Take hold of my hand.
Here, Margery, you get on the other side.
We three will run together.
Everyone else keep out of our way."
"Yeth, becauthe Buthter ith--" Tommy, remembering her promise, checked herself.
The three started up the road at a brisk trot.
Reaching the main road, Harriet led them about, then began running back toward the water.
"Look out for the water," warned Jane shrilly, after they had been going for a few minutes.
But her warning came too late.
Harriet, Tommy and Margery had turned to the right after reaching the open.
The three fell in with a splash and a chorus of screams.
The water was shallow and there was no difficulty in getting out, but the girls now were as wet as before, and shivering more than ever.
At this juncture the guardian took a hand.
She directed them to walk up and down the road in orderly fashion, which they did, shivering, their teeth chattering and the water dripping from their clothing.
Reaching the main highway the guardian turned out on this, walking her charges a full mile in the direction they had been following before turning off into the byway.
"This part of the country appears to be deserted," she said.
"I think we had better return.
In the morning we will try to find some one."
"Thave me!"
moaned Tommy.
"Mutht we thtay here in our wet clotheth all night?"
"I fear so.
What else is there for us to do?"
"But let uth get our dry clotheth and put them on," urged Tommy.
The girls laughed at her.
"Our clothes are down under the water in the car, darlin'," Jane informed her.
"Of course, they are soaked," reflected Miss Elting.
"I do not think so.
The chest on the back of the car is water-proof as well as dust-proof," said Jane.
"If it weren't water-proof the things in it would get soaked every time there was a driving rainstorm.
No; our other clothing is as dry as toast.
You'll see that it is when we get it."
"Yes, when we do," groaned Margery--"_when_ we do!"
"It might as well be wet," observed the guardian.
"We shan't be able to get it out.
Do you think the car is ruined, Jane?"
"It's wet, like ourselves, Miss Elting.
I reckon it will take a whole summer to dry it out thoroughly.
I've got to get word to Dad to come after it."
"What will he say when he learns of the accident, Jane?"
questioned Harriet.
"Say?
He will say it served the old car right for being such a fool.
My dad has common sense.
He will have another car up here for us just as soon as he can get one here.
By the way, Miss Elting, how much farther do we have to go?"
"I don't know, Jane.
I hope it isn't much farther.
How far do you think we traveled after meeting the man?"
"Five miles, I should say."
"And he told us that the third turn-off would lead us to Lonesome Cove, did he not?"
"He did, but he made a mistake.
This is Wet Cove."
"And a lonesome one, too, even if it isn't _the_ Lonesome one," chuckled Harriet.
"Then we cannot be so very far from our destination.
I am sure this isn't the place.
We haven't come far enough.
Why didn't we think of that before we turned into this road?"
"If I knew where you wanted to go, I might be better able to answer that question," reminded Jane.
But the guardian was not to be caught in Crazy Jane's trap, though it was too dark to reveal the quizzical smile that wrinkled Miss Elting's face.
"I am not sure that I know myself, Jane," was her reply.
"You fully expected to find some one here, did you not?"
teased Harriet.
"I might say that you looked to find a number of persons here?"
"We won't discuss that now.
Do you wish to spoil the little surprise that I have been planning for you?"
"If this is your surprise, I don't think much of it," declared Jane bluntly.
"Nor can I blame you," agreed Miss Elting.
"But this is not the surprise."
"Maybe if we wait we will fall into thome more pondth," suggested Grace.
"Ith your thurprithe ath wet at thith one wath?"
"I admit your right to tease me, Tommy," laughed the guardian.
"Come on, everybody!"
urged Harriet.
"We must walk briskly and keep it up.
That will be the only way to keep us from catching cold as a result of our wetting."
Having paused for a moment to discuss their situation the girls began tramping once more.
As the hours dragged along all became weary and drowsy.
Their joints were growing stiff, too, which condition was not improved by the chill of the night air.
Most active of all the party was little Tommy Thompson, who skipped along, talking incessantly.
Margery was scarcely able to keep up with the party.
Twice she leaned against a tree, closing her eyes, only to fall to the ground in a heap.
Harriet, though nearly as tired and footsore as her companions, summoned all her will power and trudged bravely along.
Had the Meadow-Brook Girls not been so well seasoned to hardship, serious results might have followed their unexpected bath in the chill waters, followed by their exposure to the searching night wind.
But they were healthy, outdoor girls, as all our readers know.
The first volume of this series, "THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS UNDER CANVAS," told the story of their first vacation spent in the open, when, as members of Camp Wau-Wau in the Pocono Woods, they served their novitiate as Camp Girls, winning many honors and becoming firmly wedded to life in the woods.
When that camping period came to an end Harriet and her companions, as related in "THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ACROSS COUNTRY," set out on the long walk home, meeting with plenty of adventures and many laughable happenings.
It was during this hike that they became acquainted with the Tramp Club Boys and entered into a walking contest against them, which the Meadow-Brook Girls won.
Our readers next met the girls in "THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS AFLOAT," a volume which contained the account of their houseboat life on Lake Winnepesaukee.
It was there that they again outwitted the Tramp Club, who took their defeat good-naturedly and by way of retaliation aided the girls in running down a mysterious enemy whose malicious mischief had caused them repeated annoyance.
Then, as their summer was not yet ended, the Meadow-Brook Girls accepted an invitation from Jane McCarthy to accompany her on a trip through the White Mountains, all of which is fully set forth in "THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS IN THE HILLS."
It was there that they met with a series of mishaps which they laid at the door of an ill-favored man who had vainly tried to become their guide.
The disappearance of Janus Grubb, the guide who had been engaged by Miss Elting during their mountain hike, and the surprising events that followed made the story of their mountain trip well worth reading.
And now, once more, we find the Meadow-Brook Girls ready to take the trail again wherever that trail might lead.
At the present moment, however, it did not look as though Harriet Burrell and her friends would reach their destination in the immediate future unless it were nearer at hand than they thought.
Not once during the night did the moon show her face, though about two o'clock in the morning the clouds thinned, the landscape showing with more distinctness.
The girls, when they walked down to the shore, saw a sheet of water covering several acres.
Leading down to the water was a pier that extended far out into the little lake or pond, whatever it might be.
Harriet, Jane and Miss Elting walked out to the far end of the pier.
Harriet pointed to the end of the pier as she stood above it.
"It has broken down," she said.
"No; I think not," answered the guardian.
"I think, too, that I understand what this is.
It is an ice pier.
Ice is harvested from this pond and carried up over that sloping platform and so on to the shore or to conveyances waiting here.
But how narrow it is.
How ever did you manage to keep on the pier until you reached the end, Jane, dear?"
"I really don't know, Miss Elting," replied Jane, evidently impressed with the feat she had accomplished.
She leaned over and peered into the water to see if she could find her car.
It was not to be seen.
Dark objects, floating here and there about the surface, showed the girls where part of their equipment had gone.
Harriet was regarding the dark objects with inquiring eyes.
"I wish we had a boat," said Miss Elting.
"We could gather up our stuff.
We can't afford to lose it."
"We don't need a boat.
Jane and I will get it out.
What do you say, Jane?"
answered Harriet.
"I don't know what you have in mind, darlin', but I'm with you, whatever it is."
"You and I will go in after the things."
"You don't mean it!"
exclaimed Jane.
"And in this cold water.
Br-rr-r!"
"No; you must not do that," objected the guardian.
"At least not now."
"What is it you folks are planning?"
questioned Hazel, who, with Tommy and Buster, had joined the party at the end of the pier.
Jane explained what Harriet had proposed.
Margery's teeth began to chatter again.
"My--my weak heart won't stand any more," she groaned.
"Don't ask me to go into that horrid, cold water again.
_Please_ don't!"
"You won't feel the cold once you are in," urged Harriet.
"No.
I didn't feel it the other time, did I?"
"What?
Go in thwimming," demanded Tommy.
"I wouldn't go in that water again for a dollar and fifty thentth; no, not for a dollar and theventy-five thentth."
Tommy began backing away, as though fearing the others might insist and assist her in.
Suddenly she uttered a scream.
"Thave me!"
yelled Tommy.
They saw her lurch backward; her feet left the pier; then came a splash.
Tommy Thompson had gone over backward and taken to the water head first.
CHAPTER III HARRIET HAS A NARROW ESCAPE "Thave me!
Oh, thave me!"
Tommy had turned over and righted herself before rising to the surface.
When she did appear she was within a foot or so of the pier.
Her little blonde head popped up from under the water all of a sudden, and in that instant she opened her mouth in a wail for help.
Tommy's companions were fairly hysterical with merriment.
Tommy yelled again, begging them to "thave" her.
"I'll save ye, darlin'," cried Jane, throwing herself down and fastening a hand lightly in Tommy's hair, whereat the little girl screamed more lustily than before.
"Lend a hand here, my hearties.
The darlin' wants to be saved.
We'll save her, won't we?"
Jane shouted in great glee.
"Of course we will," answered Harriet.
She leaned over the edge of the pier, Jane raising the little girl until the latter's shoulders were above water; Harriet got hold of her dress and worked her hand along until she had grasped Tommy by the ankles.
"Let go!"
yelled Tommy.
She meant for Harriet to release her feet, but instead Jane McCarthy released her hold on Tommy's shoulders.
The next second Tommy Thompson was standing on her head in the pond with Harriet Burrell jouncing her up and down, trying to get her out of the water, but taking more time about it, so it seemed, than was really necessary.
Every time Tommy's head was drawn free of the water she uttered a choking yell.
There was no telling how long the nonsense might have continued, had not Miss Elting thrust Harriet aside, resulting in Tommy's falling into the water and having to be rescued again.
Tommy was weeping when finally they dragged her to the pier and wrung the water out of her clothing.
"Now, don't you wish you were _fat_?"
jeered Margery.
"If you had been, they couldn't have lifted you and you wouldn't have fallen in again."
"Fat like you?
Never!
I'd die firtht," replied Tommy.
"But I may ath it ith.
I'm freething, Mith Elting."
"Get up and go ashore.
Hazel, will you please see that Grace doesn't sit down on the cold ground?"
Hazel Holland led the protesting Tommy along the pier to the shore, where she walked the little girl up and down as fast as she could be induced to move, which, after all, was not much faster than an ordinarily slow walk.
The others of the party remained out at the end, walking back and forth and waiting until the coming of the dawn, so that they might see to that for which they had planned by daylight.
At the first suggestion of dawn, Harriet plunged into the pond without a word of warning to her companions and began gathering up and pushing bundles of equipment toward the shore.
Jane and Hazel were not far behind her.
Then Miss Elting, not to be outdone by her charges, plunged in after them.
Margery, shivering, turned her back on them and walked shoreward.
"'Fraid cat!
'fraid cat!"
taunted Tommy, when she saw Margery coming.
"I'm no more afraid than you are.
You're afraid to go into the water.
The only way you can go in is to fall in or be pushed!"
"Am I?
Ith that tho?
Well, I'll thhow you whether I am afraid of the water.
I dare you to follow me."
Tommy fairly flew down the pier; then, leaping up into the air, jumped far out, taking a clean feet-first dive into the pond, uttering a shrill little yell just before disappearing under the surface.
But all at once she stood up, and, by raising her chin a little, was able to keep her head above water.
"Hello there, Tommy, what are you standing on?"
called Harriet, puffing and blowing as she pushed a canvas-bound pack along ahead of her.
"I don't know.
I gueth it mutht be the automobile top.
It ith nithe and thpringy."
"Please stay there until I get back.
I wish to look it over.
If you can, I wish you would find the rear end of the car, so I may locate it exactly."
"What have you in mind, darlin'?"
asked Jane, with a quick glance at Harriet.
"I'm going to try to get our clothes.
The trunk is strapped and buckled to the rear end, is it not?"
"Yes."
"Tell me just how those buckles are placed; whether there is also a loop through which the strap has been run, and all about it."
"How should I know?"
"You put the trunk on, didn't you?"
"Surely, but I can't remember all those things, even if I ever knew them."
"Jane, you should learn to observe more closely.
Most persons are careless about that."
Harriet began swimming toward the shore with Jane.
"Thay!
How long mutht I thtand here in the wet up to my prethiouth neck?"
demanded Grace Thompson.
Her feet seemed to be very light.
They persisted in either rising or drifting away from the submerged automobile top.
Tommy kept her hands moving slowly to assist in maintaining her equilibrium.
"Wait until I return, if you will, please," answered Harriet.
"Thave me!
I can't wait.
Here I go _now_!"
She slipped off and went under, but came up sputtering and protesting.
Instead of remaining to mark the sunken car, Tommy swam rapidly to shore.
She found Harriet, Hazel and Jane sitting with feet hanging over the pier talking to Miss Elting.
The four were dripping, but none of them seemed to mind this.
The sun soon would be up, and its rays would dry their clothing and bring them warmth for the first time since their disaster of the night before.
"Do be careful," Miss Elting was saying when Tommy swam up, and, clinging to the pier with one hand, floated listlessly while listening to what was being said.
"What's the matter, Tommy?
Couldn't you stand it any longer?"
asked Harriet.
"My feet got tho light that I couldn't hang on."
"She means her head instead of her feet," corrected Margery.
"I think I had better go after the trunk now," decided Harriet.
"I wish you would let me go with you," urged Jane.
"No; two of us would be in each other's way.
You folks had better stay here and wait.
There will be plenty to do after I get the trunk ashore, provided I do.
We must have all our outfit together by sunrise, for we have a day's work ahead of us.
Want to get up, Tommy?"
"Yeth."
Harriet reached down and assisted Grace, dripping, to the pier.
Then she slipped in and swam in a leisurely way to the sunken automobile, which she located after swimming about for a few moments.
The next thing to do was to find the rear end of the car.
This was quickly accomplished.
Harriet took a long breath, then dived swiftly.
It seemed to her companions that she had been gone a long time, when, finally, the girl's dark head rose dripping from the pond.
She shook her head, took several long breaths, then dived again.
Three times Harriet Burrell repeated this.
At last, after a brief dive, they saw the black trunk leap free to the surface of the pond.
The Meadow-Brook Girls uttered a yell.
Harriet had accomplished a task that would have proved to be too much for the average man.
Down there, underneath the water, crouching under the backward tilting automobile on the bottom of the pond, she had unbuckled three stubborn straps, rising to the surface after unbuckling each strap, taking in a new supply of delicious fresh air, then returning to her task.
Before the Meadow-Brook Girls had finished with their shouting, cheering and gleeful dancing, the black luggage had drifted some distance from the spot where it had first appeared.
So delighted were they with the result of Harriet Burrell's efforts that, for the moment, the others entirely forgot the girl herself.
But all at once Miss Elting came to a realization of the truth.
Something was wrong.
"Harriet!"
she cried excitedly.
It was unusual for the guardian to show alarm, even though she might feel it.
"Where is Harriet?"
The shouting and the cheering ceased instantly.
"Oh, she's just playing a trick on us," scoffed Margery Brown.
Suddenly the keen eyes of Jane McCarthy caught sight of something that sent her heart leaping.
That something was a series of bubbles that rose to the surface.
Jane gazed wide-eyed, neither moving nor speaking, then suddenly hurled herself into the pond.
Two loud splashes followed her own dive into the water.
Tommy and Miss Elting were plunging ahead with all speed.
Jane was the first to reach the scene.
She dived, came up empty-handed, then dived again.
Tommy essayed to make a dive, but did not get in deep enough to fully cover her back.
Miss Elting made an error in her calculations, as Jane had done on the first dive, missing the sunken automobile by several feet.
Now Hazel sprang into the water and swam to them as fast as she knew how to propel herself.
Jane shot out of the water and waved both arms frantically above her head.
"Spread out!"
she cried in a strained, frightened voice.
"Did--didn't you find her?"
gasped Miss Elting.
"No."
Jane was gone again, leaving a wake that reached all the way to the beach, so violent had been her floundering dive.
Tommy, who had raised her head from the water a short distance from where the guardian was paddling, uttered a scream.
"There thhe ith!"
she cried; "there she ith!
Right down there.
Come in a hurry.
She ith under the car.
I could thee her plainly.
Oh, I'm tho thcared!"
Tommy began paddling for the shore with all speed.
Miss Elting did not answer.
Instead, she took a long dive.
About this time Jane came up.
Hazel, who was making for the spot where the guardian had disappeared, pointed to it.
Jane understood.
It took her but a few seconds to reach the center of the rippling circle left by the guardian; then Crazy Jane's feet kicked the air a couple of times.
She had taken an almost perpendicular dive.
But it seemed that she had not been under water more than a second or two when she lunged to the surface.
A few feet from her Miss Elting appeared, threw herself over on her back and lay gasping for breath.
"She'th got her!"
screamed Tommy.
"Harriet ith dead!"
Gazing out over the pond she saw Jane swimming swiftly toward shore, dragging the apparently lifeless body of Harriet Burrell.
Miss Elting and Hazel were closing up on Jane rapidly.
Reaching her side a moment later, the guardian took one of Harriet's arms and assisted in towing her in.
Tommy remembered afterward having been fascinated by the expressions in their faces.
She stared and stared.
The faces of the two women were white and haggard.
Still farther back she saw only Hazel's eyes.
They were so large that Tommy was scarcely able to credit their belonging to Hazel.
Had Tommy known it, her own face was more pale and haggard at that moment than those of her companions.
Jane dragged Harriet ashore; then Miss Elting grasped the unconscious girl almost roughly, flung her over on her stomach and began applying "first aid to the drowned."
"Ith--ith she dead?"
gasped Tommy.
"She's drowned, darlin'," answered Crazy Jane McCarthy abruptly.
CHAPTER IV A QUESTION OF POLITICS "Lay her over on her back!"
Jane obeyed Miss Elting's command promptly.
The guardian, using her wet handkerchief, cleared Harriet's mouth by keeping the tongue down to admit the air.
"Work her arms back and forth.
We must set up artificial respiration," she directed.
Jane, without any apparent excitement, began a steady movement of the patient's arms, bringing them together above the head, then down to the sides.
She continued this as steadily as if she were not face to face with a great tragedy.
She did not yet know whether or not it were a tragedy; but, if appearances went for anything, it was.
In the meantime the guardian had glanced over her shoulder at the pond.
She saw the trunk slowly drifting in.
"Get it and open it, Hazel," she commanded.
"I haven't a key."
"Break it open with a stone.
Never mind a key."
Hazel ran out into the water until she was up to her neck, then she swam out.
Reaching the floating trunk, she got behind it and began pushing it shoreward.
Margery and Tommy stood watching the proceedings in speechless horror.
Hazel got the trunk ashore, when, following the guardian's directions, she broke the lock open with a stone.
"It's open," she cried.
"Are the things inside very wet?"
"No; they are just as dry as they can be."
"Good.
Are Harriet's clothes there?"
"I think so.
Shall I take them out?"
"Not just yet.
I will tell you if they are needed."
Hazel understood what was in the mind of the guardian.
Were Harriet Burrell not to recover, the dry clothing would not be needed.
Nevertheless, Hazel piled the contents of the trunk on the ground, then replaced it, leaving Harriet's belongings at the top of the pile, so that they would be ready at hand in case of need.
In the meantime Crazy Jane and Miss Elting persisted in their efforts to resuscitate the unconscious girl.
Though no sign of returning life rewarded their labor, they continued without a second's halting.
Half an hour had passed.
That was lengthened to an hour, then suddenly Jane stopped, leaned over and peered into the pale face of Harriet.
"I see a little color returning!"
she cried in a shrill voice.
"Hurrah!
Harriet's alive!"
"You don't thay?"
exclaimed Tommy.
"Keep her arms going!
Don't stop for a single second," commanded Miss Elting.
"Hazel, take off Harriet's shoes.
Beat the bottoms of her feet.
Oh, if we had something warm to put her in.
Margery, you get out Harriet's clothing from the trunk."
"I--I can't," answered Buster in a weak voice.
"Buthter ith too nervouth.
I'll get them," offered Tommy.
She did, too.
Now that she had something to do, she went about it as calmly as though she had had no previous fear.
"Are thethe what you want, Mith Elting?"
she asked.
"Yes; bring them here.
She is breathing.
Faster, Jane, faster!"
"Don't pull her armth out by the roootth," warned Tommy.
The guardian made no reply.
It was a critical moment and Harriet Burrell's life hung on a very slender thread.
Return to consciousness was so slow as to seem like no recovery at all.
The spot of red that had appeared in either cheek faded and disappeared.
Miss Elting's heart sank when she noted the change in the face of the unconscious girl.
Jane saw it, too, but made no comment.
Tommy, having taken the clothes from the trunk, now very methodically piled them up near at hand, so that the guardian might reach them without shifting her position materially.
Then the little girl stood with hands clasped before her, her eyes squinting, her face twisted into what Jane afterward said was a really hard knot.
Two tiny spots of red once more appeared in each cheek of Harriet's white face.
"Shall I move her arms faster?"
asked Jane.
Miss Elting shook her head.
"Keep on as you are.
I don't quite understand, but she is alive.
Of that I am positive."
For fully fifteen minutes after that the two young women worked in silence.
They noted joyfully that the tiny spots of color in Harriet's cheeks were growing.
The spots were now as large as a twenty-five-cent piece.
Miss Elting motioned for Jane to cease the arm movements, then she laid an ear over Harriet's heart.
"Keep it up," she cried, straightening suddenly.
"We are going to save her."
Margery, who had drawn slowly near, turned abruptly, walked away and sat down heavily.
Jane's under lip trembled ever so little, but she showed no other sign of emotion, and methodically continued at her work.
"Now, as soon as we can get the breath of life into her body, we must strip off those wet clothes and bundle her into something dry.
We shall be taking a great chance in undressing her in the open air, but the fact that Harriet is in such splendid condition should go a long way toward pulling her through.
I wish we had a blanket to wrap her in.
However, we shall have to do with what we have."
Jane kept steadily at her work, her eyes fixed on the face of the patient.
She made no reply to Miss Elting's words.
Tommy, however, tilted her head to one side reflectively.
Then she turned it ever so little, regarding the broken trunk as if trying to make up her mind whether or not she should hold it responsible for the disaster.
After a few moments of staring at the trunk she sidled over to it, and, stooping down, began rummaging through its contents.
From the trunk she finally drew forth a long flannel nightgown.
This she carried over and gravely spread out on the pile of clothing that she had previously placed near Miss Elting.
The guardian's eyes lighted appreciatively.
"Thank you, dear.
That is splendid," she said, flashing a smile at Tommy.
"You are very resourceful.
I am proud of you."
"You're welcome," answered Grace with a grimace.
"Ith there anything elthe that I can do?"
Miss Elting shook her head.
The smile had left her face; all her faculties were again centered on the work in hand.
Shortly after that the two workers were gratified to note a quiver of the eyelids of the patient.
This was followed by a slight rising and falling of the chest, and a few moments later Harriet Burrell opened her eyes, closed them wearily and turned over on her face.
Crazy Jane promptly turned her on her back, and none too gently at that.
"Plea--se let me alone.
I'm all right," murmured Harriet.
"Help me carry her out yonder under the trees," ordered the guardian.
"There will be less breeze there."
"I'll carry her, Miss Elting."
Jane picked Harriet up, and, throwing the girl over her shoulder, staggered off into the bushes with her burden.
Harriet was heavy, but Jane McCarthy's fine strength was equal to her task.
Miss Elting had gathered up the clothing and followed.
Tommy started to accompany her, but the guardian motioned her back.
"Jane and I will attend to her," she said.
Tommy pouted and strolled over to Margery.
"Is--is Harriet going to die?"
wailed Margery.
"No, Buthter, she ithn't."
Margery turned anxiously away.
By the time the guardian reached the spot where Jane had put Harriet down, the latter had fully recovered consciousness; but she was shivering, her lips were blue and her face gray and haggard except for the two faint spots of color that had first indicated her return to consciousness.
"Hold her up while I strip off her waist," commanded Miss Elting.
Harriet protested that she was able to stand alone, but just the same Jane supported her.
It was the work of but a few moments to strip off the cold, wet garments and put on dry ones, including the flannel nightgown.
"Let me lie down a little while," begged Harriet weakly.
"No; you must walk.
Jane, will you keep her going?"
"That I will.
Come to me, darlin'."
Harriet got to her feet with the assistance of her companion.
Jane then began walking her slowly about.
The color gradually returned to the face of the Meadow-Brook Girl, the gray pallor giving place to a more healthy glow.
She wanted to talk, but Miss Elting said she was not to do so for the present.
Now, Tommy and Margery followed her about, though without speaking.
This walking was continued for the better part of an hour.
In the meantime Miss Elting was considering what might best be done.
She decided to go in search of some one who would take them to their destination.
After a talk with Harriet, and leaving directions as to what was to be done during her absence, the guardian set out, walking fast.
She realized the necessity of warm drinks and something to assist in stirring Harriet's circulation.
The Meadow-Brook Girl's escape from drowning had been a narrow one, but no one realized the necessity for further treatment more than Miss Elting did.
After a time Harriet insisted on walking without the support of Jane's arm, but it was a difficult undertaking.
Harriet had to bring all the resolution she possessed to the task of supporting her weakened limbs; but she managed it, with now and then a rest, leaning against a tree or a rock.
Tommy had found her tongue again, to keep up a running fire of inconsequential chatter that served its purpose well, assisting Harriet in keeping her mind from her own troubles.
The guardian returned, after having been absent half an hour.
She came running down the byway, shouting before she appeared in sight of the party to know if all were well.
"Oh, Harriet, I'm so glad to see you looking better!
I have a boy and a democrat wagon to take us to the real cove.
This isn't the place at all.
Lonesome Cove is nearly five miles from here.
But look!
I've something that will please you!"
exclaimed the guardian.
"What ith it?"
demanded Tommy, edging near.
"Coffee!"
exclaimed Miss Elting triumphantly.
"But how are we going to cook it?"
cried Jane.
"Get the coffee pot.
It is in one of the packs that we saved.
We have neither milk nor sugar, but we shan't care about that.
I met a boy, as I have told you.
He had been to mill with a grist, and was also taking some groceries home with him.
I secured the coffee by paying double price for it, but consider it cheap at that.
Hazel, you and Margery will gather some dry wood and make a fire."
Jane already had gone to look for the coffee pot.
She found it, after opening one of the wet packs.
"The fire is laid," announced Hazel, "but we haven't any matches.
What shall we do?"
"Mith Elting hath thome matcheth," answered Tommy.
"How do you know, my dear?"
The guardian laughed merrily.
"I thee a box in your pocket."
"You see too much," declared Margery.
"Yes, I bought matches, too."
Miss Elting herself applied a match to the sticks that had been laid for the cook fire.
"Harriet, come right here by the fire and warm yourself."
"Where is the boy?"
asked Harriet.
"He will be along in a few minutes.
I ran all the way back.
He will drive in and wait until we are ready.
I promised him two dollars if he would take us to our destination."
"Does he know where it is?"
questioned Jane.
"He says he does, but--" The guardian flushed and checked herself abruptly.
"I nearly gave my surprise away."
Jane had the water boiling in a few minutes, then quickly made the coffee.
A cup was handed to Harriet.
She drank it steaming hot.
"Oh, that tastes good!"
she breathed.
"You can feel it all the way down, can't you?"
questioned Tommy solemnly.
"Yes, I can."
"Drink another one, dear," urged the guardian; "it won't keep you awake.
Perhaps, now that you feel better, you will tell us how you came so near drowning?"
"I did nearly drown, didn't I?"
"You did, as thoroughly as one could and yet live to tell of it," replied Miss Elting, her voice husky.
"I had unfastened all the straps save the third one," began Harriet.
"By that time the trunk was standing on end.
It was very buoyant.
The idea never occurred to me that there was any danger from the trunk.
I was too much concerned wondering if I shouldn't have to open my mouth, for my lungs were nearly bursting.
Well, I gave the last strap a jerk and I think the buckle must have pulled off, for the end of the trunk flew up and hit me on the head."
"But how did you get wedged under the car springs?"
interrupted the guardian.
"I found you there."
"I don't know.
I don't remember anything that occurred after I was hit by the trunk until I began to realize that some one was working over me, and that I wished to be let alone.
I was so comfortable that I did not wish to be disturbed."
"Thave me!"
exclaimed Tommy.
"How long did you work over me?"
"More than an hour," replied Miss Elting.
"Then I really was just about drowned, was I not?"
questioned Harriet, her eyes growing large.
"You were."
Harriet Burrell pondered a moment, then lifted a pair of serious brown eyes to her companions.
"I am glad I had the experience," she said, "but I am sorry I made so much trouble.
I feel all right now, and strong enough for almost anything.
When do we start for the Cove?"
"At once.
I hear the boy coming.
Do you think you are really ready?"
"I know I am.
But I believe I will have another cup of coffee before we start.
Did we rescue all of our equipment?"
"Some of it has been lost, but that doesn't matter so long as we have you safe and sound, yes, there is the boy.
Hoo-e-e-e!"
called the guardian.
"Ye-o-o-w!"
answered the boy promptly.
They saw him turn into the byway.
The horse he was driving was so thin that every rib stood out plainly.
The democrat wagon was all squeaks and groans, its wheels being so crooked that the girls thought they were going to come off.
"You must help us to get our things aboard," said Miss Elting.
"Will your wagon hold them all?"
"If it doesn't break down," was the reply.
"Well, some of us can walk."
The boy backed his rickety wagon down near where the belongings of the Meadow-Brook Girls lay in a tumbled heap.
Jane assisted him in loading the equipment, amazing the country boy by her strength and quickness.
"You going to camp, eh?"
he questioned.
"We don't know what we are going to do," replied Jane.
"We're likely to do almost anything that happens to enter our minds as well as some things that don't enter our minds.
Stow that package under the seat forward; yes, that way.
There.
Do you think of anything else, Miss Elting!"
"Nothing except the automobile.
I hardly think we shall be able to take that with us."
"Indeed, no," answered Jane with a broad grin.
"We'll let Dad do that.
Who is going to ride?"
"Let's see.
Harriet, of course--" "I can walk," protested Harriet.
"No; you will ride.
Margery and Tommy also may ride.
Hazel, Jane and I will walk.
It will do us good, for we need exercise this morning, though I must say that a little breakfast would not come amiss."
"You thay that ith a Democrat wagon?"
questioned Tommy.
"Yes, dear.
Why do you ask?"
answered Miss Elting smilingly.
"I jutht wanted to know.
I'll walk, thank you, Mith Elting.
You thay it ith a Democrat wagon?"
"Yes, yes.
What of it?"
"I wouldn't ride in a Democrat wagon.
My father would dithown me if I did!
If it wath a Republican wagon, now, it would be all right--but a Democrat wagon--thave me!"
CHAPTER V THE ROCKY ROAD TO WAU-WAU "You surely are a loyal little Republican, Tommy.
Whether we agree with you in politics or not, we must respect your loyalty.
However, I think you had better get up and ride," urged Miss Elting.
Tommy shook her head, regarding the democrat wagon with a disapproving squint.
Jane assisted Harriet up over the front wheel, Margery climbed in on the other side, the boy "pushed on the reins," and the procession moved slowly toward the main road, with Miss Elting, Jane, Hazel and Tommy trudging on ahead.
Harriet rode only a short distance before she grew weary of it, and, dropping to the ground, ran on and joined her companions.
"I shall have nervous prostration if I ride in that wagon," she said.
"Every minute expecting it to collapse isn't any too good for one who has just been drowned, and whose nerves are on edge."
"Promise me that you will not overtax your strength; that if you feel yourself getting weary you _will_ get in and ride," answered the guardian, looking anxiously at Harriet.
"I promise," was Harriet's laughing rejoinder.
The sun by this time was high in the heavens and was blazing down on them hotly.
The warmth felt good, especially to those who still wore the clothes in which they had spent so much time in the cold water of the pond.
To Harriet it was a grateful relief from the chill that had followed her accident.
Tommy permitted herself to lag behind, and the moment she was out of ear-shot of her companions she began to quiz the country boy to learn where he was taking them.
"Lonesome Cove," he replied.
"Where ith that?"
"On the shore."
"On what thhore?"
"The sea shore."
"Oh!
Tho we are going to the thea thhore?
I thee," reflected Tommy wisely.
"Are there lotth of people there?"
"Isn't nobody there.
It's just sea shore, that's all."
Tommy chuckled and nodded to herself as she increased her pace and joined her party.
"When we get to camp I'm going to take a bath in the thea," she announced carelessly.
Miss Elting regarded her sharply.
"Camp?
Sea?"
questioned the guardian.
"Yeth.
I thaid 'camp' and 'thea.'"
"Where do you think you are going, Grace?"
"Why, to the thea thhore of courthe.
But there ithn't anybody there."
"Tommy, you've been spying.
I am amazed at you."
"No, I haven't been doing anything of the thort.
It ith true, ithn't it?"
"I shall not tell you a single thing.
You are trying to quiz me.
That isn't fair, my dear."
Tommy chuckled and joined Harriet, linking an arm with her and starting a lively conversation.
Harriet, instead of growing weary, appeared to be getting stronger with the moments.
Her step was more and more springy, and her face had resumed its usual healthy color, but this was the longest five miles she remembered to have traveled.
The others felt much the same.
It must be remembered that they had had neither supper nor breakfast, except for the cup of coffee that they had taken before starting out on their tramp.
The guardian had hoped to reach her destination in time for luncheon, when she knew the girls would have a satisfying meal.
However, the hour was near to one o'clock when finally the boy shouted to them.
They halted and waited for him.
"Lonesome Cove down there, 'bout a quarter of a mile," he informed them, jerking the butt of his whip in the direction of a thin forest of spindling pines to the right of the highway.
"Ocean right over there."
"I hear it," cried Harriet.
"Doesn't it sound glorious?"
"We thank you.
You may unload our equipment and pile it by the side of the road.
We will carry it down to the beach, and again I thank you very much."
Jane and Hazel assisted in the unloading.
They would permit neither Harriet nor Miss Elting to help.
The boy was paid and drove away whistling.
He had made a good deal, and knew very well that the folks at home would find no fault over his delay when they learned that he had earned two dollars.
"Now, girls, do you know where you are?"
asked the guardian, turning to her charges.
"Lost in the wilds of New Hampshire," answered Jane dramatically.
"No, not lost.
We shall soon be among friends.
I promise you a great surprise when we get down so near the sea that you hear the pounding of the breakers on the beach."
"I gueth you will be thurprithed, too," ventured Tommy.
"What do you mean, Grace?"
demanded Miss Elting.
"I would suggest that we get started," urged Harriet.
"I'm hungry.
I want my supper, breakfast and luncheon all in one.
You forget that I am a drowned person."
"We are not likely to forget it," answered the guardian, smiling faintly.
"Yes, we will carry our equipment in.
Jane, suppose we break it into smaller packs, so it can be the more easily carried.
I think we are all ready for a good meal, and that is what we are going to have very shortly now.
You know you always get good meals at Wau-Wau."
"Wau-Wau!"
exclaimed the Meadow-Brook Girls in chorus.
"Why, Wau-Wau is in the Pocono Woods," said Harriet.
"We are a long way from there, aren't we?"
"Oh, yes, yes!"
The guardian flushed guiltily.
"I spoke without thinking."
No one except Harriet and Tommy gave any special heed to the final words of the guardian.
The others were busy getting ready to move.
They were in something of a hurry for their luncheon.
Packs were divided up among them.
Harriet insisted upon carrying one end of the trunk with Jane, in addition to the pack she had slung over her shoulder.
They finally started down a narrow path that led on down to the shore, leaving some of their equipment behind to be brought later on in the afternoon.
As they neared the shore the boom of the surf grew louder and louder.
The girls uttered shouts of delight when finally they staggered out into the open with their burdens, on a high bluff overlooking the sea.
The sea lay sparkling in the sunlight, while almost at their feet great white-crested combers were rolling in and breaking against the sandy bluff.
The salt spray dashed up into their faces and the odor of the salt sea was strong in their nostrils.
"Isn't this glorious?"
cried Harriet, with enthusiasm.
"I shouldn't think you'd ever want to see water again after what occurred this morning," replied Margery Brown.
"Oh, that!
I had forgotten all about it.
This is different, Buster.
This is the real sea, and it's perfectly wonderful.
Isn't it, Miss Elting?"
The guardian, thus far, had not spoken a word.
There was a look of puzzled surprise on her face.
"What is it, Miss Elting?"
questioned Harriet, instantly discovering that something was wrong.
"I--I thought we should find some others here," replied the guardian hesitatingly.
"I told you there wath no one here," answered Tommy.
"Whom did you hope to find?"
asked Harriet Burrell.
"Some friends of mine.
It has been a rocky road to Wau-Wau, and we haven't reached it yet," muttered the guardian under her breath.
"I don't understand this, girls," she continued.
"I fear we have made a mistake.
This isn't the place I thought we were seeking.
I must confess that I am lost.
But the real place can not be far away.
We shall have to walk from this on.
Are you equal to it?"
"Not till I get thome food," answered Tommy with emphasis.
"I'm famithhed.
I want thomething to eat."
"So do I, darlin'," added Crazy Jane.
"But I don't see anything hereabout that looks like food.
Do you?"
Margery sat down helplessly.
Harriet was smiling.
She understood something of the plans of the guardian now; yet, like her companions, she was disappointed that the promised meal was not at hand.
Miss Elting recovered her composure quickly.
"We shall have to cook our own dinner, dears," she said.
"Harriet, you sit down in the sun and rest; we will take care of the meal-getting."
"You treat me as though I were an invalid.
I am able to do my share of the work, and to eat my share of the food, as you will see when we get something cooked."
Jane already had run back toward the road to bring some dry sticks that she had discovered when coming in.
Miss Elting began opening the packs.
"Oh, this is too bad!"
she cried.
"We must have left that coffee pot with the other things out by the road."
"I'll get it."
Tommy bounded away.
Hazel assisted the guardian in getting the cooking utensils ready, Margery walked about, getting in the way, but not accomplishing much of anything else.
There were cold roast beef, butter and plenty of canned goods.
The bread that they had brought with them had been dissolved in the water of the ice pond, as had the sugar and considerable other food stuff.
Jane came in with an armful of wood and quickly started a fire.
Tommy arrived some moments later with the coffee pot and other utensils.
While all this was going on Harriet was spreading out their belongings so these might dry out in the sunlight.
But the water for the coffee, secured some distance back, was brackish and poor.
They made it do, however, and as quickly as possible had boiled their coffee and warmed over the beef and canned beans as well.
As for drinking water, there was none at hand fit for this purpose.
Dishes were somewhat limited, many of theirs having been lost when the automobile went into the pond.
But they were glad enough to do with what they had, and when Jane sounded the meal call, "Come and get it!"
there was not an instant's hesitation on the part of any member of that little party of adventurous spirits.
"Now take your time, girls," warned Miss Elting.
"We will not gulp our food down, even if we have a walk before us this afternoon.
And we may have to sleep out-of-doors, but it will not have been the first time for the Meadow-Brook Girls."
"Ith thith the thurprithe that you were going to give us?"
asked Tommy innocently.
"It is a surprise to me, dear.
This isn't the place I thought it was at all.
The joke is that I don't know where the right place is."
"Perhaps, if you would tell us where you wish to go, we might be of some assistance to you," suggested Jane McCarthy.
"You can't get the secret from me, Jane," answered the guardian smilingly.
"I am going to keep that little secret to myself at all costs.
Don't tease me, for I shall not tell you."
"It hath cotht a good deal already," piped Tommy.
"Let me thee.
It hath cotht one automobile, theveral thkirtth, and a girl drowned.
Thome cotht that, eh?
Pleathe path the beanth."
"Tommy has a keen appetite for beans this afternoon.
Will you please open another can, Jane?"
asked the guardian.
"Certainly.
Will you have them cold this time, Tommy?"
"I will not, thank you.
My father thayth there ith more real nourithhment in beanth than there ith in beeftheak.
I gueth he knowth.
He wath brought up on a bean farm."
"Then I'll take the beefsteak and never mind the nourishment," declared Jane, who was not particularly fond of beans.
"I'd rather have both," said Margery hungrily.
"Of courth you would," teased Tommy.
"That ith why you--" "Oh, say something new," groaned Buster.
Miss Elting permitted them to jest to their hearts' content.
The more they talked the better was she pleased, because it kept them from eating too rapidly.
Their meal finished and the dishes cleaned in salt water and sand, the guardian gave thought to their next move.
But she was in no haste.
The girls were allowed plenty of time to rest and digest their hearty meal, which they did by sitting in the sand with the sun beating down on them.
After the lapse of an hour she told the girls to get ready.
"I will say to you frankly that I do not know where I am, though I am positive we are on the right road.
Our destination can not be so very far from here, and I believe we have ample time to reach it before dark.
However, each of you will put a can of beans in her pocket.
We will take the coffee, our cups and the coffee pot.
Thus equipped, we shall not go hungry in case we are caught out over night.
Then, again, there must be houses somewhere along this road.
The first one we see I shall stop and make inquiries."
"What shall we do with the rest of our things?"
questioned Hazel.
"Make them into packages and hide the lot.
You might blaze a tree near the road, in case we forget.
All parts of the road hereabouts look very much alike to me.
There is a good place for a _cache_ about half way between here and the highway.
I should go in a few rods, but any food that is not in cans we had better throw away."
"I don't thee why we can't camp right here," said Grace.
"This is not the place to which we are going," Harriet informed her.
"I don't know where it is, but, sooner or later, we'll arrive there."
"If we are lucky," added Tommy under her breath.
[Illustration: Jane and Harriet Hid the Trunk.]
Jane had already started for the road.
She was called back by Harriet to take hold of one end of the trunk.
Together the two girls lugged this to the place on the path that had been indicated by Miss Elting.
By going straight in among the trees a short distance they found rocks, under one of which was a hole hollowed out in former times by water, and which made an excellent place in which to stow their equipment until such time as they might be able to return for it.
Hazel, Margery and Tommy brought the rest of their belongings from the highway, Miss Elting and Hazel what had been left at their camping place, all being neatly packed away in the hollow in the rock.
This done, and a mound of small stones built over it, the girls were ready to proceed on their journey.
The afternoon was now well along, so they started off at a brisk pace, led by the guardian.
Harriet appeared to have fully recovered from her accident.
About an hour later they came in sight of a farmhouse.
The guardian directed the girls to sit down and rest while she went up to the house to make some inquiries.
When she returned her face was all smiles.
"I know where I am now," she called.
"How far have we to go?"
asked Harriet.
"About five miles, they say, but one has to make allowances for distances in the country.
It is difficult to find two persons who will agree on the distance to any certain point."
"Five mileth, did you say?"
questioned Tommy.
"Yes, dear."
"Thave me!"
"We shall easily make it in two hours.
I don't think we can go astray.
So long as we keep within sound of the sea we shall be right.
If you are ready, we will move on."
Once more they set out.
They had gone on less than an hour when Margery began to cry.
Tommy regarded her with disapproving eyes.
Margery declared that she couldn't walk another step.
Inquiry by Miss Elting developed the fact that Buster had a blister on her right foot.
This meant another delay.
Miss Elting removed the girl's shoe from that foot and treated the blister.
Half an hour was lost by this delay, but no one except Tommy Thompson complained.
Tommy complained for the sake of saying something.
She teased Margery so unmercifully that Miss Elting was obliged to rebuke her, after which Tommy went off by herself and sat pensively down by the roadside until the order to march was given.
The afternoon was waning when once more they came in sight of the sea.
The setting sun had turned the expanse of ocean into a vast plain of shimmering, quivering gold.
The Meadow-Brook Girls uttered exclamations of delight when they set eyes on the scene.
For a few moments they stood still, gazing and gazing as if it were not possible to get enough of the, to most of them, unusual spectacle.
A full quarter of a mile ahead they observed that the shores a little back were quite heavily wooded, though the trees were small and slender.
This particular spot seemed to have attracted Miss Elting's attention to the exclusion of all else.
As she looked, a smile overspread her countenance.
The girls did not observe it.
"We are nearly there," she called.
"Near the camp?"
asked Tommy.
"Yes, the camp, you little tantalizer," chuckled the guardian.
"But you will not know what camp until you reach it."
"Oh, yeth I thall.
It ith our camp, the Meadow-Brook camp."
"I hear shouts.
I do believe they are girls'," cried Crazy Jane.
She glanced inquiringly at Miss Elting, but the latter's face now gave no hint as to what was in her mind.
"Come on; let's run, girls."
With one accord they started forward at a brisk trot.
This brought a wail from the limping Margery.
"Wait for me," she cried.
"I--I can't run."
To their surprise Tommy halted, waited for Buster, then, linking an arm within hers, assisted Margery to trot along and keep up with her companions.
Miss Elting gave Grace an appreciative nod and smile, which amply repaid the little girl for her kindly act.
They covered the distance to the miniature forest in quick time, impelled by their curiosity, now realizing that they were to meet with the surprise that their guardian had prepared for them.
Harriet had a fairly well defined idea as to what was awaiting them, but even she was to be happily surprised.
They reached a point opposite the little forest, when, as they looked toward the sea, visible in spots between the trees, they discovered a row of tents, and in the center of an open space a flag fluttering from a sapling from which the limbs and foliage had been trimmed.
"It's Camp Wau-Wau!"
shouted Crazy Jane.
"Come along, darlin's.
Let's see what else there is to surprise us."
The girls rushed in among the trees, shouting and laughing.
They brought up in the middle of the encampment and halted.
A middle-aged, pleasant-faced woman stepped from a tent, gazed at them a moment, then opened her arms, into which the Meadow-Brook Girls rushed, fairly smothering the woman with their affectionate embraces.
CHAPTER VI AT HOME BY THE SEA "Oh, my dear Meadow-Brook Girls!"
cried the woman.
"And I did not know you were coming.
Why did you not let me know?"
Mrs. Livingston, the Chief Guardian of the Camp Girls, held her young friends off the better to look at them.
"We did," replied Miss Elting.
"When you wrote that you would be glad to have us join the camp, I made the arrangements and wrote you that we would be here yesterday."
"I never received the letter."
"But why do you call thith plathe Camp Wau-Wau?"
demanded Grace.
"Camp Wau-Wau ith in the Pocono Woodth, Mrs.
Livingthton."
"Yes, my dear; but a camp may move, may it not?
This is the same old Camp Wau-Wau, but in a different location.
This year we concluded to make our camp by the sea shore, and chose Lonesome Bar for our camping place."
"Lonesome Bar!"
exclaimed Miss Elting.
"That explains it.
We Were looking for Lonesome Cove."
"Which we found," chuckled Harriet.
"We've had the most awful time, and Harriet got drowned," put in Margery Brown.
"Drowned?"
"Yeth, thhe did," nodded Tommy eagerly.
"And we had thuch a time undrowning her!
Thhe thwallowed a whole ithe pond of water."
Miss Elting here explained to the Chief Guardian what had happened.
Mrs. Livingston was amazed.
She gazed curiously at the smiling Harriet.
"I suppose I should not be surprised at anything Harriet does, but that you all should have fallen into a pond with your car is incredible.
What became of the car?"
"It's there!"
chuckled Jane.
"They'll be cutting it out in sections when they take ice from the pond next winter, I reckon.
Where can I send a letter?
I must have another car, and that quickly!
It's something like hard labor to get in and out of this place!
But let's be introduced to these nice girls that I see in camp here."
"You are the same old Jane, aren't you?"
answered the Chief Guardian, with an indulgent smile.
"I trust your father is well?"
"He is, thank you, but he'll be wanting to have nervous prostration when he hears about my driving into an old pond.
Hello, little girl!
Have I seen you before!"
questioned Crazy Jane, catching a little golden-haired girl by the arm and gazing down into the latter's blue eyes.
"This is Miss Skinner, from Concord, young ladies," introduced Mrs. Livingston.
"How do you do, Mith Thkinner," greeted Tommy.
"Like mythelf, you aren't fat, are you?"
"I am not," replied Miss Skinner.
"Where do we stow our belongings?"
asked Miss Elting.
Mrs. Livingston looked puzzled.
"Every tent in the camp is full," she replied.
"Really, I do not know what I am going to do with you, girls."
"That is easily answered.
We will sleep out-of-doors," proposed Jane.
"We were out all last night, and in our wet clothing at that."
"How soon will you have vacancies?"
asked Miss Elting.
"Four girls will be leaving the last of next week, Miss Elting.
Others, I don't recall how many, are to go about the middle of the week following.
Until then I fear you will have to shift for yourselves."
"We can have something to eat, can't we?"
interjected Margery, in a hopeful tone.
"Yeth, Buthter mutht have thomething to eat all the time," averred Tommy.
"There is plenty for all.
Now, come and meet our girls.
We have a very fine lot of young women at Camp Wau-Wau this summer, and we think we have an ideal camp, too.
I am so sorry that I did not know you were coming.
I might make room for two of you on the floor in my tent.
There isn't a bit of floor space left in any of the other tents."
"I think we all should prefer sleeping out-of-doors, so long as the weather remains fine," answered Miss Elting.
"That is just the point.
What will you do when it rains?"
smiled Mrs. Livingston.
"I know," spoke up Tommy.
"I'll jutht run and jump into the othean and get wet all over, all at onthe; then I won't mind it at all.
Do you thee?"
"I do," replied the Chief Guardian gravely.
Mrs. Livingston already had begun introducing the Meadow-Brook Girls to the Camp Girls, most of whom had not been in Camp Wau-Wau when the Meadow-Brook Girls had visited it in the Pocono Woods two seasons before.
By the time the introductions had been finished and the camp inspected, supper time had arrived.
The girls sat down at long tables in brightly lighted tents and enjoyed a delicious supper.
It was the first real meal the newcomers had enjoyed in more than a day, and they did full justice to this one, especially did Margery, though openly teased by Tommy because of her appetite.
Mrs. Livingston had been kept thoroughly informed of the progress of the Meadow-Brook Girls through her correspondence with Miss Elting, so that she was fully prepared to bestow the rewards that the girls had earned.
A council fire was called for that evening, at which the achievements of Harriet Burrell and her companions were related to the camp, and the beads that each, of the five girls had earned were bestowed.
Harriet now had quite a string of colored beads, the envy of every Camp Girl.
Each of the other girls of the Meadow-Brook party had performed either heroic or meritorious acts, for which they were rewarded by the gift of beads according to the regulations of the order.
Unfortunately, the now badly damaged trunk that had been carried at the rear of Jane McCarthy's car contained their ceremonial dresses, so that the Meadow-Brook Girls were unable to appear in the regulation costume; and they also lacked other important equipment, namely, blankets in which to wrap themselves for outdoor sleeping.
"There is not an extra blanket in camp," said Mrs. Livingston, when the situation was explained to the Chief Guardian.
"I don't know what we shall do.
I fear you girls will have to go into town and stay at a hotel."
"Oh, no.
We have slept out-of-doors under worse conditions," declared Harriet.
"Please do not concern yourself over us.
We shall get along very nicely.
Do you happen to have an extra piece of canvas in camp?"
"There is a side wall that we use for covering our vegetables, such as potatoes.
You may use that if you wish, but I warn you it is not very clean."
"We will give it a good dusting.
It will answer very nicely to lie on and we'll sleep close together to keep warm.
I am not sure but I should prefer sleeping out in that way.
The Indians many times slept in the open without covering.
I don't see why we shouldn't do the same."
"Are there any thnaketh here?"
inquired Tommy anxiously.
"Oh, no," the Chief Guardian replied smilingly.
"Any bugth?"
"Naturally, there are some insects; fleas, perhaps, but you don't mind those."
"No.
My father thayth I hop around like a thand flea at a clam bake mythelf, but if I wath fat I couldn't do that, could I?"
asked Tommy with a sidelong glance at Buster.
Margery, who had been an interested listener to the conversation, now turned her back, elevating her nose disdainfully.
She made no reply to Tommy's fling at her.
Harriet already had gone to bring the canvas, which was to be their bed for the night.
She determined on the morrow to make bough beds for herself and companions, provided any suitable boughs were to be had.
The canvas was dragged to a level spot.
Jane and Hazel scraped the ground clean and smooth while Harriet was beating the canvas to get the dust out of it.
This done, the canvas was spread out on the ground and folded over twice, leaving sufficient of it to cover them after they had taken their positions for the night.
Tommy regarded the preparations with mild interest.
"Who ith going to thleep next to the wall?"
she asked.
"We thought we should place you next to the fold," replied Miss Elting.
"You can't kick the cover off there."
"And where ith Buthter going to thleep?"
"In the middle."
"That ith all right.
I don't withh to be too clothe to her.
We might thquabble all night."
"Now, Tommy, you first," nodded Harriet.
Tommy took her place on the canvas with great care, gathering her skirts about her, turning around and around as if in search of the softest possible place on which to lie.
"You are thure Buthter ithn't going to thleep near me?"
persisted Miss Tommy.
"Yes, yes.
Please get in," urged Miss Elting.
"I jutht wanted to know, that ith all."
She lay down, then one by one her companions took their places on the canvas.
Harriet was the last to turn in.
Before doing so she drew the unoccupied half of the canvas over the girls, leaving Tommy at the fold, as had been promised.
There were no pillows.
It was a case of lying stretched out flat or using one's arm for a pillow.
The latter plan was adopted by most of the girls, though Harriet lay flat on her back after tucking herself in, gazing up at the stars and listening to the surf beating on the shore as the tide came rolling in.
Now and then a roller showed a white ridge at its top, the white plainly visible even in the darkness, for the moon had not yet risen.
The campfire burned low, the camp itself being as silent as if deserted.
Now and then twitterings in the tree tops might have been heard; were heard, in fact, by Harriet Burrell, but not heeded, for her gaze was fixed, as it had been for some moments, on two tiny specks of light far out on the dark sea.
One of the specks was green, the other red.
They rose and fell in unison, now and then disappearing for a few seconds, then rising, high in the air, as it appeared.
The two lights were the side lights of a boat, red on the port and green on the starboard, and above them was a single white light at the masthead.
"According to those lights the boat is heading directly toward the beach," mused Harriet reflectively.
"I wonder if I ought to show a light?
No.
They know where they are going.
Besides, they can see the light of the campfire.
The wind is increasing, too."
Harriet dozed.
She awakened half an hour later and gazed sleepily out to sea.
The same lights were there, though they now appeared to be much nearer.
All of a sudden they blinked out and were seen no more.
The girl sat up, rubbing her eyes wonderingly.
"Could they have sunk?
No, of course not.
How silly of me!
The boat has turned about, and the lights are not visible from behind."
But she did not lie down at once.
Instead, she rested her chin in the palms of her hands and gazed dreamily out over the water.
A fresh, salty breeze was now blowing in.
She could hear the flap, flap of the canvas of the tents off in the camp, a thin veil of mist was obscuring the stars, the pound of the surf was growing louder and the swish of the water on the beach more surly.
All at once what looked to her to be a huge cloud suddenly loomed close at hand, then began moving along the beach.
"Mercy!
what is it?"
exclaimed the girl under her breath.
She crept from beneath the canvas and ran down to the beach.
"It's a ship!
How close to the shore they are running, and they have no lights out."
Harriet watched the vessel for some moments.
She saw it swing around a long, narrow point of land a short distance to the south of the camp and boldly enter a bay.
She was unable to make out with any distinctness what was being done there, but she heard the creak of the boom as it swung over and the rattle of the tackle as the sails came down, though unable to interpret these sounds.
Soon there came a sharp whistle from human lips, answered by a similar whistle from the shore, then all was quiet.
Harriet Burrell crept back under the canvas, wondering vaguely what could be the meaning of this.
She was too sleepy to think much about it and soon dropped into a sound sleep, from which she was destined to be rudely awakened.
CHAPTER VII A SUDDEN STORM The canvas that covered the sleeping Meadow-Brook Girls was suddenly lifted from them, then whipped back with a force that nearly knocked the breath out of some of them.
A chorus of yells greeted the giant slap of the canvas, and a bevy of girls rolled and scrambled out of the way.
"Hold it down, or we shall lose it," cried Harriet, her voice barely heard in the roar of the wind.
But no one of the party seemed inclined to act as an anchor for the canvas, which was rolled, then whisked out of sight.
"There, now you have done it!"
shouted Crazy Jane McCarthy.
"We sleep on the ground for the rest of the night!"
A gust of wind had thrown Jane off her balance and knocked her down.
"Take hold of a tree," advised Harriet.
"I can't get to one," wailed Margery.
"I can't walk."
"Creep," suggested Tommy shrilly.
"Yes, we must seek cover.
I fear there will be rain soon," added Miss Elting.
"This is an awful blow.
I can feel the spray from the ocean."
"Will the ocean come up here?"
questioned Margery apprehensively.
"No.
Don't be foolish," answered Harriet.
"But we shall get wet, all the same."
Half walking, half crawling, the Meadow-Brook Girls crept farther back among the small trees, through which the wind was shrieking and howling.
They saw the campfire lifted from the ground and sent flying through the air, leaving a trail of starry sparks in its wake.
"There go the tents!"
cried Miss Elting.
A medley of shouts and cries of alarm followed hard upon the guardian's words.
A gust more severe than any that had preceded it, and of longer duration, had rooted up the weakened tent stakes or broken the guy ropes.
A whole street of tents tipped over backward, leaving their occupants scrambling from their cots, now in the open air.
"Girls, see if you can lend the Wau-Wau girls assistance," commanded Miss Elting.
"Hurry!"
About all that was necessary to get to the distressed campers was to let go of the trees to which the Meadow-Brook Girls had been clinging.
The wind did the rest, and they brought up in confused heaps near and beyond the uncovered tents.
Cots had been overturned by the sudden heavy squall, blankets and equipment blown away.
The cook tent was down and the contents apparently a wreck.
"Cling to the trees!
Never mind saving anything now!"
cried Mrs. Livingston, whose tent had shared the same fate as those of her charges.
"Take care of yourselves first.
The squall is blowing itself out.
It will soon pass."
Almost before the words were uttered, the gale subsided.
A sudden hush fell over the camp.
"There!"
called Mrs. Livingston.
"What did I tell you?
Now, hurry and get the things together.
Never mind sorting out your belongings.
We must get some cover over us as soon as possible, for we are going to have rain."
The rain began in a spattering of heavy drops.
The thunder of the surf was becoming louder and louder, for the sea had been lashed into foamy billows by the brief, though heavy, blow.
The waves were now mounting the bluff back of the beach, leaving a white coating of creamy foam over a considerable part of the ground below the camp.
"Do you think it ith going to rain?"
questioned Tommy.
"It is, my dear," answered Mrs. Livingston.
"You had better prepare yourself for it."
"Yeth, I think tho, too.
I think I will.
I told the girlth what I would do.
Here goeth."
Tommy turned and ran toward the beach at full speed.
"Come back, Tommy!
Where are you going!"
called Miss Elting.
"I'm going to fool the rain.
I'm going to get wet before the rain cometh."
"Maybe she is going to do as she said--jump into the ocean," suggested Margery Brown.
Harriet suddenly dropped the piece of canvas at which she had been tugging, and started after Tommy, who had already headed for the bluff, and was running with all her might, apparently to get into the water before the rain came down hard enough to soak her.
The little lisping girl had no intention of getting into the water, knowing full well that by standing on the edge of the bluff a moment she could get a drenching that would be perfectly satisfactory so far as a thorough wetting was concerned.
But even in this Harriet Burrell saw danger.
"Don't go near the edge, Tommy!"
she shouted.
Tommy Thompson merely waved her hand and continued on.
Nor did she halt until she had reached the edge of the bluff, having waded through the white foam with which the ground had been covered.
She stood there, faintly outlined in the night, and with both hands thrown above her head as if she were about to dive, uttered a shrill little yell.
"Stop!
Come back!"
begged Harriet.
"I'm going to take a thwim," replied Tommy.
A great, dark roller came thundering in.
It leaped up into the air, hovered an instant, then descended in an overwhelming flood right over the shivering figure of the little Meadow-Brook Girl standing on the edge of the bluff.
Harriet had reached the scene just in time to get the full force of the downpour.
Neither girl could speak, both were choking, when suddenly the ground gave way beneath their feet and they felt themselves slipping down and down until it seemed to Harriet as if they were going to the very bottom of the sea.
Now they were lifted from their feet.
They were no longer slipping downward.
Instead, they were being carried up and up until they were free from the choking pressure of the water, and once more were breathing the free, though misty, salt air of the sea.
"Oh, thave me!"
wailed Tommy.
"I'll try.
I don't know.
We have been carried out to sea by a receding wave.
The bank gave way.
Oh, what a foolish girl you are!
Swim!
Swim with all your might!
We shall have to fight hard.
We may not be able to save ourselves as it is.
Swim toward the shore!"
"Whi--ch way ith the thhore?"
wailed Tommy.
"I don't know.
I can't see.
I think it must be that way."
She placed a firm grip on Tommy's shoulder, turning the smaller girl about, heading her toward what Harriet Burrell believed to be the shore.
She wondered why she could see no light over there, having forgotten that the campfire had been blown away in the squall.
The two girls now began to swim with all their might.
It seemed to them, in their anxiety, as if they had been swimming for hours.
Harriet finally ceased swimming and lay floating with a slight movement of her arms.
"What ith it?"
questioned Grace.
"I don't know."
"But you thee thomething, don't you?"
"That is the worst of it.
I do not.
Look sharp.
Can you make out anything that looks like the shore?"
"I thee a light!
I thee a light!"
cried Tommy delightedly.
"Yes; I see it now.
That must be on the shore.
We have been going in the wrong direction.
Swim with all your might!"
For a few moments they did swim, strongly and with long overhand strokes, Tommy and Harriet keeping close together, Harriet ever watchful that a swell did not carry her little companion from her.
They had made considerable progress, but still the shore seemed to have disappeared from view.
The light that Tommy had discovered had gone out.
At least, it was no longer to be seen.
Harriet stopped swimming, and, raising herself as high as possible out of the water, again and again took quick surveys of their surroundings.
The seas were heavier and less broken where they now were.
Slowly it dawned upon Harriet Burrell that they were in deep water.
She raised her voice in a long-drawn shout.
Both listened.
No sound save the swish of the water about them was to be heard.
The wind had not come up again, but a fresh, salty breeze was blowing over them, chilling the girls, sending shivers through their slender bodies.
"Oh, what thhall we do?"
sobbed Grace.
"What can we do to thave ourthelveth?"
"I don't know, Tommy.
About all we can do is to keep up our courage and wait for daylight.
We must keep moving as well as we can, or we shall get so cold that we shall perish."
"Wait until daylight?
Oh, thave me!
I thall die--I thurely thall.
Thave me, Harriet!"
"Keep up your courage, darling.
We are far from being goners yet, but we have before us a night that will call for all the courage we possess.
Now pull yourself together and be a brave little girl."
"I don't want to be brave; I want to go home," wailed Grace.
"So do I, and we shall go as soon as we are able to see where home is," answered Harriet, forcing a laugh.
"Then why don't you go?"
"I can't."
"I'm going."
Tommy began to swim.
Harriet propelled herself up to her companion and grasped her by an arm.
"Tommy, you _must_ obey me!
You don't know where you are going.
You may be swimming out to sea for all you know.
Be a good girl and save your strength.
The night may become lighter later on, then we shall manage to reach the shore somehow."
"But why don't you go now?"
"Because I don't know where the shore is, dearie.
We are lost, just as much lost as if we were in the middle of the Atlantic," answered Harriet solemnly.
CHAPTER VIII A NEVER-TO-BE-FORGOTTEN NIGHT "Be brave!
Remember that you are a Meadow-Brook Girl, Tommy," encouraged Harriet.
"We are swimmers.
We can't drown unless we get into a panic.
There is a boat somewhere hereabouts.
I saw one sail into the cove, or the bay, whichever it is, before I went to sleep this evening.
The men surely will be coming out in the morning; then, if we are too far from shore to get in, we ought to be able to attract their attention.
They will pick us up."
"Do--do you think we are far from thhore?"
"I fear so.
Still, I can't be certain about that.
I am dreadfully confused and don't know one direction from another.
I wish the moon would come up.
That would give us our points of compass.
Perhaps the clouds may blow away after a little.
We shall at least be able to see more clearly after that."
"Oh, I'm tho cold!
I'm freething, Har-r-r-i-e-t." "I will fix that.
Come, swim with me.
We will ride the waves," cried Harriet.
The swells were long and high.
Now they would ride to the top of one, then go slipping down the other side on a plane of almost oily smoothness.
At such times Tommy would cry out.
Even Harriet's heart would sink as she glanced up at the towering mountains of water on either side of them.
It seemed as if nothing could save them from being engulfed, buried under tons of dark water.
At the second when all hope appeared to be gone they would find themselves being slowly lifted up and up and up until once more they topped another mountainous swell.
Fortunately for the two girls, the tops of the swells were in most instances solid, dark water.
The strong wind having gone down, the crests generally showed no white, broken foam.
When such an one was met with it meant a rough few moments for the Meadow-Brook Girls and a severe shaking up.
Tommy had been in the surf on many occasions, when at the sea shore with her parents, and understood it fairly well.
Harriet had never been in the salt water, but was guided wholly by the instincts of the swimmer, of one who loved the water, and for whom it seemed almost her natural element, and in the excitement of the hour she at times forgot the peril of their position.
So far as she knew they might already be far out to sea, with a mile or more of salt water underneath them.
In the meantime there was intense excitement in the camp.
Miss Elting had been a witness to the sudden disappearance of Grace and Harriet.
She had seen both girls enveloped in the cloud of spray and dark water.
Jane McCarthy had gone bounding toward the beach, followed by their guardian and several of the Camp Girls, who, though not having seen Harriet and Grace disappear, surmised something of the truth.
Reaching the edge of the bluff, they saw at once what had occurred.
A large portion of the sandy bluff had sloughed off and slipped into the sea, having been loosened and undermined by the persistent smash of the waves against the bluff.
Jane started to leap down, but Miss Elting caught her in time.
"No, no, no," protested the guardian; "you must not!"
"But they are down there drowning!"
screamed Crazy Jane.
"There is nothing we can do to save them.
They aren't there.
You can see they are not."
"But if not, where are they?"
cried Jane.
"My dears, if they went in there they undoubtedly have been carried out.
The undertow is very strong in a storm such as this," said Mrs. Livingston sadly.
She had hurried down to the beach upon seeing the others running in that direction, to ascertain the cause.
"Some one get a boat!"
screamed Margery.
The Chief Guardian shook her head sadly.
"There is no boat here.
Even if there were, we could not launch it against that sea, nor would it live a moment did we succeed in getting it launched.
We can do no more than trust in God and wait.
You see the wind is blowing on shore and--" "No, it is blowing off toward the cove.
The wind has shifted," answered Jane McCarthy.
"But that doesn't help us a bit."
"Gather wood and build a fire," commanded Mrs. Livingston.
The Camp Girls hurriedly set about gathering fuel for a fire, but having brought wood, the fuel refused to burn.
The rain had thoroughly soaked everything.
The merest flicker of flame was all they were able to get.
They tried again and again, but with no better results, finally giving up the attempt altogether.
"I am afraid we shall have to let it go," decided the Chief Guardian.
"A light would help so much, and, if the two girls are alive, would serve as a guide for them."
Jane interrupted by uttering a shrill cry.
She listened, but there was no response.
She cried out again and again, then finally gave up the effort.
"I'm afraid they are gone," she moaned.
"Unless they were hurt when the wave struck them I do not believe they are lost," said Miss Elting, with a calmness and hopefulness that she really did not feel, though she dared not permit herself to admit that Harriet and Grace really had been lost.
"Both are excellent swimmers, and Harriet never would give up so long as there was a breath of life left in her body."
"But can't we do something?"
pleaded Margery.
The Chief Guardian shook her head sadly.
"I fear we can not.
You have but to look out there to know that any efforts on our part would be futile."
Miss Elting suddenly cried out.
"Girls, what can we be thinking of?
We must patrol the beach.
The sea is going down a little.
Divide up into pairs; keep as close to the shore as possible without being caught by a wave; then search every foot of the beach all along.
I will go up the beach.
Hazel, you come with me.
Mrs. Livingston, will you have the other girls assist us?"
The Chief Guardian gave the orders promptly.
Fifty girls began running along the shore.
Mrs. Livingston quickly called them back, dividing the party into groups of two.
She was very business-like and calm, which, in a measure, served to calm the girls themselves.
"Look carefully," she cautioned.
"The missing girls may have been washed ashore; they may be found nearly drowned, and it may not be too late to revive them.
Make all haste!"
There was no delay.
The Camp Girls took up their work systematically.
A thorough search was made of the beach in both directions, the patrols eventually returning to the Chief Guardian to report that they had found no trace of the missing girls.
"Keep moving.
They may drift in," commanded Mrs. Livingston.
The search was again taken up, pairs of girls going over the ground thoroughly, investigating every shadow, every sticky mass of sea weed that caught their anxious glances, but not a sign of either of the two girls did they find.
An hour had passed; then Mrs. Livingston called them in.
She directed certain groups to return to camp and begin getting the tents laid out, and to put up such as were in condition to be raised.
The Chief Guardian herself remained on the beach with Miss Elting and the Meadow-Brook Girls.
There was little conversation.
The women walked slowly back and forth, scanning the sea, of which they could see but little, for the night was still very dark.
At first they tried calling out at intervals, ceasing only when their voices had grown hoarse.
To none of their calls was there any reply.
Harriet and Tommy were too far out, and the noise about them was too great to permit of their hearing a human voice, even had it been closer at hand.
Meantime the two girls were now swimming quite steadily.
Harriet knew that, were they to remain quiet too long, they would grow stiff and gradually get chilled through.
That would mark the end, as she well understood.
Then again it was necessary to give Tommy enough to do to keep her mind from her troubles, which were many that night.
All the time Harriet was straining eyes and ears to locate the land.
She had not the remotest idea in which direction it lay, and dared not swim straight ahead in any direction for fear of going farther away.
The wind died out and rose again.
Had it continued to freshen from the start, she would have permitted herself to drift with it, but Harriet feared that the wind had veered, and that it was now blowing out to sea, what little there was of it, so she tried to swim about in a circle in so far as was possible.
Tommy, of course, knew nothing of what was in the mind of her companion, nor did Harriet think best to confide in her.
"I'm getting tired.
I can't keep up much longer," wailed Grace.
"Rest a moment on your back.
I will keep a hand under your shoulders so you won't sink.
If only one knew it, it isn't really possible to sink, provided the lungs are kept well filled with air and no water swallowed."
"I could think like a thtone if I let mythelf go."
"Don't let yourself go.
There is every reason why you should not, and not one why you should."
"Yeth."
Tommy turned over on her back.
"Did you ever thwallow thalt water?"
"I never did."
"Then don't.
It ith awful.
Oh, I'm tho tired and I'm getting thleepy."
Harriet roused herself instantly.
She gave Tommy a brisk slap on one cheek.
Tommy cried out and began fighting back, with the result that she was the one to swallow salt water.
Tommy choked, strangled and floundered, still screaming for Harriet to save her.
Instead Harriet let her companion struggle, keeping close to her, but making no effort to help.
"Thave me!"
It was a choking moan.
Uttering it, Tommy disappeared.
Harriet lunged for her and dragged her companion up, and none too soon, for the little girl had swallowed so much salt water that she was really half drowned.
Harriet shook her and pounded her on the back, all the time managing to float on the surface of the water, evidencing that Harriet was something of a swimmer.
Yet she was becoming weary and the sense of feeling was leaving her limbs.
She realized that it was the chill of the Atlantic and that unless she succeeded in restoring her circulation she would soon be helpless.
Just now, however, all her efforts were devoted to the task of arousing Grace.
The little girl began to whimper and to struggle anew.
"I am amazed at you, Tommy," gasped Harriet.
"You, a swimmer, to swallow part of the ocean!"
"I didn't.
The ocean thwallowed me--e." "You must work.
Swim, Tommy!"
"I--I can't.
I'm tho tired."
Grace made languid efforts to prove that she was weary.
There could be no doubt of it.
She did not have the endurance possessed by her companion, and even Harriet's strength was leaving her, because of that terrible numbness in her lower limbs, a numbness that was creeping upward little by little.
"I will help you.
But you must do something for yourself.
Turn over on your stomach.
There.
You need not try to fight it, just make swimming motions, slowly.
Not so fast.
Now you have the pace."
"I can't keep it.
My limbth will not work.
My kneeth are thtiff.
Oh, Harriet, I think I'm going to die!"
"Nonsense!
Why, you could swim all night, if necessary, and be up in time for six o'clock breakfast just the same."
"Breakfatht.
It will be fithh for breakfatht for Tommy Thompthon, I gueth.
Fithh, Harriet, fithh," mumbled Grace, then ceased swimming.
"Fithh!"
"Poor girl, she is about done for!"
muttered Harriet Burrell.
She turned Tommy over on her back and, placing a hand under the little girl, began swimming slowly.
The added burden was almost more than Harriet, in her benumbed state, was able to handle.
She knew that she could not support Grace and herself through the rest of that long, dark night.
She knew, too, that unless they were rescued, her companion would be past help by the end of another hour.
It already seemed hours since they had slipped into the sea and rode out on the crest of a receding wave.
Now her movements were becoming slower and slower.
She seemed not to possess the power to move her limbs.
It was not all weariness either; it was that dragging numbness that was pulling her down.
Harriet fought a more desperate battle with herself than she ever had been called upon to fight before.
She did not now believe that they would be rescued, but that did not prevent her keeping up the battle as long as a single vestige of strength remained.
It was sheer grit that kept Harriet Burrell afloat during that long, heart-breaking swim among the Atlantic rollers on this never-to-be-forgotten night.
But at last the girl ceased swimming.
Her limbs simply would not move in obedience to her will; her arms seemed weighed down by some tremendous pressure; her head grew heavy and her senses dulled.
"I believe this is the end," muttered Harriet.
One great struggle, then her weary muscles relaxed.
For a few moments she floated on her back, turned over with a great effort, then settled lower and lower in the water, all the time fighting to regain possession of her faculties, but growing weaker with each effort.
Then Harriet Burrell went down, dragging Tommy with her.
CHAPTER IX A SURPRISE THAT PROVED A SHOCK It could not have been very long, not more than a few seconds, before Harriet Burrell's benumbed senses began to perform their natural functions.
Deep down in her inner consciousness was the feeling that, though the surf was breaking over her, underneath her was something solid, immovable.
In a vague sort of way she wondered at this, but for the time being was too weary and dulled to reason out the cause of the phenomenon.
After a time the girl began to feel little pains shooting up her arms, reaching to her shoulders and down along her spine.
Again was her wonderment aroused.
Little by little her heavy eyelids struggled open.
But her eyes saw only black darkness and water.
Harriet, by a supreme force of will, now began to reason the cause.
"I am still in the water, but my hands and feet are on something solid.
What does it mean?"
she thought.
Turning her head slightly, she saw that which increased her wonderment.
Tommy Thompson was sitting beside her, the little girl's head leaning against Harriet.
It struck Harriet as peculiar that Tommy was able to sit on the water with nearly half her body out of the water.
Harriet then discovered that she was crouching on all fours.
It was a peculiar position for her, too.
She wondered, if able to maintain that position, why she might not stand up just as well.
"I can do it!"
she screamed.
"I can stand on the--" She paused.
Tommy had toppled over and lay on her side, partly covered with water.
"Land!"
breathed Harriet.
"We are on land, but there is water all about us.
I don't understand."
Pondering over this for a moment, Harriet stooped and lifted Grace to a sitting posture.
Her blood had begun to circulate and a warm glow was suffusing her entire body.
"Tommy, wake up!
Wake up!
It's land.
We are on solid ground.
Don't you understand?"
"Breakfatht for fithh," muttered Tommy.
Harriet shook her as vigorously as she could.
It required no little effort to get Grace wide enough awake to understand what Harriet was saying, but after a short time Tommy seemed to understand, understanding that finally came to her with a shock almost equal to that that Harriet had felt.
"We--we are on thhore?"
she questioned.
"Yes, yes.
Let's get out of the water.
Come, dear, I will support you."
This she did, though Harriet staggered and was barely able to support herself.
She slipped a cold arm about Grace's waist.
"Make your feet go."
The two girls stumbled forward, Tommy now having an arm about Harriet's waist, then with a scream from Tommy they stepped off into deep water and went in all over.
"Thave me, oh, thave me!"
moaned Tommy as they came up.
But the plunge had done them good.
It had shaken both girls wide awake and cleared their clouded minds.
They once more had been awakened to a realization of their position.
"It wathn't land at all!
Let me go, let me die," insisted Tommy, struggling to free herself from Harriet's grasp.
"It was a sand bar," explained Harriet.
"Please behave yourself, Tommy.
You must _do_ something.
It is all I can do to take care of myself.
Now, please, help me by helping yourself and we shall be on dry land in a few moments."
Grace made several awkward attempts to swim, then gave it up.
"I can't do it, Harriet.
What ith the uthe of trying to thwim any more?"
"Don't you understand?
We were on a sand bar.
It was that that saved our lives after we were overcome.
We should have drowned had it not been for the bar."
"Yeth, but we are in deep water again," wailed Tommy.
"Think, think!
Don't be so stupid.
We must be near the shore.
I don't believe there would be a shallow place like that one far out from land."
"Do you think tho?"
Tommy's voice was weaker than before.
"I am sure of it.
Swim.
That's a good girl."
"I--I can't."
"Then I will swim for you."
Once more Harriet Burrell placed a hand under Grace and began swimming with her.
The surf was behind them and was rapidly carrying them with it toward either the shore or the sea, Harriet neither knew nor thought which.
Had she not been still half dazed she might have smelled the vegetation on shore, not so very far from them, but of this she took no heed.
She swam, summoning all her strength to the task, knowing that she would not be able to keep up much longer.
Then all at once her hands touched bottom.
A moment more and she lay full length upon the wet, sandy bottom with the waves breaking over her.
Harriet groped with her hands and found that the water at arm's length, ahead was but a few inches deep.
She sprang up with, a weak cry.
"Tommy, Tommy!
We've made it."
"Fithh," muttered Grace.
Harriet grasped her by the arms and began backing toward shore, dragging her companion with her.
The ground grew more and more solid as she backed.
There could be no doubt now.
They were rapidly getting to dry land.
Here, unlike the beach fronting the camp, the ground sloped gradually up away from the sea, then extended off among the trees a level stretch for some distance.
Tommy struggled a little when Harriet raised her to her feet.
The latter did not know which way camp lay from where they had landed, but she decided that it must be to the right of them.
In this surmise Harriet was correct, but the camp was farther away than she had thought.
She staggered along, half leading, half carrying, her companion, until, exhausted by her efforts, she sank down, Tommy with her.
"I can't go another step; I'm tired out," gasped Harriet.
"Ye-t-h," agreed Grace weakly.
The two girls toppled over and stretched out on the wet ground, clasped in each other's arms.
They were almost instantly asleep.
Tired nature could endure no more, and there they continued to lie and slumber through the remaining hours of the night.
Break of day still found patrol parties running along the shore, alternately searching the beach and gazing out to sea.
An occasional boat was sighted far out, but that was all.
No signs of the missing Meadow-Brook Girls had been found.
Ever since the dawn, however, Crazy Jane McCarthy had been taking account of the direction of the wind, which was blowing across the bay to the right of their camp.
She decided to investigate that part of the coast on her own account, going far beyond the farthest point that had been reached by any of the patrols.
Suddenly Crazy Jane uttered a yell that should have been heard at the camp, but was not.
She had discovered the girls lying on the beach--still locked in each other's arms.
Jane rushed to them, and, grabbing Tommy, began shaking her.
Harriet raised her heavy eyelids, sat up and rubbed her eyes.
Tommy tried to brush Jane aside.
"Fithh for breakfatht," she muttered.
"Oh, Jane, is it really you?"
stammered Harriet, trying to keep from lying back and again going to sleep.
"Oh, my stars, darlin's!
And we thought all the time that you were both drowned.
Don't tell me a thing now.
I'll go right back and get some of the girls to help me get you back to camp."
"No, no; we can walk.
There is nothing the matter with us except that we are tired out.
Tommy, Tommy, wake up!
It is morning and we are safe and dry.
Think of it!"
"I--I don't want to think.
I want to go to thleep."
Jane lifted and shook the little lisping girl until Tommy begged for mercy, declaring that she would rather go to sleep than return to camp.
It required no little effort to get the girl to try to walk.
Harriet herself would have much preferred going back to sleep, but after a time, with their arms about Tommy, they managed to get her started, upon which they took up their weary trudge to the camp, more than a mile away, stumbling along with Tommy, half asleep nearly every minute of the time.
It was almost an hour later when a great shout arose from the camp as the girls were discovered slowly approaching.
There was a wild rush to meet them.
Every girl in camp, including the guardians, joined in the rush to welcome the returning Meadow-Brook Girls.
CHAPTER X SUMMONED TO THE COUNCIL "They're saved!
They're saved!"
shouted fifty voices, their owners almost wild with delight.
With one common impulse they gathered up Tommy and Harriet and started to carry them into camp.
Tommy offered no resistance.
She submitted willingly.
With Harriet it was different.
She struggled, freed herself from the detaining arms, and sprang away from her rejoicing companions, laughing softly.
"I am perfectly able to take care of myself, thank you," she said.
"You certainly do not look it," declared the Chief Guardian.
Harriet's face was pale, her eyes sunken, with dark rings underneath them, but in other ways she appeared to be her old self.
"We shall both be as well as ever after we have had something warm to eat and drink."
"Tell us, oh, tell us about it," cried several girls in chorus.
"Not a word until after the girls have had something to eat and drink.
They are completely exhausted."
Mrs. Livingston gazed wonderingly at Harriet Burrell, knowing full well that the latter had borne the greater share of the burden in the battle that she must have had to fight through the long, dark night.
The cook girls were already making coffee and warming up food left over from their own breakfast, as being the quickest way to prepare something for the returned Meadow-Brook Girls.
That meal strengthened and cheered them wonderfully.
Tommy began to chatter after having drunk her first cup of coffee.
Their companions sat about in a semi-circle watching them, scarcely able to restrain their curiosity as to what had happened during the night.
Jane opened the recital by a question.
"Did you really mean that you wished fish for breakfast, Tommy?"
she asked.
Grace regarded her with a frowning squint.
"I didn't want any fithh for breakfatht.
It wath the fithh that wanted me for their breakfatht."
"And there are sharks off this coast, too!"
gasped one of the girls.
"Were you in the water for long?"
asked Miss Elting.
"It seemed like a long time, it seemed like hours and hours," admitted Harriet, accompanying the words with a bright smile that the keen-eyed Chief Guardian saw was forced.
"For hours!"
cried the girls in chorus.
"If you feel able, please tell us about it," urged Hazel.
Mrs. Livingston shook her head.
"Both girls are going to bed immediately.
Please fix up two cots for them in my tent.
No, no," she added in answer to Harriet's protests, "it is my order.
You are to turn in and sleep until supper time, if you wish; by that time we shall have the camp put to rights and you may talk to your hearts' content."
The Chief Guardian led the two girls to her tent, assisting them to remove their damp clothing, putting them in warm flannel night gowns and tucking them in their cots.
Harriet insisted that she did not wish to be "babied," but, the guardian was firm.
After tucking them in Mrs. Livingston sat down on the edge of Tommy's cot and began asking her questions, all of which Tommy answered volubly, Harriet now and then offering objections to her companion's praise.
In a few moments the Chief Guardian was in possession of the whole story of the night's experiences.
"You are the same brave Harriet that we came to know so well at our camp in the Pocono Woods," said Mrs. Livingston.
"There are not many like you; but we shall speak of your achievements later.
Now I will draw the flap, and I do not wish to see it opened until sundown.
I know that I may depend upon you to obey orders."
Harriet nodded.
"There is something I should like to ask.
Did you see anything of a sail boat in the bay this morning?"
"No.
Why?"
"I saw one come in last night before the blow.
It anchored in the cove.
They had put out their lights before coming in, which made me wonder."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Yes, I know.
I wondered if they had been blown ashore?"
"We should have known of it if such had been the case.
But I can't understand what a boat could be doing in here.
This is a remote place where people seldom come.
That was why I chose it for our summer camping place.
I will ask the girls if they saw anything of the boat you mention, but it is doubtful."
"Another thing.
Oh, I'm not going to keep you here talking with me all day."
"No; I want to go to thleep," interjected Grace.
"I saw a cabin down on that long point of land just this side of the bay.
What is it?"
"A fisherman's cabin.
It is not occupied, nor has it been in a very long time."
"Then why can't we Meadow-Brook Girls use it while we are in camp?
I should love to be down by the water, with the sea almost at my feet."
"I should think you would have had enough of the sea, after your dreadful experience of last night," laughed Mrs. Livingston.
"I am fascinated with the sea.
It is wonderful!
Do you think we could have the cabin?"
"I will consult with Miss Elting.
If she thinks it wise, I will see what can be done.
Of course, it is a little farther from the camp than I like.
I prefer to have my girls where I can have an eye on them at all times.
But the Meadow-Brook Girls can be depended upon to take care of themselves, save that they are too venturesome.
Yes, I will see what can be done."
"Oh, thank you ever so much," answered Harriet with glowing eyes.
"Then, if we wish, we may sleep out on the sands when the nights are warm."
"I shall have to think about that, my dear.
Now go to sleep.
This evening I shall have more to say."
Tommy was already asleep.
Harriet dropped into a heavy slumber within a very few moments after the Chief Guardian's departure.
She did not awaken until the sun had dipped into the sea.
As she forced herself to a realization of her surroundings, the merry chatter of voices was borne to her ears and the savory odor of camp cooking to her nostrils.
In the meantime an active day had been spent by the Camp Girls.
There was much to be done, for the camp was in a confused condition after the storm of the preceding evening.
A day of labor had given a keen zest to the appetites of the campers; added to this was the satisfaction of having completed their work.
The camp now was in trim condition.
Acting upon the orders of the Chief Guardian, the wood had been laid for a council fire.
The orders had been issued for the girls to don ceremonial dress and report for a council at eight o'clock that evening.
The girls wondered what important subject was to come up for consideration, as it was not the evening for the regular weekly council fire that was always held during the summer encampment.
Of all this Harriet was unaware.
When she awakened she found dry clothing laid out for her to put on.
The same had been done for Grace, who was still sleeping soundly.
Harriet shook the little girl awake.
"It is nearly night, dear," she said.
"How do you feel?"
Tommy blinked several times before replying.
"How do I feel?
Not tho wet ath I did latht night.
I thmell thupper!"
exclaimed Tommy, sitting up suddenly.
"I told you it was nearly night.
Let's go out and see the girls.
How good they all are to us!"
"I thuppothe they will all be looking at me and following me about ath though I wath thome thort of curiothity," complained Grace.
"Of course you would not like that.
It would embarrass you, wouldn't it, Tommy?"
"It would embarrath me more if they didn't," answered Tommy honestly, puckering her face into frowns and squinting up at Harriet so whimsically that the older girl burst into a peal of merry laughter.
Instantly following the laugh, Jane's head was thrust through the tent opening.
The head was in disorder, for Jane had found no time to attend to her hair.
She had been working, which meant that she had been accomplishing things, for Jane was a host in herself when it came to work.
"Excuse the condition of my crowning glory, darlin's, but I couldn't wait to comb it.
I have been sent to tell you that the grease is on the bacon and the potatoes are popping open in the hot ashes of the cook fire.
We're going to cut off the tops of them, dig out a tunnel and fill the tunnel with butter.
Um, um!
Now, what do you think of that?"
In a twinkling Tommy was out of bed and gleefully hurrying into her clothes.
"I thought it would interest you, darlin'," chuckled Jane.
"You dress as if you were going to a fire," declared Harriet, with a good-natured laugh.
"She is," answered Crazy Jane; "the camp fire--the cook fire, I should say."
Tommy, during this dialogue, had not uttered a word.
Finally, having got into her clothes to her satisfaction, she darted from the tent, spinning Jane half-way around as she dashed past her, the little girl twisting her hair into a hard knot as she ran.
"I want a potato with a hole in it," she shouted the moment she came in sight of the cook fire.
Some one snatched a hot tuber from the ashes and tossed it to her.
Tommy caught the potato, but dropped it instantly and began cooling her fingers.
"I want one with a hole in it," she insisted.
"Bring it here and you shall have it," replied Miss Elting.
Instead of picking up the potato and carrying it, Tommy propelled it along with the toe of her boot.
She did not propose to burn her fingers again.
The guardian gouged out a hole to the bottom, filling the hole with butter, Tommy's eyes growing larger and larger.
Then she began to eat the potato with great relish, after having seasoned it with salt and pepper.
This was no time for words, nor were any uttered until nothing but the blackened skin of the potato was left.
"Thave me!"
gasped Tommy.
"Pleathe, may I have another?"
"Don't you think it would be well to wait for supper?"
suggested Miss Elting.
"In your greediness you have forgotten the others."
"I beg your pardon, but I wath tho hungry!
If you had been a fithh thwimming in the ocean all night you, too, would have an appetite.
How would you like to be a fithh, Mith Livingthton?"
"I am quite content to be a mere human being," was the Chief Guardian's laughing reply.
"Were you afraid when you found yourself out in the ocean all alone?"
"Afraid?
I--I gueth I didn't think about that.
I wath too buthy trying to keep from filling up with thalt water.
Did you ever drink any of that water, Mith Livingthton?"
"Hardly."
"Then take the advice of a fithh, and don't."
All hands were called to supper, thus putting an end to the conversation, which had been heartily enjoyed by Mrs. Livingston.
Tommy always was a source of amusement to her.
She appreciated the active mind and the keen, if sometimes rude, retorts and ready answers of the little lisping girl.
After supper a short time was spent in visiting among the girls principally to discuss the marvelous experience of the two Meadow-Brook Girls; then one by one the girls left to go to their tents to don their ceremonial dress, and in place of the regulation serge uniform of the Camp Girls figures clad in the ceremonial dress, their hair hanging in two braids over their shoulders, and beads glistening about their necks, began to make their appearance.
Barely had the girls put on their ceremonial costumes before a moccasined Wau-Wau girl ran at an Indian lope through the camp, crying out the call for the council fire: "Gather round the council fire, The chieftain waits you there," chanted the runner, circling the camp after having gone straight through the center from her own tent.
The girls began moving toward a dark spot in the young forest where the wood for the fire had been piled, but not yet lighted.
"What are we going to do?"
questioned Tommy.
Miss Elting said she could not say; that the Chief Guardian had called the council.
Silent figures took their places, sitting on the ground, curling their feet underneath them, speaking no words, waiting for the flame that would open the Wau-Wau council.
At last all were seated.
From among the number there stepped forward a dark figure who halted before the pile of dry wood, then, stooping, began rubbing two sticks together, while the circle of Camp Girls chanted: "Flicker, flicker, flicker, flame; Burn, fire, burn!"
A tiny blaze sprang from the two sticks, then the chant rose higher and higher, figures rose up, swaying their bodies from side to side in unison as the blaze grew into a flame and the flame into a roaring fire, the tongues of which reached almost to the tops of the slender trees that surrounded the camp of the Wau-Wau Girls.
"I light the light of health for Wau-Wau," announced the firemaker, turning her back to the flames and facing part of the circle of expectant faces on which the lights and shadows from the fire were playing weirdly.
This completed the opening ceremony.
The council fire was in order, the purpose of the meeting would soon be explained, thus relieving the curiosity of some fifty girls who were burning to know what it was all about.
Not the least curious of these was Tommy Thompson.
CHAPTER XI A REWARD WELL-EARNED "I'm just perishing to know what it's about," confided Margery Brown to the girl next to her.
"What do you suppose it is?"
"I think it has something to do with last night," answered the Camp Girl.
"Oh!
you mean about Harriet and Tommy?"
"Yes.
Be quiet, the C.G.
is going to say something."
The Chief Guardian had already risen.
Passing about the circle, she extended a hand to each of the girls there assembled.
There were no other greetings than the warm clasp of friendship and good-fellowship, but it meant much to these brown-faced, strong-limbed young women who had been members of the organization for a year or more.
The Chief Guardian took her place by the fire.
"My daughters," she said, "we have gathered this evening about the council fire, that ancient institution, to speak of matters that are near to the heart of each of us.
Last night two of your number gave a marked demonstration of what a Camp Girl may do, of what pluck will do, an exhibition of sheer moral courage, one of the greatest assets of a Camp Girl."
"That ith uth," whispered Tommy to Harriet Burrell, who sat beside her.
Harriet's face was flushed.
She feared the guardian was about to speak of her achievements, which Harriet was not at all eager to hear.
"I refer to the thrilling experiences of Miss Burrell and Miss Thompson in battling with the big seas far out there in the darkness, and with every reason to believe that their efforts would prove of no avail.
It is not the battle of despair to which I refer.
There was no such.
Rather, it was that dogged courage that never even permits a suggestion of give-up to enter the mind of the fighter.
It was a courage such as this, combined with rare judgment and physical ability, that makes it possible for Miss Burrell and Miss Thompson to be present with us at the council fire this evening.
"They have not told the story willingly.
I had to draw it from them bit by bit, which I venture to say is more than any of my girls have succeeded in doing."
The guardian smiled as she glanced about at the eager, flushed faces of the Camp Girls.
"Yes, yes!"
they cried.
"As you all know, Miss Burrell, seeing the danger of her companion, hurried to her rescue, with the result that both girls went into the sea.
They were quickly carried out to sea by the undertow, which they fought away from and propelled themselves to the surface.
Then they began swimming, but in the darkness were unable to see the shore.
After a time, Miss Thompson, less strong than her companion, gave out.
Then began the real battle, and though Miss Burrell was benumbed with cold, exhausted by her efforts, she managed by a great effort to keep herself and her companion afloat.
Fortunately for them, the wind had shifted and they swam and drifted into the bay and eventually to the shore.
We have no means of telling how long our two plucky Wau-Wau Girls were in the water, because they themselves cannot tell when they reached the shore--but, think of it!
cast away on a dark and stormy ocean in a black night such as that was.
That is a triumph, an act of courage and heroism that should be held up as an example to every Camp Girl in America.
However, I should not advise any of you to attempt to emulate the example set by our two young friends," added the Chief Guardian warningly.
A ripple of laughter ran around the circle, then the ensuing silence was broken by a remark from Tommy which sent the girls nearest to her into a shout of laughter.
"Well, I thhould thay not!"
exploded Tommy.
"You might tell the girls how you felt when you believed that all was lost," suggested the Chief Guardian smilingly, nodding at Tommy.
"Do you recall how you felt in that trying moment?"
"I motht thertainly do."
"How did you feel?"
"I felt cold.
I had what Harriet callth 'cold feet.'
Then I gueth I didn't feel much of anything till I felt mythelf thitting in the thand with thome of me dry and thome of me wet, and Harriet trying to drag me out of the thudth."
"Out of what?"
exclaimed the Chief Guardian.
"Thudth."
"Suds," interpreted Miss Elting.
"Grace refers to the froth left on the shore by the beating waves."
"Yeth, thudth," repeated Tommy.
"Harriet, your companions would like to hear from your own lips about your experiences in the water."
"Oh, please, Mrs. Livingston, won't you excuse me?"
"If you wish, but--" "My own part was nothing more than an instinct to save myself, which everyone possesses.
I do want to say, though, that Tommy Thompson was the bravest girl I ever saw.
She was not afraid, nor can she be blamed for getting numb and sleepy.
I did myself.
No one can ever tell me that Tommy isn't as brave a girl as lives.
She has proved that."
"Yeth, I'm a real hero," piped Tommy with great satisfaction.
"A heroine, you mean, Tommy," corrected Harriet.
"Yeth, I gueth tho," agreed the little lisping girl amid general laughter, in which, the Chief Guardian joined.
"There is nothing else that I can think of to say, Mrs. Livingston.
We were fortunate; we have much for which to be thankful, for it was through no heroism on my part that we got ashore and were saved."
Harriet sat down, inwardly glad that her part of the story was told.
"We have our own views as to that," answered the Chief Guardian.
"And now that we have cleared the way, I would say that the camp guardians have unanimously agreed on giving each of you two young ladies a full set of beads for your achievements of last night, for such achievements touch upon nearly all the crafts of our order.
They have been worthily won and will prove a splendid addition to the already heavy necklace of beads you have earned."
"I gueth we'll need a chain bearer inthtead of a torch bearer if we keep on earning beadth," suggested Grace.
The two girls were requested to step out.
They did so, posing demurely before the blazing campfire.
Mrs. Livingston placed a string of beads about the neck of each of the two girls.
There were beads of red, orange, sky blue, wood brown, green, black and gold, and red, white and blue, representative of the different crafts of the organization.
Linking hands and raising them above their heads, thus forming a chain about the blazing campfire, the Wau-Wau Girls began swaying the human chain, chanting in low voices: "Beads of red and beads of blue, Beads that keep us ever true; Beads of gold and beads of brown, Make for health and great renown."
Tommy, chancing to catch the eyes of Margery Brown on the opposite side of the circle, winked wisely at her.
Tommy was in her element, but quite the opposite was the case with Harriet.
She was uncomfortable and embarrassed, and though proud of the beads that had been awarded to her, she felt that she scarcely had earned them.
She was suddenly aroused by the voice of the Chief Guardian.
"Miss Thompson will be seated," she was saying.
"Miss Burrell will kindly remain standing."
"Now you are going to catch it," whispered Grace, as she began stepping backward toward her place, which she did not quite reach.
She sat down on Hazel instead, raising a titter among the girls near by who had witnessed the mishap.
But the interruption was brief.
The girls were too much interested in what was taking place there by the campfire.
They had not the remotest idea what the Chief Guardian was going to do, though they felt positive that some further honor was to be paid to Harriet Burrell.
"I think I but voice the feelings of the guardians and the girls of Camp Wau-Wau, both those who are with us here for the first time and, those who were members of this camp when the Meadow-Brook Girls joined, when I say that Harriet Burrell is deserving of further promotion at our hands.
In the two years that she has been a member of our great organization she has worn the crossed logs upon her sleeve, the emblem of the 'Wood Gatherer'; she has borne with honor the crossed logs, the flame and smoke, the emblem of the 'Fire-Maker.'
She has, too, more than fulfilled the requirements of these ranks, filled them with honor to herself, her friends and the organization; and instead of earning sixteen honors from the list of elective honors, she has won more than forty, a record in the Camp Girls' organization.
She has fulfilled other requirements that pertain to an even higher rank.
She has proved herself a leader, trustworthy, happy, unselfish, has led her own group through many trying situations and emergencies, winning the love and enthusiasm of those whom she has led."
[Illustration: Harriet and Tommy Received Their Reward.]
"My dear, what is the greatest desire of a Torch Bearer?"
"To pass on to others the light that has been given to her; to make others happy and to light their pathway through life," was Harriet's ready response.
There were those in the circle who quickly caught the significance of the Chief Guardian's question.
Many were now aware what reward was to be bestowed upon the Meadow-Brook Girl.
"Who bring to the hearth the wood and kindling?"
questioned the Chief Guardian.
"The Wood Gatherers."
"Who place the sticks for lighting?"
"The Fire Makers."
Harriet's replies were prompt, but given with some embarrassment.
"Who rubs together the tinder sticks and imparts the spark that produces the flame?"
"The Torch Bearer," answered Harriet in a low voice.
Her face now seemed to be burning almost as hotly as was the council fire before her.
"What are the further duties of a Torch Bearer?"
"To act as a leader of her fellows in their sports and in their more serious occupations, to assist them in learning that work, that accomplishment, bring the greater joys of life; to assist the guardian in any and all ways," was the low-spoken reply.
"Correct.
And having more than fulfilled the requirements, I now appoint you to be a Torch Bearer, a real leader in the Camp Girls' organization, thus entitling you to wear that much-coveted emblem, the crossed logs, flame and smoke.
Workers, arise and salute your Torch Bearer with the grand hailing sign of the tribe!"
CHAPTER XII MYSTERY ON A SAND BAR "I--I thank you."
Harriet, placing the right hand over the heart, bowed low, and the ceremony was complete.
The voices of the Wau-Wau Girls were raised in singing, "My Country, 'Tis of Thee."
Then they ran forward, fairly smothering Harriet with their embraces and congratulations.
"You forget that I am the real hero," Tommy reminded them; whereat they picked up the little girl and tried to toss her back and forth, with the result that she was dropped on the ground.
The guardians added their congratulations as soon as they succeeded in getting close enough to Harriet to do so.
Grace also came in for her share of congratulation and praise, with which she was well content.
"Come, girls," urged Miss Elting, "you know we have to make our beds, and the hour is getting late."
"I'm not thleepy," protested Grace, "I could thtay awake for ageth."
"You will be by the time we find our sleeping place.
It is some little distance from here."
Harriet glanced at the guardian inquiringly.
"Yes, it is the cabin," answered Miss Elting.
"Mrs. Livingston lost no time in arranging for us to occupy it, though I am not at all certain that it is the wise thing to do under the circumstances."
"Under what circumstances?"
asked Harriet.
"Storms."
"But they can do us no harm."
"We shall have to take for granted that they will not.
Mrs. Livingston sent to town to ask permission of the owner, who readily granted it.
He had forgotten that he owned the cabin.
It seems that no one has occupied it in several years.
Mrs. Livingston also obtained some new blankets for us, but for to-night we shall have to put up with some hardships.
To-morrow you girls can fix us bough-beds; then we shall be quite comfortable.
But we shall have to cook out-of-doors, there being no stove in the cabin."
"We shan't be able to cook on the bar.
The breeze from the sea is so strong there that it would blow the fire away."
"We must come to camp for our meals, then.
Perhaps that would be better after all.
We don't wish to run away by ourselves; and besides this, you are now a Torch Bearer and must take a more active part in the affairs of the Camp, even if you are of the Meadow-Brook group," reminded the guardian.
Harriet nodded thoughtfully.
"How good and kind Mrs. Livingston is!
And think of what she has done for me.
It is too good to be true."
"What is too good to be true?"
questioned the Chief Guardian herself.
"Everything--all that you have done for me."
"We are still in your debt.
Now you had better be getting along.
Will you need a light?"
"No, thank you.
Harriet ith an owl.
She can thee in the dark jutht ath well ath in the light," answered Tommy, speaking for Harriet.
The Meadow-Brook party, after calling their good nights, started toward the cabin, Harriet with the thought strong in her mind that only one rank lay between her and the highest gift in the power of the organization to bestow.
She determined that one day she would be a Guardian of the Fire, but she dared not even dream of ever rising to the high office of Chief Guardian.
Harriet's life would be too full of other things, she felt.
They trooped, laughing and chatting, along the beach, and, reaching the Lonesome Bar, followed it out.
The bar was a narrow, sandy strip that extended nearly a quarter of a mile out into the bay.
About half way out the cabin had been built and for some time occupied by a Portsmouth man, who occasionally ran down there for a week-end fishing trip.
The cabin, as a camping place, possessed the double advantage of being out of the mosquito zone and of being swept by ocean breezes almost continuously.
A fresh breeze was now blowing in from the sea, and the white-crested rollers could be seen slipping past them on either side.
It was almost as though they were walking down an ocean lane without even wetting their boots.
The water was shallow on either side, so that even though they stepped off they were in no danger of going into deep water.
"We have forgotten all about a lamp!"
exclaimed Harriet as they neared the cabin.
"That has been attended to," replied Miss Elting.
"You know we have been thleeping, Harriet," reminded Tommy--"thleeping our young headth off.
Ithn't it nithe to be able to thleep while other folkth do your work for you?"
They had hurried on and Tommy was obliged to run to catch up with them.
Miss Elting was lighting a swinging lamp when they entered the cottage, which consisted of one room, above which was an attic, but with no entrance so far as they were able to observe.
Six rolls of blankets lay on the floor against a side wall ready to be opened and spread when the girls should be ready for bed.
One solitary window commanded a view of the sea.
Tommy surveyed the place with a squint and a scowl.
There was not another article in the place besides the blankets.
"There ithn't much danger of falling over the furniture in the dark, ith there?"
she asked.
"Not when we have a Torch Bearer with us," answered Buster, from the shadow just outside the door.
"Thave me!"
murmured Tommy.
"Oh, my stars!
We'll laugh to-morrow, darlin'.
It's too dark to laugh now.
Come in and sit down, Buster.
It isn't safe to leave you out there.
No telling what you might not do after having given out such a flimsy 'joke.'"
"Where shall I sit?"
asked Margery, stepping in and glancing about the room.
"Take the easy chair over there in the corner," suggested Harriet smilingly.
"But there isn't any chair there."
"That ith all right.
You jutht thit where the chair would be if there were one," suggested Tommy.
"No sitting this evening," declared the guardian.
"You will all prepare for bed.
At least two of you need rest--I mean Harriet and Tommy."
"Yeth, we alwayth need that.
I never thhall get enough of it until after I have been dead ever and ever tho long."
"I am not sleepy, but, of course, being a leader now, I have to set a good example," said Harriet lightly.
Tommy squinted at her inquiringly, as if trying to decide whether or not it were prudent to take advantage of her now that Harriet was a leader officially.
She decided to test the matter out at the first opportunity, but just now there was a matter of several hours' sleep ahead, so Tommy quickly prepared for sleep, after which, straightening out her blanket, she twisted herself up in it in a mummy roll with only the top of her tow-head and a pair of very bright little eyes observable over the top of the blanket.
Harriet waited until her companions had rolled up in their blankets; then she opened the door wide so that the ocean breeze blew in and swirled about the interior of the cabin in a miniature gale.
The girls did not mind it at all.
They thought it delicious.
This was getting the real benefit of being at the sea shore.
Harriet rolled in her blanket directly in front of the door with her head pillowed on the sill.
To enter the cabin one would have to step over her.
She went to sleep after lying gazing out over the sea for some time.
"What's that?"
Harriet started up with a half-smothered exclamation.
A report that sounded like the discharge of a gun had aroused her, or else she had been dreaming.
She was not certain which it had been.
The other girls were asleep, as was indicated by their regular breathing.
Harriet listened intently.
She had not changed her position, but her eyes were wide open, looking straight out to sea.
Nothing unusual was found there.
She was about to close her eyes again when a peculiar creaking sound greeted her ears.
Harriet knew instantly the meaning of the sound.
It came from the straining of ropes on a sailboat.
Unrolling from the blanket and hastily dressing, the Meadow-Brook Girl crawled out to the bar, wishing to make her observations unseen by any one else.
Now she saw it again, that same filmy cloud in the darkness, towering up in the air, moving almost phantom-like into the bay to the south of the cabin on Lonesome Bar.
"It's a boat.
I believe it is the same one I saw in there before.
But I can't be sure of that.
I don't know boats well enough; then, again, the night is too dark to make certain.
I don't know that it would be anything of importance if a boat were to run in here to anchor for the night.
That evidently is what they propose doing," she thought.
That Harriet's surmise was correct was evidenced a few moments later when the boat's anchor splashed into the waters of the bay and the anchor chain rattled through the hawse hole.
Harriet tried to get a clear idea of what the boat itself looked like, but was unable to do so on account of the darkness.
Now the creak of oars was borne faintly to her ears; the sound ceased abruptly, then was taken up again.
"They are putting a boat ashore!"
muttered Harriet, who was now sitting on the sand, her hair streaming over her shoulder in the fresh, salty breeze.
"I hope to goodness none of them comes out here.
The girls would be terribly frightened if they knew about this.
I don't believe I shall tell them, unless--" Harriet paused suddenly as the sound of men's voices was heard somewhere toward the land end of the bar.
She walked around to the rear of the cabin, peering shoreward.
She made out faintly the figures of two men coming down the bar.
They were carrying something between them--something that seemed to be heavy and burdensome, for the men were staggering under its weight.
The Meadow-Brook Girl realized that she was face to face with a mystery, but what that mystery was she could not even surmise, nor would she for some time to come.
She determined to act, however, and that, if possible, without alarming her companions.
Hesitating but a moment, Harriet stepped out boldly and started up the bar to meet the mysterious strangers with their heavy burden.
CHAPTER XIII A STRANGE PROCEEDING They did not appear to see her until Harriet was within a few yards of them.
Then they halted sharply, dropped their burden and straightened up.
The right hand of one of them slipped to his hip pocket, then a few seconds later was slowly withdrawn with a handkerchief in it.
"It's a girl," exclaimed one of the pair in a low voice.
"Well, what do you think about that?"
"Hello, there, Miss!
What is it?
Who are ye?"
demanded one of the men.
"I was about to ask the same question of you.
What are you doing here?"
"This here is free coast, young woman.
We've as good a right to be here as yourself, and maybe more right," returned the stranger.
"That depends, sir.
I wish you wouldn't speak so loudly, either.
You will awaken my companions.
I would just as soon they did not see you, for I don't like the looks of you in the dark."
"Companions!"
exploded one of the men under his breath.
"Whew!
Where are they?"
"In the cabin.
We are occupying it now.
Where were you going with that box?
You know there is nothing but the sea beyond here.
This is a bar.
The mainland is the other way.
Perhaps you thought you were headed up the beach?"
"Sure we did, Miss.
Thank you.
We'll be going.
Sorry to have disturbed you.
Got some provisions for a friend of ours who is down this part of the coast on a fishing trip.
Thank you."
They gathered up their burden and started back toward the beach as fast as they could stagger, Harriet in the meantime standing where they had left her, gazing after them with forehead wrinkled into ridges of perplexity.
Harriet watched the men all the way back to the beach.
She saw them put down the box they had been carrying and stand looking back at her.
Harriet quickly retraced her steps to the cabin, in the shadow of which she halted and continued her watching.
The men stood for some time, evidently engaged in a discussion, though no sound of voices reached the listening girl.
They then picked up their box and walked down the beach with it.
"That is odd.
They said they were going up the beach with provisions for a friend.
I don't understand this proceeding at all, but it looks questionable to me.
I know what I'll do; I'll follow them."
The Meadow-Brook Girl did not stop to consider that she had decided upon a possibly dangerous adventure.
Stooping over as low as possible and yet remain on her feet, Harriet ran full speed toward the beach.
She saw the men halt and put down the box, whereat the girl flattened herself on the sandy bar and lay motionless until, finally, they picked up their burden and went on.
She was able to make out the sailboat anchored some little distance out in the bay.
"They must have brought the box off from the boat," she mused.
"I wonder what is in it?
I am positive that there is some mystery here.
It isn't my affair, but my woman's curiosity makes me wonder what it is all about.
There they go again."
She was up and off, this time reaching the beach before they put down the box again.
Now Harriet was reasonably safe from discovery.
She crouched close to the sandy bluff and lay watching.
She saw one of the men put off in a rowboat, which he propelled rapidly over to the sailboat.
He did not remain there long, and she saw him pulling back to shore as if in more haste than when he went out.
"Now they are going to do something," decided the watching girl.
"Yes, they are going to take the box."
The men did.
Picking it up, they carried it back in among the trees, Harriet following at a safe distance, picking her way cautiously, not making the slightest sound in moving about among the spindling pines.
Finally, realizing that the men had stopped, the girl crouched down with eyes and ears on the alert.
She could hear them at work.
They were not going ahead, but they were engaged in some occupation the nature of which for the moment puzzled Harriet Burrell.
Then all at once the truth flashed into her mind.
"They are hiding the box!"
exclaimed the girl under her breath.
"But why are they doing that?
What secret could be so dark that it needs hiding in the woods?
I shall make it my business to find out.
There, they are coming out."
She threw herself on the ground.
She could hear the men approaching.
They seemed, from the sound of their voices, to be coming directly toward her.
Harriet gathered herself ready for a spring in case of discovery, which now seemed imminent, then again flattened herself on the ground.
"I won't run until I have to," she decided.
Courage was required for a girl to remain in Harriet's position under the circumstances, but Harriet Burrell had plenty of this and to spare.
In the meantime the men were rapidly drawing near.
They were conversing in low tones, but the girl in hiding on the ground was unable to make out what they were saying.
Rather was her attention centered on what they were going to do, which was the all-important question at that moment.
But Harriet was not left long in suspense.
The men were coming straight toward her.
She could see them quite plainly now, and wondered why they did not see her.
It was evident that they had not yet done so, perhaps because they were so fully occupied with their own affairs.
Harriet Burrell braced herself.
To rise would mean instant discovery; to remain as she was, possible avoidance of it.
She decided upon the latter course and lay still.
Within a minute the expected occurred.
The men had swerved to their right slightly, raising the hope in the mind of Harriet that they were going to pass her without discovering her.
Instead a heavy boot came in contact with her own feet.
There followed a muttered exclamation, the man pitched headlong, the girl having stiffened her limbs to meet the shock the instant she felt the touch of the boot against her feet.
The man's companion laughed uproariously and was called sharply to account by the one who had fallen.
Now came the supreme test for Harriet.
She could scarcely restrain herself from crying out, springing up and running away.
Instead, she lay perfectly quiet, breathing as lightly as possible.
The man got up growling.
"Confound these dark holes," he snarled.
"Hurt yourself?"
questioned his companion.
"No, only skinned my wrist.
Let's get back to the boat.
Why doesn't the Cap'n do it himself instead of asking us to take all the risks and all the knocks to boot?"
"Because he is paying us for doing it.
I reckon you'd better do as you're told if you want to come in for the clean-up.
We'd better be hustling, too, for Cap'n wants to get under way.
We've lost too much time already and we'll be in bad first thing we know."
The man who had fallen answered with an unintelligible growl.
He had not looked behind him to see what he had fallen over.
Instead, he wrapped a handkerchief about his wrist and started on.
The two men trudged on down toward where they had left their boat.
They were nearly at the beach before Harriet Burrell finally sat up.
"Wasn't that a narrow escape?"
she breathed.
"He fell over me and never saw me.
I wonder if my ankle is broken?
It feels as though it were.
How it did hurt when he kicked me!
It is a wonder I did not scream.
I wonder what they are going to do now?"
She got up and limped toward the beach, using a little less caution than she had done when coming out.
She paused just at the edge of the trees, where she stood in the shadow observing the men.
They shoved the boat off and followed it out a little way, splashing in the water with their heavy boots, for the beach was too shallow to permit their getting into the rowboat and rowing directly away from the shore.
They first had to shove it off into deeper water.
This was quickly accomplished, and piling in, one of the pair began rowing out toward the sailboat.
The Meadow-Brook girl sat down and began to rub her injured ankle.
The rowboat was now merely a dark blotch out on the bay.
The blotch neared the sailboat and was lost in the shadow that surrounded the larger craft.
A few moments later Harriet heard the anchor being hauled in, then the creak of the rings on the mast as the sail was being raised.
The boat got under way quickly and with very little disturbance, swung to the breeze, the boom lurching to the leeward side of the boat with a "clank."
Then the sailboat began moving slowly from the bay.
There were no lights to be seen either within or without.
The boat was in darkness.
Harriet gazed with straining eyes until the boat had finally merged with the sea and was lost to view.
A few moments later she caught the twinkle of a masthead light.
She watched the light and saw that it was moving slowly up the coast.
"That's the last of them for to-night," she reflected.
"I wonder where they put that box and what is in it?
However, I can't look for it to-night.
I will see if I can find out anything about it in the morning.
I hope Miss Elting hasn't awakened and missed me."
Harriet stepped quickly down to the beach.
She gained the bar and ran until she reached the cabin.
Listening outside the door, she found that her companions were still asleep.
She crept cautiously into the cabin, undressed, rolled in her blanket and lay staring up at the ceiling until her heavy eyelids closed and she was sound asleep.
Her companions apparently had slept through the entire adventure, for which Harriet Burrell was thankful.
CHAPTER XIV A VISITOR WHO WAS WELCOME "Wake up, girls.
Put on your bathing suits and jump in."
Miss Elting already was dressed in her blue bathing costume, her hair tucked under her red rubber bathing cap.
"We have just time for a swim before breakfast.
I see the smoke curling up from the campfire already."
"I don't want to thwim; I want to thleep," protested Tommy.
"Get a move, darlin', unless you want to be thrown in," interjected Jane, who was hurrying into her bathing suit.
"Margery, don't tempt us too far, or we will throw you in, too."
"I am sleepy, too," declared Harriet, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
"I can't imagine what makes me feel so stupid this morning."
Then, remembering, she became silent.
"If you would go to bed with the children and get your regular night's rest, you wouldn't be so sleepy in the morning," Jane answered with apparent indifference.
Harriet regarded Jane with inquiring eyes.
"I wonder if Jane really suspects that I was out of the cabin in the night, or whether it was one of her incidental remarks?"
she reflected.
"I'll find out before the day is ended."
"Am I right, darlin'?"
persisted Jane, with a tantalizing smile.
"Right about what?"
"Being up late?"
"I agree with you," replied Harriet frankly, looking her questioner straight in the eyes.
"I am losing altogether too much sleep of late."
"We didn't lothe any thleep latht night," added Tommy.
"You certainly did not, my dear; nor did Margery nor any of the others unless it were Crazy Jane," declared Harriet with a mischievous glance at Jane McCarthy, who refused to be disturbed by it or to be trapped into any sort of an admission.
"Girls, girls, aren't you coming in?"
Miss Elting rose dripping from the bay and peered into the cabin.
"Come in or you'll be too late."
"At once, Miss Elting," called Harriet.
"It has taken me some little time to get awake.
I am awake now.
Here I come."
She ran out of the cabin and sprang into the water with a shout and a splash, striking out for the opposite side, nearly a quarter of a mile away.
She had reached the middle of the bay before the guardian caught sight of her and called to her to return.
The Meadow-Brook girl did so, though it had been her intention to swim all the way across the bay and back.
In the meantime the other girls had begun their swim.
Jane was splashing about in deep water, Hazel doing likewise, while Margery was swimming in water barely up to her neck.
Tommy, on the other hand, appeared to be afraid to venture out.
Every time a ripple would break about her knees she would scream and run back out of the way.
"'Fraid cat!"
jeered Margery.
"'Fraid to come in where the water is deep."
"Yeth, I am," admitted Tommy.
"I told you so, I told you so," shouted Buster.
"I always said she was a 'fraid cat, and now she has shown you that I am right."
"Who is a 'fraid cat?"
demanded Miss Elting, pulling herself up on the beach with her hands.
"I am," answered Tommy, speaking for herself.
"Who says you are?"
"Buthter."
"Margery, I am ashamed of you.
You have evidently forgotten that Grace showed how little she was afraid when she was lost at sea the other night," chided the guardian.
"Yeth, I'm a 'fraid cat.
But I'd rather be a 'fraid cat than a fat cat!"
declared the little, lisping girl with an earnestness that made them all smile.
Harriet came swinging in with long, steady strokes, the last one landing her on the sand with the greater part of her body out of the shallow water.
"Why wouldn't you let me go across, Miss Elting?"
she asked.
"You would be late for breakfast."
"Oh!
I thought you feared I might drown," answered Harriet whimsically.
"Once is enough," answered Jane.
"There goes the fish horn.
Hurry, girls!
We are going to be late."
"The fithh horn?
Are we going to have fithh for breakfatht?"
questioned Tommy.
"Never mind what, girls.
Tuck up your blankets and get busy.
Remember, you must braid your hair before going to breakfast.
I don't like to see you at meals with your hair down; you girls are too old for that."
"Yes, Miss Elting," answered Harriet.
"I gueth I'll cut my hair off.
It ith too much trouble to fix it every morning," decided Grace.
"But, Mith Elting, couldn't I fix it the night before and thleep in it?"
"Certainly not!
How can you suggest such a thing?"
Tommy twisted her face out of shape and blinked solemnly at Margery, whose chin was in the air.
They were all hurrying now, for their morning bath had given them keen appetites.
Miss Elting was first to be ready, then Harriet, but they waited until their companions were dressed and ready to go.
"The Indian lope to the breakfast tent," announced Miss Elting.
"Forward, go!"
The girls started off at an easy though not particularly graceful lope, the guardian and the Torch Bearer setting the pace for the rest.
They arrived at the cook tent with faces flushed and eyes sparkling, with a few moments to spare before the moment for marching in arrived.
The Chief Guardian smiled approvingly.
"Sleeping out on the bay appears to agree with you girls," she said.
"I have no need to ask if you slept well."
"Harriet is the restless one," answered Jane.
Harriet flushed in spite of her self-control; but no special significance was attached to Jane's remark, for it was seldom that she was taken seriously.
Harriet, after recovering from her momentary confusion, chuckled and laughed, very much amused over what had made no impression at all on her companions.
"I shall ask some of our craftswomen here to build beds for the cabin," announced the Chief Guardian, as they were sitting down.
"It is not necessary," replied Miss Elting.
"Our girls prefer the bough beds, which they will build during the day."
"And what will our new Torch Bearer do to amuse herself after the regular duties of the day are done?"
questioned Mrs. Livingston.
"Will she take her group for a swim in the Atlantic?"
"Yeth, Harriet and mythelf are going to try to thwim acroth thith afternoon," Grace informed them.
"Swim across the Atlantic?
Mercy me!"
answered Mrs. Livingston laughingly.
"That would indeed be an achievement."
"I beg your pardon, but I didn't thay 'acroth the othean'; I meant to thwim acroth the pond down in the cove yonder.
Harriet could thwim acroth the othean if she withhed to, though," added Tommy.
"You surely have a loyal champion, Miss Burrell," called one of the guardians from the far end of the table.
"Still, we have not heard what you are going to do to-day.
I am quite sure it will be something worth while?"
"I have about made up my mind to go out in search of buried treasure," answered Harriet, with mock gravity.
They laughed heartily at this.
Jane regarded her narrowly.
"I wonder what Harriet has in her little head now?"
she said under her breath.
"Why, what do you mean?"
asked the Chief Guardian.
"Buried treasure along this little strip of coast?
Perhaps, however, you may mean out on the Shoal Islands."
"No, Mrs. Livingston.
Right here in Camp Wau-Wau there is buried treasure.
I don't know whether it is worth anything or not, but there is a buried treasure here."
The girls uttered exclamations of amazement, for they saw that their new Torch Bearer was in earnest, that she meant every word she had uttered about the treasure.
"Now, isn't that perfectly remarkable?"
breathed Margery.
"Oh, do tell us about it?"
cried the girls.
"Not a word more," answered Harriet.
"I give you leave to find it, though, if you can.
Some of you clever trailers see if you can pick up the trail and follow it to its end.
At the end you will find the buried treasure, unless it has been taken away within a few hours, which I very much doubt.
Now, that is all I am going to tell you about it."
"Do you really mean that, Harriet?"
questioned Grace.
Harriet nodded.
"Why don't you get it yourthelf, then?"
"I may one of these days if the girls fail to find it.
I wish to see if they are good trailers.
But we are forgetting to eat breakfast.
Just now I am more in need of breakfast than of buried treasure."
"Yes, girls, please eat your breakfast.
We must put the camp to rights as soon as we finish, for I have an idea that we may have visitors before the day is done," urged Mrs. Livingston.
The Wau-Wau girls were too much excited over Harriet's words to be particularly interested in the subject of visitors just then, so they hurried their breakfast, discussing the new Torch Bearer's veiled suggestions, eager to have done with the morning meal and the morning work that they might try to solve this delightful mystery.
Harriet was well satisfied with the excitement she had stirred, though having done so would rather bar her from carrying out certain plans that she had had in mind ever since the previous night.
Later in the morning, however, under pretext of wishing to get pine boughs for her bed, she, with Tommy, strolled off into the woods, but beyond locating the spot where she had lain when the man stumbled over her in the darkness she made no progress toward solving the mystery.
Not the slightest trace of the box did she discover.
Of course, Harriet did not hope to find the mysterious box standing in plain sight, but she could not imagine what they had done with it in so brief a time.
She did not dare make much of a point of searching about, observing that Tommy was regarding her keenly during the morning stroll.
With her belt hatchet Harriet selected and cut such boughs as she desired and placed them in a pile, afterward to be carried out to the cabin on the Lonesome Bar.
Later on they were assisted by the other Meadow-Brook Girls.
They covered the floor of the cabin with the fragrant green boughs until Tommy declared that it made her "thleepy" just to smell it.
In the meantime, those of their companions who were not engaged with camp duties were strolling about along the beach near the camp, discussing what Harriet had told them at breakfast that morning.
It was all right to tell them to pick up the trail, but what trail was it, and how were they to find it?
Even the guardians were not beyond curiosity in the matter, and they, too, when they thought themselves unobserved, might have been seen looking eagerly about for the "trail."
All this amused Harriet Burrell very much.
With her group, Harriet was at the cabin arranging the boughs, when they were summoned to camp by three blasts of the fish horn used for the various signals employed by Camp Wau-Wau.
Something had happened in camp.
"Thomebody hath found it!"
cried Tommy, shooting a quick glance of inquiry at Harriet Burrell.
The latter flushed, then burst out laughing after a look toward the miniature forest of spindling pines.
"I hope they have.
But I may tell you, my dear Tommy, that they haven't found either the trail or my buried treasure."
"You must know pretty well where it is," said Miss Elting, eyeing Harriet steadily for a few seconds.
"Come, we must not delay answering that summons."
They did not delay.
The Meadow-Brook Girls responded promptly, making a run for it in good order.
"There's a motor car," shouted Jane, when they came in sight of the camp.
"O darlin's, maybe it is a new car Daddy has sent down for me to take the place of the one that is drowned."
Jane leaped on ahead of her companions, intent upon reaching the camp.
Harriet sprinted up beside her, almost as much excited as was Crazy Jane herself.
The two girls easily outdistanced their companions in a very few moments.
It was a race between them to see who should first reach the camp.
Harriet fell behind slightly as her quick eyes made out a figure sitting in front of the Chief Guardian's tent.
The figure was that of a man and he was conversing with Mrs. Livingston.
Jane uttered a sudden shrill cry.
She, too, had discovered the visitor and recognized him.
"It's Daddy.
It's my dear old Daddy!"
she screamed, and, forgetful of the lectures she had received on comporting herself with dignity and restraint, Crazy Jane threw herself--hurled herself, in fact--into the arms of Contractor McCarthy.
Now, a camp chair is never any too substantial.
The one on which Mr. McCarthy was sitting was no exception to the rule.
It collapsed under the force of Crazy Jane's projectile-like force.
Mr. McCarthy, in attempting to save himself from going down with it, lurched sideways.
In doing so he bumped heavily against the Chief Guardian, and with a sharp little cry from the latter, the three went down in a confused heap.
CHAPTER XV TOMMY MAKES A DISCOVERY A dozen girls sprang forward to the assistance of the unfortunate trio, but Harriet was ahead of them.
She grasped the Chief Guardian under the arms and lifted her to her feet, then taking a hand of Mr. McCarthy pulled him up with disconcerting suddenness.
He looked dazed and a little sheepish.
"It's that mad girl Jane of mine," he explained.
Mrs. Livingston's face was flushed, her eyes snapped; then her angry expression softened and she burst out laughing.
"O Jane, Jane!
You will be the undoing of all of us before you have done."
Jane, with her hair disheveled, stood ruefully surveying the scene.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Livingston, that you went over.
I didn't want to make you fall down, but I just had to show Daddy how glad I was to see him."
"You showed me all right, young lady.
Lucky, for us all that we had soft ground under us.
Mrs. Livingston, I suppose you'll be telling me to take this mad-cap daughter of mine home with me.
I shouldn't blame you if you did, and I don't think I'd cry over it, for I want her.
No, I don't mean that--" "Daddy!"
rebuked Jane.
"I mean that she is better off here, and you are doing her a heap of good, Mrs. Livingston, even if she did give way to one of her old fits of violence just now."
"Certainly not, Mr. McCarthy," answered the Chief Guardian promptly.
"We all love Jane.
She is a splendid girl and we should miss her.
I certainly did miss her last summer, and now I should miss her more than ever.
I hope we shall have her with us for many summers; then one of these days, when she is older, she, too, will have a camp of girls to look after."
"I feel very thorry for the camp," broke in Tommy.
"You will have to buy a new camp stool, Daddy," reminded Jane.
"I'm glad I'm not so stout that I break up the furniture every time I sit on it."
"Yeth, Buthter doeth that," said Tommy, nodding solemnly.
"And you, young lady, you've got some strength in those arms," he said, turning to Harriet.
"The way you bounced me to my feet was a wonder.
Tommy, you haven't shaken hands with your old friend.
Come here, my dear, and shake hands with me."
"You were tho mixed up that I couldn't tell which wath the hand to thhake," replied Grace promptly.
"That wath what Jane callth a meth, wathn't it?"
"It was.
Why, how do you do, Hazel--and Margery, too?
Well, well!
this is a delightful surprise.
How fine you all look.
And I hear you had a swim the other night, Harriet, and you, too, Tommy.
Well, well!
And you like the water, eh?"
"It is glorious," breathed Harriet, instinctively glancing out to sea, where a flock of gulls were circling and swooping down in search of food.
"You won't have to swim any more unless you wish to.
I've made different arrangements about that."
"You mean you have bought me a new car, Daddy?"
interrupted Jane.
"I haven't said.
I reckon you don't need a car here.
You must have learned, from your recent experience, that an automobile doesn't travel on water half as well as it does on land."
"Ourth did.
It traveled fine until it got to the bottom," Tommy informed him.
"No, I haven't bought another car yet.
I have some men who are going to get the old one up to-morrow.
We shall see what shape she's in.
Of course, if she isn't workable any more, I will have another for you by the time you get home.
Tell me how it happened.
I couldn't make much out of your telegram.
By the way, when you send a telegram, don't forget that you aren't writing a letter.
That telegram you sent cost me nine dollars and thirty-seven cents."
"Isn't it worth that much to hear from your daughter?"
Jane's eyes were dancing.
Mr. McCarthy took off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"What would you do with her, Mrs.
Livingston?"
he laughed.
"I should love her, Mr. McCarthy; she is worth it," was the Chief Guardian's prompt reply.
"She is," he agreed solemnly, "and I do.
But you haven't told me, Jane, darling."
"Oh, let Harriet do it.
I never was strong on telling things so any one could understand what I was talking about."
"There isn't much to tell about the accident, except that we turned off on a side road according to directions.
Jane wheeled down it at a slow rate of speed--for her," added Harriet under her breath.
"We ran out on an ice pier and plumped right into the pond."
"You went down with the car, then?"
stammered Mr. McCarthy.
"Right down to the bottom," Tommy informed him.
"That did not amount to much," continued Harriet.
"The top was not up.
We had little difficulty in getting out--" "But Harriet was drowned in getting the trunk free from the rear end," declared Jane earnestly.
"Drowned?"
exclaimed the contractor.
"Yes, nearly drowned," corrected Miss Elting.
"We had a pretty hard time resuscitating her.
I am beginning to think that the Meadow-Brook Girls bear charmed lives, Mr.
McCarthy."
"So am I.
But you don't mean to tell me that Harriet really was all but drowned?"
"Yes."
"It does beat all, it does," reflected Mr. McCarthy, mopping his forehead again and regarding Harriet with wondering eyes.
"It is a guess as to whether she or Jane can get into the most trouble.
They are a pair hard to beat."
"We do not try to find excitement, Mr. McCarthy," expostulated Harriet.
"We cannot always help it if trouble overtakes us the way it did when the car went into the ice pond."
"Certainly not.
I know you, at least, are wholly to be depended upon, but Jane isn't always the most prudent girl in the world.
Now, will you dears run along and enjoy yourselves.
I have several things to discuss with Mrs. Livingston, then we will have an afternoon together.
I wish Jane and Harriet to drive down with me and show me the place where they lost the car later on in the afternoon.
You remember you interrupted our conversation here a short time ago, Jane," reminded the visitor.
"May I try the car, Dad?"
questioned Jane.
"Yes.
But look sharp that you don't wreck the thing.
I have no fancy to walk all the way back to Portsmouth this evening," he chuckled.
"Come along, Meadow-Brooks.
I can't take any more this trip, but if Dad's buggy goes all right, I'll take the rest of you out on the instalment plan."
"I don't want to go," decided Tommy.
"I want to thtay here and retht.
I never get any retht at all."
The others were eager to go.
Jane already was cranking up the car.
Her companions, with the exception of Grace Thompson, piled in, and a few moments later the car rolled from the camp, headed for the highway some little distance from the camp.
There was no road leading to the camp, but the way was reasonably smooth, provided one dodged the trees, both standing and fallen.
In the meantime the other girls went about their duties and recreations.
Mr. McCarthy and Mrs. Livingston again sat down and continued their conversation.
Tommy, now being without a guardian, Miss Elting having gone with Jane and her party, started down toward the beach, her eyes very bright, her movements quick and alert.
Some of the girls whom she met asked where she was going.
Tommy replied that she might go fishing, but that she couldn't say for sure until she found out whether she could catch anything.
The little girl kept edging farther and farther away from her companions, until finally, finding herself beyond sight of them, began running with all her might.
They saw no more of Tommy Thompson for several hours.
While all this was going on, Jane McCarthy was racing her father's car up and down the road at an ever-increasing rate of speed.
Those in the camp could hear the purr of the motors, and now and then a flash of red showed between the trees as the car sped past the camp.
"Must be doing close to fifty miles an hour," observed Mr. McCarthy, grinning.
"Aren't you afraid she will kill herself, or some one else?"
questioned the guardian anxiously.
"She never has.
I don't reckon it would bother any of the Meadow-Brook Girls to go into the ditch.
They are pretty well used to getting into mix-ups."
"They certainly have every reason to be used to it," nodded Mrs. Livingston reflectively.
"But, were they my daughters, I must confess I should not know an easy moment.
I do not, as it is, when they are out of my sight.
That was the reason I hesitated to accede to your request.
However, they will have nothing to do with the operation of it.
All they will have to do will be to sit still and enjoy themselves.
Then, again, it is the one thing needful to make a summer at the sea shore thoroughly enjoyable.
I know that all of my girls will take the keenest possible delight in it, and I thank you, on their behalf, for your thoughtfulness and kindness.
You have done a great deal for our camp, as well as for our organization, and I wish you would permit me to make it known to the general officers in--" "By no means, Mrs. Livingston," hastily interposed the visitor.
"It is nothing at all, and it's just a little pride in that mad-cap daughter of mine that has led me to do what little I have.
But in reference to the new plan, you will tell the girls to-day, eh?"
"No; you tell them."
"Oh, leave me out of it, please."
"I could not do that.
You will take dinner with us to-day, of course, and then you may announce it to the girls.
I can imagine how pleased they will be.
Why, there come the girls now!"
exclaimed the Chief Guardian.
"The girls?"
"Yes, yes.
Jane--" "Eh?
Alone?"
"No, no.
There is Miss Elting and Harriet.
Yes, they are all there.
What can it mean?"
"It means that they have smashed the car," groaned Mr. McCarthy.
"I told you."
He did not look around, but sat fumbling with his hat, his face very red.
Jane stepped up before him, and with chin on her breast surveyed him from under her eyelashes, "Well?"
he demanded.
"Well, we're here," answered Jane.
"What is the trouble, girls?"
cried Mrs. Livingston.
"Thank goodness, you are all here.
Why doesn't some one speak up?"
"How much damage did you do to her, Jane?"
questioned the visitor calmly, referring to the car.
"Enough."
"Tell me about it!"
"She's in the ditch about a mile up the road."
"Think we can pull her out between us?"
Jane shook her head.
"Not without the wrecking crew.
She's bottom side up, two wheels off and part of her machinery on the other side of the road," was Crazy Jane's calm reply.
However, before they had an opportunity to say more, Tommy Thompson came running toward them, her face flushed with excitement.
"I've found it!
I've found it!"
she shouted.
"Found what?"
demanded the Chief Guardian.
"I've found the treathure trail.
I've got it, I know I have!"
CHAPTER XVI TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE "She's found the buried treasure!"
screamed Buster.
The girls uttered a cheer.
Harriet regarded Tommy's excited face inquiringly.
"You really have found it?"
"Yeth, yeth."
"Where is the treasure?"
"I don't know.
How thhould I know?"
"But you said you had found it," interposed the Chief Guardian.
"No, I thaid I had found the trail.
Of courthe, I haven't found the treathure.
But I've found thomething, and--" "What did you find?
Come, tell us," urged Harriet.
Controlling herself somewhat, Tommy glanced triumphantly at the expectant faces about her.
"There wath a man at thith camp latht night."
"What?"
The girls asked the question at the top of their voices.
"There were two men here latht night," persisted Grace.
"Please explain what you mean, Grace," commanded the Chief Guardian.
"You say there were two men here last night.
How do you know?"
"I found the markth of their feet--in the thand.
But that wathn't all I found.
There wath a boat here, too--a boat.
Now, what do you think of that?"
"Try to be more explicit, Grace," urged Miss Elting.
"Tell us what you have discovered, without beating about the bush so long."
"There wathn't any buthh to beat about.
It wath right on the thand.
Don't you underthtand?"
Miss Elting sat down.
"Tell it your own way, then.
We are simply wasting time in trying to hurry you," she said.
"Yeth.
Well, it wath thith way.
I wath looking for the treathure trail that Harriet told uth about at breakfatht thith morning, though I don't thee how thhe thhould know anything about it.
My footthepth led me--led me, you understand?
No, it wath my feet, not my footthtepth, that led me--right along the thhore of the ocean.
And what do you thuppose I found?"
"An oyster shell," suggested Margery.
"No, not that.
I found where a boat had been drawn up on the thhore and then thhoved out again.
It had been drawn up on the thand.
Then there were trackth about the place, trackth of heavy bootth, and a mark in the thand where thomething heavy had been put down.
It looked like a box.
I gueth it wath.
The men had taken the box between them and carried it up and down the thhore ath far ath I could thee.
You know, the tide wathhed the marks out near down to the thea."
"What did they do with the box, dearie?"
interrupted Harriet.
"That I have not yet dethided.
I thhall find out about that later.
Well, after a time, it theemth, they took the box up the thandy beach and into the woodth, but by that time it wath tho dark that I couldn't thee any more footprintth and couldn't tell what they did with the box."
"Marvelous," muttered Buster.
"Excruciatingly marvelous!"
"Is this a fairy story?"
demanded Mrs. Livingston.
"Ask Harriet," suggested Crazy Jane.
"I think she knows more about it than Tommy does.
Don't you, Harriet?"
"What makes you think that, Jane?"
questioned Harriet mischievously.
"Ask me, darlin'."
"I have, dear."
Jane stepped over and whispered in Harriet's ear, the others regarding the proceeding with puzzled expressions on their faces.
Harriet's face broke out into a ripple of smiles.
"I am caught red-handed," she said.
"It seems that I am not the only light sleeper in the Meadow-Brook camp.
Jane chanced to observe something that I did last night.
She has known it all along.
She hinted at it this morning, and I suspected that she knew more than she had told us."
"But, my dear, we are all in the dark," reminded the Chief Guardian.
"Won't you be good enough to explain this mystery?
Surely you can do so in a way that will make it clear to us.
Two men, a box and a boat and goodness knows what else, here on this lonely part of the coast."
"I was suddenly awakened last night," began Harriet without preliminary remarks.
"A boat sailed into the bay close to shore and came to anchor.
Then a small boat put off.
Two men were in it.
They came ashore with a heavy box, started down the bar, then back to the beach after I had met and stopped them.
Tommy has told you the truth about their further movements."
"Wait a moment.
You stopped them, you say?"
questioned Mrs. Livingston.
"Yes.
I didn't want them to get near the cabin and disturb our party.
According to their story they had made a mistake.
They had some supplies for a friend of theirs who was on a fishing trip somewhere up the coast."
"You believed that to be the case, then?"
"No, Mrs. Livingston, I did not, because, instead of going up the beach after I had turned them back, they went the other way, eventually turning in among the trees, where they remained for some time.
I did not see them again until they fell over me later--" "What!"
The guardian was more amazed than before.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you that I followed them to see what they were going to do.
I didn't find out, but they found me, though they were not aware of it."
Harriet explained how she had lain down on the ground and how one of the two men had stumbled over her feet without discovering her presence.
Exclamations of amazement greeted this part of the story.
"What became of them after that?"
asked Miss Elting.
"They shoved off their rowboat, rowed out to the sailboat, which quickly weighed anchor and put out to sea.
That is all I know about it.
You see, Tommy was right."
Mrs. Livingston turned to Tommy.
"My dear, you did splendidly.
Of all this camp of girls you were the only one who found the trail and read it aright.
That is trailing for you, Mr. McCarthy.
But what could the men have been doing here?
I do not like the looks of it at all."
"They have gone, so we needn't worry," replied Harriet.
"I forgot to say that there was a boat in here--I think it was the same one--the other night just before the storm.
It is my idea that they came in on that occasion to put something ashore, but were obliged to get out to sea before the storm broke.
They came back on the following night to finish what they had failed to do the first time."
Mr. McCarthy nodded.
So did Mrs. Livingston.
"Remarkable girls, these Meadow-Brook Girls, Mr. McCarthy.
However, there is nothing to be done.
We shall not be bothered any more, in all probability.
Besides, they were not here on our account, so we have no cause to worry."
"And I've got to walk back to Portsmouth," groaned Mr. McCarthy.
"I told you, Mrs.
Livingston."
"Perhaps we may catch some farmer who is going in that direction, and who will be willing to give you a lift," she suggested.
"No; you will have to let me sleep under a tree and hang about to-night.
The men are coming down in the morning to get the car out of the pond.
They might as well have two jobs as one.
How did it happen, Jane?"
For the first time the party of Camp Girls who had gathered about the little group gave their attention to the Meadow-Brook Girls.
The latter were now discovered to be much the worse for wear.
Their hair was down over their shoulders and their clothes were soiled and torn.
"Got it hard, didn't you?"
chuckled Mr. McCarthy.
"Oh, not so much," replied Jane, repressing a smile.
"You are a thight.
You look ath though you had been digging for buried treathure," declared Tommy.
"How'd it happen?"
rumbled Mr. McCarthy.
"It was like this, Daddy, dear.
We were running along nicely and easily--just at a comfortable jog, when--" "How fast?"
"How much time were we making, Harriet?"
"Nearly sixty miles an hour."
"Yes, I knew it wasn't very fast.
Just jogging, Daddy."
The visitor grunted.
"Something went wrong with the steering gear.
I don't know what it was, but the wheel had no effect on the car.
You should have seen us.
It was funny, wasn't it, girls, the way that car darted from one side of the road to the other, and we hanging on for dear life?
You see, that was all we could do--hang on.
Well, the car jumped the ditch, went up the bank on that side of the road, smashed into the iron post of a wire fence, then stood up on end and turned over backward.
Did you ever see such a contrary automobile?
Where did you buy it, Dad?"
"Didn't buy it.
Borrowed it of a man I know up at Portsmouth.
It'll cost me only a few thousand to make it right with him, but then Dad's rich; don't you care."
"I never do," chuckled Jane.
"Do you?"
"No, I don't, so long as no one gets hurt.
How'd you get out?
What did you do when the car was stopped by the fence?"
"We just went on over, Dad.
You know nothing can stop a Meadow-Brook Girl when she is once well started on a course.
We landed on plowed ground on the other side of the fence."
"Mercy!"
exclaimed the Chief Guardian.
"Can anything hurt you, girls?"
"I hope not," answered Harriet.
"This was a little sudden, but we didn't mind it so very much, did we, Miss Elting?"
"I don't know who you mean by 'we,' but please do not include me in this particular 'we.'
I am not over the shock of that plunge yet, nor do I expect to be for some hours to come.
I fear the car is ruined, Mr. McCarthy.
I hope you will not send another one down here for Jane, if you will pardon my saying so."
This from Miss Elting.
"That's all right, Miss Elting.
I am not going to send another car at present.
Perhaps when you young folks are ready to go home I may send a car for you, but I may give you a driver.
For the present I've got something else in my mind.
I had to wait until I asked Mrs. Livingston about it before I put it through.
She thinks it will be fine.
She will tell you all about it at dinner to-day."
"There goes the dinner horn now," announced the guardian of the Meadow-Brook Girls.
"Girls, you are not presentable.
Hurry and get ready for dinner.
We mustn't be late to-day, of all days."
It was really marvelous that the girls were able to work such a transformation in themselves in so short a time.
In the few moments that had been left to them they had rearranged their hair, brushed the dirt of the plowed field from their clothing and washed their faces and hands.
It was really a jolly dinner, too, for the good-natured guest kept them all laughing with his humorous stories and odd remarks.
He was so much like his daughter Jane that they had no need to be reminded of the relationship.
"This has been a day of excitement, hasn't it?"
remarked one of the guardians to Miss Elting.
"Buried treasure, automobile wrecks, visitors, mysterious strangers.
Gracious me!
what are the Camp Girls coming to?"
"I don't know.
Did Mr. McCarthy say what the surprise is that he has in store for the girls?
I thought perhaps he might have said something about it during our absence on that automobile ride."
"Not that I heard.
He undoubtedly told Mrs. Livingston.
There, she is speaking now," added the guardian.
Mrs. Livingston had risen and rapped on the table with a knife for attention.
"Our guest and good friend, Mr. McCarthy, wishes to make an announcement," she said, then sat down.
Jane's father got up, his face very red, his forehead glistening with beads of perspiration.
"Your guest and good friend most emphatically _does not_ wish to make an announcement," declared the visitor.
"But it is up to him to do so because he wishes to please that fine woman, your Chief Guardian--is that what you call yourself, Mrs. Livingston?
I get all mixed up with various names and titles.
It's as bad as attending a reception of the royal family, judging from what I've heard."
Mrs. Livingston nodded, smiling good-naturedly.
"Well, girls, you know I've got to do something to furnish that mad-cap daughter of mine with a variety of means of ending her life and those of her friends.
She has exhausted everything thus far.
However, this is a perfectly safe proposition, this one that I have planned for you and her, and I don't think any of you can get into serious difficulty through it."
"Don't keep us in suspense, Dad!
Tommy will suffocate if you don't tell us now.
She has been holding her breath ever since you began speaking," cried Jane.
A ripple of laughter ran along both sides of the table, but quickly subsided when Mr. McCarthy again began speaking.
"Very good, if you must know.
But--I say, Mrs. Livingston, I think we won't tell them until to-morrow.
As I think it over, I guess I won't tell them after all.
They'll know all about it when it gets here.
That's all."
Mr. McCarthy sat down, wiping his forehead and looking vastly relieved.
A chorus of "Ohs!"
greeted the announcement.
"Please, please tell us, oh, do," they begged, but the visitor shook his head.
"I think, Mr. McCarthy, that I had better tell them if you do not wish to.
They will be too much upset otherwise," said the Chief Guardian.
"Have I your permission?"
He nodded.
"As you wish.
They've got me so flustered that I couldn't say another word to them."
"Very good.
Listen, girls, and I will tell you," said the Chief Guardian.
CHAPTER XVII WHEN THEIR SHIP CAME IN There was no need to further impose silence on the Camp Girls.
Eager-eyed, they leaned forward, gazing straight at the smiling woman at the head of the table.
"I wanted Mr. McCarthy to tell you.
However, as he refuses, I shall do so.
You are to have a boat for the rest of the summer.
The boat is the gift of Mr. McCarthy to the Meadow-Brook Girls directly, and to the rest of you indirectly."
"What kind of a boat ith it?"
piped Tommy.
"A sailboat," answered the visitor.
"I have appointed Miss Burrell as the commodore, though she doesn't know it.
I understand she did very well as the captain of the 'Red Rover' last summer.
Now we'll give her a trial on salt water.
You will look to her for your orders and permission to go out, and I imagine you won't have any cause to complain of her treatment of you, eh, Harriet?"
"O Mr. McCarthy!
you embarrass me.
But tell us about the boat," answered Harriet laughingly.
"It's just a little old sailboat, that's all--one I picked up at Portsmouth; but even though she's a tub, she is perfectly safe and you may go as far as you wish with her, always first consulting with the captain and the commodore."
"Oh, is there to be a captain?
Am I to be the captain?"
questioned Jane mischievously.
"My grathiouth, I hope not," exclaimed Grace.
"No.
The captain owns this particular boat, and he will be wholly in charge of the actual operation of it, acting upon the orders of the commodore as to who is to go and when and where.
Now it's all out and I'm glad of it.
I--" Mr. McCarthy's further words were unheard because of the cheer given by the Camp Girls, in which Mrs. Livingston and the guardians joined enthusiastically, much to the discomfiture of the guest, who half rose as though to run away.
Evidently thinking better of it, he settled back in his seat and wiped his forehead.
Jane got up, and, running to her father, threw a pair of impulsive arms about his neck.
"Isn't he the darling Dad, though, girls?"
"He is," agreed the Chief Guardian.
"You won't think tho after we have all gone and drowned ourthelveth from thith--from the--what ith the name of the thhip on which we are going to thail the thalt water?"
"Her name is 'The Sister Sue,'" replied Mr. McCarthy.
"Thave me!"
wailed Tommy.
"The boat may be all right, but think of being drowned in a name like that!
Now, if it wath 'The Queen of the Theath,' or thome thuch name ath that, I thouldn't so much mind being drowned in her, but 'The Thithter Thue'--thave uth!"
"You are not going to drown at all," laughed Miss Elting, "so don't begin to lay any plans in that direction."
"When is the boat coming here, Daddy?"
questioned Jane.
"To-morrow morning early, if they have her ready in time.
I told the owner to slap some new clothes on her, and make her presentable by to-morrow, sure.
How do you like the idea, girls?"
"Oh, it's just too glorious for anything," cried Margery, now awakened to the possibilities of having a sailboat of their very own.
Tommy regarded her quizzically, opened her mouth to speak, then closed her lips.
"What is it, dear?"
questioned Miss Elting.
"It ith nothing now.
Maybe I'll thay it when we get to thea, provided Buthter doeth not thay it for me."
"See here!
We have forgotten all about that buried treasure," exclaimed Mr. McCarthy, at his ease once more after having escaped from the table.
"Will you show me, Tommy?"
"No, thir.
That ith a dark thecret."
"What, girls keep a secret?"
scoffed the visitor.
"Don't you think they can?"
demanded Tommy, squinting at him with one eye tightly closed.
"Never saw one that could."
"Then pleathe look at me."
"By the way, Mr. McCarthy," called Mrs. Livingston, "did you mention the name of our new captain, the one who owns and sails the boat?"
"That's so.
I reckon I forgot that.
He is known as Captain Bill.
His real name, I believe, is Cummings."
"You are quite sure that he is all right, are you, Mr.
McCarthy?"
"Has a reputation second to none among the Portsmouth skippers.
I took care of that, knowing you were a lot of lone women and girls down here.
I didn't see him personally.
Took my friend Lawyer Roberts's word for it, and what else I could pick up about the docks," added Mr. McCarthy.
"But I must be thinking about getting back."
"Surely, Daddy, you are never going to think of walking back, are you?"
"Not I. I hear an automobile coming.
I'm just going to get out to the road and beg a ride.
They'll be keeping along on this road for at least ten miles and I can walk the rest of the way in, if I have to.
In case I do not see you again, Mrs. Livingston, here's good-bye and good luck.
I hope you all have a fine time with the boat.
If that skipper doesn't obey orders, day or night, get a telegram to me instantly, and I'll bounce him right off.
But don't let Jane send any telegrams.
She'll break me, she's so long-winded--" "Which I inherited," finished Crazy Jane.
"Come on, girls; let's go out to the highway and see Dad off.
We may have to watch him start off on foot."
They met the men who were coming to pull the automobile out of the ice pond.
Mr. McCarthy gave them the additional job of towing the wrecked car to the nearest garage.
Mr. McCarthy was in luck.
The automobile that they had heard approaching was a big power moving-van that had been down the coast with a load of furniture for a city family who were moving into their summer home.
The driver was willing to give Mr. McCarthy a lift, and a few moments later the contractor was bowling along the highway on his way to Portsmouth, thence on to his home at Meadow-Brook.
The girls stood waving to him as long as the big car was in sight, he occasionally leaning out to wave back at them.
They then retraced their steps to the camp, talking animatedly about the great treat in store for them--the sailboat with the homely name.
They could scarcely contain themselves until the morrow, when the boat was to arrive.
In the meantime everybody went over to examine the trail that Tommy Thompson had found.
As she had said, it led into the woods and was there lost.
Harriet showed them as nearly as possible where she had lain when the man stumbled over her, but search as they might they were unable to find a single trace of the box that had so mysteriously disappeared.
At supper that evening Mrs. Livingston advised the girls to say nothing to any one outside of their own companions regarding the strange proceeding.
She explained that, by remaining silent on the subject, they might be able to learn more about it, and that perhaps some violation of the law might be at the bottom of it.
Early on the following morning all the girls were up scanning the sea for a sail.
A coasting schooner in the far distance, making up the coast, was the only boat in sight.
The day was brilliant with sunshine, the sea blue and sparkling.
The lookouts could see a long distance.
The day passed and the night passed, but still no trace of their boat.
Nor had the other mysterious craft paid another visit to the bay.
At least, if it had, none of the campers had been awake at the time.
It was late that afternoon when some one raised a shout and pointed up the coast.
There, about five miles away, was a tiny speck of white that they knew to be a sail.
There seemed to be but a single sail, which told them that a small boat was carrying it.
Then, again, the sail looked so white that they decided it must either be their boat or a private yacht cruising down the coast.
"It does look more like a yacht than the 'tub' that Mr. McCarthy described," said the Chief Guardian.
"If this is the 'Sister Sue' she is a very trim little craft."
The beach was lined with Camp Girls eagerly watching the approaching sailboat, which was coming on at what seemed to them to be an aggravatingly slow rate of speed.
"What he needs is an engine," declared Jane.
"Now, if he had that motor that's doubled up under the car we ran into the ditch, he could make some time."
"That boat is sailing much faster than you think," answered Harriet.
"You will see when it gets opposite us how fast it is moving.
It is moving so fast that I can't make myself believe it is our boat."
"I gueth we'll wait till it getth here," decided Tommy, which voiced the feelings of all.
As the sailboat drew down into plain view, exclamations of admiration were heard on all sides.
For a single-masted boat she carried a great spread of white canvas and two jibs, each of which was full of wind, pulling powerfully.
The wind being off shore, the sloop was heeling the other way, showing quite a portion of her black hull, which was in strong contrast with her glistening white sides and snowy sails.
The water was spurting away from her bows, showing white along the black side below her water line--all in all, an inspiring sight to the lover of boats and the big water.
"Hurrah, see her go!
She's skimming along like a scared cat.
No, that isn't our tub, darlin's.
I know Dad.
She will be safe, but she will come limping and groaning down the line at a mile an hour, then probably go aground in the bay because there won't be room enough for her to turn about.
You see if I'm not right."
"You are all wrong," answered Harriet.
"How do I know?
Never mind.
You will find that you are."
She had seen a man hauling in on the main sheets--the ropes that led from the mainsail back toward the cockpit.
From that she knew the boat was preparing to change its course.
This it did a few moments later, heading in toward the shore, but pointed at a spot a full half mile below the camp, as nearly as the girls could observe.
"Oh, that is too bad!
See, they are going somewhere else," cried Miss Elting.
"Why--why, what are they trying to do?
Are those people crazy?"
"They are tacking in," answered Harriet.
"Of course.
How stupid of me."
"It ith the 'Thilly Thue,'" shouted Tommy.
"The 'Silly Sue'!
hurrah!"
yelled the girls, instantly adopting Tommy's nickname for the boat.
"Oh, darlin's, isn't she the beauty?"
cried Jane.
She began dancing about, several others doing likewise.
"I thought you knew it was going to be an old tub," reminded Harriet teasingly.
"I take it all back.
When I see Dad I shall get down on my knees and beg his pardon."
Jane began running toward the bay, turning out to the bar as the most likely place to get a good view of their present.
She was followed by the entire camp, Chief Guardian and guardians, who ran shouting and waving their hats.
As the boat swept majestically into the bay the jibs came in and the mainsail was lowered slightly, the boom being permitted to swing far out.
The girls then saw that there were two men on board, one handling the sails, the other was stationed at the wheel.
The craft crossed and criss-crossed the bay, sawing back and forth several times before reaching a position for which the skipper evidently had been heading.
Then, all at once, he swung the bow of the boat squarely into the wind.
"Let go!"
he called.
The big sail came down with a clatter and rattle of rings, and the anchor went overboard with a loud splash.
The "Sister Sue" was at anchor in the bay.
The skipper lighted his pipe and sat down all hunched together, puffing away with most aggravating deliberateness.
"Aren't you coming ashore so we may get aboard and see the boat?"
called Harriet.
"Bymeby," was the laconic answer.
"I am the commodore.
I wish--" "The what?"
"The commodore," answered Harriet, laughing so that she barely made herself heard.
"Commodore's quarters aren't ready," called back Captain Billy.
"Let you know when we're ready for you.
We aren't going out again to-day."
"I shall have to talk to the captain, I fear," said Mrs. Livingston, smiling faintly.
Soon after coming to anchor the second man on the boat was observed to be busy furling the sail, which he took his time in doing.
This finished, he hauled up pails of water with a pail tied to the end of a rope and started swabbing down the decks.
This completed, he went about other duties, which, to the row of girls sitting on the Lonesome Bar, seemed trivial and for the sake of killing time.
"Isn't it perfectly aggravating?"
grumbled Margery Brown.
The supper horn blew while they still sat there waiting.
The Camp Girls reluctantly turned back toward camp.
They were disappointed, and so expressed themselves with emphasis while eating their supper.
But Harriet, who had been excused before the others had finished, hurried out to take an observation.
She was back almost at once.
"Their rowboat is coming ashore," she cried, pointing toward the bay.
Instantly every girl in the cook tent, without the formality of asking to be excused, pushed back her chair and dashed out.
Mrs. Livingston so far overlooked their breach of etiquette as to rush out with the rest of them.
"Come on, darlin's.
They've come ashore for us at last.
First there, first to go out.
Go!"
It was a race for the landing place, with Harriet and Jane running side by side, Tommy Thompson following and gradually lessening the distance between them in a series of flying leaps.
Tommy could run like a frightened fawn.
Harriet heard her coming and increased her speed.
Tommy gained no more on Harriet, though she arrived at their objective point by the side of Crazy Jane McCarthy.
"Ready to go out," announced the man.
"But I can't take more than five at a time.
Who goes first?"
Harriet halted sharply at sound of his voice, and gazed at the man perplexedly.
His voice was strangely familiar, but, try as she would, she could not think where she had seen him.
CHAPTER XVIII FIREWORKS FROM THE MASTHEAD "Wait for Mrs. Livingston," replied Harriet in answer to the man's question.
"You are not the captain, are you?"
He shook his head.
Mrs. Livingston came upon the scene.
Harriet assisted her into the rowboat.
The Chief Guardian directed the other Meadow-Brook girls to get in, telling the girls who were left on shore that they would be taken out to the "Sister Sue" as fast as possible, until there was no more room.
The others would have their turn soon afterward.
If the girls had been pleased with the "Sister Sue" from a shore view, they were enthusiastic at what they saw when they got on board.
The decks were white from scouring, the binnacle that held the compass shone with mirror-like brightness, ropes were neatly coiled and everywhere was the smell of fresh paint and the faint, salty odor of the deep sea.
The "Sue" was some forty feet in length over all, broad of beam, covered over about half her length amidships by a raised deck cabin, a cabin that rises above the deck a few inches with narrow windows on the two sides.
Two doors from the cockpit led into the cabin.
Into this the Meadow-Brook Girls hurried, after one quick look over the trim craft.
They cried out for Mrs. Livingston to join them.
The interior of the cabin was in white with plush seats on each side, the seats being broad and comfortable, affording lounging space for several persons at one time.
A tank holding drinking water, at the forward end of the cabin, was the only other furnishing.
The "Sue" was far from palatial, but the Camp Girls thought they had never seen a neater or prettier boat, and as for its ability to sail, they had seen something of that as the sloop came into the bay.
Mrs. Livingston had remained outside to speak with the skipper.
Harriet soon joined them.
Captain Billy was a type.
His grizzled, red beard was so near the color of his face that it was not easy to determine where the beard left off and the face began.
Billy had a habit of avoiding one's eyes when speaking.
Either he would be consulting the deck of the "Sue" or gazing at the sky.
He was looking up at the clouds now.
"The captain says he can safely carry ten persons without crowding, Harriet," the Chief Guardian informed her.
Then turning to the captain, "This young lady has been placed in charge of the boat by Mr. McCarthy; of course, your judgment as to what is best for all concerned must prevail."
Captain Billy's whiskers bristled.
He swept the Meadow-Brook Girl with a quick, measuring glance, then permitted his eyes to gaze upward again.
"I was going to suggest, Mrs. Livingston, that we first take you and the other guardians out for a sail, say to-morrow morning.
I don't think the captain will wish to go out in the evening," said Harriet.
He shook his head.
"Certainly not," declared Mrs. Livingston.
"And now, sir, what about your meals--the board for yourself and your man?"
"Get my own.
He goes away early in the morning.
Sleep on board, too.
You needn't worry about me.
Got any gear you want to get aboard?"
"Gear?"
questioned the Chief Guardian blankly.
"Dunnage?"
nodded the skipper.
"Anything you want to bring aboard?"
he shouted.
"No, thank you, nothing at present," answered Harriet.
"Man will fetch it off before he goes away if there is.
Don't ask me to do any packing."
"Our young women are perfectly able to help themselves," replied Mrs. Livingston with dignity.
"I suppose, however, that having only one rowboat you will come ashore for us whenever we wish to go out?"
she added.
The captain shook his head.
He was the most ungracious person they ever had known.
But when Harriet said they had better get word to Mr. McCarthy at once, the captain changed his mind quickly.
He said he would come for them whenever they gave him the word.
He told them, further, that they would have to bring their own provisions when they went out for a sail, but that he could show them how to catch some fish if they desired to do so.
"We shall be ready to go out about ten o'clock to-morrow morning," Mrs. Livingston told him.
"If there is anything you wish us to do, you might call to the young women who occupy the cabin there on the Lonesome Bar.
I am very glad you are going to remain aboard your boat, for we are not equipped for putting up strangers.
But if there is anything you wish in the way of supplies, do not hesitate to send word to me.
We have quite a quantity.
We are obliged to go beyond the highway for our drinking water, and it is a trifle brackish."
"Hadn't we better go ashore and give the others a chance to come out?"
asked Harriet.
"You and I will remain here.
The others may go," returned Mrs. Livingston.
Several boatloads of excited girls were put aboard the "Sister Sue."
The girls were enthusiastic; they chattered and sang and made merry, Captain Billy growing more taciturn and sour as the moments passed.
Finally, Mrs. Livingston said they must put off further visiting of the boat until morning; that night was now upon them.
They bade good night to Captain Billy, and his man put them ashore, Mrs. Livingston leaving the sloop last.
"He is a queer character," she declared after joining Harriet on the beach later on.
"What do you make of him?"
"I suppose he is like many of his calling, gruff and of few words.
But there is something beyond that which I can't quite make out."
"What do you mean?
Do you think that he is untrustworthy?"
"I don't know, Mrs. Livingston.
I do know that I dislike him.
Isn't that silly in me?"
asked the girl laughingly.
"I have no confidence in him."
"I think you are in error.
Mr. McCarthy would not send us a man who was not trustworthy in every way.
He is supposed to be a skillful skipper, and from my observation I know he will behave himself, so we don't care what he is beyond that.
Shall you go back to the camp with us, or direct to the cabin?"
"To camp."
The girls sat about the campfire, singing the songs of the Camp Girls until ten o'clock that evening, after which the Meadow-Brook party bade good night to their companions and strolled down to the bar, thence out to the cabin.
All were keenly alive to the pleasures that awaited them on the following day, when they were to have their first sail in the "Sister Sue."
Harriet made ready for bed with her companions, but she was not sleepy.
She lay on her bough bed near the door, where she remained wide awake, thinking over the occurrences of the past few days.
A sound out on the bay, as if something had dropped to the deck of the sloop, attracted her attention.
The girl crawled from her bed and out to the front of the cabin on all fours.
She then sat up, leaning her back against the cabin; shading her eyes, she gazed off at the boat riding easily in the bay.
The "Sue" was faintly outlined in the dim light of the night, but the night was too dark to enable the girl to make out anything in detail, nor was there a sound on board to indicate that any one was awake.
"It may be that the captain is putting his man ashore, or else has just returned from doing so.
Still, this seems to me a pretty late hour to be sending any one ashore."
Harriet thought she could now make out the small boat floating astern of the "Sue," where it was ordinarily kept, though she could not be certain of this.
"Ah!
There is something going on over there."
The faint creak of block and tackle reached her listening ears, which she strained and strained, even closing her eyes that she might concentrate wholly on the sense of hearing.
The creaking continued for a couple of minutes, then ceased altogether.
"I wonder if the captain can be making sail to go out?"
Harriet asked herself, opening wide her eyes and gazing toward the sloop.
But the latter was riding lazily on the gentle swell as before, the girl being unable to make out anything that looked like the sail.
She thought she surely would be able to see the sail, had it been hoisted.
Something was dropped on the deck, making a great clatter, then for several minutes all was silent on board the "Sister Sue."
Harriet could not imagine what was going on there.
After a time there were further evidences of activity on board; noises, faint, it is true, which indicated that something out of the ordinary was taking place on the boat.
Harriet wondered if she had not better call Miss Elting and have her listen, too.
Upon second thought, however, she decided not to do so.
In the first place she could see and hear fully as much as could the guardian, besides which, were she to awaken the guardian, the other girls undoubtedly would be disturbed.
They might make a noise that would prevent her learning what was being done on board the sloop.
Harriet shivered, for she was in her kimono, while the breeze blowing in from the sea was fresh and penetrating.
She felt a sneeze coming.
The girl made heroic efforts to repress the sneeze, then, finding she could not, stuffed an end of her kimono into her mouth and covered her nose with both hands.
It was a long, shuddering sneeze that Harriet Burrell uttered.
She feared it had not only attracted the attention of the man or men on board the sloop, but awakened her companions as well.
The faint noises on deck continued as before.
No sound came from the cabin.
"Thank goodness, no one heard me," she muttered.
"Why is it that one has to sneeze when she doesn't want to, I wonder?
I--" She started at sound of a low voice close at hand speaking her name.
"Harriet, ith that you?"
"Tommy, what a start you gave me!
When did you wake up?
What are you doing here?"
questioned Harriet in a whisper.
"That ith what I wath going to athk you.
What ith it?"
"Sh-h-h!
You will waken the others."
"If you didn't wake them up with that thneeze nothing but a club will wake them."
Tommy crept close to her companion.
"You thee thomething, don't you?"
"Not much.
The night is too dark.
I can see the outlines of the 'Sue' over there, but that is about all."
"Ith anything the matter with her?"
"I think not."
"Then why are you watching her tho clothely?"
"You are altogether too observant, Tommy.
But don't speak so loudly, please.
There is nothing of any importance over there.
Please go back to bed.
You will complain about having to get up for breakfast in the morning."
"Did you ever hear me complain about having to eat?"
"I can't say that I ever did," smiled Harriet.
"But you will catch cold out here."
"Tho will you.
You will catch cold firtht becauthe you have been out here longer than I have.
Anything elthe?"
"No, except that I am not going to waste my breath giving you advice.
When you become cold enough I presume you will go back to bed."
"Yeth, when I find out what ith going on out here.
I won't catch cold, but maybe if I thtay out here long enough I'll catch a fithh.
There!
I know what you are watching.
You are watching that 'Thilly Thue.'"
"Sh-h-h!"
The creaking on board had begun again.
It continued at intervals for several moments, both girls listening almost breathlessly.
"Wha--at are they doing?"
whispered Tommy.
"I don't know.
That is what I am trying to find out."
"My grathiouth!
Maybe the captain is going to run away with the 'Thilly Thue'."
"No.
Come to think of it, I believe he must be getting the boat ready for our sail to-morrow."
"Not without a light.
There ith thomething else going on.
Oh, look!"
Following a period of silence, blue sparks began sputtering from the masthead of the "Sister Sue."
The girls could hear the sparks crackle and snap spitefully.
"Oh, look at the fireworkth!"
cried Tommy out loud.
"The thhip ith on fire!"
Harriet laid a firm hand on her arm.
"Keep still!"
A faint squealing sound was now distinguishable, while the sparking at the masthead continued with almost rhythmic regularity.
"I know!
I know what it is!"
gasped Harriet excitedly.
"Listen, Tommy, listen.
Don't you know?"
CHAPTER XIX SAILING THE BLUE WATER "No, I don't know what it ith.
If I did, I thhouldn't be athking you," answered Grace.
"It ith either lightning, fireworkth or a real fire."
"It is wireless, Tommy.
Don't you know now?"
Grace shook her head.
"Didn't you ever hear a wireless machine work?"
"No; but there ithn't any wireleth on the 'Thilly Thue,' ith there?"
"I--I don't know.
I mean, I did not see any when we were out there to-day.
I don't understand it.
What can he be doing with wireless so late at night?"
"Maybe he ith telegraphing home to find out if the folkth are all right," suggested Tommy.
Harriet did not smile.
Her face was very grave, her forehead wrinkled in thought.
For the greater part of an hour, with brief intervals between, the wireless on the sloop continued, the sparks at the masthead sputtering and snapping with marked regularity.
Had Harriet Burrell understood a little more of telegraphy she would have known, though unable to read the dots and dashes, that the operator was calling some one who did not answer.
After a long time he apparently gave it up, for the sparking at the masthead ceased suddenly, followed by a brief period of silence on board, then the creaking of block and tackle was renewed.
This was followed by a subdued thumping and rattling about on deck, this lasting only a few moments.
The "riding light"--a light hung from the stern of the boat--was hung out, a dim light appeared in the cabin, which after a time was extinguished, then silence settled over the sloop for the night.
"That is all for to-night, I think," said Harriet aloud, but in a low voice.
"I do not know what it is all about, Tommy, but I do know that something queer is going on here.
Do you think you and I will be able to solve the mystery?"
"I think tho.
Don't you?"
"I do.
This makes two mysteries for us to solve, one the finding of that mysterious box and the other the mystery of the wireless on the 'Sister Sue.'
I would suggest that you don't say a word about it to any one to-morrow.
Don't ask any questions, either--leave that to me--but keep your eyes open while you are on board.
Perhaps we may discover something that we overlooked there to-day.
Wireless on the 'Sister Sue'!
I don't understand it at all.
Be very careful that you do not wake up the others when you go in.
Make sure that you don't fall over a cot and startle the girls."
"Yeth, I'll be careful."
Harriet remained outside while Grace was getting herself back to bed, but the former darted in quickly upon hearing a crash in the cabin, followed by a scream from Margery.
Tommy had stumbled against Buster's bed and fallen across it and on the sleeping stout girl.
But Harriet, knowing it would not do for the girls to know that two of their number had been mooning out-of-doors, darted into her own cot, and before they realized that she had just got in, was sitting up in bed demanding to know what all the disturbance was about.
"Tommy, have you been walking in your sleep?"
demanded Miss Elting.
"Yeth, I've been walking, I gueth.
Excuthe me, Buthter.
If you hadn't been in my way I wouldn't have fallen over you.
Good night, friendth."
Tommy tumbled into bed, muttering to herself.
Harriet did not go to sleep at once.
She lay for some little time thinking over the strange occurrences of the night, and wondering what it could mean.
Then, her companions having gone to sleep, she too settled down for the few hours that remained before the rising horn blew.
Her first thought, upon awakening in the morning, was for the sloop.
Quickly scrambling out of bed, she stepped to the door and gazed out on the bay.
The "Sister Sue" lay at her anchorage motionless, glistening in the bright rays of the morning sunlight, handsomer, Harriet thought, as she stood admiring the pretty craft, than she had appeared on the previous day.
The Camp Girls were filled with expectations of what was before them.
They were to sail shortly after ten o'clock, and for many of them it was to be the first sail they had ever enjoyed.
Breakfast was eaten and the camp put in order in record time that morning.
Promptly at ten o'clock Captain Billy rowed the small boat ashore.
He dragged down some trees which he cut, thus making a crude pier for the girls to walk out on, thus enabling him to leave the small boat in deeper water.
However, he could take out no more than five passengers at a time.
Mrs. Livingston told him that they did not care to sail far that morning.
It was her purpose to give each of the girls in the camp a sail that day.
Several trips, therefore, would be necessary.
"If that's the case, we can take a bigger load on the sloop," replied the captain.
"Pile 'em in."
"Will it be perfectly safe?"
questioned the Chief Guardian.
"You can't sink her.
The reason I didn't want a big crowd was that I thought you would be going out a long way.
We're likely to meet heavy weather several miles outside.
In that case a skipper wants plenty of room to move about.
Sometimes quick work is necessary, and--" "I don't suppose that being a commodore will prevent my assisting in sailing the boat, will it?"
asked Harriet smilingly.
The skipper looked her over critically.
"I reckon we can make a sailor of you.
Know anything about sailing?"
"No, sir."
"Yeth, she doeth," interjected Grace.
"She wath the captain of the 'Red Rover' latht year."
"And sunk it," chuckled Crazy Jane.
"If you will tell me what to do, I shall be glad to start, Captain."
"All right.
Get hold of that halyard and see if you can haul the sail up," he answered, grinning mischievously.
Captain Billy had not the least idea that she possessed the strength to raise the sail.
But Harriet surprised him.
She grasped the rope, and, though so light that the weight of the sail nearly pulled her off her feet, she hauled it slowly but steadily to the peak, then, throwing all her weight into one hand and arm, made the halyard fast to a cleat on the deck.
"Is that right, sir?"
she asked, her face slightly flushed from the exertion.
"Great boomers, but you have muscle in your arms!"
wondered the skipper.
"Now, please hold this wheel just where it is; I'll take in the anchor.
The man went back home last night.
Don't need him with all these strong-arm ladies on board.
We'll be under way in a few minutes now.
I--Look out there!"
A sudden though slight puff of wind struck the mainsail, sending the sloop ahead directly toward the shore.
But without waiting for orders Harriet sprang to the wheel, pointing the bow of the sloop, that had heeled dangerously, right toward the wind that was blowing in from the sea.
"Fine!"
shouted the captain, shipping the anchor and scrambling back to the cockpit as the sloop settled down on an even keel again, the squall drumming on the ropes and stays.
"You've sailed a boat before, young lady."
"Nothing more than a canoe and a house boat."
"You've got the instinct, just the same.
I'll have you sailing this 'Sister Sue' before you're a week older, and sailing it as well as I could sail it myself.
Where do you wish to go!"
turning inquiringly to Mrs. Livingston.
"Up and down the coast, not far out."
The skipper tacked back and forth a couple of times to clear the bay, then laid his course diagonally away from the coast.
The day was an ideal one, the sloop lay well over and steadily gained headway as she forged ahead with white water spurting away from her bows.
"Gul-lor-ious!"
cried Margery.
"Love-a-ly!"
mocked Crazy Jane.
Tommy eyed Buster quizzically.
"Yeth, but thith ithn't the real thea.
You will be singing inthide inthtead of outthide when we get out on the real othean.
It won't be the gul-lor-iouth then."
"All we need now to make us a real ship is a wireless machine," said Harriet, with apparent innocence.
The skipper shot a quick look at her from under his heavy red eyebrows, but Harriet's face was guileless.
"Would it not be possible to put a wireless outfit on a boat of this kind, Captain?"
"Yes, if you wanted to.
But what good would it do you?"
"I don't know, except that we might talk with ships far out at sea--ships that we could not see at all.
Why don't you put a wireless machine on your little ship?
I think that would be fine," persisted the Meadow-Brook girl, with feigned enthusiasm.
The skipper growled an unintelligible reply and devoted himself to sailing his boat.
Then Tommy took up the subject, discussing wireless telegraphy with great confidence, but in an unscientific manner that would have brought groans of anguish from one familiar with the subject.
Harriet Burrell through all of this conversation had been watching the skipper without appearing to do so.
That he was ill at ease she saw by the scowl that wrinkled his forehead, but otherwise there was no sign to indicate that their talk had disturbed him.
They sailed for two hours, then the sloop returned to the bay, where most of the girls were put ashore and another lot taken aboard.
The Meadow-Brook Girls and Mrs. Livingston remained on board.
Harriet, during the time the captain was engaged in assisting his passengers over the side, where they were rowed ashore by Jane and Hazel, looked over the "Sister Sue" with more care than she had done before.
There was nothing that she could discover that looked like a wireless apparatus.
However, at the forward end of the cabin she discovered a small door let into the paneling.
This door was locked.
She asked the captain to what it opened.
"That's the chain locker, where we stow things," he answered gruffly.
The girl then began calculating on how much space there was under the floor of the cabin.
She decided that there must be at least three feet of hull under there, but the flooring was covered with carpet that extended under the lockers and seats at the side, so that she was unable to determine whether or not the floor could be readily taken up.
Altogether, her discoveries did not amount to very much.
She was obliged to confess as much to herself.
As for Tommy, that young woman had conducted herself admirably during the sail, proving that she was discreet and fully as keen as was Harriet Burrell; and, though Tommy said very little on the subject uppermost in the minds of the two girls, the little girl was constantly on the alert.
In the joy of sailing they forgot their noon meal.
Nor were they reminded of it when Captain Bill, giving Harriet the wheel, made himself a cup of black coffee over an oil stove and drank it, eating several slices of dry bread.
Having finished his luncheon, he pointed to the compass, asking Harriet if she knew anything about it.
She said she did not.
[Illustration: Harriet Took the Wheel.]
"If you are going to be a sailor, you must learn to read the compass," he said.
"In the first place, you must learn to 'box the compass.'
I'll show you."
"Are you looking for the boxth?"
questioned Tommy, observing the skipper searching for something in a locker under the stern seat.
"Box?
No," he grunted.
"We don't use that kind of a box in boxing the compass.
By boxing the compass we mean reading the points of it."
He produced a long, stiff wire, with which he pointed to the compass card.
"A mariner's compass is divided into thirty-two points," he informed Harriet.
"In the first place, there are four cardinal points, North, East, South and West.
As you will see, by looking at the compass card, it is divided into smaller points which are not named on the card.
I'll draw you a card to-night with all the points named, then you can learn them.
Until you do, you are not a sailor.
For instance, to read the compass, we begin with North and go on until we have completed the circle of the card, naming each point and sub-division as we go along.
Then you should learn to read it backward as well.
After you have learned to do that I will show you how to lay a course by a chart."
"I don't thee anything to read," said Tommy, squinting down at the card.
"You are not taking the lesson, darlin'," Jane reminded her.
"This is the way to begin," Captain Billy told them.
"First is North.
Then you say north one-quarter, one-half, three-quarters, then the next sub-division is North by East with the same fractions of degrees.
We go on as you will see by following the card, as follows, North Northeast; Northeast by North; Northeast; Northeast by East; East Northeast; East by North; East.
You proceed in exactly the same manner with the other cardinal points, East, South and West, and that is what is called 'boxing the compass.'
Do you think you understand, Miss Burrell?"
"I have at least a start," replied Harriet smilingly.
"I haven't," declared Tommy with emphasis.
"I couldn't thpeak at all if I repeated that awful thtuff."
In the meantime Harriet was gazing steadily at the card, fixing the points in mind, really photographing the points of the compass and their sub-divisions on her memory, the skipper observing her with a dry smile.
He thought he had given the young sailor a problem that would keep her busy for some days to come.
What was his surprise, therefore, when just after they had come to anchor, Harriet asked him to hear her lesson.
She began boxing the compass and only once did she pause until she had gone all the way around the card.
"How near right was I, Captain?"
she asked.
"Right as a plumb line.
Girl, you're a wonder.
Took me four months to learn to read the card; then I didn't have it down as fine as you have.
Will you forget it before to-morrow morning?"
"Oh, dear me, no," she laughed.
"I hope I shall not," added the girl, sobering a little.
"I shall write the points down as soon as possible after I get back to camp."
"If you have it down fine in the morning, I'll take you for a long sail to-morrow," promised the captain, as he assisted the girls over the side into the waiting small boat.
The Wau-Wau girls voted it the most delightful day they ever had spent.
When they had reached camp, however, Harriet heard something that caused her to think even more seriously of what already had happened at Camp Wau-Wau.
Before the night was over she was to witness that which would add still further to her perplexity.
CHAPTER XX OUT OF SIGHT OF LAND "The man wished to know to whom the boat out in the bay belonged," Miss Elting was saying to the Chief Guardian.
"He did not give his name, but asked many questions--who the captain is, where we got him and how, and all about it.
The questioner was very mysterious.
What do you suppose he could have been trying to find out?"
"Perhaps he was a police officer looking for a stolen boat.
I understand a great many boats are stolen along this coast.
But we do not have to worry in the present instance.
Miss McCarthy's father would not have given us a man who was not right in every way."
"Oh, no," answered Miss Elting.
"He seemed perfectly satisfied with what I told him, but he did spend quite a time strolling up and down the beach, out beyond the bar."
Harriet had overheard the conversation between Miss Elting and Mrs. Livingston.
She smiled at the thought of the light she might possibly shed on the inquiry made by the visitor that afternoon.
The girls were sleepy that night and retired early, all save Harriet Burrell and Tommy, who asked permission to sit out on the bar in front of the cabin, which permission Miss Elting readily granted.
But Tommy soon grew weary and stumbled into the cabin, where she floundered about sleepily until she had awakened everyone of her companions.
Soon after the camp had settled down Harriet was conscious of a renewal of the previous night's activity on board the sloop, and in due time the wireless sparks began sputtering from the aerials at the masthead.
They had hardly begun when they abruptly ceased.
Her ears caught the sound of the anchor chain scraping through the hawse-hole.
The anchor came aboard with a clatter, the mainsail was sent to the peak in short order, the boom swung over and the big sail caught the faint breeze that drifted in from the sea.
The sloop, to her amazement, moved out from the bay.
No sooner had it cleared the land than a fresh ocean breeze heeled the boat down, sending it rapidly out to sea, where it soon disappeared, sailing without any lights whatever, even the riding light having been taken in before the captain had started out.
"What can it mean?"
wondered Harriet Burrell.
"I know something questionable is going on here, but what is it?"
There was no answer to the question.
The tide was now booming on the beach and a fresher breeze was springing up, the wind outside having veered until it blew directly into the cove.
The girl waited for the return of the "Sister Sue" until long after midnight, then went to bed.
The sky had become overcast and a spattering of raindrops smote her in the face.
The prospect was for a drizzly night.
When the camp awakened next morning the sloop was at her anchorage.
What time she had come in Harriet had not the slightest idea, but it must have been early in the morning, because the skipper was just furling the mainsail as the girl emerged from the cabin.
The sail was so soaked that he had difficulty in bending it to the boom to which he was trying to house it.
But Harriet Burrell said nothing of her discovery at breakfast that morning.
Later in the day she confided the secret to Tommy.
The latter twisted her face, grimaced and winked wisely.
The two girls understood each other.
Captain Bill did not mention having been out with the boat, though Harriet gave him an excellent opportunity to do so that same day.
A drenching drizzle fell all day long.
Of course, this did not interfere with the camp work.
The Camp Girls never ceased their labors for rain or storm of any kind.
Later on in the day the Meadow-Brook Girls went aboard the sloop with their guardian, principally for the reason that Harriet wished to take further lessons in seamanship.
She had learned her compass card well and earned the praise of the grizzled old skipper, but she was ambitious to accomplish greater things.
Several days passed, during which the drizzle scarcely ceased for a moment.
But during all this time the young woman was not idle, so far as her new interests were concerned.
She had asked questions, inquiring the names of things and their uses until she knew them intimately.
The ropes and stays, from a mass of complex, meaningless cordage, had resolved themselves into individual units, each of which had its use and its purpose; the compass was no longer a mystery, and, during a lull in the drizzle, when the sun had come out on the fifth day, Harriet was permitted to take an observation with the sextant, the instrument with which mariners take sights to determine their positions at sea.
Harriet was instructed to catch the sun at its zenith, which she did, noting the figures on the scale of the sextant and from which, under the instruction of the captain, she figured out the latitude of the sloop.
He allowed her to do all the figuring herself.
The result was startling.
The skipper took her calculations, studied them, frowned, then permitted his face to expand into a wrinkled grin.
"Young lady, did you think this was Noah's Ark!"
he demanded.
"No, sir.
Wh--y?"
"Because according to your figures the 'Sister Sue' is at this minute located on a line with Mt.
Washington, off yonder in the White Range."
Harriet flushed to the roots of her hair as her companions shouted gleefully.
At last Harriet Burrell had found something that she could not do.
But the captain quickly informed them that to be able to take observations accurately, and then figure them out, required long and close application.
Some mariners never were really good at theoretical navigation.
Nor had Harriet, as yet, mastered the principles of trigonometry, which branch of mathematics underlies navigation.
On the following morning the sun came out, and by the time the camp was awake the mainsails and jibs had been put out to dry.
They were permitted to swing free all day long and by nightfall were dry and white, ready for the next sail.
Captain Billy had promised them a long sail, though not having told them where.
That evening he consulted with the Chief Guardian in her tent, with the result that the Meadow-Brook Girls, Miss Elting and five of their companions were told to prepare themselves for an early departure on the following morning, provided the day were fair.
The girls were delighted, especially Harriet, who looked forward to putting into actual practice the theories that she had learned.
A full day's provisions were put aboard, for these long sails could not be made on schedule time in every instance.
An early breakfast was eaten by those who were to go on the sail, after which, bidding good-bye to their companions who remained behind, the sailing party set out for the beach, where Captain Billy was awaiting them with the small boat.
The passengers were put aboard in two loads, Harriet and Crazy Jane in the first boat.
The two girls set the jibs, which they had in place by the time the skipper returned with the others of the sailing party.
They then hoisted the mainsail, and were under way a very few minutes after the party was snugly aboard.
The "Sister Sue" sailed out of the bay to the accompaniment of fluttering handkerchiefs from the shore and shrill cries of good-bye.
"I'll thend you a pothtal card from Europe," shouted Tommy.
The "Sue" dipped and heeled under the fresh breeze, and, with a "bone in her teeth"--a white bar of foam at her bows--reached for the open sea.
"Take the wheel," ordered the skipper, nodding at Harriet.
"Don't move it much except to fill your sails.
See that the sails are full and pulling strongly at all times, and watch the weather for squalls.
When the sails are pulling too strong, point the nose closer into the wind, but the 'Sue' will stand up under more than an ordinary squall.
That's it."
"She is a splendid boat!"
cried Harriet.
"She is at least a well-balanced boat," answered Captain Billy.
"Having the wind on the quarter, we do not have to tack any on this course.
You see, we are headed Northeast by East three-quarters.
Keep her there."
"Were I to keep straight on as I am, where would we land?"
asked Harriet.
"England."
"Oh, let uth keep right on until we get to England," piped Tommy.
"How far ith it?"
"Three thousand miles, more or less," replied the skipper.
"Thave me!"
She had followed the skipper forward, where he had gone to change the set of one of the jibs, Tommy watching him with questioning eyes.
"There wath a man at the camp the other day," began the little lisping girl.
"A man?
What did he want in your camp?"
"He wath athking quethtionth about you and the boat," replied Tommy innocently.
"Eh?"
The skipper's filmy blue eyes took on a steely glint.
"Asking about me?"
"Yeth."
"What did he want to know?"
"All about you."
"Did he say what for?"
Captain Billy showed more excitement in his manner than Tommy ever before had seen him exhibit.
"No, not that I know of.
He athked the guardianth about you, tho I heard, where we got you and who got you.
Why do you thuppothe he wanted to know all of thothe thingth?"
questioned the little girl, her eyes wide, questioning and innocent.
"I don't know, Miss.
Forget it."
"Do you thuppothe it hath anything to do with the 'Thilly Thue' going out in the night?"
Captain Billy gripped the sheet that he was wrapping about a cleat, his red face took on a deeper shade, his eyes grew menacing.
But Tommy refused to see anything threatening in either attitude or gaze.
She chuckled gleefully.
"Oh, I can keep a thecret.
I haven't told anything, have I?"
laughed Tommy as she ran back to her companions, her eyes bright and sparkling.
"I made him thit up and notithe thingth," she chuckled in Harriet's ear.
"You watch him, and thee how mad he lookth when he cometh back here."
The expression on the face of the skipper bore out all that Tommy had said of him.
Harriet rebuked her, and demanded to know what she had said, but Tommy laughed merrily and ran into the cabin.
The "Sue" was getting well out to sea now.
The shore line was sinking gradually into the sea.
The land had become a faint, purplish blur in the distance, a strong, salty breeze was blowing across the sloop and the Atlantic rollers were becoming longer.
The "Sue" was beginning to roll heavily, rising and falling to the accompaniment of creaking boom, rattling mast rings and flapping jibs.
Keeping on one's feet was becoming more and more difficult with the passing of the moments.
"Oh, help!"
moaned Margery, in an anguished voice.
"What ith the matter!"
demanded Tommy, squinting quizzically at her companion, whose face was deathly pale.
"Oh, I'm so ill," moaned Buster.
Then she toppled over into the cockpit, where she lay moaning.
Miss Elting and Hazel picked her up, carried her into the cabin and placed her on one of the cushioned locker seats.
Margery promptly rolled off with the next lurch of the sloop.
"I wish I were dead!"
she moaned.
"Cheer up!
The wortht ith yet to come," cooed Tommy.
"Do you think this is perfectly safe?"
questioned Miss Elting, after having staggered outside.
"The sea is very rough and we are a long way from shore."
"Not at all, Miss," replied the captain.
"This is a very fine sea.
Why, this boat could go through a hurricane and never leak a drop.
You see, we are taking no water aboard at all.
Where will you find a boat as dry as this, I'd like to know?"
Thus reassured, the guardian felt better about their situation, though she began to feel dizzy and a few moments later was forced to join Margery in the cabin.
Buster was still on the cabin floor, unable to keep on the locker seat.
She was tossing from side to side with every roll of the sloop.
Four other girls from the camp by this time had sought what comfort was to be had in the cabin.
Outside, Jane, Harriet, Tommy, Hazel and the skipper were taking their full measure of the enjoyment of the hour.
Harriet got out a basket of food, and, bracing herself against the combing, proceeded to eat.
Her companions on deck joined her.
Tommy carried a roast beef sandwich into the cabin.
"Have a nithe, fat thandwitch with me?"
she asked.
Dismal groans greeted her invitation.
Harriet called her back.
"You shouldn't have done that, Tommy," she rebuked.
"It was most unkind of you.
How would you like to be aggravated if you were seasick?"
"If I got theathick I'd detherve to be teathed.
Oh, thee the gullth."
A flock of white gulls was circling over the "Sister Sue."
Harriet flung overboard a handful of crumbs, whereat the birds swooped down, rode the swells and greedily picked up the crumbs.
They started up and soon overtook the sloop.
For an hour the girls fed them; then, the crumbs being exhausted, the gulls soared out to sea in search of other craft and food.
For some time the sailing party had been so fully engaged with their own affairs that they had given little thought to their surroundings.
They now began to look about them.
"The land has disappeared!"
cried Harriet.
"We are out of sight of land.
Isn't this splendid?
How far are we out from home, Captain?"
"Nearly forty miles," he answered, after consulting the log.
"Want to go back?"
"Oh, no!
Let's keep on going.
How I wish we could keep on forever in this way."
"We will go on until we meet a ship that is due here."
"A ship!
Oh, where?"
cried the girls.
The captain pointed a gnarled finger at a faint smudge on the distant horizon.
"Yonder she is," he answered.
"Shall we go out and meet her?"
"Yes, oh, yes!"
shouted the Meadow-Brook Girls gleefully.
He changed the course of the "Sister Sue" ever so little, and they went bowling along over the Atlantic rollers headed for the big liner that was approaching them at nearly thirty miles an hour.
CHAPTER XXI AN ANXIOUS OUTLOOK "Come out, girlth, and thee the thhip," shouted Tommy, poking her head into the cabin.
"Go away and don't bother me," groaned Margery.
"Can't you see how sick I am?"
"Ithn't that too bad?"
deplored Tommy, withdrawing her face with a most unsympathetic grin.
All those on deck were watching the black smudge on the horizon, and as they gazed it grew into a great, dark cloud.
Out of the cloud, after a time, they saw white foam flashing in the sunlight, caused by the displacement of the great ship as she forged through the summer seas.
"Shall we pass near her?"
questioned Miss Elting.
"We're right on her course," replied the skipper.
"We'll turn out soon, for she won't shift her position an inch unless she thinks we're going to run into her.
Let your boat off a point to starboard, Miss Burrell."
"Aye, aye," answered Harriet promptly, shifting the wheel slightly, eyes fixed on the trembling compass card.
The shift of position threw the wind directly abeam.
It was now blowing squarely against the quarter, causing the sloop to heel down at a sharp angle.
The boat fairly leaped forward, her lee rail almost buried in a smother of foam.
The eyes of the girl at the wheel sparkled with pleasure.
It was glorious.
Harriet Burrell could not remember to have enjoyed a happier moment.
"They are watching us," announced the captain, who had been examining the oncoming ship through his glass.
"They think we may be coming out to speak to them," he added with a chuckle.
"We don't thpeak thhipth in the daylight," answered Tommy, drawing a quick glance from the captain.
Harriet gave her a warning look, then devoted her attention to steering the course, glancing at the oncoming ship every now and then.
"Swing out," directed Captain Billy.
"She throws a heavy swell.
We will cut across it at right angles passing under her stern.
I'll tell you when to swing in so we'll just make it.
Now, can you see the people?"
"Yes, yes!"
cried the girls.
The huge red and black funnels belching clouds of dense black smoke were now plainly visible, as were the towering upperworks of the ship, and the bridge high in the air.
"Swing in," commanded the "Sue's" skipper.
Harriet put the helm hard over.
The sloop responded quickly.
Now the spray dashed over the boat in a drenching shower, bringing shouts of glee from the Meadow-Brook Girls.
The move in a few minutes brought them so close to the big ship that the girls could look into the fresh sea-blown faces of the passengers who crowded the rails on that side of the liner.
It seemed as if the sloop must crash into the side of the larger boat.
Harriet glanced inquiringly at Captain Billy, who nodded encouragingly, from which she understood that there was no cause for alarm.
The girls were now waving their handkerchiefs and shouting to the amazed passengers, who could not understand why a party in so frail a craft should be met with far out to sea, how far few of those on the ship knew.
They did know that they were out of sight of land, which made the marvel all the greater.
"Point in closer," commanded Captain Billy.
Harriet swung in still more.
The "Sister Sue" buried her nose in the foamy, eddying wake of the liner close under the counter, so close, in fact, that the girls could see the water boiling over the twin propellers and hear their beat.
The next moment they had passed her and were on the open, rolling sea again, with the big ship threshing her way toward New York, rapidly widening the gap between herself and the venturesome little craft.
For the moment that they had been blanketed by the steamer their sails had flattened and they had lost headway, but now the wind picked them up, the sails bellied and the little sloop continued on her way.
"We must turn now," said the skipper, consulting the skies, which he swept with a comprehensive glance.
He gave Harriet the return course.
"I fear we are going to lose the wind.
It will pick up later, however.
No need to be anxious."
He stepped inside the cabin and, leaning forward, consulted the barometer.
Harriet noted that his face wore a look of anxiety for the moment.
But it had entirely disappeared when he returned to the deck.
Once more he swept the horizon.
"How is the glass?"
she asked, but in a voice too low for her companions to hear.
Harriet referred to the barometer.
"It has fallen over an inch in two hours," answered Captain Billy.
"That is a big drop, isn't it?"
"I should say so.
But don't say anything to the others," he added, with a quick glance at the girls to see if any had overheard either his or Harriet Burrell's remarks.
"It means a blow, does it not?"
"Yes.
But it may be a long way off, possibly a hundred miles or more."
"Then, again, we may be right in the center of it?"
she questioned.
The skipper nodded again.
"Is there anything to be done?"
"Nothing except to make all the time we can and keep a weather eye aloft and abroad.
Watch your sails and trim them for every breath of air.
Jockey her.
Now is your time to see what can be done when there is little wind to be had."
Harriet was getting practical experience in sailing a boat such as falls to few novices, but she took to the work like one who had long been used to the sea and its varying moods.
Under her skilful manipulation the "Sister Sue" was making fairly good headway, though nothing like what she had done on the outward voyage, for the wind was dying out, becoming more fitful, shifting from one point of the compass to another.
"When the wind moves opposite to the direction of the hands of a clock--what seamen call 'against the clock'--look out for foul weather," the captain informed her.
"That is the way it is going now, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"I hope we shall have enough to take us home."
"We may have too much."
Once more the skipper studied the horizon to the northeast.
That he was not pleased with his observation Harriet was confident.
Again he took a long look at the barometer, glanced at the compass to see that she was on her course, then, thrusting his hands into his pockets, studied the rigging overhead.
"We aren't making much headway, are we?"
questioned Miss Elting.
"None at all," was the, to her, surprising reply; "we're in a dead calm now."
The waves had taken on an oily appearance and there were no longer white crests on the rollers.
The "Sister Sue" rolled and plunged in a sickening way, the boom swinging from side to side.
All hands were in the cockpit or cabin, however, so that there was no danger of their being hit by the swinging boom.
In the cabin was heard a series of groans more agonized than before.
The guardian had recovered in a measure, though they observed that she was very pale.
The fresh air outside revived her somewhat.
"I wish you to tell me frankly if there is any danger?"
she demanded.
"Not yet," was the skipper's evasive answer.
"Meaning that there may be later?"
"We may be late getting home," he replied.
"I can't say any more than that now.
Ugh!"
Harriet Burrell saw him gazing off to the northeast.
She followed the direction of his glance, and saw a purplish haze hanging heavily on the horizon.
As she gazed the purple haze seemed to grow darker and to increase in size.
The sight disturbed her, though she did not know why.
The sea now made little noise.
A flock of seagulls could be plainly heard honking high overhead, and a chattering flock of stormy petrels soared down, coming to rest on the water in the wake of the sloop.
"I'll take in the jibs.
Mind your wheel.
We are in for a blow," announced the skipper.
CHAPTER XXII IN THE GRIP OF MIGHTY SEAS The captain quickly furled the jibs, then took a reef in the mainsail.
Consulting the skies again, he decided to leave one of the jibs up, so set it once more and took another reef in the mainsail, thus shortening the latter considerably.
The "Sister Sue" was now making no headway at all, but was rolling dizzily from wave to wave, now and then a swell striking the side of the little boat and tumbling torrents of green water over into the cockpit.
The girls were set to work bailing.
They already were soaked to the skin, though, instead of being disturbed, they were laughing joyously, thinking it great fun.
Their attention was called to a school of porpoises that came leaping toward them, appearing at first like miniature geysers springing out of the oily green seas.
The porpoises divided, passing on either side of the sloop and close aboard, racing on toward the land that lay off yonder somewhere in the green distance.
It was now impossible to stand without holding fast to something that would not give.
Harriet had never seen a boat roll so fast.
From side to side it lurched, plunging at the same time, both with almost incredible speed.
Her own head was beginning to spin.
Tommy's face was pale.
"You're getting seasick," smiled Harriet, eyeing her friend sharply.
"No, I'm not," protested the little girl "You're getting thick yourthelf."
"I confess to being dizzy," admitted Harriet, "but I am not so ill that I must go to bed.
Keep outside.
You will be much better off than in the cabin, where the air is close and the others are suffering."
"I'm going to, thank you."
Tommy stood braced against the cabin, her keen little eyes observing the now serious face of the skipper.
"I gueth thomething ith going to happen," she observed.
"Don't tell the others," cautioned Harriet, with a warning shake of the head.
"I don't intend to.
What ith it, a thtorm?"
Harriet nodded.
"I knew it.
I jutht knew thomething wath going to break loothe."
The purple haze was nearing at a rapid rate of speed, and Harriet Burrell saw that with it the sea was piling up, its white crests angry and menacing.
"Try to keep the wind dead astern," ordered the skipper.
"I will handle the sheets.
Do you think you can manage it?"
"Yes, sir.
I will be on the lookout for orders.
You may depend upon me, sir."
"Then we'll weather it, but we shall get pretty wet, and night is coming on, too.
We're going to have a merry night of it!
All hands who do not wish to get a ducking go below," shouted the skipper.
Miss Elting, Jane, Harriet and Tommy remained outside.
The captain tossed a rope to each, directing them to tie the ropes about their waists, making the lines fast to a cleat on the after end of the raised deck cabin.
"Just for safety's sake," he nodded.
The wind was beginning to whistle through the rigging, the water to foam under the bows of the "Sister Sue," showing that she was getting under good headway.
"Port one point," bellowed the skipper.
Harriet instantly obeyed the command.
Then the gale was upon them with a screech and a roar.
A volume of water that threatened to swamp them rolled toward the stern, but before it had done so Harriet, acting upon a sharply uttered command, had swung the sloop about until its nose met the oncoming rush of wind and water.
She gasped for breath as the flood of salt water enveloped her; yet, bracing her feet, clung firmly to the wheel, holding the craft on the new course.
Afterward Harriet had a faint recollection of having seen her companions swimming on the green sea in the little cockpit, Tommy's pale face standing out more prominently than all the rest.
"We made it," roared the skipper.
"Now hold her steady, and she will ride it out like a duck."
He grabbed up a pail and began bailing with all his might.
Jane did likewise, then Miss Elting lent her assistance.
Tommy was clinging to the cabin roof with all her might.
Before the storm struck them they had not thought to light their masthead and side lights.
Now it was next to impossible to do so.
The sloop was rushing through the seas without a light to mark her presence on the sea that was growing more wild with the moments.
But the binnacle light was burning steadily over the compass, so that the helmswoman was able to see in which direction they were heading.
The compass told her that, instead of making headway toward land, they were rushing along at a frightful rate of speed toward Europe.
Still, she realized that this was the only safe course to follow.
All at once Harriet Burrell uttered a sharp cry of alarm.
She threw the wheel over so suddenly that a wave smashing against the side of the sloop nearly turned them turtle.
Captain Billy, with quick instinct, let go the mainsail, which swung out far to leeward, thus saving the little craft from being upset.
Up to this moment he did not know what the sudden shifting meant, but just as he was about to bellow to the helmswoman he caught sight of a towering mass of lights that for the moment seemed to hang over them, then flashed on, missing the "Sue" by a few scant rods of water.
They had had a narrow escape from being run down by a steamer.
But for Harriet's quickness, nothing could have saved them.
It was plain that those on the bridge of the steamer had not discovered the small boat in the sea under their bows, for they did not even hail.
"Good work," bellowed the skipper.
"I thought we'd got to Europe," shouted Tommy.
"Lay her to.
I've got to close reef that sail," commanded the captain.
Harriet pointed the bow right into the teeth of the wind.
Oh, how that little craft did plunge!
At times it seemed as if the greater part of her length were wholly out of water, that she had taken a long, quivering leap from the crest of one great wave to another.
So hard was she pitching that she had little time left in which to roll.
Salt spray rained down over the decks until the cabin itself was almost wholly hidden from the view of the girl at the wheel.
In the meantime the captain had reefed the mainsail down to the last row.
"Now let her off a few points," he directed.
Boom!
"Oh, what was that?"
cried Miss Elting, her voice barely heard in the shriek of the gale.
"What happened?"
"Jib gone by the board," shouted the captain.
"Lucky if we don't lose the mainsail the same way."
Harriet had not uttered a sound when the startling report had boomed out above the roar of the storm, but her heart had seemed to leap into her throat.
Her arms had grown numb under the strain of holding the wheel, for the sea was hurling its tremendous force against the craft, requiring great effort on the part of the helmswoman to keep the boat on its course.
But she clung doggedly to her chosen task, seeking to pierce the darkness ahead with her gaze.
The salt water made her eyes smart so that she could scarcely see at all.
Yet she could feel the wind on her face, and by that guide alone she was enabled to keep the "Sue" headed into the storm.
She long since had ceased trying to keep the boat on a compass course, for the greater part of the time the compass card was invisible either through the spray or solid water, as the case might be.
It was marvelous how the little boat stood up under the bombardment of the Atlantic rollers and the mountains of water that hurled themselves upon her.
Harriet was standing in water up to her knees, but, fortunately, every time the boat rolled or plunged, a volume of salt water was hurled out into the sea itself.
In the cabin everything movable was afloat.
The passengers in there were nearly drowned at times, but in their fright most of them had forgotten their seasickness.
They were clinging to the seats in most instances, screaming with fear.
Miss Elting, deciding that her presence was needed in the cabin rather than outside, plunged into the dark hole head-first.
Quickly gathering herself together, she did her best to calm and comfort the girls, though every plunge of the boat she expected would be its last.
It did not seem possible that the little craft could weather the gale.
Suddenly there came a mighty crash above their heads, followed by a ripping, tearing sound, and above it all sounded the screams of the girls who were fighting their great battle out there in the cockpit of the "Sister Sue."
The girls in the cabin threw themselves into one another's arms, screaming wildly.
"Stop it!"
shouted Miss Elting.
"Be brave, girls.
Remember, you are Camp Girls!"
The cabin doors burst in and a great green wave hurled them the length of the cabin, crushing them against the bulkhead at the far end, the guardian clinging, gasping, nearly drowned, to a rail above the doorway.
CHAPTER XXIII WAGING A DESPERATE BATTLE "We're lost!"
exclaimed Miss Elting, turning back into the cabin.
But she was suddenly attracted by a shout from without.
"Cut away!"
screamed Harriet.
"Jane, are you there?
Tommy!"
"He's gone!"
It was Jane's voice that answered in a long, wailing cry.
The water was rapidly receding from the cabin.
Miss Elting quickly straightened the girls out.
She did not know how seriously they had been hurt, if at all, but after making sure that all within the cabin were alive, the guardian groped her way to the cockpit.
Harriet stood braced against the wheel, shouting out her commands, screaming at the top of her voice to make herself heard and understood above the gale.
The guardian staggered over to her.
"Oh, what has happened?"
she cried.
"The mast has gone overboard--part of it at least, and--" "Captain Billy's gone, too!
The boom struck and carried him over!"
yelled Jane when she had crept near enough to be heard.
"Cut away, I tell you.
Here is a hatchet."
Harriet had groped in the locker, from which she drew a keen-edged hatchet and handed it to Crazy Jane McCarthy.
"You'll have to be quick.
We're being swamped.
See, we are taking water over the side.
Oh, _do_ hurry, Jane!"
"The captain gone!"
moaned Miss Elting.
"Can nothing be done?"
"No."
Harriet's voice was firm.
"Unless we work fast we shall all go to the bottom.
We must save those on the boat, Miss Elting.
But you listen for his voice.
Oh, this is terrible!"
The steady whack--whack of the hatchet in the hands of Jane McCarthy came faintly to their ears.
Once Jane slipped over the side into the water; but, grasping the life-line to which she was tied, the girl pulled herself back on the deck and set pluckily to work again.
It was the wonder of Harriet Burrell that the "Sue" kept afloat at all, for she was more under water than above it, and the seas were breaking over her.
"Please get back and look after the girls.
Where is your life-line?"
asked Harriet of Miss Elting.
"I threw it off when I went into the cabin."
"Get back!
Stay there until I call you, or--" Harriet did not finish the sentence, but the guardian understood and turned back into the cabin, where she did her best to comfort the panic-stricken Camp Girls.
"Whoop!"
shrieked Jane.
The "Sue" righted with a violent jolt.
Jane had freed the side of the boat of the rigging which, attached to the broken mast and sail, was holding the craft down and threatening every second to swamp her.
Jane crept down into the cockpit, and was about to cut away the stays that held the wreckage, which was now floating astern of the sloop.
"Stop!"
commanded Harriet.
"Wait till we see what effect it has on us, but stand by to cut away if we see there is peril.
Oh, I hope we shall be able to ride it out.
That poor captain!
He must have been stunned by a blow of the boom.
It seems cruel to stand here without lifting a hand to save him.
But what can we do?
Jane, is there anything you can think of that we can do?"
Crazy Jane shook her head slowly.
"Nothing but to tell his family, if we ever get back to land," was her solemn reply.
"But, darlin', we aren't on land ourselves yet, and I doubt me very much if we ever shall be.
See the waves breaking over this old tub.
How long do you think she will stand it?"
Harriet did not answer at once.
She was peering forward into the darkness.
Holding up her hand, she noted the direction of the wind.
"Do you see, Jane, the 'Sue' is behaving better!
She isn't taking nearly so much water.
Do you know what has happened?"
"What is it, darlin'?"
"The wreckage that you cut away is holding the stern and acting as a sea anchor, and it has pulled the bow of the boat around until we are headed right into the gale.
I am glad I didn't let you cut loose the wreckage.
It may be the very thing that will save us, but I don't know.
I wish you would get some one to help you bail out the pit.
The water is getting deep in here again, and the cabin is all afloat."
"But more will come in," objected Jane.
"And more will swamp us, first thing we know.
You take the wheel.
I will bail."
"I'll do it myself, darlin'."
Jane asked Hazel to assist her, and together they slaved until it seemed as if their backs surely would break.
The storm, while not abating any, did not appear to increase in fury.
It was severe enough as it was.
The seas loomed above the broken craft like huge, black mountains, yet somehow they seemed to break just a few seconds before engulfing her and to divide, passing on either side, but the "Sister Sue" wallowed in a smother of foam, creaking and groaning, giving in every joint, and threatening to fall to pieces with each new twist and turn forced upon her by the writhing seas.
Miss Elting, after having in a measure quieted the girls in the cabin, came out clinging to a rope.
She and Harriet held a shouted conversation, after which the guardian returned to the cabin, where there was less danger of being beaten down by huge seas, although one could get fully as wet inside the cabin as on deck.
The hours of the night wore slowly away.
The intense impenetrable blackness, the roar and thunder of the sea, the terrible jerking, jolting and hurling beneath them, shook the nerves of the girls, keeping them constantly in a half-dazed condition that perhaps lessened the keenness of their suffering.
Harriet and Jane, however, never for a single second relaxed their vigilance, or left a single thing undone that would tend to ease the boat or to contribute to its safety.
The binnacle light long since had been extinguished by the water, making it impossible to see the compass to tell which way they were headed.
Little good it would have done them to know, either, they being powerless to change their course, or to make any headway at all, save as they drifted with the seas.
Harriet hoped they might be drifting toward shore.
Instead, they were being slowly carried down the coast and parallel with it.
At last the gray of the early dawn appeared in the east, but it was a "high dawn," with the light first appearing high in the sky, meaning to sailors wind or storm.
Harriet did not know the meaning of it, however, though she thought it a most peculiar looking sky.
And now, as the light came slowly, they were able to get an idea what the sea in which they had been wallowing all night looked like.
It was a fearsome sight.
As they gazed their hearts sank within them.
Mountains of leaden water rose into the air, then sank out of sight again, and when the "Sue" went into one of those troughs of the sea it was like sinking into a great black pit from which there was no escape.
Yet the buoyant hull of the sloop rose every time, shaking the water from her glistening white sides and bending to the oncoming seas preparatory to taking another dizzy dive.
The lower half of the mast was still standing, a ragged stump, the deck itself swept clean of every vestige of wreckage and movable equipment.
What troubled Harriet most was the loss of the water cask.
The small water tank in the cabin had been hurled to the floor by the pitching of the sloop and its contents spilled.
The Meadow-Brook Girl saw that they were going to be without water to drink, a most serious thing, provided they were not drowned before needing something to drink.
As she studied the boat, an idea was gradually formed in her mind, a plan outlined that she determined to try to adopt were the wind to go down sufficiently to make the attempt prudent.
Harriet called the others to her, and the girls talked it over in all its details for the better part of an hour.
There was nothing to eat on board now, nor did many of the party feel like eating.
Tommy, however, found her appetite shortly after daybreak and raised quite a disturbance because there was nothing to be had.
She suggested breaking open the doors that led to the chain locker, but of this Harriet would not hear.
She did not wish water to get in there, for that appeared to be the one part of the boat that was now free from it, and that really had saved them from going to the bottom.
In the meantime the wind did not appear to be abating in the slightest.
All that wretched forenoon the majority of the girls, half-dead from fright and exposure, clung desperately to the cushions of the locker seats, wild-eyed and despairing.
All that forenoon Harriet Burrell, Jane McCarthy, Tommy, Hazel and Miss Elting stuck to their posts and worked without once pausing to rest.
About noon the wind suddenly died out, then began veering in puffs from various quarters of the compass.
"Now, Jane, is our chance," cried Harriet.
"The storm is broken, but the seas will be high all the rest of the day.
If we can fix up some sort of a sail, we may be able to reach land before long."
CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION When the "Sister Sue" failed to return the previous afternoon, and the storm came on, Mrs. Livingston, greatly alarmed, sent a party of girls with a guardian to the nearest telephone to send word to Portsmouth that the sloop and its passengers were missing.
A revenue cutter was sent out to look for them, first, however, having been in communication with the ocean liner the girls had passed by wireless, learning from the captain of the ship of their having sighted the "Sister Sue" and giving the latter's position at the time.
This served as a guide for the revenue boat, which steamed through the great seas until daylight.
There were no signs of the missing sloop; but, reasoning that, if the boat was still afloat, it must have been blown down the coast, the revenue boat headed in that direction.
It was not until three o'clock in the afternoon, however, that the lookout reported seeing something floating in the far distance, off the starboard bow.
A study of this object through the glasses led the captain to turn his cutter in that direction.
An hour later he was close enough to see that it was a dismantled boat, and that there were people aboard it.
Full speed ahead was ordered and the revenue boat rapidly drew up.
A strange spectacle was revealed to the officers and men of the revenue cutter as she approached close enough to make out details.
The dismantled sloop was lying very low in the water, showing that she was in a bad way.
To the top of the stump of the mast a staple had been driven and through this a rope run.
This rope held a jib, the greater part of which was on the deck because there was not height enough to spread it all.
But what there was of the jib was pulling well in the fresh breeze and the sloop was wallowing through the seas, making fair headway toward land, which now was not more than fifteen miles away.
Harriet Burrell, still at the wheel, was giving her full attention to handling the boat, leaving to her companions the task of attracting the attention of the cutter, which, however, had seen the sloop long before the passengers on her had discovered the revenue boat.
The captain of the cutter lay to as close to the sloop as he dared go, then held a megaphone conversation with the survivors.
Harriet replied that she thought she would be able to get the boat to shore, but suggested that they take off the other girls.
The captain would not listen to Harriet's first proposition.
After a perilous passage he finally succeeded in getting a boat's crew aboard the sloop, the skipper himself accompanying the rescue party.
"And you brought this tub through the gale?"
he questioned, turning to Harriet after hearing a brief account of the loss of Captain Billy and the consequent experiences of the "Sister Sue's" passengers.
"It was purely good luck, sir," answered Harriet modestly.
"It was something a great deal stronger than luck," answered the captain.
"The sea is going down.
As soon as it is down enough to be safe I will put you all aboard the cutter."
"Are you going to leave the sloop?"
asked Miss Elting.
"No.
We want that boat for reasons of our own.
We wish to look it over at our leisure.
Your sea anchor saved you, that and good seamanship.
Miss Burrell, it is a pity you are not a man.
You would be commanding a ship in a few years.
I think we had better transfer you now.
I'm afraid of the sloop."
The transfer was a thrilling experience for the Camp Girls.
Several times they narrowly missed being upset and thrown into the sea, but after more than two hours' work everyone had been safely landed on the deck of the revenue boat.
Three men were put aboard the sloop, a lifeboat being left with them in case the "Sue" foundered.
The revenue cutter then started towing her toward home.
It was late in the evening when finally they came to anchor off Camp Wau-Wau.
The surf was running so high that it was decided not to put the girls ashore until the following morning, though the "Sue" was cast off from her tow and allowed to drift into the bay.
From here her crew rowed ashore and informed the anxious Camp Girls that everyone of their companions was safe.
But the morning brought with it a further surprise.
The cabin in which the Meadow-Brook Girls had made their home had wholly disappeared.
With it had gone the bar, swept out by the storm, the cabin lying a hopeless, tangled wreck on the shore of the bay.
With it, too, had gone ashore a variety of stuff which the officers of the revenue boat examined early that morning.
They pronounced the ruined stuff ammunition.
Harriet told of the mysterious box that she had seen carried into the woods.
Later in the day this was located and dug up.
It was found to be a zinc-lined case, packed with military rifles of old pattern.
On board the "Sister Sue," in the chain locker, was found a complete wireless equipment, together with quite a cargo of rifles and ammunition.
"These guns were meant for _business_!"
remarked the captain of the revenue cutter, as he and another officer stood by superintending the work of four sailors.
"Why, I thought the days of piracy had gone by," remarked Harriet.
"_Pi_--" gasped Tommy, and turned pale.
"Pirates!"
echoed Margery Brown in consternation.
"Why, we might have been killed and no one would have known what became of us!"
"Who said anything about pirates!"
retorted the revenue captain, smiling.
"Why, you thaid--" began Tommy wonderingly.
"I spoke of 'business,'" came the answer of the man in uniform, "and that was what I meant to say.
In these days, in Latin-American countries, revolution appears to be one of the leading forms of business."
"_Revolution?_" echoed Margery, quickly reviving, while Tommy listened in amazement.
"Why, revolutions are romantic; there's nothing awful about 'em."
"Nothing awful," laughed Captain Rupert.
"In the countries to the south of us most of the revolutions are very tame affairs, so far as actual fighting goes.
The crowd that makes the most noise, whether government or insurgent, usually wins the day.
For that matter, I never could understand why blank cartridges wouldn't do as well as the real ammunition in these Latin-American revolutions."
"Yet if these rifles and cartridges were intended for use in a revolution," Harriet broke in, "doesn't it seem odd to land them on this short strip of New Hampshire coast?"
"Not at all odd when you understand the reason," Captain Rupert went on.
"These rifles are intended to be used in another projected uprising of the blacks in Cuba.
The blacks there are always ready to fight, provided some selfseeking white man offers them the weapons, and a prosperous time, without work, in the event of victory.
Such another uprising of the blacks in Cuba has been planned.
The secret service men of the Cuban government got wind of the affair and trailed some of the plotters to this country.
"Now, the United States is the place where nearly all of the supplies for these revolutions are bought.
So our government, watching, discovered that the arms were being slyly shipped to Portsmouth, instead of being directly shipped from New York to Cuba.
It was, of course, quite plain that Portsmouth was the port from which the arms and ammunition were to be shipped.
So the cutter that I command was ordered to Portsmouth.
As soon as the plotters there found the 'Terrapin' cruising off that port they knew they must find some other way of getting the goods out of the country, for it is against the law to ship arms from this country for use against any other established government.
"So the plotters hit upon a new plan.
They engaged the skipper of a regular fishing smack to carry small lots of arms out to sea, there to transfer them to a sloop.
Captain Billy was the man selected to receive the arms and ammunition at sea.
He brought them in here, hiding them, with the intention of putting out some dark night, making several short trips, and transferring all the rifles and cartridges--eight thousand rifles and three million cartridges, to a small steamer that would be waiting in the offing.
The steam vessel would then carry the cargo to Cuba, landing the goods at some secret, appointed place.
Captain Billy, as our government learned, was to receive one thousand dollars for his share in the work.
It was a bit risky, as he faced prison if caught--as he surely would have been imprisoned had he lived."
"Poor man!"
sighed Harriet sympathetically.
"I agree with you," nodded Captain Rupert gravely.
"Captain Billy was a good fellow, as men go; but he had passed his fiftieth year with fortune as far away as ever, and he caught at the bait of a thousand dollars, though he knew he was breaking the laws of his country.
But he's dead," added the revenue officer, uncovering his head for a moment; "therefore we won't discuss his fault further."
When the "hidden treasure" in the woods was unearthed it proved to be a large consignment of rifles and cartridges.
These had been hidden in a cleverly concealed artificial, sod-covered cave in the woods.
Its existence had been so well hidden that Camp Wau-Wau girls had scores of times passed over the cave without suspecting its existence.
Before the revenue cutter sailed away the six officers aboard came ashore one evening, taking dinner with the girls, in company with a number of young men, invited from the neighborhood.
Afterward until half-past ten o'clock there was a pleasant dance.
All too soon Harriet Burrell and her friends found this vacation trip at an end.
Proud of the honors they had won, delighted beyond words with the good times they had had, they left for home the day before the hulk of the "Sister Sue" was taken away, at Mr. McCarthy's order, and sold.
"We are leaving behind us the best time we have ever had," sighed Hazel on the morning of their departure.
"I am sure there are plenty of good times ahead of all of us yet," declared Harriet brightly.
"What I'm going to say, girls," broke in Miss Elting, "is not original, but practical.
The driver we've engaged to take our belongings to the station will be due here in ten minutes.
If we're not ready for him, he'll charge us extra for waiting."
So the packing was finished, the driver departed with the luggage, and the Meadow-Brook Girls, somewhat wet-eyed, took leave of all at Camp Wau-Wau.
Then, Torch Bearer Harriet Burrell leading the way, the four girls and their guardian took the trail.
Yet there was another good time coming, as all our readers will speedily discover when they open the next volume, which is published under the title: "THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ON THE TENNIS COURTS; Or, Winning Out in the Big Tournament."
THE END.
Transcriber's Note: This book is an example of early pulp fiction.
It was published in 1908 by The Arthur Westbrook Co. as Adventure Series No.
76.
"Old Sleuth" is the pseudonym of Harlan Page Halsey (1837-1898).
THE "DOCK RATS" OF NEW YORK OR THE SMUGGLER BAND'S LAST STAND BY "OLD SLEUTH" CHAPTER I.
"Hold, Stranger!"
The words fell from beautiful lips under the most exciting circumstances.
A boat rocked upon the calm water that murmured along the shore, when a young man came down from the upper bank of white drift sand, and seized the tiller rope.
He had the rope in his hand, his arm was upraised to draw the boat to his feet, when he was startled by hearing the words with which we open our narrative.
The young man turned toward the speaker, and encountered a sight that caused his handsome eyes to bulge with amazement.
It was a clear, cloudless night, and a half moon shed its diminished radiance on surrounding objects, and revealed to the astonished gaze of the young man the weird-appearing figure of a young girl.
One glance was sufficient to announce the fact that the girl was beautiful, but alas!
in what questionable shape did she appear?
She was attired in a loose gown tightened about the waist with a leathern belt, her feet were bare, and her long hair hung unkempt upon her shoulders.
As our old-time readers know, we are not heavy on the beauty-describing business, and we will merely declare that the girl was indeed a lovely creature, clad in rags; but she was beautiful, and Spencer Vance, the young man, discerned the fact at a glance, and his amazement was the greater because of the thrilling conditions under which re beheld so great loveliness.
The young man made no immediate answer to the girl's abrupt salutation, but merely stood and gazed at her without any attempt to conceal his utter astonishment.
"You must not go off in the yacht to-night!"
said the girl.
"Why must I stay ashore to-night?"
"Danger is ahead of you!"
"But I am an old sailor, miss; I can take care of myself, I reckon."
The girl drew close to the young man, laid her hand upon his arm, and in a husky voice, whispered: "The danger comes not from the sea!
You will be a victim!"
The young man let the boat line fall from his grasp, a fierce light shone in his eyes, and there was a tremulousness, but not of fear, in his voice as he demanded: "Who sent you to tell me this?"
"It matters not, you are doomed if you go on the yacht to-night!
never again will your feet press the hard shore, but the waves will cast you up!"
"Who are you, miss, and why have you come to warn me?"
A moment the girl was silent.
She hung her head and appeared lost in thought, but at length, looking up and fixing her magnificent blue eyes upon the young man, she said: "I do not know who I am, but I do know that if you go out on the yacht to-night, you will never return till the waves wash your dead form to the beach!"
"You must have some reason for coming to warn me?"
"Yes; I would save your life!"
"Why are you so deeply interested in saving my life?"
"I would warn anyone whom I knew was in peril!
and you must heed my words!"
"I cannot!"
"Are you seeking death?"
"No."
"I do not understand."
"And I cannot explain, but I must go out though death meet me upon the crest of every wave."
The girl again remained silent for a moment, but, at length in a still lower whisper, she said: "You have been betrayed!"
The young man started, and a slight pallor overspread his handsome face as he caught the girl's delicate arm in his firm grasp, and demanded: "Who am I?"
"You are Spencer Vance."
The young man could not conceal an expression of extreme astonishment.
"Who told you my name was Spencer Vance?"
"It matters not, but take heed; do not go out on the sea to-night."
"I tell you I must!
I will go, but you must tell me what you know of Spencer Vance."
"You are a revenue detective; you are in the employ of the Government; you have been betrayed, and to-night you are to be silenced if you go out on the yacht!"
"Do the men on the yacht know who I am?"
"They do not know your name, but they suspect you are a Government detective, and they have determined to put you out of the way; to-night they will do the deed if you go."
"Someone must have told them I was a Government officer."
"Yes; someone told them."
"Do you know who gave the information?"
"I do."
"Will you tell me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I have warned you, now go your way, and save your life!
they are desperate men, the waves have already received three of their victims within a year go, and your doom is sealed!
Nothing can save you!"
"I shall go!"
"You do not believe my words?"
"I will believe you if you will tell me who betrayed me to the smugglers."
"I did!"
came the starring response.
The detective stood the girl off from him at arm's length, and studied her from feet to head.
The girl stood and calmly submitted to the inspection.
"So you are the traitor?"
"No."
"You admit you betrayed me?"
"I am no traitor!
I owe nothing to you!
I had a right to inform the boys if I saw fit, and I did so."
"And now you come and warn me?"
"Yes."
"Why do you warn me, if you are the one who set them on to murder me?"
"I did not think they would murder you, and now I have come to warn you."
"Are you engaged in the business?"
"NO."
The girl spoke in a scornful tone, and her eyes dashed with indignation.
"Who are you?"
"I do not know who I am."
A strange look came into the detective's eyes as an idea dashed through his mind.
"Are you the child of a wreck?"
"I do not know.
I know nothing about myself."
"Whom do you live with?"
"The man who calls himself my father."
"Is he not your father?"
"No."
"Has he confessed to you that he is not your father?"
"No."
"Then how do you know he is not your father?"
"I know he is not."
"Why do you live with him?"
"Where should I go?
I have no other home, and he is kind to me."
"Is he a smuggler?"
"It is not fair to ask me that question."
"Why not?"
"I have told you all that was needful to warn you of your own peril; you should not take advantage of my frankness."
The detective looked upon the lovely girl with a deep sense of pity in his heart.
Her appearance seemed to tell her tale, and it was sad to think that such wondrous beauty was but the plaything of a gang of rough sailors.
"Are you married?"
asked the detective, abruptly: "No," came the answer, in a quick, decisive tone.
"Will you tell me your name?"
"They call me Renie."
"And your father's name?"
"Tom Pearce."
"The boat-keeper?"
"Yes."
"And you informed the men who I was?"
repeated the detective.
"Yes."
"How did you find out that I was a Government officer?"
"I will not tell you."
"How did you find out that the men intended to go for me to-night?"
"I overheard them arranging their plans."
"Do they know that you overheard them?"
"No."
"Then when they discover that I am up to their plans, will they not accuse you of having betrayed them?"
"That is a question I cannot answer."
"I am astonished that you should put me in this peril, and then come and warn me!"
"I tell you I did not think my information would be followed by anything serious."
"But you tell me that three other officers have suffered by them."
"I did not know that until after I had told them who you were."
"Did you tell them directly?"
"No."
"Well, Renie, I am much obliged to you."
"And you will not go off in the yacht to-night?"
"I will think the matter over."
"Promise me that you will not go!"
pleaded the girl, in an earnest tone.
"I will not promise; but if I do go, you need have no fear.
I can take care of myself, forewarned, you know, is forearmed.
Good-night, Renie."
"I shall never forgive myself if you are injured!"
"Thank you for your interest; but you need have no fear.
I can take care of myself; the crew of the yacht 'Nancy' will not toss me to the fishes to-night."
The girl turned and walked away under the moonlight, and a strange impulse caused the detective to follow her.
The girl moved along like an uncouth apparition over the yielding sand, and had traversed fully a quarter of a mile along the shore, when suddenly a man leaped down from the bank and confronted her.
The detective, in shadowing the strange girl, had kept well in under the shadow of the bluff, and could not have been seen; and when he saw the man confront the girl, he moved rapidly forward, and gained a point near enough to overhear the talk that passed between them.
The man was a rough, villainous-looking fellow, and his voice was coarse and his manners vulgar.
It was evident that the girl was annoyed at meeting him, as was immediately betrayed by her manner.
"Hello, Renie, I've been waiting a long time for a chance to have a talk with you."
"I do not wish to have a talk with you, though, Sol Burton; so good-night!"
"Not so fast, my pretty bird; I've something to tell you."
"And I don't wish to stop and listen to you."
"You would if you knew all I had to tell."
"Well, as I don't know all you've got to tell, and as I don't desire to listen to you, I'll bid you good-night."
"You always were down on me, Renie, but I'm a friend of your'n arter all, and I've collared the secret of your life, and I'd tell it to you, only you're so darn uppish when I go to speak to you."
The detective saw the girl advance toward the rough-looking man, and overheard her say: "You know the secret of my life?"
"Yes."
"What secret is there of my life?"
"Tom Pearce is not your daddy, but I know how you came to be his adopted child."
The girl trembled from head to foot.
"Sol Burton, tell me all you know."
"Ah!
you will listen to me, my pretty bird?"
"Yes, I will."
CHAPTER II.
The man chuckled as he said: "I thought you would listen to me when I let on what I know'd."
"Tell me the secret!"
commanded the girl.
"Oh, yes, Renie!
but I've a condition."
"A condition?
What condition would you exact?"
"You must become my wife.
There, the thing's out; so now, what have you got to say?"
"I say, no!"
"That's your decision?"
"That's my decision."
"Be careful, gal.
I only asked you to marry a me to give you a chance; remember you're nobody's child, and I've hooked on to the secret."
"You're a mean man, Sol Burton, to threaten me!"
"Well, the fact is, Renie, I like you!
I'm dead in love with you, and I'm willing to marry yer, and that's more than most of the fellows round here would do, knowing all I know."
"Good-night, Sol Burton, I'll not stop to talk with you, nor will I tell my father that you said insulting words to me."
"What do you suppose I care about Tom Pearce?
I can whisper a few words in his ear that will take some of the starch out of him!
He's been mighty uppish about you, although he's let you run round the beach barefoot these sixteen years."
"Go talk to Tom Pearce, and do not be the coward to repeat your threats to me!"
The girl started to move away, when the man suddenly leaped forward and grasped her in his arms, but the same instant he received a blow which sent him reeling, as the girl was snatched from his rude grasp.
A curse fell from the man's lips, and he arose to his feet and advanced toward the man who had struck him.
"Run home, little girl!"
whispered the detective; "I will take care of this brute!"
"Thank you!"
said the girl, and she glided away along the beach.
"See here, you're the man who struck me?"
"Yes; I'm the man."
"I think I've seen you before."
"I think we've met before."
"What did you hit me for?"
"I struck you because you put your hands rudely upon the girl."
"Yer did, eh?"
"Yes."
The man leaned toward the detective with the remark: "Well, it's my turn now!"
And his turn it proved to be, as he received a rap, which caused him to turn clean over.
Sol Burton was raving mad when he once more regained his feet; the fellow was an ugly chap, a great bully ashore, and a cruel heartless man afloat.
As he arose he exclaimed: "All right, you're fixed for me to-night; but my time will come!
I'll get square with you before you're much older!"
Sol Burton turned and walked away a baffled man.
Spencer Vance walked to the point on the beach where he had stood when the girl had come to him with the strange warning.
The young man was a Government officer, a special detective, and had been assigned to the collector at the port of New York to run down an organized gang of smugglers who were known to be doing a large business off the Long Island coast.
Several detectives had been detailed to work up the matter, and one after another they had mysteriously disappeared, and the Government had never succeeded in solving the mystery of their taking off; and further, none of the officers had ever been able to locate the head-quarters of the gang.
One fact had been established: large quantities of smuggled goods had been carried into New York, and each week the Government was swindled out of thousands of dollars of revenue; and the illicit traffic had grown to such an extent that a number of honest merchants had subscribed a large sum of money which had been placed at the disposal of the collector to be used as a fund for the breaking up of the gang, who were ruining regular importers in certain branches of trade and commerce.
Spencer Vance, although but a young man, had quite a reputation as a detective.
He had done some daring work in running down a gang of forgers, and in the employ of a State Government, he had been very successful in breaking up several gangs of illicit whisky distillers.
He was a resolute, cool, experienced man, an officer who had faced death a hundred times under the most perilous circumstances.
And when summoned upon the new duty he accepted the position readily.
By methods of his own he got upon the track of the workers; the men who did the actual work of landing the contraband goods.
The latter were not the really guilty men.
They were not the principals, the capitalists; but they were the employees who for large pay ran off the coast, intercepted the steamers carrying the contraband goods, and landed them within certain assigned limits.
The men ostensibly were fishermen, and honest people among whom they associated never "tumbled" to their real calling.
CHAPTER III.
The necessities of our narrative do not demand that we should locate the exact quarter where the smugglers operated; and, besides, as there were numerous gangs covering a space of fifty miles along the coast, it would be almost impossible to indicate intelligibly the field of their operations, were we so inclined.
Spencer Vance, as stated, had adopted his own measures for locating the men; in his earlier life he had been a sailor, and had worked his way up until at the age of nineteen he held the position of second mate on a large schooner; and when he was assigned to the special duty of "piping" the smugglers, his sea experience came in good play, and was of great aid to kiln in his perilous duty.
The officer started out on his work by taking passage to the Island of Cuba, and one day in the port of Havana a ragged sailor dropped into a groggery kept by a Frenchman and made himself acquainted with a number of sailors, who were having a good time ashore.
The ragged Jack told his own tale, won upon the good-will of the jolly fellows who were in for a good time, and in the end was shipped for New York on a fast-sailing schooner.
The detective had an eye on the schooner, and well knew, when as a sea-tramp he shipped on the vessel, he had struck a smuggler.
It was a clear starry night when the vessel sighted the Long Island shore after having slipped inward past Fire Island.
The detective lay low and watched for some hours.
He had known that something unusual was in progress on board the schooner.
The captain was below, and one of the mates had charge of the deck; a light shone in the distance, like a red star dancing over the waves, and the men on the schooner moved about in a stealthy manner to and fro across the deck.
It was a strange thing to do; why should they tread thus lightly the deck of a ship ten miles off shore, as though their footsteps might be heard?
Alas!
it was a case of involuntary stealth, a sign of the nervous, trepidation which attends conscious guilt.
It did not seem that there could be any danger near; the heavens were clear, the bosom of the deep unruffled even by an evening breeze.
Nature called not for the coward tread, and the gleaming eye, the pale face, and the anxious glance hither and thither.
No, no; but the smugglers feared another peril.
Revenue cutters were known to be cruising along the coast; more than ordinary vigilance was being exercised by a robbed Government.
The men upon the schooner knew that the revenue officers were up to many of their tricks and were posted as to many of their signals; false lights might gleam across the waters like an ignis fatuus luring on a famished traveler in the desert, and within the hour after their calling had been betrayed, every man might be in irons, and the cargo and the vessel would be confiscated.
A fortune was at stake, and the shadow of a prison loomed out over across the waters and threatened to close in behind them.
Spencer Vance, the disguised detective, the supposed sea-tramp, moved about with the smugglers, acting as they acted, stepping on tiptoe, and looking pale and anxious, and it did not require that he should assume the pale excited look, for it was a momentous crisis.
He had hit the vessel the first clip, and he had struck the trail which had baffled men who claimed a larger experience in that particular branch of the detective service.
He had "piped" down to a critical moment, but he carried his life in his hands.
He was not watched, but one false move might draw attention toward him, and but a mere suspicion at that particular moment would cost him his life; these men would not have stopped to bandy, words or make inquiries.
As stated, there came the gleam of a light flashing across the calm waters, and the men who were not on ship duty strained their eyes.
Soon there followed a succession of lights, signal lights telling their story, and then the schooner men let out answering lights, and the sails were lowered and the schooner merely drifted upon the bosom of the deep.
Spencer Vance was speechless with excitement as the little game proceeded.
At this period in our story we will not describe the modus operandi, as later on we propose to fully depict the smugglers' methods under more exciting circumstances, when Spencer Vance was better prepared to checkmate the game.
We have here only indicated in an introductory form the detective's keen plan for running down and locating the haunts of the pirates.
Three days following the maneuvers of the schooner off the coast, the detective appeared at a fishing village, and at once he set to locating his shore men.
It was not the poor sailors, who were mere instruments in the robbery scheme, whom the detective was seeking to "pipe" down.
His game was to follow certain clews until he trailed up to the capitalists, the really guilty parties, the rich men who flaunted in New York in elegance and luxury on their ill-gotten gains.
The detective had got an good terms with one of the gangs.
He had been off several times with them an a cruise, and considered that he was fast working down to a dead open-and-shut, and the really guilty parties, when he received the strange wanting at the hands of the weird, but beautiful girl who called herself Renie Pearce.
That same night the detective had engaged to go off in the yacht; it was understood that a smuggler was expected off the coast that night, and he was looking to strike on a big "lay."
We must explain to our readers that the arrival of expected vessels is an uncertain event, and the shore watchers were sometimes compelled to go off night after night, even for weeks, before the vessel, sending out the long-looked-for signals, hove in sight off the horizon; and it was on these vigil nights the detective had sailed out with the men.
He had thought his game well played, his disguise perfect, his victory sure, when, as stated, at the last moment, a strange, beautiful girl came along and whispered in his ear the terrible warning that danger awaited him if he went off in the boat that night.
Spencer Vance, however, was undaunted; the warning was not sufficient to deter him going off and braving death in the way of duty, and he would have gone had not an incident occurred that caused him to await another opportunity.
As recorded, after his encounter with Sol Burton, he returned to where his boat lay, determined to go off to the yacht, when a second time an apparition glided to his side and whispered a few startling words in his ear.
CHAPTER IV.
The detective stood by his boat thinking over the thrilling position of affairs, when Renie Pearce once more appeared before him.
"Hello!
you've come back, eh?"
called the detective.
"Yes."
"Well, what now?"
"You are determined to go off to-night."
"Well?"
"You must not go, there's better game for you ashore!"
The detective was thrown off; he could not understand the girl.
Renie had confessed that she had originally betrayed him to the smugglers, and then, when danger threatened, she came and warned him, and her warning failing, she came tripping to him once more, barefooted, ragged, and beautiful, and held out to him an alluring bait.
There was no misunderstanding the purport of her words.
She betrayed the fact that she knew his full purpose, and her words implied that she was ready to throw him a larger and more certain game.
Her words were, "There's better game for you ashore!"
"Are you, my friend, Renie?"
"Yes; I am your friend."
"If you are my friend, why did you betray me to the smugglers?"
"I was not your friend then, I am your friend now.
I can serve you and you can serve me!
Your life is in danger.
You will never return if you go out in the yacht to-night.
I had prepared you for your doom, but now I will save you, and again I tell you that there's better game ashore."
"Why should I trust you!
do you not confess to having betrayed me?"
"I only knew you then as a government detective; now I know you are a man."
"You must have made the latter discovery very suddenly."
"I did."
"When?"
"When you knocked Sol Burton down; that man meant me harm.
I could have defended myself against him, but a greater peril menaces me to-night."
"What peril menaces you?"
"I have no confidant in the world; shall I make one of you?"
"Yes."
"My confidence may get you into trouble."
"How sad."
"You are a brave, noble man; you will desire to act as my champion."
"You are a strange girl."
"Yes; mine is a hard lot; I am a waif; I am nothing; I am all outcast; a thing, and yet--" The girl ceased.
She had spoken with a wild energy, and she had looked ravishingly beautiful while talking.
"And yet, what?"
said the detective interrogatively.
"My heart is full of all the ambitions that might fill the heart of a girl born in the midst of splendor and luxury; and although the companion of smugglers, I love only what is pure and beautiful; I cherish the fondest dreams, and yet--" Again the detective supplemented: "Well, go on."
"I am a poor, ragged, barefooted girl, the daughter of a boat-keeper, and that is not all!"
"Tell me all."
"Shall I?"
"Yes."
"I had reason to suppose that my pretended father was my friend; one thing is certain no millionaire ever guarded a fair daughter with more tenderness than he has guarded me.
He has sent me to school, and has permitted me to become educated far above my station.
You know in this land that is an easy thing for a poor man to do, but within a few days strange suspicions have crossed my mind; no man even among the roughest of them ever dared insult me.
Tom Pearce would have killed the man who dared bring one faint flush to my cheek with his vile tongue!
but alas!
I fear--fear."
"What do you fear?"
"Shall I say it?"
"Certainly."
"I fear his tender care of me has been a speculation."
"You do not believe he is your friend?"
"I fear he is not."
"Some enemy may have traduced Tom Pearce."
"No; the words that aroused my suspicions fell from his own lips."
"And what do you fear?"
"You must learn from other lips."
"Who will tell me?"
"If you are to know at all, you must learn my fears from the lips of my enemies."
"How shall I do that?"
"Are you willing to serve me?"
The detective was silent.
He was certainly charmed and lured by this beautiful child of the shore, but could he afford to undertake to be the champion of a barefooted girl, though she did own a strangely beautiful face?
"If you serve me I will serve you."
"What can you do for me?"
The girl's eyes gleamed as she answered: "Let me but know that these men are my foes, that I owe them no gratitude, and I can give you information for which the government would pay thousands!
and even to-night in serving me you would also serve yourself."
"Will you tell me how?"
"One of the bosses is to visit the shore to-night."
"Aha!
there is where the whale blows."
"Yes."
"Who does he visit?"
"Tom Pearce."
"What is his purpose?"
"I only guess."
"What do you guess?"
"Am I to speak more plainly to you, or can you not discern?"
"Have you ever met the man?"
"Yes."
"You fear him?"
"I do not know yet; you may find out."
"What do you suspect?"
A moment the girl was silent, but at length she said: "I suspect I am to be sent away!"
"You mistrust your reputed father?"
"I do."
"And this man comes to-night?"
"Yes."
"You would offer a suggestion?"
"Are you prepared to take advantage of my information?"
"I am."
"Watch them: learn their purpose!"
"Where do they meet?"
"In my father's cabin."
"Lead me there."
"I will."
The detective decided not to go off in the yacht that night.
He preferred to be "taken in tow" by beautiful little barefoot, and strange adventures were the outcome of his change of plans.
The detective and the girl traversed a mile and a half of the beach and then struck inland, and soon came in sight of the glimmer of lights gleaming forth from a fisherman's shanty.
"They meet there.
You know how to act, and I can give you no 'points' when it comes to 'piping.'
Good-bye for the present."
The girl glided away and the detective proceeded toward the cabin only to encounter a series of thrilling, extraordinary, and startling adventures.
CHAPTER V. Spencer Vance had become greatly interested in the beautiful Renie during the walk along the beach.
He had become deeply impressed with the purity, yet weirdness of her character.
He had pressed the girl for some reminiscence of her early childhood, but she had no recollections beyond the sea and the fisherman's cabin where she had lived with old Tom Pearce and his wife.
Her supposed father had for years rowed her every morning across the bay to the mainland, where she had attended the village school, from whence she had passed to the high school, at which her reputed father had supported her for a couple of years.
Mrs. Pearce died suddenly one day after a few hours' illness.
Just before her death Renie was alone with her in the room.
The woman had been unconscious, but she momentarily recovered consciousness and summoned the girl to her bedside and attempted to communicate some parting intelligence, but alas!
she only succeeded in uttering a few disjointed exclamations, suggestive, but not directly and fully intelligible.
The half-uttered exclamations only served to confirm certain suspicions that had long floated unsuggested through the girl's mind, and her disappointment was bitter when the icy hand of death strangled the communications which the dying woman was seeking to make.
The girl had formed a sort of attachment for Tom Pearce.
The man was a good-natured, jolly sailor sort of a fellow, and, as intimated, had always treated the girl with the utmost kindness and consideration.
It was thus matters stood up to the time of the detective's strange meeting with the girl upon the beach.
As the girl pointed to the house and concluded the words which close our preceding chapter, she glided away, and left the detective to "work his own passage".
During the walk along the beach Renie had been a little more explicit in explaining her immediate peril, and our hero was prepared to more intelligently enact the role of the eavesdropper.
The cabin of Tom Pearce, the boatman, was an ordinary fisherman's hut, built in the midst of white sand-hills, with a few willows planted on a little patch of made earth, and serving as protectors against the fierce summer blaze of the sun.
The detective crept up to the cabin, and climbing upon a rear shed which served as a cover to several boats and a large quantity of nets, he covered himself with a fragment of old sailcloth, and secured a position from where, through a little opening which in the summer was left unclosed, he could see into the main room of the cottage.
He could not only see, but could as readily overhear any conversation that might occur.
Glancing into the room, he saw Tom Pearce, whom he had seen many times before on board several of the boats that sail over the bay.
The fisherman, or rather smuggler, was seated before a table on which stood a ship's lamp, reading what appeared to be an old time-stained letter, and after an interval he muttered aloud: "Well, well, I don't know what to do!
That girl is dear to my old heart, and I'd rather die than any harm should come to her; and again I don't like to stand in her way; while according to this letter from the old woman, written nigh on to thirteen years ago, I've no right to let her pass from my possession."
The mutterings of the old man were interrupted by a loud rap at his rickety door.
"Come in!"
called the old smuggler.
The door opened, and a roughly dressed man strode into the cabin.
"Hello, Pearce!
I see you are here to meet me."
"Yes, Mr. Garcia, I'm waiting for you."
Mr. Garcia took a seat by the table opposite the old smuggler, and saw the latter crumple the letter, and put it in his pocket.
"Eh, old man, what's that your hiding?"
"Nothing that will interest you, sir; it's only an old letter from my dead wife, sent to me many years ago when she was visiting some of her friends over in Connecticut."
"How about this Government officer who has been prowling around here?"
was the next question which fell from Garcia's lips.
"Well, that's more than I can tell you, but he'll be fixed to-night, whoever he is!
Yes, sir, he'll not cause the lads any trouble, they've 'tumbled' to him!
too soon."
"They've tumbled, eh?"
"Yes; and they got up a false cruise to-night on purpose to carry him out to sea."
"How was it the boys chanced to 'drop' to him?"
"Renie did the business."
"Renie did the business?"
ejaculated the man.
"Yes, sir; she went through him.
She is a wonderful girl, she is, but I don't think she really meant to give the fellow away, but we caught her in a trap."
"You caught her in a trap?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Well, she was sending a message to warn the detective of his danger, and the letter was intercepted, and so we got into the whole business.
I tell you the fellows were mad, and had it been anybody but Renie they'd never have sent another message."
"Does Renie know her letter was intercepted?"
"I don't think she does."
"Why would she want to give the Government officer the 'tip'?"
"No telling about these women, sir, no telling about them; you see this man is a good-looking chap, a very handsome fellow, and he's a daring man, too, and a splendid sailor!
It's a pity he wasn't one of the crew.
I tell you he saved the lives of all the lads one night off the coast; but he's doomed!
He'll never save nobody again!"
"Has he been making love to the girl?"
"No; I reckon he's never seen her, but she's seen him; you see Renie goes under cover sometimes, and she wanders along the shore for hours, and one night she came upon the detective when he was holding a parley with a pal from the city; the gal 'laid low' and overheard all that was said, and at the same time she 'nipped' a letter which the man dropped from his jacket, and thus got down on the whole business; but somehow her heart went ag'in giving the man away, and she writes a letter ready to deliver to him; and by ginger, she mislaid her letter, and my nephew, a rattling little chap, 'nipped' it and gave it to the Cap, and the whole business was out!"
"You are sure there has been no acquaintance between the detective and your daughter?"
"Yes; I am sure of that."
"Why are you sure?"
"Well, I've Renie's word, and that gal would die before she would tell a lie; no, sir, she's never spoke to him, and as she never has, she never will, for his accounts will all be cleared to-night!
the lads will have a dead open and shut on him."
"I reckon you've been deceived," said Garcia.
"How so?"
"That gal has known more of this man than you think.
She would not warn a stranger that his life, was in peril, especially when that stranger was her father's foe."
"Well, it don't make any difference.
She will never see him again!"
"We can't tell about that."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll bet a thousand dollars the man didn't go off on the cruise to-night!"
"Yes, he did."
"Did you see him aboard?"
"No: but I know he went."
"That girl would know that the letter was lost."
"Yes, very likely."
"Well, she'd take some other measures to warn the man; you've been deceived, old man!"
"I hope you're mistaken, or it will be bad for Renie.
I tell you the men will be raging mad if the detective slips through their nets to-night."
"They will be, and now you recognize the necessity of turning the girl over to me."
"I've been thinking over that matter."
"You remember what I promised you?"
"Yes, yes; but suppose he should come?"
"Who should come?"
The old smuggler had spoken the words in a thoughtful manner, and the question was really addressed to himself.
The old smuggler recognised that he had made a startling admission and remained silent.
Garcia said: "I suppose you mean the day might come when someone will appear to claim the girl, and you will lose a large sum of money?"
"No; no; you do not know what I mean, you have never heard the girl's strange history."
"I know she is not your child."
"Yes; you forced that confession from me a long time ago."
"Tell me the girl's history."
"I dare not."
"Does she know the tale?"
"No."
"She believes herself your child?"
"I think she has a suspicion that she is not my child, but she loves me."
"Has she ever asked you whether or not she is your child?"
"Never!"
"Nor hinted?"
"No."
"Then why do you say she suspects that she is not your child?"
"Well, from many little things I have been led to suspect that.
She herself has a suspicion of the real truth."
"You must then tell me her history."
"I dare not."
"Listen old man, I am her friend and your friend; this is no place for Renie; when she was a mere child it was all right, but now it is not safe.
You must give her to me!
and listen; should anyone ever come to claim her, she shall be surrendered, and you will receive any reward that may be paid!"
"I do not think anyone will ever come for her, but could I solve one mystery I know where to look."
"For what?"
"Her friends."
CHAPTER VI.
Garcia was evidently, as the listening detective discerned, a very shrewd, quick-witted man.
He fixed his keen dark eyes on the old smuggler, and said: "There is something you are keeping back from me; come now, I will pay you one hundred dollars to tell me Renie's history."
"You will give a hundred dollars?"
Pearce exclaimed, in an eager tone.
"Yes, I will."
"You will pay the money right down?"
"Yes."
"I will show the letter."
The old man went down in his pocket, and drew forth the time-stained letter he had been reading when the detective first looked in upon him, and drawing closer to the light, said: "I won't show you the whole letter, but I will read just one portion to you," and he read as follows: "DEAR Tom,--There has been one thing on my mind for a long time.
I am getting old, and at any time might die, and I have a secret which I feet I should share with you in order to guard against accidents.
Upon that terrible night when Renie was placed in my care, there was also consigned to my keeping a box--a sealed box--which I was never to open until Renie should reach the age of twenty-one, or be called for by parties claiming her as their child.
I was given to understand that the box contained proofs of the dear child's birth and parentage, and it was hinted that some day she would inherit an immense fortune.
I never told you about the box, but when I return I will confide to you the place where it is concealed, so that you will be prepared to carry out the trust in case anything should happen to me before Renie becomes of age, or is claimed by those who placed her in my charge."
The remainder of the letter had no bearing upon the case of Renie, but was devoted to general matters.
After Tom Pearce had concluded the reading there followed a momentary silence.
The man Garcia appeared to be lost in deep thought.
The old smuggler also appeared to be lost in deep meditation.
After an interval Garcia said: "From that letter it would appear that the proofs of the girl's identity were in your wife's possession?"
"Yes."
"Did she keep her promise to you?"
"You mean did she inform me' where the box was hidden?"
"Yes."
"She did not."
"And she died without making the revelation?"
"Yes, she died very suddenly."
"Did you ever search over her papers?"
"I did."
"And never came across the slightest clew?"
"Never!"
"Why was it she did not make a confidant of you?"
"Well, I was a pretty wild sort of man in those days, and it's my idea that many precious jewels are hidden in that box."
The eyes of the man Garcia glistened as he asked: "What makes you think so?"
"Well, my old woman let fall many strange hints now and then, and always said that Renie would be rich some day--immensely rich."
"She meant when claimed by her friends?"
"Yes; but she once said that Renie would be rich whether her friends claimed her or not; and what is more, money was always ready when anything was needed for the girl."
"But the girl has been allowed to run loose."
"Not altogether; no, sir, not altogether; Renie has received an expensive education, and my wife always found the money to pay the bills; the girl thinks she was educated out of my hard earnings, but never a dollar or my money went for her support until after the old woman died!"
"Have you ever searched for the box?"
"I have."
"Do you suppose your wife ever opened it?"
"That I cannot tell, but once when she and I were in the City of New York, we read about a great singer who had some magnificent jewels, and my wife said to me: 'I'll wager I could-show jewels handsomer and richer than that critter's got, and they claim hers are valued at a hundred thousand dollars.'"
The detective heard all these strange revelations, and he made up his mind that there was a big job falling into his hands.
"You say you have searched for the box?"
"Yes."
"And never found it or gained any clew as to its whereabouts?"
"Never."
"Has Renie any knowledge of the box?"
"I don't know whether my wife ever made a confidant of the child."
"Has the girl ever spoken of it?"
"Never."
"And you have never mentioned it to her?"
"Never."
"Who was with your wife when she died?"
"Renie."
"She may have made a final revelation to the girl!"
"I think not."
"How long has your wife been dead?"
"Three years."
"Tom Pearce, all you tell me makes me anxious to take charge of the girl; but tell me all the circumstances under which she came to be placed in your charge."
After a moment's thought the old man said: "I will.
"One calm winter's day, the boating men hereabouts were surprised to see a handsome and trim-built yacht come sailing through the channel; and running up the bay to a good anchorage, she let go her iron and lay like a great swan on the water.
"A short time afterward, a foreign-looking man was landed on the beach, and he strolled around among the fishermen's buts and only spoke when addressed by some of the fishermen; but I tell you his great black eyes were busy glancing around.
No one knew at the time what he was looking for, but it was evident he was searching for something, and my wife and I later on were the only ones who fell into the mystery."
"The man was studying the faces of the people hereabouts?"
suggested Garcia.
"That was just what he was doing, and later on he made inquiries here and there, and as events proved, my wife was the woman who struck his fancy."
"And did he bring her the child?"
"Hold on!
let me tell the story just as the events happened.
I told you it was in the winter when the yacht hove to in the bay; well, one bitter and blustering night about three days after the arrival of the yacht, I was over on the mainland having a carouse, and toward morning took the chances of crossing the bay in a catboat to my home.
How I ever reached here in safety I'll never tell, but I ran on to the beach all right, and footed to my shanty!
Well, sir, as I neared the house pretty well sobered, the first thing I heard was the wail of an infant; and I tell you I was surprised, and entering the house I saw my wife with a lovely child in her arms, which she was feeding with a spoon.
"'Hello, Betsy,' I yelled, 'where did you get that little squealer from?'
"Well, sir, my wife raised her finger to her lips, and warned me to be silent, and in a low tone told me that on the following day she would tell me all about it.
Well, you see I was pretty well fagged out, and I always had an idea that what my wife said and done was right.
So I tumbled into bed without making any further inquiries.
"Well, the next morning my good wife told me as how amidst the storm when it was at its greatest fury, the strange man who had come ashore from the yacht, entered our cabin having a bundle wrapped in his arms, and she told me how surprised she was when he opened his bundle and discovered a beautiful little child about a year old."
"Renie was only a year old when placed in your charge."
"That's all, sir."
"Well, proceed."
"There ain't much more to tell; my wife told me that the man, had left the child in her charge, and that we were to be well paid for its keep; and as long as Betsy thought it as all right, I made no objections."
"Did the man ever come again?"
"No, sir; the day following the bringing of the child ashore the yacht sailed away and never since has her prow plowed the waters of the bay.
Nor has anyone belonging to her ever been seen in these parts."
"And how long ago did this occur?"
"Nigh onto seventeen years ago, sir."
"And Renie is about eighteen years old?"
"Thereabouts, sir."
"It is not likely that she will ever be claimed."
"Hardly, sir."
"It is not likely that the box will ever be found."
"Hardly, sir."
There was one man, however, who dissented from the latter opinion; the detective in his own mind resolved that he would find that box, if it took him years to trace it; meantime the man Garcia opened his scheme.
"Tom, you must let me have the girl."
"I am willing; but the girl herself objects."
"She does?"
"Yes."
"You have spoken to her?"
"Yes; I told her a rich gentleman in New York, wished to adopt her, a man who would bring her up as his own child; but she answered that she did not wish to go to New York; did not desire to be adopted, and would not leave me."
"She must be compelled to go with me!"
"I wouldn't like to do that."
"Listen, Tom, let me have the girl, and I will pay, you two thousand dollars down in gold!"
"But she will not go with you."
"We can manage that."
"How do you mean to manage it?"
"We'll play a trick on her, and I tell you when once I get her in my house, she will find things so pleasant and delightful she will never wish to return to this place again!"
"I can't play no tricks on the gal!
no, no, she's got perfect confidence in me, and I would not betray her confidence, not even for two thousand dollars in gold!
And I'm a poor man, sir, very poor, and I'm old and getting feeble!"
"I'll tell you what we can do, Tom; you can bring her to New York to visit me."
"Yes."
"And then we may be able to persuade her to remain."
"I'll think it over; but see here, why is it you are so anxious to get possession of the girl?"
"I do not wish to see one so lovely and beautiful living in such a miserable condition."
"See here, Garcia, do you mean that girl harm?"
"Why, old man, what could prompt you to ask that question?"
"Well, I'll tell you, you're so anxious; 'tis just come over my mind that you don't mean just what's right.
Now, see here; it wouldn't do for you to mean any harm to Renie.
I'd follow, any man who would harm her to the very death!"
As the old smuggler spoke he drew his knife front his belt and laid it on the table in a suggestive manner.
"You can trust the girl with me; but where is she, to-night?"
"Can't tell, sir; nights like these she likes to roam the beach; she's a strange girl, sir, but I'd never have any harm come to her!"
"Will you consent to bring her to New York on a Visit?"
"I'll think the matter over, and--" The further remarks of the old smuggler were cut short by a shrill scream of agony which broke the stillness of the night.
CHAPTER VII.
The two men stopped and listened a moment, when Tom Pearce started to go toward the door, exclaiming: "Something has scared Renie!"
"Hold on!
Nothing is the matter with the girl," said Garcia.
"How do you know?"
retorted the old smuggler; and he made another step toward the door, when the man Garcia suddenly dealt him a blow with a club.
The blow was a powerful one, and it brought the old man to the floor, which laid him insensible upon the broad of his back.
Meantime, the detective had overheard the scream; and had slid away from his hiding-place, and started to run toward the point from whence the cry had come.
Spencer Vance was convinced that the scream had been uttered by Renie, and, remembering Sol Burton's attack upon the girl, he suspected the man had renewed his attempt.
The detective ran for some distance, and saw no one; and his anxiety became intense lest some real harm had befallen the helpless girl.
He could not understand what had become of her.
When he first heard the cry, it did not appear as though the screamer could be more than a few hundred feet distant from where he lay ensconced; but he had covered thousands of square feet, and could see nothing of the girl, or, indeed, was there a living soul visible.
The detective was straining his eyes in glances in every direction when he caught sight of the figure of a man moving stealthily across the sand.
The detective started to follow the man, and speedily discerned that the stealthy prowler was the man Garcia.
The latter had not seen the detective, and our hero kept upon his track, following him to the shore.
On the beach were gathered a group of men, and in their midst Vance beheld the girl Renie.
At a glance the detective took in the situation, Garcia, despairing of success with the old smuggler, had determined to kidnap the girl.
There were three men besides the man Garcia, and four to one was pretty good odds; besides, the detective knew the men to be desperate and well prepared to fight.
What should he do?
He could not stand by and see the fair, helpless girl carried oft; and yet he was alone, and had no one to call upon for assistance.
Lying off the shore was a sloop-yacht, and on the beach was a boat; the intention of the men was apparent.
It was their purpose to carry the girl off to the yacht.
Spencer Vance was an experienced officer, well posted in all the tricks and devices of his craft, and he at once began to carry out a scheme.
He took up a position behind a sand-rift, and commenced to shriek and scream like a woman; and a moment later he became aware that his ruse was successful; two men came running toward the place where he lay concealed and as they approached the detective leaped to his feet.
He had the men at a disadvantage; they were not expecting an attack, and were unprepared.
The detective, however, was ready to receive them as they ran down the incline, and quick as lightning sprung upon the two men.
The men were both stunned, and were down before they had a chance to make an outcry.
Having disposed of the two men, the detective advanced toward the point on the beach where the two remaining men stood.
He walled straight up to the kidnappers, who stood and gazed at him in amazement.
"Heh, Renie!"
he called, "are you going willingly with these men?"
The men answered for the girl: "Yes; she is going with us.
Who are you, and what have you got to say about it?"
"When I speak, it will be from these; you fellows get in your boat or I fire!"
"Who are you?"
came the question.
"Get in your boat, and leave, or down you go!
The other two chaps are settled."
"But give us an explanation."
One of the men made a movement to draw his weapon, but the detective called: "Hold on there, my friend!
And now, you fellows, get in your boat, or at the call of three it will be too late!"
"One!"
called the detective, and he made one step nearer the men.
"Two!"
he called a second later, and he advanced another step.
The men did not wait for the third call, but leaped into their boat.
The detective advanced to the spot where Renie stood, and in a low voice, he said: "Am I right?"
The girl made no reply.
A suspicion of the truth flashed through the detective's mind, and he said: "Renie, run to your father's cabin, the road is clear!"
The girl, who had stood speechless during the whole time that the exciting incidents we have described were transpiring, suddenly bounded away, but without speaking one word.
The detective called to the two men in the boat: "Don't you fellows land again, or it will cost you your lives!"
The men made no reply, and the detective moved away in the same direction that had been pursued by Renie.
He had gone less than a hundred feet, when he met the girl coming toward him.
The detective was both amused and pleased.
He realized that in case of an emergency the girl would be of great help.
"Never mind, my child, I've settled 'em!"
he said: Still the girl made no reply, and it was then the detective discovered that she had been gagged.
He also discovered that her arms had been secured, so she could not raise them to her head.
It took him but a moment to release her with his knife, when she exclaimed: "I thank you for coming to my aid; but where are the villains?"
"I reckon they've gone off to their boat; but come, we will see.
With such a noble and brave ally I would not hesitate to invite a scrimmage with half a dozen of them."
The detective's guess proved correct.
The two men whom he had first dropped had evidently recovered their senses, and had joined their pals on the beach, as a boat bearing four persons could be seen moving off toward the yacht.
As our readers can well imagine, it was not because of the detective's warning that the men pulled away to their boat.
Garcia remembered that he had stricken down the old smuggler, and it was the consequences of that act which made him anxious to get away.
"There they go, Renie!"
"Yes; thanks to you, I am not going with them;" answered the girl.
"Why was the assault made upon you, my child?"
"You are my friend; I will tell you all now.
That man Garcia is a villain!
He has made all manner of propositions to me to induce me to leave the coast and go to the city with him, but I knew the man to be a villain, a murderer, and criminal of the worst sort, and I refused all his offers."
"On what pretense did he make offers to you, my child?"
"Oh, he told me I was fitted to adorn a mansion, that this life with these rough fishermen was no life for me, and that he would take me to live as his child in luxury and splendor."
"In one respect, Renie, the man told you truly.
You are not fitted to dwell among these rough men around here."
"I know that well enough, but I will not leave my father, and when I do I shall not place myself under the protection of a man like Garcia."
"Who is this man Garcia?"
"He is a Cuban, or rather his father was a Cuban, and his mother, as I've heard him say, was an Irish lady.
I think he is one of the capitalists engaged in the smuggling trade; and that he is a villain and scoundrel I know!"
"He had a long interview with Tom Pearce to-night."
"Yes; I requested you to be a listener to their talk.
What did you overhear?"
"Tom Pearce is an honest and good man, as far as you are concerned; the fellow Garcia was seeking with the offer of bribes to induce the old man to take you to New York and surrender you to his keeping.
He used the same arguments with your father that he used with you."
"And what did my father say to his propositions?"
"He gave no decided answer; but one thing is certain, the old man would never surrender you to that fellow if he had the least suspicion that any harm would come to you."
"What has occurred this night will convince him, I reckon."
"Yes, I should say so," responded the detective.
"I would not have gone to that man's house even had my father consented.
I have a mind and will of my own; and now that I am on my guard I will take care of myself against any such attacks in future."
"I don't know, Renie; I do not think you will be safe here."
"The men around here will protect me."
At that moment a diminutive shadow was cast on the sand in front of Renie and the detective, and a moment later a little fellow, a mere child seemingly in years, appeared before them.
"Hello, Tommy, where did you come from?"
demanded Renie.
"I want to speak to you, Renie."
"Well, speak out, Tommy."
"I won't speak before anyone.
I've awful news to tell you."
"Go and hear what the lad has to say to you," suggested Vance.
Renie stepped aside with the lad, when the latter whispered in a low tone: "Sol Burton has made trouble."
"What has he done?"
"He told the men that you gave that man warning, and they're awful mad at you, and they've put up a job to get the man into a quarrel."
"Where are the men now?"
"Down to Rigby's."
"They expect the detective down there to-night?"
"Yes."
"And Sol Burton was the man who told them I gave the detective warning?"
"Yes."
"You go down to Rigby's and listen to what goes on, and in about an hour come up and report to me."
"Where will you be?"
"At the cabin."
Tom Pearce's house was generally called the cabin, as the timbers and other materials of which it was constructed were portions of a wreck that had come ashore many years previously.
Tommy bid the girl good-night, and the latter returned to the detective.
"Well, is the communication confidential?"
"You are in great peril."
"Am I?"
"You are."
"From which quarter does the danger threaten me?"
"Sol Burton has reported against me."
"What has he reported?"
"He has told the men that I warned you, and that is the reason you did not go off in the yacht."
"The men will not harm you, I reckon."
"No, they will not harm me."
"Then I reckon no harm is done."
"The men have sworn to get square with you to-night!"
CHAPTER VIII.
The detective laughed in a quiet way, and said: "My dear child, I have been in hotter danger than any that threatens me at this moment.
I know now in which quarter the danger lies, and I would be a poor man were I to be frightened off when holding that 'lead.'"
"But those men are set to catch you to-night.
They have sworn to assault you, and there are twenty of them, all told; you may treat the danger lightly, but I tell you they are a desperate lot.
They will make good their threat unless you go.
It will be impossible for you to stand against them all."
"Never you fear for me, Renie; I'll go off in the yacht to-night.
She catches a 'liner,' and don't you forget."
"You will go off in the yacht with those men?"
exclaimed the girl.
"Yes, I will."
"Never!
they will go for you at sight!
They know now that you have been warned."
"I will look out for myself; it is not my peril we must consider, but yours."
"I am safe.
I shall tell all to my father, and after that it will be a dangerous thing for Garcia to show his face around our cabin."
"The man has money, he will operate by trick and device.
He will bribe someone whom you consider your best friend to aid him, and already you have an enemy."
"Sol Burton?"
"Yes."
"I do not fear him.
I'll scare that man over to the mainland, to remain there, before to-morrow's sunset.
No, no!
I am not in danger, but you are."
"You need have no fear for me."
"You will not go to Rigby's to-night?"
"I may go down there."
"And invite your doom?"
The detective smiled as he answered: "I can depend upon you?"
"How depend upon me?"
"You will not give any information against me!"
"I certainly will not."
"You must not know anything about me when you are questioned, but you can suggest that, possibly, I have become seared, and slid away."
"Why do you not go?"
"Go!
why, my child, I'm getting right down to the business that brought me here; in a few days I'll have matters dead to rights; and, while I think of it, let me warn you, do not let Tom Pearce go off any more."
"He does not go off nowadays.
He has not been off in the yacht for a year.
He is getting too old."
"Give him a warning."
"How warn him?"
"Tell him to lay low, that the officers have got all the points down good, and are about to close in; tell him he'll be safe if he lies quiet close from this time out."
"I will warn him; but, alas!
it's you who should take warning.
You know not your peril?"
"We will drop that matter for the present.
I have only one more word to say: You must know nothing about me, under any circumstances whatever; you must never seek to communicate with me, unless I first address you."
"I do not understand."
"It is not necessary for you to understand; you are a girl of ready wit; a general command to you is sufficient.
I have good reasons for my request.
I am amply able to take care of myself under all circumstances; my fear, as I told you, is for you.
And now, to change the subject, have you any intimate friend, save your father?"
"Not one."
"Can I claim to be a friend of yours?"
The girl answered promptly: "You have already proven yourself a friend."
"You remember the words addressed to you by Sol Burton?"
"Yes."
"That fellow, I am satisfied, has no information for you."
"I have so decided in my own mind."
"Will you confide in me as a friend?"
"I will!"
came the ready reply.
"I have reason to know that there is a mystery connected with your committal, years ago, to the care of Mrs.
Pearce."
"I know that myself."
"I can solve that mystery if you permit me to do so."
"I believe you can aid me; but if you go to Rigby's to-night you can never do service for me; these men will make good their threat!"
"We will not talk about me now; we will talk about you, and I wish to ask you one question: Were you with Mrs. Pearce when she died."
"I was."
"Did she succeed in making any communication."
"She did not."
"Not even one word?"
"She only succeeded in saying, 'Renie, I have something important to tell you;' then her tongue became paralyzed, and she never spoke again."
"Upon no former occasion did she ever give you hint?"
"Never."
"She never told you of the circumstances under which you were confided to her care?"
"Never."
"And she never spoke of a mysterious box or any relics that might some day serve as identification tokens."
"Never.
She always gave me to understand that she was my real mother."
"Well, now, Renie, I wish to ask you some very, important questions, and I desire that you will think and consider well before you make a reply."
"I have a good memory; but, first, tell me what was the purport of the conversation between my father and the man Garcia?"
"We will not speak of that now."
"There were revelations made."
"Yes."
"And you will repeat them to me?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Some day."
"Why not now?"
"I will answer you frankly.
I have determined, as I told you, to solve the mystery connected with your consignment to the care of Mrs. Pearce, and I do not wish to tell you anything that will start any suggestions in your mind, until I have collected and considered all the little memories you may have retained of the habits of your supposed mother."
"Her habits were ordinary and commonplace enough.
She was merely a good, hard-working fisherman's wife."
"But did she not act like a woman who possessed: a secret?"
The girl was thoughtful for some moments.
"I do remember a strange incident that once occurred when I was quite a girl."
"Ah!
now we are getting down to it.
Relate the incident."
"My reputed mother is buried in the graveyard on the mainland, beside the grave of her son."
"Yes."
"Well, once she visited his grave with me, and as she stood weeping, she said, after focusing her eyes on me in a strange manner: "'Renie, some day from that grave may come forth a strange secret; the day may come when I will tell you about it.'"
CHAPTER IX.
The detective was keenly interested at once.
"Were you old enough to consider her remark seriously?"
"Yes; I formed an idea as to her meaning."
"What was your idea?"
"She alluded to the resurrection of the dead.
She was what they called a Millerite."
"Yes; I have heard of those people--a strange sect, who believed the world was coming to an end about every three months.
So you thought she alluded to the resurrection?"
"Yes."
"Did she visit her son's grave often?"
"No."
"Did you ever notice that her mind took any particular line of thought after these visits?"
"No."
The detective was thoughtful a moment, but his meditations were rudely disturbed by the reappearance of the boy Tommy.
The little fellow had been running hard, and was almost breathless as he called to Renie: "Come quick!
I've something to tell you."
The girl stepped aside with the lad, when the latter laid: "They're coming for him."
"For whom?"
"That man."
The lad, pointed toward the detective.
"Who is coming?"
"The crew of the 'Nancy.'
They're all wild drunk, and they're sure to try to hurt him."
"How do they know he is here?"
"Someone ran in the tavern and told 'em."
"Who was it?"
"I don't know.
I was down there 'laying around' on the watch, when a man ran in and whispered something to the big mate, and then the men all took a 'stiff tin' and with oaths and curses started to go to your daddy's cabin.
I ran ahead of them to warn you."
"They will not harm me."
"No, but they are after him sure!"
again the lad pointed toward the detective.
"All right, Tommy, you go and watch them, we'll look out."
Renie returned to where the detective stood, and said: "Come with me, we've not a moment to spare."
"What's the matter now?"
"The gang have learned that you are still on the coast; they are all mad drunk, and they're coming for you!"
"Which way are the men coming?"
"They are going to my father's cabin, and if they do not find you there they will commence a search for you; they're all mad with liquor, and should they find you, no power on earth can save you!"
"Nonsense!
they cannot harm me.
I only fear for you; and now listen, I've other work around here beyond the duty of breaking up the gang of smugglers.
I'm going to solve the mystery of your life, fathom the secret of Betsy Pearce, and mark my, words, I'll succeed!"
"Oh, do not remain here to-night!
listen, they are almost upon us!
fly with me!
I can place you in a hiding-place!"
"If I lose my life to-night, it will be your fault, Renie."
"My fault?"
"Yes."
"How so?"
"Because you will not do as I say."
"What shall I do?"
"Go to your father's cabin, and deny any knowledge of me."
"You demand that I shall leave you?"
"Yes."
"I go at your command!"
The girl glided away.
Meantime the detective heard loud voices and signs of intense excitement over at the boatman's cabin, which was not more than six hundred feet distant from where the detective and Renie stood, while the conversation which we have repeated was in progress.
Strange feelings were raging in the detective's bosom at that moment.
He had known the beautiful barefooted girl but a few hours, and he had come to feel more interest in her than he had ever cherished for any other human being since the day he had laid his widowed mother to rest in the church-yard.
When he had first glanced at the girl under the exciting circumstances of that truly eventful night, he had considered her a rustic beauty, handsome, but ignorant; but alas!
a better knowledge of her taught him that she was a refined and educated girl, despite the fact of the bare feet, her unkempt hair, and long residence among the fishermen and smugglers of the coast.
She was a true child of romance, a wonderful prodigy of a strange and weird fate, and he could not but picture to himself what a ravishingly lovely creature she would be under different auspices; and he wondered not that the Cuban villain, Garcia, was anxious to secure possession of her.
The detective quickly thought over the whole matter.
He discerned the Cuban's purpose; the man meant to take the girl to Cuba, perchance, to make her his wife, and why not?
She was beautiful, and there was a possibility that she might develop into a great heiress.
The detective, however, did not have much time to meditate on his strange meeting with the girl and the stranger incidents that followed that meeting.
He was warned that it was necessary for him to take measures for the safety of his life.
Spencer Vane was a thoroughly experienced detective.
He was no tyro at the business, and he was up to all the tricks and devices of the modern science of criminal detection.
He was as good at the art of disguise as any in the profession, and it was his skill in the latter particular which make him so indifferent as to the approach of the gang of madly drunken smugglers.
Our hero walked over behind a high sand drift, and in a few minutes had worked a most startling and extraordinary "transform;" no living man, unless posted as to his disguise, could ever have recognised in the dark-faced, rough-looking man who issued from behind the drift, the same light-haired, dashing-looking fellow who had a moment before disappeared behind it.
CHAPTER X.
The detective had just completed his change in appearance, when he was startled by hearing a shrill piercing scream in a female voice from the direction of Tom Pearce's cabin.
"As I feared!"
he muttered, and he walked rapidly toward the cabin, and approaching, he saw an excited group of men standing outside, while something of a more ordinary character appeared to be transpiring beneath the humble roof.
The detective approached the group of men standing outside and inquired: "Hello, what's going on here?"
The men crowded around the new-comer, and glared in his face, and one of the men called out, "Ahoy there, bring a glim here, quick!
Here's stranger, and by all that's fatal, I believe Tom's enemy!"
The detective was perfectly cool as he answered; "Will you tell me what's going on here."
"Who are you, anyhow?"
came the query in a rough tone.
Meantime one of the men had brought out a ship's lantern, and it was held up in front of the detective's face, and the men glared at him.
"Do any of you know this fellow?"
came the question.
One man after another declared his utter ignorance of the identity of the stranger.
"Who are you, my man?"
again came the question; "My name is Ballard, but I reckon no one around here knows me."
"I reckon you're right, you villain!
and now what brings you here?"
"I came here to see a woman named Betsy Pearce."
"You came here to see a woman named Betsy Pearce?"
"Yes."
"What brought you here to see Betsy Pearce?"
"That's my business."
"You've been here before, to-night, old man!"
"Who says so?"
"We all do."
"Then you are all mistaken!"
"We are, eh?
Well, my friend, it stands you in hand to give an account of yourself, and explain your presence here, or to-morrow's sun will never rise before your eyes!"
"Will you men explain why I am assailed this way?"
"My friend, Tom Pearce, has been found in his cabin unconscious!"
The detective gave a start, and a shudder passed over his stalwart frame.
The start and shudder were the result of far different causes than the men around him supposed, but they noticed his momentary agitation, and one of them exclaimed: "We've got the right man!
And now, boys, get a rope; there'll be no foolin' in this case!"
Meantime one of the men entered the cabin and whispered to Renie, who was weeping over the body of her murdered father.
"They've caught the rascal, miss, and they're going to hang him!"
The girl uttered a scream, a wild piercing wail of anguish and terror!
At that terrible moment it flashed across her mind that the men had caught Spencer Vance, and had concluded that the detective was the assailant of her father.
The girl rushed from the cabin screaming: "Hold!
Hold!
do not harm that man!
He is innocent!
Hold!
Hold, I say!"
The girl advanced to the center of the group of men that surrounded the detective, still exclaiming: "Do not harm that man!
he is innocent!
He is innocent!"
She approached close to the prisoner; one of the men held the the lantern so its gleam shone full in the detective's face, and he inquired: "Do you know him, Renie?"
The girl fixed her eyes on the prisoner and recoiling, exclaimed: "No, no, I do not know him!
I thought it was another man!
He must be the one!"
As the excited girl spoke she pointed toward the detective.
The latter still stood, the coolest party amidst all there assembled.
Renie had taken but a cursory glance at the prisoner.
One glance had been sufficient to prove to her that it was not the detective, and observing the man's swarthy complexion she connected him with the Cuban Garcia, and it was the latter fact which in the excitement of the moment caused her to exclaim, "He must be the one!"
As stated, the detective was perfectly cool, but he realized his position in all its terribleness, and more fully, when one of the men said: "Now, then, stranger, give an account of yourself."
"I tell you I came here to see Betsy Pearce."
"You were not at this cabin before to-night."
"I was not."
"Where do you hail from?"
"That's my business."
"That means you won't tell."
"Yes."
"You may be sorry anon, good man; and now answer!
What was your business with Betsy Pearce?"
"I will not answer."
"You had no business with Tom Pearce?"
"I did not."
"Stranger, your story don't work.
Betsy Pearce has been dead and in her grave these two years."
"I know that!"
"Ah, you knew it?"
"Yes, I learned so since my arrival on the coast."
Renie had returned to the interior of the cabin, and one of the men said: "Is the rope ready?"
"Yes," came the answer.
"Do you hear that, stranger?"
"I do."
"Rig a swing cross, boys.
We'll fix this fellow, and teach all comers that this is the wrong coast for such scoundrels!"
The detective fully realized the men were in earnest, and that, unless some fortunate accident intervened.
It would indeed be an "up you go" with him.
It would be hard to conceive a more embarrassing and critical position.
The detective could not appeal to Renie openly as the appeal would reveal his real identity; and no opportunity appeared for a quiet revelation of himself to the girl.
He was led to the place of execution; the rope was thrown over his head, when Renie came forth from the cabin.
She ran forward to where the victim stood.
"Hold!
Hold!"
she said, "what are you about to do?"
"Hang your father's assailant!"
"Does the man confess his guilt?"
"No."
"Let me speak to him."
The girl pressed forward close to the doomed man, and addressing him, said: "Are you innocent or guilty?"
"It makes no difference now; but tell me are you Renie Pearce?"
"I am Renie Pearce."
"I have an important communication to make to you before I die."
"To me?"
"Yes."
"Well, speak!"
"What I communicate must be spoken in your ear alone, as it concerns you only."
"Go and see what he has to say," commanded the leader of the lynching party.
The girl stepped close to the man and the lyncher stepped back.
In a low tone the detective said: "Be calm and do not betray that you know me!"
The girl felt her heart stand still, and a cry rose to her lips.
"Hold," whispered the officer, "or you will destroy all chances for escape."
The girl's face assumed the hue of death, a thrilling suspicion flashed through her mind.
"You can save me, Renie, but if you betray my real identity I am doomed!"
"Are you Spencer Vance?"
"Yes."
"Heavens!
what does this mean?"
"It is no time for explanations now; tell me, is your father dead?"
"He shows signs of life."
"Then you can save my life."
"You shall not die!"
"Listen, tell the men I have made certain revelations to you; tell them your father is reviving; bid them wait and let the old man identify me as the assailant, or proclaim my innocence."
"I see!
I see!"
said the girl.
"Remember, under no circumstances, even though I die, must my identity be betrayed!"
"You can trust me."
The girl stepped toward the men, and addressing them, said: "You must not hang that man!"
"Is the man your friend?"
came the question in a jeering tone.
"The man is a stranger; but I am satisfied he did not strike down my father.
He has told me important things; my father revives, let my father see this man!"
At the moment there came a fortunate diversion in favor of the policy of delay; a voice called in from the house, "Come here, Renie, your father is reviving.
He has called for you!"
"Bring the man to my father," said the girl.
"Yes," came the answer from several.
"Throw the rope off from around his neck."
A young man stepped forward and did as commanded.
The sentiment was turning in favor of the seemingly doomed man.
CHAPTER XI.
It was an exciting moment when the detective was led into the cabin; as many as could get in, crowded into the low-ceiled room.
The old man had rapidly revived, his only attendant being an old man-of-war's-man, who had had a large experience with wounded men.
The detective meantime was quite confident; conscious of his innocence he welcomed the inspection.
The wounded man opened his eyes and gazed around the room.
"Where am I?"
he demanded.
Renie stepped to his side and said: "You are in your own cabin, father."
The old man gazed around wildly at the pale faces gathered around his bed; the detective was led forward and the old smuggler's glance fell upon the stark face.
Suddenly the wounded man uttered a thrilling cry, rose up in the bed to a sitting position, end pointing his finger at the detective, demanded in a hoarse voice, "Why is he here?
take him away!"
The group gathered around the bed were paralyzed to silence, but after a moment the silence was broken by the voice of the leader of the gang of lynchers who asked: "Who is he, Tom?"
In clear distinct tones the answer came: "The villain who struck me down!"
Renie uttered a scream, and oaths fell from the lips of the men.
"Out with him!
out with him!"
came the cry, and oaths and curses and shouts of vengeance filled the air.
The men started to turn the detective toward the door, determined to hang him without further hindrance or delay.
The wounded man as he uttered the fatal words had fallen back, seemingly into a dead faint.
It was a terrible moment; the maddened men had reached the door with their prisoner when Renie called out in a frantic voice: "Hold!
do not take him away, my father has a word to say to him."
The girl's quick wit and readiness of expedient were wonderful.
At first, when the fatal words fell from her father's lips, her blood ran cold with horror; but quickly came the recollection that the detective had changed his appearance, and that she herself had failed to recognize him.
Garcia was a dark-complexioned man, and the thought came to her that here was a possibility that, in a moment of excitement and bewilderment, the injured old smuggler had mistaken the detective for Garcia.
Her device to stay the maddened men was a rare example of quickness of thought at a critical moment; indeed, it was the only appeal that would have caused the men to delay their fell purpose.
Tom Pearce was still unconscious, and Renie threw herself upon the old man, pretending to caress him, so as to hide the fact of his unconsciousness and to gain time until he should revive.
At length, the old smuggler did revive, and Renie whispered the inquiry in his ear: "Father, who was it struck you down?"
"Garcia!"
came the response in a husky voice.
Gladness gleamed in the girl's eyes.
The men brought the detective to the bedside.
"Wait, wait a moment!"
commanded Renie.
"What does the old man wish to say to the villain?"
"Wait, wait until he more fully revives."
Some of the men who were outside, not understanding the cause of the delay, called out: "Bring the man out!"
Meantime, the old man more fully revived, when Renie whispered to him: "Father, do you know me?"
"Yes; it is Renie, my child."
"Do you remember pointing out the man who assailed you?"
"Yes; it was that villain Garcia."
"The man whom you denounced was not Garcia."
"Was it not Garcia whom they brought before me."
"No."
"Who was it?"
"A stranger."
"I made a mistake!"
"Yes; you made a mistake.
Will you not look again at the man?"
"Certainly I will."
"Will you rise up in bed?"
"Yes."
Renie assisted the old man to rise, and beckoned the men to lead the detective forward.
"Now, father," she said, "look upon this man."
The old smuggler looked the detective all over, and a change came over his face as he said: "Is that the man I denounced?"
"Yes."
"My friends, that is not the man who assailed me!"
The gang of lynchers stood gazing in amazement, and there was a suspicious look upon the faces of many of them as their leader remarked: "The girl has cajoled him."
The men suspected that the girl had induced her Father to recall his words.
"Would you know the man who assailed you, Tom?"
"Yes."
"Then why did you accuse this man?"
"I had not fully recovered my senses when I denounced him."
"Do you know the right man?"
"Yes," came the answer.
"Are you sure you have your senses now?"
"Yes."
"This man is really innocent?"
"He is."
"That settles it, stranger.
We owe you an apology; but you had a narrow 'squeak' of it, and but for the gal, you'd have been dangling now from yonder spar."
Turning to the wounded man, the fellow continued: "Tom, who was the man who assailed you?"
"I know him."
"You're going to die; tell us, old man, who did the deed?"
The old man-of-war's-man, who had been attending the wounded smuggler, exclaimed: "Die, is it?
Not he!
Tom Pearce is good for a three-years' cruise yet; and he'd a mind to take it!"
"Well, tell us who the man was, Tom?"
"No, boys, not now; it was a private quarrel.
I'm coming around all right, and I'm much obliged for the good feeling you men have shown toward me; but I'll settle with the man who downed me--settle with him good, and no mistake!"
"All right, you have your own way, but when you're around again, we want to have a talk with you; and, meantime, Renie, I've a few words to say to you in private."
"You want to talk to me, Ike Denman!"
"Yes."
"Well, speak out."
"Clear out, boys; you know what business you have on hand; get down to work, and if you fail, I'll meet you at Rigby's later on."
The men moved away, the detective going with them; and a few moments later Renie, Denman, and the old smuggler were alone.
"Renie," said Denman, "haven't we always treated you well?"
"I've never complained of the treatment I've received on the coast."
"Then, why have you turned against us?"
"I've not turned against you."
"Go slow, girl, go slow!
Don't say anything you'll have to take back."
"I know just what I'm saying."
"There's been an enemy on the coast."
"A Government officer?"
"Yes; a Government officer."
"Who warned him he was in danger?"
"Who first learned he was a Government officer?"
"That's neither here nor there.
Who warned him not to go off in the yacht this night?"
"I did."
"You did?"
"Yes."
"Why did you do so?"
"I did not want to see the man murdered."
"Who told you the man would be murdered?"
Ike Denman fixed his keen eyes sharply on the girl when he asked the question.
"No one told me."
"See here, girl, do not tell me that!"
"You have my answer."
"Renie, before to-night I would have taken your word for anything; but now I doubt you!"
"I can't help it, I have told you the truth."
"Someone must have told you our plans?"
"No one told me."
"And what did you tell the detective?"
"I told him not to go off in the yacht to-night."
"What more did you tell him?"
"I told him to leave the coast."
"What reason did you give him for warning hunt rot to go off in the yacht?"
"I told him he'd never return alive."
"That's frank and straight."
"I always tell the truth."
"And now, girl, we have something, worse than a Government officer on the coast."
The girl remained silent, and Denman continued: "A traitor is worse than a Government officer, and, we have a traitor in our midst."
The girl still remained silent.
She supposed the fellow was alluding to her.
"Renie, you must tell me who told you our plans?"
"No one told me your plans."
"Listen, girl, I want to keep you out of trouble; let me tell you something; the men are very much incensed against you, and have uttered terrible threats."
"I can't help it."
"Why did you warn the detective?"
"I did not wish to see the man murdered."
"And you turned against your father and us all?"
"I have turned against no one.
I only sought to save a man's life."
"The man is a friend of yours?"
"I never spoke to him before in my life, until I warned him of his danger."
"Where is the man?"
"If he is wise, he has left the coast."
"Will you tell me how you have learned of our plans?"
"I overheard you discuss them."
"And you are the traitor "I am the traitor!"
"Girl, never confess to anyone else what you have confessed to me!"
The old smuggler was a listener to the foregoing conversation, and he said: "Renie is tender-hearted."
"Yes; but, Tom, Renie must go away."
"Yes; she is going away."
"Have you a place for her?"
"Yes."
"Will you tell me who assailed you?"
"Ike, I can't tell you all; but I was assailed on Renie's account."
"You were assailed on Renie's account?"
"Yes."
"This is a strange story!"
"Some day you will know why I was assailed."
"Was it one of our people?"
"No."
"A stranger?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"A man you know."
"Name him."
"Not to-night."
"When will Renie go away?"
"As soon as possible."
"Tom, I am a friend of yours, and your daughter's; but I tell you the girl is in a bad fix."
"She shall go away."
"To-morrow?"
"We shall see."
Ike Denman remained to exchange a few more words, and went away; the father and daughter were alone.
The girl told of the attempt to kidnap her.
"I see it all, Renie, I see it all!
But you are safe, and you shall not come to harm; but tell me, who, is the man who was brought before me?"
The girl was saved an answer, for the man walked in to answer for himself.
CHAPTER XII.
Renie was surprised to see the detective enter the cabin.
"Tom Pearce," said our hero, "I am a stranger to you and yours, but I am your friend.
I cannot tell you who I am at present, but in good time you shall know all!"
"How was it you were suspected of having assailed me?"
asked the old smuggler.
"I was coming to your cabin to ask some questions, when, as a stranger, who could give no satisfactory account of himself, I was arrested."
Renie had told her father that the detective had rescued her from the hands of Garcia and his men.
The old smuggler was not altogether satisfied with the young man's statement, as a suspicion ran through his mind that he was, after all, a secret emissary of the Cuban.
"You were coming to see me?"
said the old smuggler.
"Yes."
"What is your business with me?"
"I can defer my business to some other time; the fact of your injury prevents me from troubling you now."
"Never mind my injury, I am all right now.
I received many a worse thump when I was a younger man, but I am an old one now, and I tell you age will tell; but you can open your business."
"I am your friend, Tom Pearce."
"Many an enemy claims to be a man's friend."
"Had I known what I do now, you would never have been stricken down."
"I can tell you that had I known myself what I do now, I would never have been stricken down."
"The man Garcia is your enemy!"
"Eh?
What's that you are saying?"
"I am telling you the man Garcia is your enemy!"
"What do you know about the man Garcia?"
"I know he is a villain!"
The old smuggler fixed his eyes on the young man, and said: "Who sent you here?"
"No one."
"Why did you come here?"
"To warn you against Garcia."
The statement in various ways, as our readers will recognize, was the truth.
"You came here to warn me against Garcia?"
"Yes."
"Why should you come to warn me?"
"Because I know the man who assailed you to be a villain."
"The man who assailed me?"
"Yes."
"How do you know who assailed me?"
"I know him."
"How comes it that you are any friend?
Why should you warn me?
Have you known me before?"
"I never saw you until this night to my recollection."
"Then how is it you take such an interest in me?"
"My interest in you is because of Garcia's designs, I hate that man.
I am on his track, and I am the friend of any man whom he is against!"
"Are you acquainted with my daughter?"
asked the old smuggler in a suspicious tone.
"I never saw your daughter before to-night."
"How did you know Garcia was coming here?"
"I tracked him."
"Why did you track him?"
"Because I knew he was up to some villainy."
"You say the man is my enemy?"
"Would a friend assail you as you have been assailed sailed this night?"
"How do you know Garcia assailed me?"
"I tracked him to this house, and a few moments after he left the house you were found lying unconscious in this room."
"Where were you when I was assaulted?"
"I was down at the bay shore."
"What were you doing there?"
"Watching the men whom Garcia brought with him to aid him in his design."
"This is a strange story you are telling me, young man.
How do I know but you are an enemy?"
"I am not an enemy!"
"But are you an enemy to Garcia?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"That is a private matter."
"Why is he my enemy?"
The young man was silent, but looked toward Renie.
The old smuggler followed the direction of his glance end said: "Come, speak out plainly, do not fear!"
"I fear nothing."
"Then speak."
The young man reached over the bed and whispered in the old man's ear: "I do not wish to speak in your daughter's presence."
"Renie, go from the cabin a few moments, this man has something to tell me."
The detective signaled to the girl to obey, but the latter showed some hesitancy and said: "Father, I do not wish to leave you alone with stranger."
"You need not fear, child, and you can remain within call."
"Are you sure this is not the man who assaulted you?"
"Yes, child.
I know well enough who assaulted me; go away, I will call you when I wish you to return."
The girl went from the room, but at the same time exhibited considerable reluctance.
The detective's admiration for the girl increased.
He recognized that she was playing a part, and really aiding him in impressing the old man as intended.
When alone, the old smoggier said: "Now, speak out, young man!"
"Do you suspect Garcia's purpose?"
"We are not talking about what I suspect, whale have you to tell me?"
"Garcia has designs against your daughter, all his pretensions about desiring to benefit her are a part of his scheme.
He is a deep dyed villain, a man capable of any crime."
"How do I know you are not one of his agents?"
"It wouldn't stand to reason that, if I were his Agent, I would denounce him."
"That might be a part of his purpose."
"I warn you against the man; take nobody's advice; keep your daughter under your own special care."
"Why have you such an interest in my daughter?"
demanded the old smuggler, abruptly, and again he fixed his eyes keenly on the detective.
"I am against Garcia, whatever his schemes may be; and now that I've warned you, I've nothing more to say; do as you choose, I owe you nothing, nor do you owe me anything; you can believe what I have told you, or doubt it, just as you choose, but remember I have warned you!"
The detective started to leave the cabin, when the old man called him back and asked: "What is your name?"
"My name is Ballard."
"Where are you from?"
"Cuba."
"Will I see you again?"
"You may; but let me tell you one thing, if you wish me to remain your friend, tell no man that I warned you against Garcia.
I propose to hang around the coast for awhile."
"For what purpose?"
"To circumvent the villain Garcia.
I may stand you in good need when you least expect it, if you permit me to be your friend."
CHAPTER XIII.
Without another word the detective departed from the cabin; a little distance across the sand he saw a figure.
He recognized Renie and went toward her.
"I did not know you," said the girl.
"You may not know me the next time we meet."
"This is wonderful."
"I am a detective, I have made a study of the art of disguise; my success and my safety ofttimes depend upon my skill in changing my appearance at a moment's notice; but now, let me thank you for saving my life!"
"Saving your life!"
"Yes."
"It was for me you put your life in jeopardy."
"No, no, I am carrying out my own designs."
"You saved me from that man Garcia!"
"And you saved me from being hanged by those men."
"You will leave the coast now?"
"Leave the coast?"
"Yes."
"Well, I reckon not.
I've just got down to business."
"You will be discovered; you will be in worse peril as the Government detective than you were as the supposed assailant of my father."
"I can take care of myself."
"And you will remain?"
"I will remain."
"You invite your doom."
"Well, well, I've often done the same thing before; I am in the way of duty.
Renie, understand me, I am your friend.
I will risk anything to guard you from evil, but it is my duty to break up this gang of smugglers, and I shall do my duty at any cost!"
"But I have betrayed you."
"Yes, I know all about it; your betrayal was not intentional; you are a brave noble girl!
tell me, are you in any way connected with the smugglers?"
"I am not."
"Then fear nothing."
"But my father?"
"Your father is not actively engaged as a smuggler now, and I will not get him into trouble, but I must do my duty, and now answer me frankly, are you against me?"
"How against you?"
"I have decided to remain and do my duty, I am the enemy of the gang!
Are you their friend?
Will you stand between me and them?"
"Never!
but I know you will never leave the coast alive!
those men will not rest day or night until they run you down, and I cannot aid you, as I have already earned their enmity, and they have demanded that I be sent away!"
"That is all right."
"The girl laughed and said: "It is easy enough to say 'that is all right,' but where shall I go?"
"Go with Tom Pearce."
"Tom Pearce will not leave the coast."
"Yes, he will."
"Did he tell you so?"
"No, but I will persuade him.
I will show him very soon that it is best for him to go.
He will go, never fear!"
"You will never persuade him."
"I will use an argument you do not dream of, my, girl; and now, mark me, I am your friend.
I have promised to solve the mystery surrounding your commission to the care of the Pearces many years ago.
I will learn all about you, I will find the box."
"What box?"
The detective smiled as he remembered that the girl knew nothing about the box, and he said: "Ah, that is a way we detectives have of speaking!
the secret of your life is boxed somewhere, we would say, and I will unravel the mystery."
"Why should you take such an interest in me?"
"Did you not save my life?"
"But did you not imperil your life in my behalf?"
"No; I was in the way of duty when I fell into the hands of the smugglers under such peculiar circumstances; but never mind, we will not discuss that matter.
I have seen fit to make you a promise, and I will make my promise good."
"Never!
if you decide to remain on the coast."
"I shall remain!
and now, Renie, as we are friends, let us arrange so as to guard against future perils.
I may appear here under many disguises, it is necessary for both of us that you should always know and recognize me; but you must never betray your recognition; to you in the presence of others I must always be a stranger; your safety and my own demands it, but all will come out right in the end."
"Never!
Never!
those men will kill you!"
"I shall go to sea with those men before to-morrow's sunset."
"You will never return."
"Oh, yes I will; and now listen."
The detective proceeded and arranged a number of secret signs and signals with the girl.
He instructed her in a private finger code, and found her a ready and apt scholar.
He gave her also a written chart for future study, telling her that if she mastered it, they could converse in the presence of others, and none would be the wiser.
Having concluded his instructions, he said: "Go now to your father.
I may not see you for two or three days, but always be on your guard."
"Against whom?"
"Garcia."
"Do you think he will dare return?"
"That man may have secret agents among the smugglers."
"None of the men would betray me to him."
"We cannot tell what money may accomplish; but I do not anticipate danger for a few days, or I would not leave, you; still you must be on your guard."
"Where go you now?"
"To Rigby's."
"To Rigby's?"
ejaculated the girl.
"Yes; why not?"
"You go at your peril!"
The detective laughed and said: "Never fear for me; good-night!"
Without waiting to listen to further words of warning the detective walked rapidly away.
Renie returned to the cabin; the girl was disturbed and thoughtful.
The dream of her lonely life was opening up to her, but alas!
the picture was fringed with dark surroundings.
Upon entering the cabin the girl was addressed by her father, who asked: "Renie, what do you think of that fellow?"
"He is a mysterious man, father, but he appears to be friendly to us."
"He has spoken nothing but the truth, so far, my child.
Garcia is a villain!
it was he who assailed me."
"How was it he came to assail you, father?"
"My child, that man has designs against you; it is time that I told you all I know concerning yourself!"
"Do so, father."
The old smuggler proceeded and related to Renie all that he had told to Garcia, and also stated the Cuban's proposition.
The girl was silent, but deeply interested, and the one thought that ran through her mind was the knowledge that Spencer Vance had overheard the revelation when made to Garcia.
The old man had just concluded his narrative when an intruder walked into the cabin.
CHAPTER XIV.
A reckless gang of men were assembled in the low tavern kept my a man named Rigby.
The latter was a remarkable man.
He kept a low seashore resort, a place where fishermen and the roughest sort of men gathered, and yet he was a man of considerable education and a great deal of cunning, and coined more good money in this little seaside tavern then did other rumsellers who occupied saloons in the great city, that cost thousands to fit up and decorate.
Rigby was too cunning and careful to be a smuggler himself, but he was also cunning enough to "scoop in" the major portion of the earnings of the men engaged in the perilous trade.
It was only when the business had grown to large proportions that the Government organized a regular plan for its suppression; and at the time our story opens, the play between the smugglers and the Government agents was at its finest point.
It was well known that there were parties in New York who had, and were still realizing immense sums of money by cheating the Government of its legitimate revenue.
The Collector of the Port did not care so much about the crews of the vessels, it was the owners and capitalists he was seeking to trail down.
The smugglers had given over the search for Spencer Vance, and in parties of twos and threes, had gathered at Rigby's, until at least fifteen or twenty men were assembled.
They were all smugglers and members of the crew of the smuggler yacht "Nancy."
As intimated in our opening chapters, the men ostensibly were fishermen, and their boat was stated to be a fishing-boat; and to lend color to the claim, the men did go off between times on fishing expeditions, and the latter little trick had been their best "blind" and "throw off."
Again, as intimated in our former chapters, three Government officers had mysteriously disappeared, and the duty had devolved upon the Government officials not only to stay the illegal traffic, but to ferret out and bring to punishment the murderers of the missing detectives.
There was no actual proof, however, that the men were murdered; as far as the Government officials were advisedly concerned, the detectives were merely missing.
It was reported by some "Smart Alec" that the detectives had been put on outgoing vessels bound for some distant port, and that in good season they would turn up, and then again there was the chance that the officers might have met with accidents in their perilous undertaking.
Spencer Vance, however, was fully satisfied in his own mind that his brother officers had been murdered.
He knew too well that tragic events are of constant occurrence which never come to light; tragedies so terrible that were the details to be known, a thrill of horror would go throughout the whole land.
There are horrors enough that do become public, but there are as many more that never come to the surface.
The men, as stated, gathered at Rigby's; they had just returned from a search for Spencer Vance.
There was no doubt in their minds as to the truth of the report that he was a spy in their midst.
The fact that he had declined to go out on the yacht that night was to them proof as clear as "Holy Writ" that he was a Government officer.
It was important to catch him and put him out of the way as soon as possible, as there were several very valuable shipments on the way to New York, and chances favored the men for making quite large sums of money.
Our readers must not understand that the vessel engaged in the smuggling business carried no other freight; the goods intended to be smuggled in was but a small part of their cargo, but amounted on each vessel to enough to yield enormous profits to the capitalists as well as to the actual smuggler crews.
One of the men, as he drunk off a glass of grog, remarked: "Boys, it's a cold day for us that the fellow should have received a warning; it's money out of our pockets!"
There was a one-eyed, ugly visaged fellow sitting off in a corner of the room, who remarked: "You lads will see colder days yet; you may say the business is all up, and we'd better take the 'Nancy' over to the mackerel banks and work for a few honest pennies."
"What makes you say that, Jake?"
"I'm only telling yer the truth; yer a chicken-hearted lot, and losing all yer game; for what?
the pretty face of a she-devil!"
Too well the men all understood one-eyed Jake's savage suggestion.
"You don't think," said one of them, "that the gal is dead against us?"
"Well, I think she is as dead against us as a few dollars in gold can make a female who's fond of gewgaws, and ambitious to be a fine lady."
"Do you mean to say Renie receives money?"
"Well, I don't think bad enough of the gal to say she'd go agin us for fun.
I tell you, boys, the thing is dead agin us unless the gal is silenced!"
The men all entered loud protests; the girl was a great favorite yet with most of them, as she had grown up in their midst.
"Oh, I expected you'd growl when you learned the truth, and it's the gal or us--, as you all think so much of the gal, I propose we lay provision in the 'Nancy,' and go off after mackerel.
"What would you propose, Jake?"
"I propose sending the gal away."
"You would do her no harm?"
"I wouldn't harm a hair of her head; but she's doing us a good deal of harm all the same."
"It's already been suggested to Tom Pearce to send the gal away."
"He'll never do it!"
"But he must."
"It's all right to say he must; but who'll make old Tom Pearce do a thing when he's made up his mind that he won't?"
"What would you propose?"
"I'd propose that we smuggle the gal."
"How smuggle her?"
"Take her out on the 'Nancy,' and put her aboard some outgoing vessel as a passenger."
"That wouldn't do, Jake."
"Then let's go mackerel-fishing, for the other trade is knocked dead in the head."
The men were all drinking, and became more or less excited under the influence of the liquor.
Jake was a bad fellow at heart, but he was one of the most daring men in the crew of jolly smugglers and the men had great confidence in his judgment.
"I tell you, boys, the gal must be disposed of, or she'll give information right; just see how we stand now; there's a boat due, there's a big haul for us, and this man has been in our midst for two weeks or more, and he's got all the points and--" The man's further speech was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger.
CHAPTER XV.
The man who suddenly entered in the midst of the speech of one-eyed Jake was Ballard, the man whom an hour or two previously that very gang of men had set to hang.
The crew of the "Nancy" gazed at the new-comer in astonishment, and a wicked gleam shone in the single eye of Jake.
"You're cheeky, stranger, to walk in here after what's just happened!"
The disguised detective laughed in a pleasant manner, and answered: "That's just why I'm here; you fellows ought to be glad to see me knocking around alive, when you think how bad you would have felt had you swung me over the spar."
"We've no fancy for strangers around here!"
"We'll a man who's been following the sea all his life should not be a stranger among you fellows."
"Where have you sailed, stranger?"
"Better ask where I haven't sailed, and it won't take so long to pay out the information."
There was an off hand, jolly sort of style about the stranger which rather pleased the gang of smugglers.
"What brought you down this way?"
"I've been off for five years, and when I'm off on a voyage I'm clean gone; all the doors are closed behind me.
I never get any letters, and I never send any, so it's all news to me when I come in from the sea; and I came down here to see my mother's cousin."
"Who is your mother's cousin, stranger?"
"Well, you fellows are running down close into a strange craft; my relative was old Aunt Betsy, Tom Pearce's wife."
"She's dead!"
"Well, so I know now; and I came near being sent after her; but all's well that ends well, so come, all hands, and have a little throat burner with me."
The men were all glad enough to step up and take a snifter with the stranger, who after so long a voyage they reckoned must have a pocketful of the wherewithal.
We will not go further into the details of the methods pursued by the detective to worm himself into the confidence of the smugglers; it is sufficient to say that within two hours after his appearance in their midst he had won all their hearts.
Our readers can form some idea of the wonderful skill, coolness, and daring of the detective, who within twenty-four hours walked under a new disguise right into the midst of a gang of desperate men, who, had they recognized him as he was known but a few hours previously, would have killed him as they would have slain a venomous serpent.
A number of the men fell into a regular carouse with the detective; among them was Ike Denman, the captain of the yacht "Nancy."
Indeed, the men got into a game of cards, and Ballard lost like a little man and stood his ill luck with such marvelous good nature, the men fell right to him.
When it was well into the morning, the game broke up, and Denman invited the detective to go aboard the yacht and bunk for the night.
Our hero gladly accepted the invitation; and when once aboard, as it was a pleasant morning, the two even lay out upon the deck, and Denman became quite confidential.
He let the detective into the secret of the real business of the crew of the yacht, and told him that daily they were expecting a schooner from the West Indies with a big cargo for them.
"How do you run it ashore?"
asked the detective, innocently.
"Make a trip with us and we'll show you how the thing is done; the fact is I'm a man or two short, and if you want to take a rake in with us you're welcome."
"That's just the ticket for me!"
answered Spencer Vance.
Our readers must understand that the detective had been wonderfully diplomatic and cute to so readily, worm himself into the confidence of Ike Denman.
The men at length went to sleep and slept far into the morning.
Ike Denman was the first to awake, seemingly, but in reality the detective had been on the alert all the time.
The master of the "Nancy" was quite a different man in the morning when burning under the after-effects of liquor than he was when in the full fever of a jolly spell.
As he opened his eyes and saw our hero stretched upon the deck, he gave him a lunge in the ribs, and as Vance opened his eyes, Denman exclaimed: "Hello!
what are you snoozing there for, old man?"
The detective was on his feet in a moment.
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
Denman appeared to have forgotten who our hero was, but in reality he was only pretending to forget.
Denman was a good sailor, and a very cunning man; but at heart he was a very ugly and desperate fellow, and not at all distinguished by any of the generous traits usually characteristic of jolly tars.
"What's the matter, captain?"
"What's the matter?
I'm asking you who you are, and what you are doing here?"
The detective came a little nearer, and assumed a surprised air.
"Don't stand there, making sober faces.
Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
Denman was conscious that he was given to talking too much when in his cups, and he was leading the new hand on to betray just how much had been revealed to him.
"You shipped me last night, captain."
"I shipped you last night?"
"Yes; but if you don't want me as one of your crew, I'm willing."
"Who are you, anyhow?"
"My name is Ballard.
I told you who I was last night."
"What did you tell me?"
"See here, captain, it ain't necessary to go over all that passed between us last night.
If you don't wart to take me on with you, say so, and I'll get ashore."
Denman laughed in a merry manner, and said: "I reckon it's all right."
"I can prove it's all right, captain."
"How so?"
Ballard ran his eye over the yacht's rigging, and said: "Would you take any suggestions from a man who had plenty of experience in crafts of this sort?"
"I would; yes."
The detective who really was a splendid seaman, made some very pertinent and useful suggestions, and Denman was just sailor enough to appreciate that he had secured a useful man; and he said: "It's all right.
Consider yourself shipped.
You're just the man I want; and we'll get to work at once on your alterations."
The suggestions were such as could easily be carried out by the master and his crew, and soon all hands were busy.
It had been decided that the yacht would go to sea that night, and our hero was booked for the trip.
Spencer Vance had played his cards well.
He improved every moment in making himself popular with the crew, and late in the afternoon, when all hands went ashore, he was the hero of the gang.
In an offhand manner the detective remarked, as the boat was run on the beach: "I'll see you later, boys; I'm going over for a bit to look after Tom Pearce."
CHAPTER XVI.
Spencer Vance had proceeded but a short distance, when he saw the figure of a girl coming across the sand, and his astonishment was great, when, upon a nearer approach, he recognized Renie.
The girl was neatly dressed, and her feet were covered with dainty slippers, while her hair was tastefully arranged.
Our hero had been impressed with the girl's rare beauty upon beholding her barefooted in her loose gown and unkempt hair; but, as he gazed upon her face when arrayed in neat and well-fitting attire, his admiration was increased.
Renie was indeed a rarely lovely girl--yes, upon those sands he had come upon one of the most beautiful girls he had ever beheld--classically beautiful; not pretty, but, as we write it, rarely beautiful, and she had been reared in a fisherman's cabin.
There was a certain suggestion in the girl's appearance before him in her best attire, that caused a glow of satisfaction around the detective's heart.
There was nothing rich nor elegant in her apparel, but she was so exquisitely lovely her beauty could not be hidden by clothing, no matter how plain.
The girl greeted the detective in a frank, open manner, and appeared greatly pleased to meet him.
"I expected you to return to the cabin," she said.
"No; I spent the evening with the crew."
"You did not go in the yacht?"
"Yes, I did."
"Oh, why do you take such risks?"
"Never mind about the risk; how is your father?"
"He appears to be all right.
He is up and around."
"What does he say about the assault?"
"He has said nothing since last night."
"Has he expressed any determination as to his course?"
"No."
"Well, you must be on your guard, and when I return from my trip, I will have a proposition to make."
"When you return from your trip?"
"Yes."
"Where are you going?"
"I am going off in the yacht."
"This must not be.
No, no, you must not go off in the yacht, it will be certain death!"
"I have spent the night with the crew of the 'Nancy,' and they all think me a splendid fellow, and none of them has the least suspicion of my real identity."
"Was Sol Burton present?"
"No."
"Then you must not go on the yacht."
"What has the presence of Sol Burton to do with my going or staying?"
"I believe that man has penetrated your disguise."
"Impossible!"
"I saw him this morning."
"Well?"
"He asked eked me some strange questions.
He was very curious concerning your identity."
A shadow fell over the detective's face.
"He spoke about me?"
"Yes."
"But he was speaking of the Government detective?"
"No; he was speaking of you as you have appeared among them in your present guise."
"Does he suspect my real identity."
"I do not know, but he was very inquisitive concerning you."
"What did he say?"
"He lay in wait for me this morning, and when he got an opportunity he asked: 'Renie, who is that man the boys were going to hang last night?'"
"What answer slid you make?"
"I answered: 'You know as well as I do;' when he exclaimed: 'You can't fool me, Renie, you have met that man before.'"
The detective was thoughtful a moment, but at length said: "I reckon that fellow would be jealous of anyone whom you might address."
"There was a deeper significance in his declaration, and as he went away he said: 'I would not be surprised Renie, if that fellow were to be hanged yet, before another sunrise!'"
"His talk is all buncome, Renie, you need not attach any importance to anything he may say."
"But you will not go off in the yacht?"
"Yes; I shall go!"
A pallor overspread the girl's face, and a look of expressive sadness shone in her eyes as she murmured, "It is my fate!"
"What do you mean, child?"
"I mean that you are a real friend; you are he of whom I dreamed."
The detective glanced at the girl with an expression of aroused curiousness as he said: "You dreamed of me?"
"Yes."
"This is very strange.
What could have suggested such a dream?"
"I have dreamed all my life that some good friend would come some day and unravel the mystery of my parentage.
It was accident that brought you and me together; but I had come to believe, although I have only known you for a few hours, that you were the good angel who would open the sealed book."
The detective advanced close to the girl, fixed his eyes upon her, and, while a bright flush reddened his cheek, he said, in an earnest tone: "And so I will, Renie!"
"No, no; you have only come to raise a false hope."
"You are a strange girl, Renie."
"Yes, I am a strange girl in your eyes; but there is nothing strange about me.
Mv surroundings make me appear so.
Listen: I long for other scenes and associations; there is nothing that holds me to my present life.
I know there is someone somewhere who longs for me as I yearn for her."
"Your mother?"
"Yes, my mother."
"If your mother be alive, it shall be my good office to bring mother and child together."
"Never."
"Why do you say never?"
"You are determined to go off on the yacht?"
"Yes, I shall go off on the yacht."
"We will never meet again."
"You take too gloomy a view of the situation."
"I know well the character of the crew of the 'Nancy.'"
"So do I."
A deeper pallor overspread the girl's face, as in a low, husky voice she whispered: "I believe they are leading you on."
"Leading me on?"
"Yes."
"I do not understand."
"You say you are going off with them?"
"Yes."
"They would not take a stranger off with them unless they had a purpose."
The girl had offered a most startling suggestion.
"The circumstances are peculiar, Renie, and I am a good seaman.
I have already proved myself of service to them."
"That does not alter my idea."
"What's your idea?"
"I have a suspicion."
A moment's silence followed, when the detective asked: "What do you suspect!"
"They have recognized you!"
CHAPTER XVII.
The few sharp quick words of the girl betrayed volumes.
Her suggestion was indeed startling; and, what was more; there was not only a possibility, but a probability that her suspicion was correct.
A silence followed her words, but at length the detective said: "I shall go off on the yacht, Renie."
"And you will never return!"
"Yes, I shall return."
"Suppose my suspicion is correct, and those men are leading you on?"
"It matters not, Renie, I shall go!"
"Are you madly seeking death?"
"No."
"If those men have recognized you, and are playing a part, there will be no chance for you the moment that yacht crosses the bar on her way out to sea."
The detective on the impulse of the moment, was prompted to ask: "Suppose they kill me, what will you do, Renie?"
The girl was silent until the detective repeated his question.
"I know what I shall do!"
"What will you do?"
"Roam the beach until all hope of the recovery of your body is passed and then I shall lie down and die."
She spoke in a weird, despairing tone.
"And you have known me but a few hours."
"Yes, I have known you to speak to you but a few hours, and yet I have come to believe that all the dreams of my life center in you."
The young man advanced and seized the girl's hand; the latter made no effort to withdraw it from his firm grasp.
"Renie," he said, "you need have no fear, I am not destined to die at the hands of the smugglers.
I am assigned to a certain duty, the opportunity to fulfill my mission is now presented.
I shall go on the yacht to-night, but when she returns I will return with her!"
"You are determined to go?"
"I am."
"I shall say no more, but I shall watch."
"Yes, Renie, do so; and when the yacht comes sailing up the bay, you may know that I come on her."
"I shall not watch for the return of the yacht," said the girl in a sad, despairing tone.
"What will you do?"
"Wait on the beach to see what the waves will bring me.
If, when the deed is done, the tide be flowing in, I may gain something from the waves; but if the tide is on the ebb, I shall never gaze on your face again."
There was no mistaking the girl's weird meaning, and her words were practical, as she well knew the results which under certain circumstances might follow the tidal conditions.
Spencer Vance saw that it was useless to waste further words with Renie and he said, "A few hours will tell the tale, Renie, and--" The detective did not complete the sentence; voices were heard and Renie exclaimed: "You and I must not be seen talking together; farewell, and if we never meet again on earth, may we meet where there are no clouds, no shadows, no mysteries."
The girl moved away and left the detective standing alone on the beach.
The sun had gone down, the moon was just rising out of the sea, and the whole surrounding scene was impressive and one of solemn grandeur.
The detective stood motionless, and the ceaseless murmur of the waves, as they broke upon the shore sounded like a requiem in his ears; but not once did he waver in his purpose.
It might be that Renie would prove a true prophet, and if the tide served right those very waves, or rather their successors, might cast his body upon the shore; but despite all, he was determined to sail on the "Nancy" that night to win or die.
Two hours later there was quite a bustle on board the yacht as she was being prepared to sail away.
The trip of the "Nancy" did not as a rule, exceed ten or fifteen hours, as she only ran twenty or thirty miles directly off the coast, where she cruised around waiting for the signal to flash across the water front some incoming vessel, said signal being an intimation as to the character of the craft.
Ike Denman, as commander of the "Nancy," was a different man from Ike Denman carousing with the crew ashore.
The "Nancy" was what nautical men would call a magnificent craft, and landsmen would naturally dub her a "daisy."
She had been built as a sea-going boat, in the most substantial manner, and was indeed a stanch little mistress of the sea.
It was a beautiful evening as the mainsail was hoisted away and the gallant boat glided over the waters of the bay across the bar, and through the ruffled channel out to sea.
The detective had weighed well the words of the beautiful Renie, and was on the watch.
Her suggestion was apt, and, as the detective thought over matters, he came to think that certain little indexes pointed toward a confirmation of her suspicions.
Indeed, it was an awful peril he was facing, were it really a fact that the men had "tumbled" to his identity, and were giving him a "blind," leading him, only waiting for the proper moment to cast off their masks and throw him into the sea.
There was one incident in his favor: the men were not at all reserved in the discussion of the business on hand.
They talked over the purpose of the night, and opened up their expectations in the most unreserved manner.
The master of the craft, in his orders, made no distinction between our hero and the other members of the crew.
Meantime the boat danced over the waves, and, after an hour or two, was cruising across the track of inward-bound vessels.
Soon there came the announcement of the lights of a vessel, and the "Nancy" was cautiously run on a course which would enable her captain to take observations.
The lights proved to be those of an ocean steamer, and the great leviathan, with its precious freight of human souls, plowed past the taut little yacht distant only half a mile.
When the lights were first seen, the detective was standing forward of the mainmast, and suddenly a pallor overspread his face.
If it should prove that the lights were those of an incoming smuggler, the critical moment had arrived for him.
Our hero was intently watching the lights, as were the balance of the crew, waiting for a signal, and so absorbed was he as not to observe the presence of Sol Burton close by his side.
A few moments passed, and the lights were made out, and the word was passed around, "It's a steamer!"
The detective turned to go aft, when he found himself face to face with Sol Burton.
The two men had met as comrades once or twice before, during the two or three hours the boat had been out on the sea, but not a word had passed between them; but as they met after the distinguishing of the lights, Burton addressed our hero and said: "You're the new man?"
"Yes," was the short answer.
"Your first trip on the 'Nancy?'"
"Yes."
There was a premonition, of danger in the next words of Sol Burton.
CHAPTER XVIII.
"I think I've seen you before, Ballard!"
Sol Burton spoke in slow and very distinct tones, and his manner betrayed that there was a deep significance in his declaration.
"If you remember having seen me before, you have the advantage, my good friend."
"I think I've seen you before.
I met you on board the 'Nancy.'"
"Where?"
"I cannot recall, but there is something in your face that strikes me as very familiar."
The detective laughed in an easy manner, and answered "Well, you'll have to depend upon your own recollections, I can't aid you to a recognition."
As the detective spoke he remembered Renie's warning words, "Sol Burton, I fear, has his suspicions aroused."
"I noticed you turn pale when we first sighted the lights, Ballard."
"Did you?"
"I did."
Ballard stepped close to Sol Burton, and demanded in a determined tone, "What are you getting at?
I don't like this cross-questioning."
"That's my idea, Ballard.
I don't think you like this cross-questioning, and I think further there is a good reason for you not liking it."
"If you've anything to say to me, spit it."
"When did you first show up on the coast?"
"Who are you?
What's your name?"
retorted Ballard.
"My name is Sol Burton."
"Ah, you are Burton; yes, I've heard about you!"
The detective used the words, "I've heard about you," in a very meaning tone.
"You've heard about me?"
"Yes, I've heard about you," came the response.
"What have you heard about me?"
"Oh, that's all right; your name is Sol Burton.
Yes, yes, I've heard about you."
The declaration was reiterated in a tone of more aggravating significance.
"See here, Ballard, I want you to tell me what you mean."
"I've heard about you."
"What have you heard about me?"
"It's all right; I tell you I've heard about you.
Yes, yes, your name is Burton; that's the man; I've heard about you."
Our readers can readily understand that the constant repetition of the declaration in a meaning tone was, under the circumstances, very aggravating, and Sol Burton lost his temper, his eyes flashed with anger, and his face became white, as he said: "If you do not tell me what you mean, I'll knock you down!"
"I reckon you won't knock me down!"
"Will you tell me what you mean?"
"I'll tell you I've heard about you, and so I have; that is enough."
"See here, Ballard, it won't do for you to quarrel with me!"
"I don't care who I quarrel with!"
Burton advanced and whispered: "I might come 'Quaker' on you, and give you a bad name."
"You can do just as you choose.
I am not asking odds of you."
"I've my suspicions of you, Ballard."
Burton spoke in a hoarse whisper; the man was excited and trembling with rage and irritation.
It is possible a tragic denouement might have followed the dialogue, had there not come just at that moment a startling interruption to the impending quarrel.
Again there came the signal cry: "Lights ahead!"
and all hands ran eagerly to the rail to study the character of the distant craft.
All was silent watchfulness and expectancy as the two boats approached nearer and nearer across the dark waters.
Suddenly there shot up high into the air a rocket and when far toward the clouds, a "bomb burst in air," and there followed a shower of many colored lights.
At once there was great excitement on board the "Nancy."
Sol Burton had not stopped to finish his threatening talk with our hero, but all was bustle and excitement and work.
The boats were prepared for launching, and the ship's course was changed, and our hero knew that the, long-expected smuggler had arrived.
Soon the two vessels approached each other; additional signals were exchanged, and the real purpose of the voyage was unfolded.
The smuggler kept upon her course, under close reefed sails, but her crew was busy casting certain curious looking packages into the sea.
The boats from the "Nancy" were launched and manned, and were pulled away toward floating objects that had been cast upon the water.
Our hero was in one of the boats, and soon his crew came upon one of the floating objects and it was hauled into the boat.
One of the methods and mysteries was explained; the floating objects were large rubber and guttapercha bags, water-tight and unsinkable, and in these waterproof sacks was packed the contraband merchandise.
Four boats were at work, and within a couple of hours no less than thirty-three of these sacks were put on board the "Nancy," containing thousands and thousands of dollars worth of goods that were never intended to pay duty to good old Uncle Sam.
All the bags were put on board, and the "Nancy" was ready to run into the bay and land her contraband cargo.
The detective expected she would run back on the course over which she had come out, but such was not the fact; on the contrary she lay to until all the goods were stowed below.
Spencer Vance had worked like a trooper, and for the time being, was the most active smuggler of them all, but later on he was brought face to face with his peril.
Our hero had finished all he had been called upon to do, and was standing leaning against the mast, when Ike Denman approached and said: "Come aft, Ballard, I've a few words to exchange with you."
The detective obeyed with alacrity; coming to a halt near the cabin-way, Denman said: "Ballard, you have proved yourself a good hand.
I like you, but I've a statement to make; you can't share in the profits of to-night's work unless you become one of us."
"How's that, sir?"
"We are a regular organization; the crew of this boat is bound to secrecy by oaths and obligations, and I am about to give you the privilege of becoming one of us."
"The detective realized his peril.
He saw that the game had opened, that Renie's warnings were about to be fulfilled but he was cool and easy and determined.
It was a terrible moment, but he was as resolute as ever and replied: "That wasn't in the programme, captain."
"What wasn't in the programme?"
"It wasn't stated that I was to take any oaths or obligations."
"I'll admit that, but it's necessary."
"You ought to have told me before I came with you on this trip."
"That is so, but I didn't; but you have come with us; you are here in our midst, you are posted as to our game, and now what are you going to do about it, Ballard?"
CHAPTER XIX.
"I am not prepared to answer at present.
I must have time to think," was the answer made by our hero.
"What at do you want to think about?"
demanded Denman.
"I wish to consider whether or not it will pay me to become a permanent member of your crew."
"You disappoint me, Ballard."
"How so?"
"I've given you a good chance, and I expected you would say all right at a jump.
I've something to tell you; suspicions are aroused concerning you.
I don't believe, myself, they are just, and I hope you will make good my conclusions."
"Suspicions concerning me?"
"Yes."
"Who suspects me?"
"One of the crew says you are a spy."
"Will you bring the man face to face with me?"
"What would you do?"
"When I meet my accuser I will tell you."
"You can save yourself the trouble."
"How?"
"By becoming one of us.
I will deal fairly with you.
Our obligations are as binding as blood and oaths can make them; but, once one of us, you'll make heaps of money, and be companion to as jolly a set of men as ever took chances for a good livelihood."
"I must bind myself by oaths?"
"Yes; oaths as solemn as mortal lips ever uttered."
"I can't do it now."
"Why not?"
"I must have time to consider."
"Why do you need time to consider?"
"I've a reason."
"Will you name your reason?"
"Yes, I will, captain; you have been frank with me, I will be equally frank with you.
I can't join your crew as long as one man is a member of it.
I learn that I've an enemy on board.
I never can take an obligation that would compel me to be friendly with that man!"
"Who is the man?"
"The villain who has accused me of being a Government spy!"
"How do you know which is the man?"
"I know."
"I am sorry, Ballard, I know I am to blame.
I should have mentioned before what I am telling you, but there is no alternative now; you must join our crew in regular form."
"Never as long as one particular man is one of them."
"Mine is an unpleasant duty, Ballard, you have got all the points down on us, you must become one of us."
"What do you mean?"
demanded the detective.
"The men demand that you join us."
"I will not.
You will give me a chance for my life?"
"What chance do you want?"
"I wish to prove that my accuser is a liar."
"That would not help you, unless you become one of us; the fact that you have learned our methods settles the business, whether you are an informer or not.
We run from here to the place where our goods are landed; you would have all the points down on us, and were you my own brother, it would be necessary for you to join us or be silenced.
Now what will you do?"
"Give me half an hour to think the matter over."
"I've no right to give you any time."
"I can't run away, captain."
"I know, but I'd like to go back and make good my declaration in your favor.
I'd like to tell the men it's all right, and that you will become one of us."
"On one condition I will take your oaths and obligations."
"What is your condition?"
"Let me settle my quarrel with the man who is my enemy."
"I never could consent to that; and besides, I must say that the fact of your suspecting a certain man as having informed against you, lends color to the charge.
Ballard, you must join us or die."
Spencer Vance was still calm, and did not betray one particle of trepidation as he answered: "I should have been informed of your requirements before I was permitted to ship with you."
"I made a mistake.
I admit that I am responsible!"
"Are you willing to take the responsibility?"
"How can I?"
"Give me a chance for my life."
"How can I?"
"Make it a gauge of life or death between you and me."
Ike Denman laughed, and answered: "Why, man, you are crazy!"
"Not crazy enough to pay the penalty of your mistakes with my life!"
There was a threat in the tones of the detective.
"What do you demand?"
"Your word of honor."
"To bind a promise?"
"Yes."
"What shall I promise?"
"That I shall meet my accuser face to face on this deck; let us decide who is the spy and the traitor!"
"That wouldn't do, Ballard, and I am wasting time.
Your chances are easy enough.
All I ask is that you become one of us.
Refuse, and I will be compelled to pass you over to the crew."
"And what will they do?"
"Try you."
"Try me for what?"
"Try you as a traitor."
"But I am no traitor."
"You are in our midst, and not one of us; that fact alone will be accepted as proof of your guilt."
"And I can escape by joining your crew?"
"Yes."
"I refuse."
"Have you considered well?"
"I am resolved not to join while my enemy is one of your number."
"You are throwing your life away."
"SO be it, but you go first!"
Ike was taken all aback, but did not lose his head.
He raised his hands toward his lips intending to sound a whistle, but he was restrained by Vance, who said: "Move or make the least signal and you are a goner."
"Aha!
the charge is true," said Denman in a low tone.
"You inveigled me on board this craft.
You are in collusion with a man who wishes to get rid of me.
There is no chance for me and there is none for you!"
"What do you mean by your statement that I am in collusion with your enemy?"
"I see it all.
I was invited on this boat by you.
Well, let it go so, but, Denman, you will not live to triumph over me.
Nothing on land or sea can save you.
I've got the bead on you dead!"
"What do you demand?"
"Your word that I shall stand face to face with my accuser."
"And then?"
"If he sticks to his charge, let him be my executioner."
"This is your demand?"
"Yes, this is my demand."
CHAPTER XX.
It was a critical moment; both men were cool and spoke in deliberate tones.
They stood alone: well toward the after-deck, while the men were all busy forward and below handling the contraband cargo.
The night was calm; the sea was unruffled; not a cloud intervened between sea and moon and stars, and yet two human lives hung in the balance--the lives of two brave men.
The detective was greatly disappointed.
He had not accomplished all he desired.
He had hoped not to be discovered until the schooner landed her cargo, and he had fallen upon the rendezvous and the mode of transport to the city.
Still he had obtained a large amount of information, facts which he could work up; and could he only get ashore alive, he would be able to run down close on the real backers of the contraband business, who were a band of foreigners who only made their money by illicit traffic in New York, to spend it abroad.
The chances, however, for getting ashore were very slim.
He had dared a little too much, and yet at that very moment the undaunted officer was playing a deep game.
Under a close reef the boat was heading in toward shore, and the detective was operating to gain time, as every ten minutes increased his chances of eventual escape.
After the detective's declaration, "Your own life will pay the forfeit!"
there followed a moment's silence Vance would not break; time to him was precious while the yacht lay upon her inward course.
"You are a traitor, Ballard, you are a Government spy!"
"Who says so?"
"The charge has been made."
"Let me meet the man who makes the charge."
"And then?"
"I have made my demand.
I am to receive your word that.
I shall have a fair chance to settle the matter with him."
"Your request is reasonable."
"It is."
"Why not join us and then make your demand?"
"I will never join a crew with that man; this is a trumped-up charge against me to satisfy private malice."
"Why does your accuser seek to accuse you falsely?"
"I am too much of a man to bring my private quarrel to public notice; captain, the matter stands here; you know I'm no tyro; as matters stand, I am doomed; against you and your crew out here at sea I've no chance for my life; but as the chances have turned, I can guarantee fair play ashore."
"You shall meet your accuser."
"And have a fair show?"
"Yes."
"I have your word, captain?"
"You have my word."
"Good enough, you have saved your life!
I'll trust your word; if you go back on me, may the sharks soon crunch your living bones."
"You stand here, I'll bring the man aft."
"Good enough."
The captain went forward; the detective stood calm and patient, but his eyes were upon the master of the "Nancy."
He saw Denman speak to the men, and then he saw the crew start in a body toward the afterdeck.
Denman had proved false, the smuggler had forfeited his word.
"It's now or never," muttered the detective, and he sprung beside the rudder port and stood upon the stern rail.
His form towered up through the night like an apparition, as he called in a loud tone: "You and I will meet again, Denman.
Sol Burton is a liar."
Head first the intrepid detective dove from the vessel down into the water, and when he came to the surface he was beyond range, as the yacht was moving along with moderate speed in one direction, while our hero was swimming under water in an opposite course.
"Lower away the boat!"
shouted Sol Burton.
The men ran to obey, but at that moment lights were seen, and one of the men shouted: "It's a cutter!"
Ike Denman heard the latter shout, and commanded: "Hold fast there the boats!"
The crew had not time to take up a boat when the cutter was bearing down upon them.
"That man can never get ashore," said an old tar; "No living man in full toggery can go over the side of this boat and ever come unaided out of the sea!"
"The cutter may pick him up," suggested Sol Burton.
"More likely to pick us up!
No, no, he'll be down on the bottom before the cutter gets around, and she will not run within five miles of where he went over, if she heads her course to overhaul us."
"It's not a cutter," said Sol Burton.
"Well, let it go so; that man Ballard is with the angels by this time," came the response.
Meantime the detective was moving like a fish through the calm waters toward the shore.
It was a smooth sea, and only a fifteen-mile swim, and he had gone aboard the yacht prepared for the venture.
When Spencer Vance sprung overboard, he was oiled from his ears to his heels, and his clothing was ready to be peeled down to an oil-skin under-suit, lined in the inner side with soft wool.
Like a fish he cut through the waters, and his heart was as brave as his sweeping stroke, as he propelled himself forward toward she shore.
"It's all right, Johnny," he muttered, as he spurted some sea water from between his lips.
"I'll keep my word.
I'll interview Ike Denman when he is not looking for me; and, as to Sol Burton, I'll catch that man some day!"
The detective swam along merrily, and, in less than four hours after having leaped from the yacht, he crawled upon the beach, and lay down in the warm sand to rest, burying himself like a mole; and there he lay for over an hour, when he rose to his feet, and started to walk down the coast.
He was not sure of the distance he would be compelled to travel, but was assured as to the direction he was to take.
Our hero was quite proud of his achievement, but felt a little blue when he observed a storm coming in rapidly from the sea; but his luck did not desert him.
He saw a deserted cabin, toward which he made his way, and it didn't take him long to gather a lot of twigs and drift, and, upon reaching the cabin, he made a fire, and sat down before the cheerful blaze, as comfortable an individual as ever took a long chance in the way of duty.
Once in the cabin, the brave man betrayed the ingenuity of his preparations for his perilous Venture, and verified ed his confident statement to Renie, that she need have no fear, as in good time he would come ashore again to tell the tale of his adventure.
CHAPTER XXI.
The detective had a thin rubber belt stretched under his arms; the latter served as a buoy and as a receptacle for the necessary articles which he knew he would require when he washed shore.
Within the belt he had found matches, and weapons, and clothing, the latter of thin material wound as tightly as cotton on a spool; and, as stated, as the fire burned and blazed and crackled, he felt quite comfortable; and, as the storm broke over his cabin, a warm glow of satisfaction circulated through his frame.
"This is just jolly!"
he muttered, as he ate away at a good sandwich, and, later on, from his treasure belt he drew forth pipe and tobacco and settled down for a smoke.
The whole face of the sea, meantime, had changed; a fierce storm had arisen; the wind howled and the rain beat clown against his refuge, and the noise of the storm but sent a warmer glow to his heart.
Our hero realized that he had reached shore just in time.
The tempest had held back for him, as it were, as, had it come upon him while in the sea, no power on earth could have saved him.
Ensconced in his deserted cabin with a glowing fire, his pipe, and a wee drop of whisky, the roar of the tempest was music in his ears, and lulled him to a peaceful slumber from which he was rudely aroused, later on, by a punch in the ribs.
The detective awoke, leaped to his feet, and confronted a powerful-looking man in an oil-skin suit.
"Hello!
who are you, and what are you doing here?"
came the inquiry from the stranger.
"These are just the questions I'm putting to you," answered our hero.
"Well, stranger, my questions are first, I reckon."
"You're right; but tell me, am I in your quarters?"
"No, not exactly; this shanty was built for common use; but where did you come from?"
"I came from the sea."
"You're a man, you're not a fish; how did you come in from the sea?"
"I swam in."
"Has there been a wreck?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Well, you're talking riddles; suppose you get down to plain United States lingo."
"I fell overboard and was compelled to swim or sink."
"What sort of a craft did you come over from?"
"A yacht."
"A pleasure yacht?"
"Well, yes."
"And you weren't picked up?"
"If I had been I wouldn't be here."
"That's so.
How far were you off shore?"
"Not very far."
"You must have gone over before the storm set in."
"I should say so; and now as I've answered your questions, who are you?"
"I am a fisherman.
I ran into the cove on account of the storm, and came over here to stay until daylight, or later if the storm holds."
"I reckon the storm won't hold much longer; it's only a passing tempest, and so make yourself comfortable.
Will you have a bite?"
"Thank you, I had food with me in my boat."
"Will you cover a little whisky."
"I will!"
came the hearty acceptance.
The two men had a long, pleasant talk, and our hero soon learned that his new acquaintance was a really honest fisherman--good, square man; and there are many of them on the Long Island coast, and no truer and better men can be found in any quarter of the globe.
When fully satisfied that the man was an honest fellow, our hero opened up a certain subject with him.
"Taylor, did you run across a gang of smugglers in your experience along the coast?"
"You can just bet I have run across them; and, between you and me, it is an easy matter to put my hand on the key that locks the door of their secret warehouse."
"You can do that?"
"I can."
"How is it you have never communicated with the Government?"
"Well, I'll tell you.
I've always been afraid it might get me into some sort of a scrape.
You see, I am a man of family, and couldn't afford to lose any time."
"I'll let you into a secret."
"All right."
"I'm a Government officer."
"Whew!
is that so?
Well, I might have suspected as much.
And so you did not come in from the sea, but you're lying around here expecting to discover something?
You're on the wrong part of the coast, however; this is not the spot for you to lay.
I can give you a better point."
"That's just what I'm looking for."
"I don't know, however; I might get myself into trouble."
"No fear of that; you need only act as a guide to me."
"Well, I'll think it over."
The detective began to grow a little suspicious of his new friend; there was a possibility that he had concluded as to the fisherman's honesty a little too soon.
"There is no need for you to consider, as a good citizen you owe it as a duty to the Government."
"That's so, but I owe more to my family; some of the gang are neighbors of mine, and if it were ever known that I betrayed their hiding-place, it would go hard with me."
"No one will ever know that you betrayed them; we will go secretly to their rendezvous; you will point out the spot to me, and I will manage the rest, and you will be well paid for your service."
"And you are a Government officer?"
I am.
"Tell me the true story of your being here."
"I cannot tell you more than I have already revealed."
"I am to be paid if I point out the rendezvous?"
"Yes, well paid!"
"And I am only to locate the place?"
"That is all."
"I will do it."
"When?"
"At once, or as soon as the tempest ceases."
"The storm is most over now."
"I will sail in my boat to the nearest point, we will have to go the balance of the way overland."
"That is all right."
"But remember, no attempt at seizure must be made within twenty hours after I have located the warehouse!"
"That is all right; and now tell me, do you know any of the principals?"
"How do you mean?"
"I will tell you; no harm will come to the actual smugglers, beyond the breaking up of their business; it's the men who furnish the capital that I am after."
"I can put you on the track of one or two of them."
"Do so, and you will make a small fortune."
"But I will become a regular informer."
"Did you ever belong to one of the gangs?"
"Never."
"Then it makes no difference to you, as you will never be known in the matter.
How far is your boat from here?"
"Five minutes' walk."
"When shall we start?"
"It will soon be daylight; we had better wait until dawn."
"All right, and we will improve the hour or two we have remaining of darkness by a refreshing sleep."
CHAPTER XXII.
One adventure had led forward to another, and again to another, until the detective was well on his road toward the point where he could make a "closing in" attack.
He knew it would be a grand thing for him to run the gang clear down to their bottom methods.
The detective had been keeping tireless vigils, and sleep was what he most needed, and two good hours of undisturbed sleep was as much to him as seven or eight to an ordinary person.
He was aroused by Taylor, and upon awaking and looking out, he saw that it was broad daylight, and indeed a bright and beautiful morning.
Taylor had been up some time; he had been to his boat, and had brought back the necessary articles for a good breakfast, and our hero was summoned to as solid a morning meal as he had ever enjoyed.
After breakfast the two men went to where Taylor's boat lay, a large and stanch little mainsail and jib boat, rough in appearance, but a good sea boat and a fast sailer.
The captain of the little craft steered her through the channel, and was soon running across the famous Great South Bay, and later on our hero found himself in one of those many famous Long Island sea-coast towns, where summer boarders made merry the passing hours of the July and August months.
Taylor took our hero to his own home, and introduced him to a cleanly and interesting family.
"When do we start?"
demanded Vance, after indulging in a good, and really substantial dinner.
"We will take the two o'clock train," was the reply.
Our readers will observe that we do not name localities, and we have a good reason.
Within the last few months smuggling has been resumed, and the government is adopting measures once more to suppress the traffic, and we have decided that the interest of our narrative does not demand more specific details.
To those of our readers who are acquainted with the Long Island coast, it is not necessary to name the several localities; as, from passing hints, they will be able to locate the several points; and readers who live afar would be no wiser were we to name towns, and designate exact localities.
It was late in the afternoon when our hero and his friend, Taylor, stood on the shore of another one of the several famous bays that indent Long Island's sea shore; and, what seems still more startling, about half a mile off shore lay the yacht "Nancy."
Our hero and his companion were at the point when the taut little smuggler ran down from the inlet, and came to an anchor oft the shore.
At the time the place had not become as great a resort as at present, and the hordes of pleasure-seekers, who now, during certain seasons of the year dwell on the coast, little dream of the wild scenes, and wilder orgies that occurred thereabouts a few years back.
Taylor and the detective had crossed the bay to the island and were hidden in the brush that fringed the bluff overlooking the shore, when the "Nancy" ran down as described and came to an anchor.
"There's the smuggler!"
exclaimed Taylor as he first caught sight of the yacht.
"Yes, there's the 'Nancy' as sure as you are born," returned the detective.
"Ah, you know her?"
"I reckon I do."
"There's a bad lot on that boat."
"There is a bad lot; they are a crew of murderer and bandits."
"They do great harm to our legitimate business, and good honest men are constantly annoyed by the cutters who hail and search them almost daily."
"We will soon put that crew out of harm's way," remarked the detective.
"She's loaded," said Taylor.
"How loaded?"
"She's got contraband cargo beneath her decks."
"How do you know?"
"She never runs in here only when she comes to put her goods ashore."
"Don't the people over on the mainland know of her business?"
"Well, a few may suspect, but I don't believe they know; you see she will put in a load of produce, take a regular cargo from here, and the most of the people think she's an honest coaster.
I've known her to get freight from a regular shipping company in New York, and deliver an assorted cargo, simply as a blind."
"How is it you chanced to run her down to her real business, and get all the points so dead on the crew?"
"My first discovery was accidental, and since then I just investigated a little for my own satisfaction."
"How long has she been engaged in this traffic?"
"About two years; previous to that the business was broken up and nothing was done for a long time; but about two years ago, the 'Nancy' was manned and put under the charge of Denman, who is an old smuggler, and I believe that man could be worth thousands upon thousands, but they say he goes to New York and gambles and sports all his money away; but he must handle a good pile in the course of a year."
"I see his crew is made up of all nationalities?"
"Yes; but they are mostly West Indians, not natives, but fellows raised down among the Islands."
"When will she run her cargo ashore?"
"To-night, and she will do it so quickly that you'd hardly know her crew had been at work."
"It's a wonder they have never been discovered."
"I reckon they have been, but Denman practices the old Captain Kidd maxim: 'Dead men tell no tales.'"
"Has he dared to kill anybody?"
"Well, men have been missing around here, and later on, they have been found floating in the bay, and the people have always concluded they were cases of drowning while drunk; and I always thought so myself, until about two months ago, when I fell to a suspicion."
"Did you never tell your suspicion?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I was waiting a chance to verify it."
"You think it would cost a man his life to be caught by those fellows?"
"That's my idea."
The detective had made some important discoveries, and, among others, he had "piped" down to the fact that the crew of the "Nancy" were as desperate and blood-thirsty a set of scoundrels as ever ran in and out of Long Island even with that famous buccaneer, Captain Kidd.
"About how many men have been missing at different time?"
asked our hero.
"It's hard to tell; but the crew of the 'Nancy' could tell some fearful tales if they were to open their mouths."
The detective was destined to go to the bottom of the mystery.
The place selected by the men for their work was one of the most lonely and desolate on the whole coast at that time.
Taylor informed our hero that they would not unload from where they were anchored; he said: "They will run down around the point yonder, put their cargo ashore, and then sail back and reanchor where you see them now.
I tell you they make quick work of it."
"But I cannot see how they escape detection."
"Oh, they have plenty of confederates; the gang is not composed alone of the men who sail in the 'Nancy'."
"Then we must lay low until night falls."
"Yes."
The detective encountered some thrilling adventures ere another sunrise.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The detective's friend, Taylor, appeared disinclined to remain; he said: "I only promised to point out to you the rendezvous.
"Have you done so?"
"Yes."
"I do not know where the landing is made."
"Off yonder point."
"Around in the cove?"
"Yes."
"You can remain with me?"
"No, I cannot."
"Why not?"
"Well, this is no place for strangers; we are in peril every moment we stay here."
"We are all right, so long as the crew of the 'Nancy' remain on their boat."
"Not to-night; we are not safe."
"Why not?"
"Because the 'Nancy' is there.
Why, sir; we do not know what moment someone may spring upon us!
All their spies are out and on guard to-night; everything is watched as a cat watches a mouse-hole!"
"If you leave me, how am I to get over to the mainland?"
Taylor did not make an immediate reply, and the detective repeated his question.
"I did not think you intended remaining."
"What did you think?"
"I thought you would mark down the bearings and come here in force."
"But, as I've an opportunity to get the whole business down fine, I propose to remain."
"Then you will need a boat."
"Yes, I will, surely, in the morning."
"No, sir."
"What are you getting at?"
"I will speak plainly.
If you remain here you will never see the mainland again.
I tell you those men are a desperate lot!"
"But they will not find me."
"The chances are ten to one against you, and that they will find you.
I would not remain here to-night for a hundred thousand dollars!
The danger begins exactly at nightfall."
"You have got it down as fine as that, eh?"
"I have."
"If you take away the boat, you will take from me what chance I might have for escape."
"You must not remain."
"But I shall!"
"You are determined?"
"I am."
"Very well, I will leave you the boat; by walking about four miles I can find a way to cross over to the mainland."
"I wish you were a braver man."
"I have a family."
"That settles it!"
exclaimed the detective, and he added, "as you are going away you had better go now."
It was near sundown, and there lay the "Nancy" on the calm waters of the bay, looking to be as harmless a craft as rested on a keel.
"Can I not persuade you to go with me?"
"No, sir."
"You cannot fully realize the danger."
"Hang the danger!
I've a duty to perform, and I'll stay here and see that cargo put ashore from the 'Nancy,' even if it prove the last scene of my life!"
"The chances are that such will prove to be the fact; I warn you that the danger cannot be denied."
"Well, you had better go if you have four miles to travel before sundown."
"Have you any messages to leave?"
"None."
"Who am I to report to in case you are never seen alive?"
"You are taking a serious view of it."
"I am; I tell you it's certain death for a stranger to remain on this island to-night!"
"Suppose the stranger is not discovered, my good friend?"
"You are certain to be discovered.
The whole island will be patrolled."
"You speak like a man who has had some dire experience."
"I would not remain on this island to-night for the fall value of it in dollars."
"Why do you specify to-night?"
"Oh, any other night it would be all right, but as you know, it is a business evening to-night, and they will be all on guard."
"I must take the chances."
"Well, good-bye; I go now."
"Good-bye; I will call and see you to-morrow and pay you your reward."
"I hope you may, but I never expect to see you again.
What I recommend is that you guide the cutter to this place--" "I must first know just where to guide them."
"Come here in force, and with all the knowledge you have you will soon find the right place."
"I will come here in force in good season, but to-night I take points alone."
"Good-bye."
"All right, good-bye."
Taylor spoke in a very solemn tone, and wore a solemn look upon his face as he walked away.
The sun was just on the edge of the horizon when our hero found himself alone.
"Well, well," he muttered, "I have been a lucky man.
I've got this business right down to the right point, and with the additional information I shall gain I will be king of the mystery."
The detective was highly delighted with his prospective success, and with wonderful patience under all the circumstances, he awaited the approach of night.
From his position on the bluff, he commanded a full view of the smuggler yacht, and it was with a sweet unction to his soul that he remembered his words to Denman and his crew: "I shall see you again!"
He felt that he would come upon the smugglers at the proper moment, like an apparition fresh from a new-made grave.
The men he knew believed him dead, and he well remembered the proverbial superstition of sailors, and it struck him that the time might come when it would stand him in hand to take advantage of the startling shock that would certainly attend his reappearance before that murderous crew.
Night fell, and the detective strained his eyes to watch the movements on board the "Nancy."
The men, as he discovered, were playing their game well; at the proper hour their lights were set, and all the necessary precautions taken for a vessel which proposed to lay at anchor all night in a water way.
The detective was still on the watch, while the hours slowly glided away until near midnight, when he saw certain movements on board the boat that warned him she was about to change her position.
The detective, who had been lying on the grass rose to his feet, prepared to follow the movements of the "Nancy," when he was suddenly confronted by an armed man.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The detective was momentarily taken all aback.
The stranger came upon him suddenly.
One fact was established: the man had been the first to make the discovery of the presence of the detective, and his good luck gave him, seemingly, the advantage.
For a moment the two men stood gazing at each other under the starlight.
The silence was broken by the armed man, who said: "Well, mister, what are you doing spying around here?"
"Who says I'm spying around here?"
"I do."
"Well, you and I won't quarrel."
The stranger had a dead bead on the detective.
"No, stranger, you and I won't quarrel, it's easy for us to come to an understanding; just tell me who you are, and what you're doing around here, or say, your prayers as quick as you can."
"Why, what do you mean, my good man?--this ain't one of the South Sea Islands!
I haven't fallen in with cannibals right here in Suffolk County, New York State!"
The detective was coming the innocent dodge, and his little lead off was most excellent, and displayed great quickness and readiness of thought.
The smuggler, as later on the stranger proved to be, was set a little back by the detective's pretended innocence, but in a moment he recovered his ideas, and said: "I think you're a thief!"
"You think I'm a thief!"
"Yes, I do."
"Well, this is a great idea, that I should be taken for a thief!"
"You don't live on the island?"
"No."
"Have you any friends here?"
"No."
"That's just what I thought.
And now, give an account of yourself--what are you doing prowling around here?"
"This is a free country; a man can go where he pleases, I reckon, without giving an account of himself to every man he meets."
"If you've got any friends on the island who know you and will vouch for you, it's all right; otherwise you will give an account of yourself."
"I reckon it's none of your business what I am doing can the island.
I think you had better give an account of yourself, coining upon a stranger, after dark, with pistols in your hands!"
"I can give an account of myself.
I am one of a citizens' committee.
Robberies have been frequent on this island of late, and we compel every stranger to give an account of himself."
"Oh, that's it, eh?"
"Yes."
"Well, arrest me, and I will give an account of myself to the proper authorities."
"I am the proper authority."
"I don't recognize your authority."
"You are any prisoner!"
"That's all right," said the detective; and, throwing up his arms, he walked toward the armed man.
The latter did not know exactly how to act under the circumstances, the detective was so cool and acted so strangely.
Our hero, however, knew what he was up to well enough, and, when within a few feet of the smuggler, he suddenly threw himself forward and grappled with the ruffian.
A struggle followed.
Both were powerful men, but the detective was the most active and the coolest, and better prepared to take advantage of all chances.
Exerting himself to almost superhuman efforts, he forced the ruffian back to a great bowlder, and threw him down with such force that the man lost consciousness.
Half an hour passed.
The man lay silent and motionless like one dead, and no one came to the rescue.
The detective moved stealthily from his hiding-place to the verge of the bluff and glanced over to the spot where the "Nancy" had been riding at anchor.
The boat had disappeared.
A moment Vance stood and considered.
He knew that he was walking upon dangerous ground.
He had received an intimation of the desperateness of the gang.
After a review of the situation he walked back to where the smuggler whom he had worsted lay.
The man was just beginning to show signs of returning consciousness.
"I reckon I'll render you harmless for the balance of the night," muttered the detective, and he bound the man hand and foot.
The man meantime revived, and called for water.
"Ah, you are thirsty, are you?"
muttered the detective, who, after all, was a humane and merciful fellow, and he proceeded to a running rill near by and got some water in a rubber cup which he always carried about him.
The man slaked his thirst, and asked: "Where am I?"
"You are at home, I reckon."
The smuggler, at length, appeared to realize that he had been bound, and he said: "Who tied me up this way?"
"I did."
"Why?"
"You were set to shoot me down, and I got the better of you."
"Ah, I remember."
"Yes, you set on me and I was compelled to serve you out."
"Release me now, it's all right."
"Oh, it's all right, eh?
well, I don't think so; it's my idea you are a bad character, and I'm going to keep you here until I notify the constable or someone else.
I think you are a highwayman or a robber or something of that sort; you're a bad man anyhow."
"Release me, I live upon the island.
I am well known.
I am no burglar or robber.
I took you for one."
"Did you?
well you were mistaken, and now, Mister Man, what have you got to say particular before you go to sleep?"
"Before I go to sleep!
what do you mean?"
"I mean you will rest here until morning, until I can notify some of the citizens here, so they can come and take you into custody; it's my idea you are a bad character."
"You do not mean what you say; you will not leave me here?"
"I will."
"It will cost you your life."
"Will it?"
"I will follow you to the end of the world."
"That's all right, but you won't start out on your journey until after to-morrow, my friend."
"You certainly do not mean to leave me here tied in this manner."
"Yes, I do, and I'm going to insert this in your jaw, so you will rest quiet until morning."
"Hold!
release me and I will forgive you."
The detective's answer was the insertion of a gag in the man's mouth, and at the, same instant footsteps were heard.
CHAPTER XXV.
Spencer Vance sprung to his feet, and stood and listened, determined to have the drop on the other man in case of danger, and not again get caught in the position he was when the first smuggler called him to account.
The intruder passed on his way without having come upon our hero and his gagged prisoner.
The detective stole after the man, but concluded he was merely a resident of the island who passed by through chance.
Returning to his man Vance made sure that he could not release himself, and then started down to the shore and moved along the beach, hoping to come upon the smugglers engaged in the unloading of their goods.
The detective traversed about four miles of coast when, far ahead of him, he saw the glimmer of dancing lights.
"Aha!"
he muttered, "I've got 'em!"
He spoke in an incautiously loud tone, when a man sprung toward him.
The smugglers had put out sentinels, and our hero had run across one of them.
The sentinel proved to be a resolute fellow, as he did not stop to ask questions, but made a stroke at the detective's head.
Our hero dodged the blow, and seized the fellow; The man struggled violently, and made several attempts to sing out an alarm, but he was in a grip of iron.
The detective, however, had no time to spare.
He was an overmatch for the smuggler, but at any, moment assistance might arrive.
It was silence the officer needed at that moment, and he buried the fellow's head under water.
The poor fellow struggled violently, and it appeared a cruel recourse, but our hero knew that the water would render the man temporarily harmless.
He did not mean to drown him.
The man's struggles finally ceased, when the detective raised his head from the water.
The fellow was not dead, but his cries were stopped for the time being--a water gag, as our hero termed it.
Vance left the man lying on the beach, and advanced more cautiously.
He had crossed the line and was in the charmed circle.
Like an Indian on a trail he crawled forward, and, regardless of peril, approached quite close to the working party.
Just above the water-line was a wall of rock, and built upon the rock was a small house, and into this house the goods were carried.
The detective saw that the house was not of sufficient dimensions to hold all the goods that were carried in, and he made up his mind at the proper time to make a survey of the place and delve to the secret.
Nothing more was to be done that night.
He had ascertained all he desired.
He had located the rendezvous and the store-house; while on the yacht he had marked some of the goods, so that he could identify them.
He had trailed down the methods, noted the active workers, and all that remained was for him to get safely off the island and trace down to the backers.
He had taken long chances, but all his risks were amply repaid by his wonderful success.
The detective, at the moment he decided to get away, was so close to the working party that he could overhear what passed between them, and while he watched he saw a figure glide into their midst.
"The dead alive!"
was the under-toned exclamation that fell from his lips as he recognized the half-drowned man whom he had so successfully overcome.
At once there followed great excitement.
A consultation was summoned.
The man had evidently told his startling tale.
Our hero recognized Ike Denman, the traitor and falsifier, captain of the "Nancy," and he heard Ike say: "You are sure it was not one of the islanders?"
"I am sure.
I tell you I recognized the man!"
"You recognized him?"
"Yes."
"Who was he?"
"Ballard!"
A murmur of incredulousness rose from the men, and Ike Denman exclaimed: "You have been fooled by your fancy; you have been dreaming!"
"No; I wasn't dreaming; I swear I saw Ballard, the man who went overboard from the 'Nancy' twenty miles out at sea."
"I tell you, man, you have been dreaming."
The man pointed down to his wet clothes.
"Yes, you scoundrel, you fell asleep and rolled down the bank into the water, and you saw a ghost in your dream."
"You fellows may think I saw a ghost, but I can prove I didn't.
Yes, sir, prove it."
"How?"
"Bring your lanterns and come with me."
"What will you show us?"
"The man's tracks in the sand at the spot where he and I had the wrestle."
The man started for the point where our hero had first met the smuggler; had the former been less bravo and reckless he would have seized the opportunity to get away, but he was curious to witness the result of the inquiry, and he moved along to the spot where the combat had taken place, and took up a position on the bluff near enough to see and overhear.
The men with their lanterns reached the place and an examination followed.
The imprints of two pairs of feet were plainly visible.
Denman made close examination, even measuring the different footprints; when he had concluded he said in a hoarse voice: "Boys, we've been followed; there's an enemy on the island and he must never get away alive!"
By the glare of the lanterns our hero could see the men's faces, and they were pale and contorted with excitement and trepidation.
"I reckon I'll go now," he said, "it's getting rather warm around here."
The officer quietly moved away, while Denman divided his men into several squads and started them on a hunt for the spy.
The master of the "Nancy" was completely mystified.
He could not understand how it was possible, under even the most extraordinary circumstances, that Ballard could be alive and upon the island.
He supposed; as a matter of course, the detective was dead, and yet his man had positively sworn as to the revenue officer's identity.
"This is the most wonderful thing in all my experience!"
declared the master of the "Nancy," as alone he walked back toward the landing-place of the boats.
Meantime the detective had reached a most extraordinary determination.
He saw that the chances were against him if he sought to reach the boat in which he and Taylor had crossed from the mainland; and yet it ways absolutely necessary that he should have a boat.
He reasoned that the smugglers would scatter all over the island, and concluded that the safest place for him was the starting-point of the searchers.
It required a cool, level-headed man to decide under all the circumstances, and our hero was just the sort of man described.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The detective made sure that the men had scattered, and that the search was in full blast, when he doubled on his course and moved down toward the warehouse.
Here again he displayed his reckless courage.
He approached the small building on the bluff, from the rear, and entered it, and one mystery was explained--the building was but the cover to the entrance to an immense underground warehouse.
A lantern was hanging near by, and the detective seized it and descending the stairs entered a great store-house.
A sight met his gaze which filled him with amazement.
His fortune was made at last; the store-house was filled with packages of valuable goods; indeed, an immense fortune lay scattered about.
Later on the detective came to learn more particularly the methods of the smugglers, but for the present as he stood there he realized that he was a wondrously lucky man, unless he should prove unlucky enough to be captured.
While standing in the subterranean store-house an idea entered his mind and he exclaimed: "By George, that's just the scheme."
He returned to the upper room and replaced the lantern, and immediately redescended to the storehouse.
The detective had a masked lantern with him, having secured it while abiding a few hours at the home of his guide, Taylor.
Spencer Vance had determined to hide himself in the smugglers' underground warehouse.
He had reached the conclusion that he could find no safer place.
Spencer Vance had struck a big scheme.
Even while in such great peril, and while busy, he was revolving in his mind all the chances and contingencies; but over all loomed the possibility of discovery.
There was no friendly sea to receive him should those men find him secreted in their treasure den.
The detective was like a man walking in a suspected coal mine with a lighted torch, who at any moment might strike a chamber filled with the fatal gas, which coming in contact with the light, would have blown man and mine to smithereens.
Meantime the search continued on the island, and the detective was rejoiced as he saw that, after all, the discovery of his presence was a most excellent thing, as it would lead to the eventual discovery of the real smugglers, through means which will be described later on.
Vance had measured every step as he progressed, and knew just where he would fetch out, provided he once got away from the island; but there, as stated, loomed the chance against him.
His opportunity would depend largely upon the decision of Ike Denman after the return of his searching parties.
One of the searching parties was moving along looking for a trail, when a cry from one of their number brought the squad together.
The man had stumbled upon the strapped and gagged smuggler.
There was a circus for a few moments after the discovery, and there followed some loud swearing, not low; but deep, fast and furious.
The man had been gagged so long it was some minutes before he could relate his sad tale.
One of the men said to him: "Who served you out, Jim?"
When the man found voice he answered: "The devil or one of his imps."
"Hello!
did you see the ghost?"
"What ghost?"
"The ghost of Ballard."
"I don't know anything about the ghost of Ballard, but I had a rough scrimmage with the gamest man I ever tackled."
"Didn't you recognize him?"
"No."
"I wonder if there are two of 'em on the island?"
"What's happened, boys?"
"Well, it's looking as though the devil himself were loose to-night."
The man proceeded and told how another of their crew had met the island mystery, and had been half drowned by him.
"I tell you," said the man, "it's going to stand us in hand to get that fellow on; the game is all dead against us, and we'll whistle for our share of prize-money."
"Come along with us and we may find our man; you can identify him?"
"Identify the devil!
let me see him just one second."
The men, as a fact, failed to discover the island mystery, and different parties returned and reported to Ike Denman.
When the master of the "Nancy" heard of the laying out of another of his sentinels, his rage knew no bounds, and calling his men around him he declared; "We must find out this fellow.
He cannot have left the island."
One of the men suggested: "We may never get a sight of him."
"If it is Ballard we can recognize him."
The men were sent away once more, and many of their passive confederates on the island were aroused and started out on the search; indeed the island became alive with secretly armed men.
Ike Denman was satisfied that the detective had not got away, and he was determined to find him.
Hundreds of thousands of dollars were at stake; the fact that the detective had trailed down to their rendezvous meant ruin.
The master of the "Nancy" did not for one moment believe in his own mind that the mystery was, Ballard; his common sense suggested that it was impossible that the fellow could have escaped, unless by some strange fatality he had been picked up, and as there were no vessels near enough to see him at the time he went over from the yacht, the latter chance did not seem probable.
It was well toward morning when several of the crew, according to orders, returned and joined the captain, and the latter went aboard the "Nancy" and sailed her back to where she had previously anchored.
One man was left in charge of the yacht, and the balance, with the captain, rowed ashore and proceeded afoot to the rendezvous, and at length daylight came.
The search had proved a failure, and when it was well on in the morning all hands were assembled at the rendezvous.
A majority of the men were sent aboard the "Nancy," while the master and some of his most reliable confederates remained ashore.
The men had made a thorough search, and all hands were still of the opinion that the detective, or whoever it was that had been tracking them, still remained secreted somewhere on the island.
One of the men, a shrewd fellow, offered several singular suggestions.
He had accurately measured the tracks of the man who had laid out two members of the crew, and he had found duplicate foot imprints down around the rendezvous.
A more dazed and bewildered set of men were never engaged in an illegal traffic.
Meantime the daring detective was lying low right in their very midst.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Spencer Vance had not been idle while in the subterranean warehouse; but, with his masked lantern, he had gone about, and, in a regular business-like manner, had made an inventory of the merchandise scattered about; and he had also copied all the shipping-marks and also all the hieroglyphic brush signs.
He furthermore opened some of the cases, and put identification marks on some of the goods indeed, he did his work in a thorough and masterly manner.
He had accomplished wonders; but he was not yet safely off the island.
Later on the detective made some startling and ghastly discoveries.
He came upon a box containing human bones, and he was sufficiently experienced to recognize that, in the case of the remains, ordinary, decay had been supplemented by artificial processes, and the latter discovery was a prima facie testimony in favor of the theory that the bones were those of murdered victims.
Our hero was still rummaging around when his attention was attracted by human voices, and, closing the slide of his lantern, he laid low and watched, and, a moment later, became aware that some of the crew of the "Nancy" were in the warehouse.
"I wonder," he muttered, "if they have came to look for me here?
If they have, I reckon I'm in a tight place!"
The detective crawled toward the place where the smugglers were gathered, and he overheard their conversation.
One of them remarked.
"It's all nonsense to look for him in here."
"If it is Ballard, or Spencer Vance, I'd look for him in my vest pocket; either one of those men would dare to go anywhere."
"Well, search," commanded Ike Denman.
"Now I am a goner," was the mental declaration of the intrepid revenue officer, while at the same time he was, resolved to take all necessary precautions.
He found a hiding place and passed a full hour of anxiety, indeed, a mental strain that would have turned a less nervy man gray.
The agony, however, passed, and he escaped discovery, and heard one of the fellows say: "He is not in here, that is certain."
"You're mistaken, Charley," muttered the detective to himself, in a spirit of reckless facetiousness.
Ike Denman appeared to be completely disheartened, and he said: "I tell you, my good fellows, we're in trouble; that man has got away."
"What will you do?"
"There is only one thing for me to do; I must go to New York and report the situation at headquarters."
"We can get the goods away."
"It's easy to say we can get the goods away, but where will we take them?"
"We can load the 'Nancy' down with the most valuable of them."
"That is a good idea, but you cannot get to work until to-night."
"We can start in to-night."
"Where will you run her when she's loaded?"
"We can run outside and communicate."
"Do that, and meantime I will go on to New York.
There is a one o'clock train from the station on the other side.
I will go on that train."
"And we are to load the 'Nancy' to-night."
"Yes."
The detective overheard the whole of the above conversation, and great drops of perspiration came out upon his forehead.
He was in a bad fix after all.
Should Denman get to New York ahead of him, he would lose his best grip after all.
Something must be done.
He must get over to the mainland before one o'clock, in time to take the train with Denman, at all hazards.
Denman and a part of his crew passed from the warehouse while one of the men remarked: "I've some private property in here to look after and I'll see to it at once."
A smile flitted over the face of the detective.
He thought a chance was about to present itself for him to get away.
A moment he lay quiet, and then emerged from his hiding-place.
The warehouse was artificially illuminated by a few swinging lamps, and only one was lighted at the time.
The detective cautiously glanced around.
He had prepared himself for the work he had in hand.
He saw a light in a distant corner and he cautiously stole toward the light, and came upon a man sorting over the contents of a sailor's ship-sack.
It was a critical moment; life depended upon success, death would follow, sure death, the failure of his plan.
Like a cat creeping toward an unsuspecting bird on a twig, the detective crept toward the smuggler, knowing that when he sprung upon his prey there must be no mistake.
The critical moment was reached, the officer made his leap forward, and seized his man, seized him by the throat, and when once Vance got his grip on a man's throat silence followed; no man was ever known to make an outcry with those powerful fingers grasped around his neck.
The man was, not a very powerful fellow, fortunately, and the detective easily bore him to the ground.
Having secured the man, the detective said: "I am going to lighten my grip on your throat.
I wish to ask you a few questions, answer me promptly and truthfully, and you will save your life; but seek to make an outcry, and you are a dead man.
Now wink if you mean to keep quiet and save your life?"
The mail winked.
"All right, old fellow, you know the value of your skin, I see, and mark you don't make any mistake, for as certain as you make the least effort to give an alarm, you are a dead man; do you understand?
If so, wink."
The man winked: "That's all right," said the detective; and he released his hold on the man's throat.
The man kept his word.
He was not a very nervy chap, and was terrified almost to death, as it was.
"What is your name?"
demanded the detective.
"Why do you wish to know my name?"
The man spoke in a loud tone, when the detective said: "Speak low, old man--very low, or you'll never speak again.
Now wink."
The man winked, and the detective said: "Now tell me your name?"
"My name is Arbella."
"Your name is Arbella?"
"Yes."
"You are one of the crew of the 'Nancy'?"
"No."
"You are not?"
"I am not."
"What are you?"
"I am the doctor on the vessel.
I've nothing to do with their business."
"Oh, you're the doctor?"
"I am."
"Well, doctor, you are a lucky man.
I did intend to silence you, but I'll just shut you up temporarily; and now mind; if you make the least noise or attempt to offer resistance, you area dead man!"
CHAPTER XXVIII.
"I will be silent," the man answered.
"I reckon you will, my friend."
As our readers will remember, the detective had arranged to carry out a certain plan before he pounced upon the doctor.
Our hero had the knack of making little necessary articles, and he had prepared a gag, which he inserted in the man's mouth after having first bound the fellow's hands under him.
After inserting the gag, the detective released the man's hands temporarily, until he had removed the prisoner's outer and upper clothing, when a second time he bound him.
Indeed, our readers have already detected the officer's plan.
He had determined to assume the man's clothes, personate him, and risk the chances of an escape.
It was a perilous undertaking, but the officer had been taking perilous chances all along.
The change was made, and our detective fancied he had succeeded in making a most excellent "make up" in his "transform," and when all ready he moved toward the door.
He had reached a part where the real peril commenced; but, with his hand on the butt of a cocked revolver, he ascended to the upper room.
The apartment was deserted.
"So far, so good," muttered the bold man, and he peeped out of the door.
Again fortune favored him.
Two men were stretched out under the bluff asleep, and two more were down close to the shore.
"Now or never!"
muttered Vance, and he stepped forth.
Had the men on the shore been close enough they might have discovered that something was wrong; but, at the distance, as they glanced at the detective, they evidently mistook him for Arbella.
The detective did not attempt to slink away--he was too cool and ready-witted.
He calmly lit a pipe and wandered around, seemingly in a listless manner; but, at the proper moment, he moved away from the beach and soon disappeared behind some bushes.
"Well done!"
was the glad exclamation that fell from his lips.
Once beyond sight he moved along rapidly, and made for the point where he and Taylor had landed the previous night.
Vance reached the spot in safety and stood a moment on the bluff looking for the boat, when he saw a man rowing directly across the bay.
"I hope that fellow lands here," was the detective's muttered exclamation.
The boat Taylor had left for him was gone, and he had made up his mind to appropriate the boat of the rower, in case a chance offered.
He sat intently watching the boat as it came nearer and nearer, and at length a thrill shot through his heart.
The danger was passed.
He recognized the oarsman--Taylor was in the boat.
The latter rowed straight to the beach and glanced around in a cautious manner, when the detective moved down and hailed him, in a low tone.
Taylor did not recognize the detective at the first glance, and settled down to his oars as though intending to pull off, when our hero called him by name, and an instant later a full recognition had taken place.
"Well;" exclaimed Taylor, "you are safe!"
"Yes, I am safe."
"What have you discovered?"
"The whole business."
"And you have not been detected?"
"Oh, yes, I was fallen on several times, but I managed to creep out of a hot spot each time; but come, we have no time to spare."
"You are a fortunate man."
"I shall count in myself a fortunate man if I reach the other side of the bay without accident."
"We will go across easy enough; but do you know the 'Nancy' is at her old anchorage?"
"Where she lay last night?"
"Yes."
Taylor was a good oarsman, and in less than an hour the detective was on the mainland.
"Have you any friends around here?"
he asked.
"Yes."
"Honest people?"
"Yes."
"Take me to their house."
"Do you wish to find a hiding place?"
"No; I've other plans than seeking to hide just now."
Taylor led the detective to a friend's house; on the way our hero had partially explained his plans, and had related all the wonderful adventures that had befallen him during the past night.
"You have taken long chances."
"I am used to taking long chances, and I've often done so and gained nothing, but last night's work pays me for all the risk, and, my good friend, you will come in for a nice bit of money."
The two men reached the home of Taylor's friend, and the detective set to work and went through the operation of a deliberate transform.
With the assistance of Taylor's friend he secured a complete outfit, and wrought such a marvelous change in his appearance that Taylor and his friend could hardly convince themselves that the man who came forth from the best bedroom was the same man who had entered it a few moments previously.
"You are an extraordinary man," exclaimed Taylor.
"It's all a matter of business, my friend."
"I can well see now why it is you are so willing to take long chances as you call them."
"Well, yes, I've had some experience; but now, friend Taylor, it is not necessary to request you to keep silent concerning my movements, but I want you to watch the movements of the 'Nancy.'"
"She will probably sail away to-day."
"Does she usually go away the day following her night-visit to the coast?"
"Usually, yes."
"She will not sail away to-day, and I want you to watch her and watch any of her crew that may come ashore."
"I am afraid you will get me in trouble before this affair is ended."
"This affair will be ended to-night."
The detective gave Taylor a few instructions and then proceeded to the depot.
Spencer Vance, as he appeared at the little frame station, was as perfect a specimen of a countryman as ever took train from the rural districts for New York.
Ike Denman was at the station.
The master of the "Nancy" had also wrought a great change in his personal appearance.
He looked little like the man who had stood on the beach across the bay a few hours previously.
It was half an hour previous to the starting of the train when the detective reached the depot, and as he stood around with his hands in his pockets, the master of the "Nancy" several times passed within a few feet of him.
Little did the smuggler captain dream, as he ran his eyes over the rustic-looking passenger, that under that clownish hat was the busy brain that had trailed him and his crew down to such a fine point.
The detective, meantime, was happy, and at the moment little dreamed of the terrible tragedy that had occurred, and which, strangely enough, but awaited his unraveling.
The half hour glided by, and at length the smuggler captain and the detective boarded the train.
CHAPTER XXIX.
The detective acted well his part, and attracted little attention from the master of the "Nancy," until the latter, for lack of something better to do, took a seat beside our hero.
"On your way to the city?"
"Yes."
"Do you go there often?"
"No."
"You live at G-----?"
"No."
"Where do you live?"
"On the island."
"You live on the island?"
"Yes."
"I often go to the island; don't remember ever having seen you."
"I've been off on a trip."
"A trip?"
"Yes."
"Where to?"
"Connecticut."
The master of the "Nancy" laughed, and said: "Do you call that a trip?"
"Yes; I was away from the island two years."
"What's your name?"
The countryman looked the master of the "Nancy" all over, winking knowingly, and said: "You cannot come that over me!"
"Come what over you?"
"Oh, I'm no fool!
I know how you Yorkers work the trains."
"You know how we Yorkers work the trains?"
"Yes."
"What do we work them for?"
"Suckers; but I'm no fool!
You can't come any of your smart games over me.
I've lived a couple of years in Hartford; I'm posted!"
"So you think I'm a Yorker?"
"Of coarse I do."
"What makes you think so?"
"You look like one."
"You're a smart Alec, my friend from Connecticut."
"Do you think so?"
"I reckon you think so yourself."
"Mebbe I do; and I'm too smart for you."
"I reckon you are."
"Yes, I am, as you'll find."
"I've found it out already."
"I reckon you have."
"Do you go clean through to the city?"
"Yes, I do."
"Where do you hang out?"
"I haven't made up my mind."
The pretended countryman assumed a very knowing look.
The master of the "Nancy" was amused; he thought he had struck a character.
Well, he had, but he had no idea of the real character of the man; he thought he was joking for amusement.
"Were you ever 'nipped' by a Yorker my friend?"
"No siree, and I don't mean to be."
"So you live on the island?"
"Yes."
"And you won't tell me your name?"
"No, I won't."
"What harm would there be in telling your name?"
"You're too anxious to learn my name.
What's your name?"
"My name is King."
"Your name is King, eh?"
"Yes."
"You live in York?"
"No, I don't."
"You don't?"
"No."
"Where do you live?"
"On the island."
"You live on the island?"
"Yes."
"Never heard of anyone by the name of King on the island."
"You never did?"
"Never."
"That's strange."
"No, it ain't strange, because no one by the name of King ever lived there."
"Do you know a family by the name of Manuels?"
"See here, Mr. King, you can't pump me."
"I am not pumping you, I am only asking you civil questions."
"I am not answering civil questions to-day."
"Well, you are a crank."
"A what?"
"A crank."
"What's a crank?"
"A fool."
"You call me a fool?"
"Yes."
The detective rose to his feet, assumed a fierce expression and retorted: "You're another."
The master of the "Nancy" had expected an assault when the countryman assumed such a threatening attitude, and was compelled to laugh when the danger simmered down to a mere retort.
Ike Denman was amusing himself, and so was the detective.
"I reckon I've met you before," said the disguised officer.
"You think you've met me before?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Can't recall just now, but the faint remembrance don't bring me a pleasant feeling."
"You are a fool," exclaimed Denman, and rising from his seat beside the disguised detective he walked to the other end of the car.
At length the train ran into the depot at Brooklyn, and the few passengers went aboard the boat that was to convey them to the city.
The detective was a happy man.
He had accomplished a big feat, and little dreamed of the terrible discovery he was destined to make later on.
Upon reaching the city, Denman started down town and entered a building occupied by a foreign importing horse.
The detective was at his wit's end.
He was anxious to overhear what passed between the master of the "Nancy" and the members of the firm.
In a moment his decision was made, and it was founded on a cunning line of reasoning.
Our hero entered the store just as the private office door closed behind Denman.
A gentleman came forward and demanded the seeming countryman's business, and the detective asked to see one of the members of the firm, calling him by name, leaving learned the same from the sign over the door.
"He is busy," was the answer.
That was just the answer the detective had expected, and it was in anticipation of such an answer that he boldly walked in and ventured the inquiry.
"When will he be at leisure?"
"It is hard to tell."
The clerk knew Denman and suspected that it was private and important business that had brought the master of the "Nancy" to New York.
"I wish to see him particularly."
"Cam I not attend to the business for Mr.
M----?"
"No sir; I must see Mr. M---personally."
"Can you call again?"
"I will wait."
"He may be engaged a long time."
"I cannot help it, I must see him to-day, and it does not make much difference; I am in no hurry, I can wait as well as not."
The clerk walked away and our hero edged toward the office situated at the rear of the store, and seated himself upon a case of goods, resting directly against the office partition.
A glass casing only separated the detective from the members of the firm and the master of the "Nancy," and he could overhear all that passed.
The clerk meantime was busy in the forward part of the store, and paid no heed to the stupid-looking countryman.
Spencer Vance was well repaid for his risks.
He overheard the names of several firms, and got down facts which made it a dead open and shut case.
At length he recognized that the conference was about reaching a conclusion, and he came another sharp trick.
CHAPTER XXX.
As our readers have discerned, the detective had no desire to see the member of the firm whom he had asked for; it had been merely a game to gain an opportunity to listen to what occurred between the capitalists and the master of the "Nancy."
When Vance saw that the conference was about terminating, he walked to the front of the store, and said: "I will not wait; I will call in again."
"If your business is important you had better wait.
He can not be engaged a much longer time."
"I will call again."
"Very well."
The detective walked out.
He had "coppered" all he required for the time being.
He took up his position a short distance from the store, and awaited the reappearance of Denman upon the street.
He was not compelled to wait very long, as the master of the "Nancy" soon appeared, and the detective fell upon his trail.
Denman walked up town a short distance, and stopped in a well-known bar-room, and the detective again got in on a little wait.
The master of the "Nancy" did not remain long in the bar-room, and soon again appeared upon the street, when the detective approached him.
"Hello, King," called Vance, "haven't you gone back yet?"
The master of the "Nancy" turned and recognized the countryman whom he had called a "crank" on the train.
"Where did you come from?"
"I saw you come out of that place, and I thought I'd like to have a few words with you."
"I have no time."
"Oh, yes; you call spare a few moments."
"Probably you know my business better than I do."
"I know you're in no hurry; you're not going out on the island to-night."
"I am not going out on the island to-night?"
"Well, you're a 'no-such-thing'!"
"Come and have a beer?"
"I have no time, I tell you."
"It will not take you a minute; and I've something to tell you."
"You've something to tell me?"
"Yes."
"What have you to say to me?"
"Something very important."
"What are you giving me now?"
"Facts.
Cone along; I've a surprise for you."
The master of the "Nancy" was amused and at the same time mystified.
He could not dream what the countryman could have to say to him.
"Come along," said Vance.
"You have something to tell me?"
"Yes."
"Tell me here."
"No; I want to sit down.
It's a long story."
A curious look came over the smuggler's face, and, for the first time, a faint suspicion crossed his mind.
"Where will we go?"
he asked.
"Oh, here's a place."
The two men entered a beer saloon, the rear yard of which had been converted into a garden, over which an awning was stretched.
They took a seat and Denman demanded in an impatient tone: "Well, what have you to say to me?"
There was no one in the garden but the two men; the waiter had brought the beer and had gone away.
"You asked me what my name was on the train?"
"Yes, I did."
"I wouldn't tell you!"
"No."
"Well, do you know why?"
"No."
"You ought to know my name; you and I have met before; can't you tell where?"
The detective all the time had preserved his rustic tones and demeanor.
"You and I have met before?"
"Yes."
"When and where?"
"Several times."
"Where?"
"Ah, you must guess."
"The master of the "Nancy" studied the detective's face.
"I do not remember ever having seen you before."
"Nonsense."
"You are having some fun at my expense."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes."
"Well, I am in dead earnest."
"Where did we meet before?"
"The last time we met I promised you we would meet again."
A fierce look shot into Denman's eyes as he permitted his glance to roam around the garden.
He was studying what the chances would be under certain contingencies.
"As I don't know you, do you know me?"
"You told me your name was King."
"Is that my name?"
"No."
"What is my name?"
"Denman," came the answer in a low, firm tone.
The master of the "Nancy" turned deadly pale.
Ho realized that something was up, and it came to him that the seeming countryman after all, was a man as keen and resolute as himself.
"You say my name is Denman?"
"Yes."
"You are sure?"
"I am."
"What's my business?"
"You're the master of the 'Nancy'."
Denman made a certain significant motion with his hand, when the detective whispered: "Don't!"
There was a world of significance in that little word "Don't!"
"Who are you?"
"Can't you guess?"
"I'm not guessing to-day."
"Sorry."
"What is your business with me?"
"I wanted to tell you that I knew who you were."
"Is that all?"
"No."
"What else?"
"I wanted you to know that I am a man who keeps his word."
"Is your word passed to me?"
"Yes."
"What is your promise?"
"I promised to meet you again."
"I don't recall."
"Don't you perceive?"
"Perceive what?"
"That you are in a bad hole."
Again the master of the "Nancy" made a certain movement, when the detective repeated in a peculiar warning tone: "Don't."
"You are a revenue officer?"
said Denman.
"Aha!
now you begin to open up!"
"What is your business with me?"
"You are my prisoner!"
"No, no, my friend!"
"Yes, yes, Denman."
Matters were approaching a critical climax.
Denman attempted to rise from his seat.
"Sit down!"
commanded the detective.
"My friend," said Denman, "don't fly your kite too high, your string may be cut."
The smuggler spoke in a warning tone.
"Sit down," repeated the detective.
Denman realized that he was facing a man who was well prepared at every turn.
"Who are you?"
he asked.
"I am your old friend Ballard!"
came the reply.
CHAPTER XXXI.
Denman showed signs of great excitement and trepidation.
Our readers will remember that the smuggler had never identified Spencer Vance and Ballard as one and the same man; and, when suspicions were aroused as to the identity of the disguised detective, it never once entered Denman's head that he was sitting vis-a-vis with Ballard.
"You are Ballard?"
"I am Ballard."
"Are you man or devil?"
"I suppose you think I ought to be floating on the sea?"
"I thought you were at the bottom of the sea, and how you escaped to face me I can't tell."
"I'll tell you all about it some day, Denman, but, in the meantime, do you mean fight, or does your flag come down?"
"My flag comes down.
The game is up with me."
"Well, sit down."
The smuggler sat down.
"I've got the thing down pretty fine on you, Denman."
"I should say so.
You were on the island?"
"I was."
"You are the man who laid out some of the crew?"
"I am the culprit."
"You beat 'em all!"
"Well, I reckon I've run this racket pretty well."
"How did you get ashore?"
"You wouldn't believe."
"I'll take your word for anything."
"I swam ashore."
"You're a good swimmer."
"I am."
"How did you snake us out down at the island?"
"I've been picking up facts for some time."
"Spencer Vance and you were 'laying in' together?"
"Well, yes."
"Where is Vance?"
"He is here."
"Where?"
"I am Vance!"
"What!"
ejaculated the smuggler.
"Ballard and Vance both wear the same hats."
"This does get me."
"Yes, I reckon I've got you."
"And now, what's your play?"
"You will go to Ludlow Street."
We will explain to our rural readers that Ludlow Street is the location of a prison where all revenue prisoners are confined.
Denman had been in Ludlow Street.
He knew well enough what the detective's declaration meant.
"How about bail?"
"No bail."
"I've good bondsman."
"That's all right."
A moment Denman was silent and thoughtful, but at length said: "Are you on the make?"
"What have you to offer?"
"You can drop to a big sum."
"How big?"
"Three or four thousand."
The detective smiled, and answered "I'm in for more than that; remember the value of what's in your storehouse on the island."
"You have that down?"
"I've been in there; your crew know it by this time if they have rummaged around any.
I was there when you decided to come on to New York and notify your principals."
The smuggler gazed at the detective with an expression of wonderment upon his face, "You were there?"
"Yes."
"Where were you when we searched?"
"I was stowed away."
"And we missed you?"
"If you hadn't I would not be here now."
"You're right.
I'm blowed if you don't get me, but you're entitled to win.
Still we can come to a compromise."
"How will you manage it, Denman?"
"I will take you to the principals."
The detective mentioned the names of several of the firms.
Denman's eyes opened wider and wider, "You tracked me well."
"Yes, I did."
"Will you open up for negotiation?"
"No."
"What is to be done?"
"You must open up."
The smuggler did not make an immediate reply, "What have you to say?"
"I can't promise anything."
"I've got everything dead."
"I see you have."
"Then it's for you to lay in for all the favors you can get."
"There's nothing I can give away, you have it all."
"Are you ready?"
"For what!"
"To go to Ludlow Street."
"Is there no chance for a deal?"
"None whatever."
"All right, I'm passive."
"Understand me, Denman, I'll have my eye on you; if you go quietly it's all right; if you attempt any capers down you go."
"I am passive."
"It's all right then, come."
The two men rose, and any casual customer in that garden would never have imagined that a thrilling drama in real life was being enacted right then and there, and that two remarkable men had played a thrilling part.
The men reached Ludlow Street.
Denman was given in charge, and the detective called a cab and started down town.
Our hero was still in the garb of the countryman.
He entered the United States District Attorney's office and accosted a dandy clerk.
"Where is the district attorney?"
"What do you want of him?"
"I'll tell him when I see him."
"Can't see him to-day."
"What's that?"
"Can't see him to-day."
"Is he in?"
"You've got your answer."
The detective approached the political dude and said: "Will you answer my questions?"
"Come, my friend, you get, or--."
"Or what?"
"I'll hustle you."
"You will hustle me, eh?"
"Yes."
The detective suddenly extended his strong, powerful arm and quick as a wink caught the political exquisite by the ear and he closed his vise-like grip.
The young fellow squealed like a pig.
Vance released him and said: "Will you answer my questions civilly?"
"Who are you?"
demanded the clerk, as he vigorously rubbed his ear.
"Go and tell the district attorney I wish to see him."
"What name, sir?"
"Vance."
The clerk entered an inner office and a moment I later reappeared, and in the most obsequious manner, possible said: "This way, sir."
"Ah, you have come to an understanding of your duty."
"I beg your pardon, if you had told me who you were I would have notified the district attorney at once."
"You would, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, young man, let to-day's experience be a warning to you all your life, and from this time out treat every one with civility who treats you civilly."
A moment later, Vance the detective stood in the presence of the Government attorney.
CHAPTER XXXII.
The two men were intimate.
Vance was operating directly under the orders of the attorney, and the latter was not surprised to see him appear under any guise.
"Well, Vance," exclaimed the district attorney, extending his hand, "I'm glad to see you.
What news?"
"Good."
"Aha, I'm glad to hear it; you've struck a trail, eh?"
"Yes."
"A good one?"
"Pretty good," answered the detective, dryly.
"Well, let's hear all about it."
"I've collared the whole business."
"What?"
ejaculated the Government attorney.
Vance repeated his declaration.
"You collared the whole business?"
"Yes."
"What do you mean?"
"All that the words imply."
"Tell me all about it."
The detective in a rapid manner related his adventures, and as he proceeded the Government attorney opened his eyes wider and wider, and when the of officer had concluded the attorney exclaimed: "This is wonderful."
"It's a pretty good thing for us."
"I should say so.
But, you must bear a charmed life!"
"No, no, I'm only a little watchful against accidents; and sudden surprises."
"And you have the master of the 'Nancy' up in Ludlow Street?"
"He's there sure."
"How does he take the thing?"
"He's all done over."
"Inclined to talk?"
"I reckon you can make him talk."
"I'll visit him at once."
"Not so soon; what you want to do is to capture the 'Nancy' and place a guard over the warehouse."
"You're right."
"You will have to secure a special train; and now when will you be ready?"
"In two hours."
"All right.
I will be at the train."
The attorney went away to make all the arrangements for a grand seizure.
He had the names of all the principals, who were first put under surveillance, under the "shadow" of a number of Government officers, and then all the other arrangements were completed.
It was seven o'clock in the evening when the special train ran out of the depot, carrying twenty armed men besides the United States attorney, and our hero, who was in command of the party.
Four hours later the party were ready to embark across the bay to the island.
Our hero met his friend Taylor.
"Well, old man, what have you to report?"
"The 'Nancy' weighed anchor only half an hour ago.
"Were you on the track of any of the crew to-day?"
"They were around the village."
"Did they drop anything?"
"Not a word."
The party were soon landed on the island.
Taylor did not accompany them, as the detective did not desire to involve his confederate in any future trouble.
The party were marched toward the rendezvous, and had gone but a short distance when the detective, in a low tone, ordered a halt.
He had discovered one of the smuggler sentinels, toward whom he advanced.
The man commanded our hero to halt.
The detective came to a halt, and said: "What do you want?"
"Where do you go?"
"Is there a war round here, that you send out sentinels to stop quiet people?"
"Who are you and where do you go?"
"That's none of your business!"
"I give you two minutes to answer."
"Only two minutes?"
"One!"
called the man.
"You're crazy!"
said the detective.
"Two!"
called the man.
The detective uttered a signal-whistle call, and seven or eight men sprung forward.
The sentinel stood paralyzed.
"Why don't you call three?"
demanded Vance.
The man made no reply.
"I had an idea that war had been declared, so I brought my troop this way."
The man made a movement as though about to run away, when Vance said: "Don't move, my friend, or you will be dropped."
The detective advanced toward the fellow, who saw at once that resistance was in vain.
The man was disarmed and a pair of handcuffs were slipped on his wrists.
"The jig's up," muttered the smuggler.
"Yes, my friend, the jig is up."
The party moved on and soon came in sight of the smugglers, who were running out goods to be put on board of the "Nancy."
The detective advanced straight into their midst.
The smugglers were taken all aback, and some of them started to move away, when the detective called out: "The first man that moves will be shot down!"
The men did not move.
If there had been under a leader they might have shown fight, but as they did not know exactly what force had been brought against them, they were afraid to open a scrimmage.
The Government attorney at a signal stepped forward, and announced that all the men were prisoners to the United States Government, and the wholesale handcuffing of the crew of the "Nancy" followed.
The men did not offer any resistance, but submitted like lambs.
A boat load of men pulled out and took possession of the "Nancy," and the work of Vance in that direction was at an end.
We will not dwell upon the mere formal movements that followed the "closing-in" on the smugglers.
A guard was placed over the warehouse, a guard remained on the "Nancy," and, three hours later, the detective and the district attorney were returning to New York on a special train.
We will merely state that the whole affair was turned over to the Collector of the Port of New York.
A revenue cutter was dispatched to the island; and, later on, all the goods were formally condemned, and removed to the city.
The detective had covered himself with glory, and had ascended to the first rank of Government specials; but, after all, the hardest part of his duties remained to be accomplished.
Spencer Vance was detained in New York all of the day following the seizure at the island; but, upon the following evening, he started for the fishing village down on the coast, where he had parted from the lovely Renie under such strange and startling circumstances.
Our hero had not forgotten the strangely beautiful girl, nor the thrilling and romantic incidents attending her career; and having performed his whole duty to the Government, and having practically made an immense fortune at one stroke, he felt at liberty to devote a little time to private detective work.
He was determined to find the missing box which was supposed to contain the testimonies and proofs as to the girl's parentage.
It was a difficult duty, and many thrilling adventures attended its performance.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
All the perils were not removed from the detective's peril because of the arrest of the master of the "Nancy" and his crew.
The men actively engaged on the yacht were not all the parties interested directly or indirectly in the contraband business.
In going to the coast the detective's peril was even greater than upon former visits, as the worst passions of the remaining part of the gang were fully aroused.
The detective was to be the principal witness against the smugglers, and could he be removed the Government would be without the necessary proofs for the conviction of the principals and the condemnation of the captured contraband goods.
The interest was far reaching, and a powerful body of men were comprised, and within twenty-four hours of the public knowledge of the arrests, fully twenty ruffians were on the lookout for Spencer Vance.
The capitalists had many friends, and they possessed money, and besides some had previously borne excellent characters, and all their safety depended upon the silencing of the detective.
Our hero understood his peril, and although, as our readers know, he was a brave, fearless man, still he had requested a speedy trial of the guilty, as, after he had sworn to his evidence in open court, there would remain no such great incentive for getting him out of the way.
Millions in money, and dozens of reputations depended upon his testimony, and one of the most powerful and wealthy organizations in the United States was arrayed against him; not arrayed in open warfare, but secretly arrayed, and their purpose was to get rid of him.
As stated, our hero knew his peril and knew when he started in just what he would have to face, but he went straight ahead, and when the storm broke he was prepared.
We have stated that twenty ruffians were upon his track, and the statement was no exaggeration.
Spencer Vance went under cover--immediately assumed a role different from any under which he had appeared during any time that he was trailing down the smugglers.
Our hero was, "when unadorned," or rather when not under any sort of disguise, a really handsome and delicate-featured man, and although a man of extraordinary strength, he was not an over-sized man, but on the contrary a little under the average height; but he was a full-blooded, resolute, athletic fellow all the same, and well equal to the duties of his perilous profession.
From the very moment that the arrests were publicly known the detective was on his guard, and that same night had a genuine intimation of his danger.
The detective wanted to see a certain man in the Government employ, and went down to a Government building, situated on the Battery near South Ferry.
He had gotten himself up as a night-watchman, hoping in that way to escape observation.
Vance saw his man and left the building, and was proceeding across the Battery, when he observed that he was being followed.
The officer at once suspected that there was a possibility that someone of the scoundrels had "tumbled" to his identity, and he resolved to "shake" the ruffian at once.
Changing his course, he walked over toward the sea, on the North River side of the park, and stood leaning over the hand-rail, when a man sauntered up alongside.
"A pleasant evening," said the new-comer.
It was still early in the evening.
The detective did not make an immediate reply, but, scanned the speaker from head to feet.
He was seeking to ascertain whether or not he recognized the man.
The fellow was a foreigner--an ugly looking chap, and just such a villain as could be employed for any sort of desperate work for pay.
The detective made up his mind to feel his man; and should he discover that the fellow really did not know him, and was dogging him, he was resolved to clap the darbies on him.
"Yes, it's a pleasant evening," said the detective, slowly.
"Hard times for poor men now," remarked the stranger.
"So they tell me," answered Vance.
"You're all right," said, the man.
"How am I all right?"
"Oh, you fellows in Government employ always get your money and have a good chance for pickings."
The detective eyed the man's face and answered: "I do not get much of a chance to pick anything."
"I thought you fellows had a good show."
"How do you know I'm in the Government employ?"
"You are, I--reckon."
"Mebbe I am."
"You're a night-watchman."
"Well, suppose I am."
"Don't you fellows get a chance for pickings?"
"Not much."
The man drew closer to the detective; the latter was fully on his guard, and had the stranger attempted any funny business just at that moment he would have been downed so quick he never would have known what struck him.
"You can make some big pickings if you want to, my friend."
"I can?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Do you want to make a few dollars?"
"Well, I don't mind if I do, honestly."
"You can honestly."
"How?"
"You are acquainted with most of the men in the Government service?"
"Mebbe I am."
"You've been a long time in the service?"
"Well, yes."
"There's a man I want to become acquainted with, and mebbe you know him."
"Mebbe I do."
The detective took to the game at once, and he was prepared to let the fellow run out his reels.
"The man can do me a service."
"Why don't you go and tell him so?"
"It won't do for me to approach him openly."
"See here, Johnny, you're on some crooked game."
"My game is straight enough."
"What are you getting at?"
"I've some valuable information for the Government."
"Why don't you take it to the collector of the port?"
"No, no; I did once, and all I got was thanks and those are all right in their place, but they don't pay me."
"What is it you are getting at?"
"I want to get paid for my information."
The detective laughed and said: "I ain't paying anything for my information."
"That's all right, but you can put me on the right track to get paid, and I'll pay you."
"How can I help you?"
"I want to lay in with one of the Government detectives.
I'm told those fellows have a chance at a secret service fund, and can give a man money where the collector can't do it."
"That's so."
"And I want to get in with one of the Government detectives."
"That is easy enough, you don't need any help for that, my man."
The little game was opening up fast.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The man drew closer to the detective, and said: "You don't understand how the thing works."
"You want to see one of the detectives?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's easy enough; go to any of the deputy collectors or any of the inspectors, and they will give you the names of several."
"That's neither here nor there; do you want to make a few dollars?"
"Yes."
"All right, I'm going to give you a chance."
"Go ahead."
"I want to see one particular officer."
"Which particular officer?"
"Vance."
"You want to see Vance?"
"Yes."
"Go and tell the collector."
"That won't do."
"Why not?"
"I've been sold once, and this time I'm going to work my racket differently; do you know Vance by, sight?"
"Do you mean Spencer Vance?"
"Yes."
"I know him, and I'll introduce you to him if you want me to do so."
"I do not want you to introduce me."
"What do you want?"
"I want you to point him out to me."
"I haven't time to run around to point him out to you."
"I can make it worth your while."
"For how much?"
"Fifty dollars."
"I don't understand what you're getting at."
"I can't explain, but I'll give you fifty dollars to point that man out to me."
"You will give me fifty dollars?"
"Yes."
"I can earn that fifty dollars easy."
"I don't care how easy you earn it."
"But I don't understand your game."
"I've told you.
I've got some valuable information--some 'tips' that Vance will pay big money to 'nip'; but I want my own way and time of opening up the subject to him, and I mean to make sure that my money is good."
"Why are you so anxious to deal with Vance?"
"I've been told he has got the inside track with the Government, and that he is a square man."
"That's the reason you want him?"
"Yes."
"And you will pay me fifty dollars to point him out to you?"
"I will."
"Must I wait for my money until you get your rake?"
"No."
"You will pay me right down?"
"I will pay you the money two minutes after you point the man out to me."
"Do you want an introduction?"
"No."
"Come along; I will put you on to him right away."
The two men started over toward the ferries.
"Will you stand a carriage?"
asked the detective.
"What do you want of a carriage?"
"I must get back to go on duty."
"We don't want any carriage."
The man was struck with a shade of suspicion.
"Where are we to go?"
"To Ludlow Street."
The man started back and turned pale.
"To Ludlow Street!"
he ejaculated.
"Yes."
"What do you mean?"
"Come with me to Ludlow Street, and I will point out Vance to you."
"See here, Johnny, you are up to a smart trick, you are."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"What is it you're up to, my friend?"
The man looked around.
No one was near.
The detective was studying the rascal's movements.
The fellow suddenly drew a club; but he was matched.
"Hold on!
What do you mean?"
he demanded.
"What do you mean?
Drop that club."
"Who are you?"
"I'm the man you're looking for, Johnny."
"The man I'm looking for?"
"Yes."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Vance."
"Oh, go 'long!"
exclaimed the ruffian, in a derisive tone.
"I'm your man!
Now, what information have you got for me?"
"You can't play me," said the fellow.
"No; nor can you play me.
Listen: how much are you to get for laying me out?"
The man turned pale and made no answer; he glanced backward; it was evident he had reached the conclusion that it was time for him to leave.
"Don't think of going, Johnny, I want you to answer my question."
"You are not Vance."
"I'll play Vance for you, so sling out your game, Johnny."
The man took a step back.
"Stand where you are," came the command, "or I'll make you."
"Are you really Vance?"
"Come up to Ludlow Street, and I'll prove who I am."
"I ain't going that way."
"Oh yes, you are; you've run right into my grip, and I'm going to shut you in with the rest of them, unless--" The detective stopped.
"Unless what?"
"Unless you open up and tell me the whole story."
The fellow had a wicked eye.
He saw that he had run into a snap, and he was determined to take a desperate chance to get out of it.
"I'm in for it," he remarked.
The detective had been watching the varying changes of expression upon the man's face, and dropped to the fact that the fellow contemplated some desperate expedient.
"I reckon, old man, the best thing for you to do is to own up, make a clean breast of it."
"Are you really Vance, or have I run against some other Government dandy?"
"I am Vance."
"I wish I were sure, old man, and I'd put you on the biggest lay of your life."
"You're safe to give me any information you possess."
"But if I let on to you I want to make sure of my rake in."
"About as sure as I am for the fifty dollars."
The man laughed, and said: "Well, this is a nice joke all round."
"Yes, a nice joke," repeated the detective in a peculiarly significant tone.
"But," said the man.
"I have some valuable information for Vance."
"And so have I some valuable information for you, Mister Man, and now throw up your hands."
"You are not in earnest," said the man, and he approached a step nearer.
"You will find out I am in earnest."
"Do you really intend to take me to Ludlow Street?"
"I do."
"Not to-night," exclaimed the man, and he sprung upon the detective, but he might as well have leaped head first at a hornet's nest.
The detective was ready for the man, and he brought him to his knees upon the grass, and an instant later the darbies were on him.
The man squealed like a pig, but the conviction was forced upon his mind that he had met Vance.
CHAPTER XXXV.
Having laid out the scoundrel, Vance bid the fellow follow, and taking him to Ludlow Street he left him in charge.
On the way to the jail the man begged like a trooper to be released, plead that he was only joking, and that he was really only a "crank," but the detective's invariable reply was: "I know you and until you 'open up' and tell who employed you to 'shadow' me, you will be kept close."
Our hero learned from the incident the terrible risks that threatened him, and he determined to be even more careful.
It was midnight when Spencer Vance arrived on the coast.
He had crossed the bay alone to the outer coast and proceeded toward the cabin of old Tom Pearce.
It was a windy, rainy night, and as disagreeable as could be, and, indeed, it was desolate enough without the roar of the breakers as they lashed themselves upon the beach.
The detective was proceeding along when he was suddenly summoned to a halt.
The detective at once suspected trouble, and his ready hand went to his pocket as a man covered with a rubber coat and slouch hat approached.
"Good-evening, stranger," said the man in the rubber coat.
"Good-evening," was the response.
"Are you acquainted around here?"
"Well, I should say I was a little."
"Do you know a fisherman around here by the name of Pearce?"
"What do you want of Mr.
Pearce?"
"Ah, you know him!"
"I haven't said so."
"But you do."
"Mebbe I do."
"Will you guide me to his house?"
"I don't know whether I will or not."
"I will pay you for your time."
"You will?"
"Yes."
"Where did you come from, stranger?"
"That's my business."
"Is it?
Well, it's my business not to guide you to Tom Pearce's cottage."
"Hang it, you are a surly lot around here."
"You are a surly lot yourself."
"I only wish to be guided to a man's cabin."
"Well, if you would give a little information you might receive in return a great deal more."
"You cannot expect a stranger to tell his business to every man he meets."
"No; but will you tell me how long you have been on the coast?"
"Why do you ask?"
"As a good Samaritan."
"I do not understand you, neighbor."
"I wish to discover whether or not you are stranger around here."
"What difference does that make?"
"It might make considerable."
"How?"
"This is a dangerous place for strangers just now."
"Why?"
"The people around here are not taking well to strangers.
They entertained one lately, and he got them into a great deal of trouble."
"How so?"
"He proved to be a Government spy, and every stranger that comes on the coast is watched."
"This is a strange statement you are making to me."
"I am warning you."
"You are making sport of me, I fear."
"I am not."
"Are you an honest man?"
"I am."
"I should judge so, if what you tell me is true.
A rogue would not warn me."
"What I tell you is true; and because I am an honest man I warn you."
"If you will lead me to the cabin of Tom Pearce all will be well."
"Is the old boatman a friend of yours?"
"Yes."
"Have you seen him lately?"
"No."
"You have not seen him for a long time?"
"I have not seen him for twelve or thirteen years."
A weird suspicion flashed across the detective's mind, and he determined to have some further talk with the man in the rubber coat before he told him where old Tom Pearce resided.
"Is it Tom Pearce you want to see?"
"Yes."
"I will take you to where you can find him."
"To his house?"
"No."
"Where?"
"To a tavern where he resorts."
"I would prefer to see him at his house."
"Do you wish to see him or his daughter?"
The man gave a perceptible start, and demanded: "Why do you ask that question?"
"I thought it was a good time to put it to you."
"I wish to see Tom Pearce."
"Then you do not care to see his daughter?"
"Has he a daughter?"
"He has a girl living with him."
"Do you know the girl?"
"Well, I should say I did."
"What sort of a girl is she?"
"She's a daisy!"
"A what?"
ejaculated the stranger.
"A daisy."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say--she's a daisy."
"I do not understand you."
"She's a harum-scarum creature, wild as a hawk and as ugly as a star-fish."
"She is a handsome girl, I suppose?"
"About as handsome as a flounder."
"She is not a pretty girl?"
"Is a flounder a pretty fish?"
"I should say not."
"Then your question is answered."
"Is she a good girl?"
"Good for nothing."
"I see you do not like the girl," remarked the stranger, but he spoke in a sad and disappointed tone.
"I like her well enough."
"Will you lead me to the boatman's cabin?"
"I will on one condition."
"Name your condition."
"You will tell me how long you have been on the coast."
"Half an hour."
"Have you spoken to anyone besides me?"
"No, not since I crossed the bay."
"Why did you say they were a surly people around here?"
"I was speaking of the people across on the mainland."
"And you have not spoken to anyone over here?"
"To no one but yourself."
"Come, I will act as your guide."
"I will pay you well."
"How well?"
"I will give you five dollars."
"All right, come along."
"Have we far to go?"
"Not far."
"We will find the old fisherman abed?"
"I reckon so."
"Will it be well to arouse him?"
"Suppose we arouse the girl?"
"Can you do that?"
"Why, certainly."
The man came to a halt, and for a moment appeared to be lost in deep consideration, but, at length, he aroused himself and made a startling proposition.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
As intimated, a weird suspicion had crossed the detective's mind, and he was acting with a purpose.
The man, after indulging in a few moments' silent thought as described, said: "Do you think it possible to communicate with the girl alone?"
"Yes."
"You say you are an honest man?"
"I am."
"You can make a large sum of money honestly if you choose."
"Row much?"
"Twenty-five dollars."
"What must I do for the money?"
"Can I trust you?"
"You can trust me when I pass my word."
"I would like to talk to the girl alone for a few moments."
"And you want me to bring her here?"
"Yes."
"And you will give me twenty-five dollars?"
"Yes."
"Will you tell me what you want with the girl?"
"No."
"See here, stranger, I know something about that girl."
"What do you know about her?"
"She is not the daughter of Tom Pearce."
"Is that so?"
"That is the fact."
"Whose daughter is she my friend?"
"She may be your daughter," came the abrupt answer.
"My daughter!"
ejaculated the man.
"Yes."
"Why do you say that, my good friend?"
"Why do you wish to see her alone?"
"I wish to ask her sonic questions."
"Ah, I see; you wish to ask her about the box."
The man leaped to his feet and showed signs of great agitation.
"What do you mean?"
he demanded, in a trembling tone of voice.
"I mean just what I say."
"You said something about a box."
"Yes."
"Well, what about the box?"
"You wish to ask the girl about it?"
"Yes."
"About the box?"
"Yes."
"Young man, you're crazy.
I reckon I do not know anything about any box."
"Oh, yes, you do."
"Which box is it?"
"The box filled with jewels and other rare gems and valuables."
The man approached close to the detective, and whispered.
"Has my daughter got such a box?"
"Your daughter!"
exclaimed the detective.
"My friend, I have a strange story to tell.
I suspect that the girl is my long-lost daughter."
"You're a fraud," was the idea that ran through the detective's mind.
He had observed that the man did not claim Renie as his daughter until an allusion was made to the box of jewels.
"If she is your daughter you ought to know all about the box."
"So I do."
"You know all about it, eh?"
"Yes."
"You know where it is?"
"No.
It was left with the child."
"Ah, you know that much!"
"If it is my child we are talking about, I know, all about it.
But tell me; is the box in the girl's possession?"
"I reckon we might find it."
"Go and bring the girl to me, and you shall have a hundred dollars."
"I don't know about that; I am afraid you are not an honest man."
"What do you mean?"
"My words are plain enough.
Tell me your story."
"I will tell it to the girl."
"In my presence?"
"Why should I tell it in your presence?
It's none of your business."
"Oh, yes, it is."
"How?"
"I'm looking after the girl's interests."
"Who are you'?"
"I am her friend."
"Her friend only?"
"That's all."
"Do you wish to earn the hundred dollars" "I do not care anything about the money; but I wish to see justice done the girl."
"She may look for justice at the hands of her father?"
"Not the father who has deserted her for thirteen or fourteen years."
"That can all be explained."
"Give me a satisfactory explanation, and I will go and bring the girl to you."
"I will explain to her."
"Explain to me."
"No, sir!"
"Very well; clear out, then."
"I think you are a meddlesome young scamp."
"You first addressed me."
"I only asked you a simple question."
"And I've answered you in the most simple manner."
"Take me to the girl's reputed father."
"That is fair; I will do that."
"You are a foolish young, man."
"How so?"
"You might make a large sum of money."
"By bringing the girl to you?"
"Yes."
"I will not do it."
"You will lead me to the fisherman's cabin!"
"Yes."
"All right."
The two men started across the sands, and, after half an hour's walking, came in sight of the cabin of the old fisherman.
"That is the cabin."
"Over there?"
"Yes."
"There are no lights in the cabin."
"They have all retired, probably."
"I promised you five dollars."
"For what?"
"For leading me to the cabin."
"Never mind the money."
"Yes, you must take it."
"I will not."
"I go to the cabin alone."
"I go with you."
"Not one step."
"Who will stop me?"
"I will."
"Not to-night."
"Go and bring the girl to me."
"You have changed your mind?"
"Yes."
"Can I be present during your interview with the girl?"
"Yes."
"All right, I will go and see if I can arouse her without disturbing her father."
"I will wait here?"
"Yes."
"You will return at once?"
"Yes."
"Go."
The detective walked toward the cabin, and as he approached a chill passed over his frame.
He recognized certain indices that aroused the gravest apprehensions, and a moment later when he entered the cabin a most terrible and ghastly spectacle met his gaze.
As stated in a preceding chapter, no lights gleamed from the low cabin windows when Vance and the stranger arrived in sight of the home of Tom Pearce.
At the moment it struck the detective as rather strange, as he knew it was the fashion of the old boatman to set a light for the night, as sailors do on board their vessels as the sun goes down at sea, and it was not without some misgivings that he advanced alone toward the cottage.
The detective had determined to arouse old Pearce, and in collusion with the old boatman send Renie out to interview the man in the rubber coat.
As also intimated our hero had reached certain conclusions regarding the stranger, and in his own mind he felt assured that the man was urged by some ulterior motive.
It was in a cautious manner that Vance pushed open the cabin door; all was darkness within; no light had been set, and the detective stood but a second, when a cold chill struck to his very vitals that caused him to recoil.
An ejaculation of amazement fell from his lips as he quickly drew his ever-ready, masked lantern; one moment he stood irresolute, and then advanced again to the cabin door.
He thrust forward his lantern; the sharp ray of light penetrated and dispersed the pervading darkness, and, as stated, a sight met his gaze that for the moment froze the blood in his veins.
No light had been set, but a light had been extinguished, put out forever--the light of life in the body of Tom Pearce.
We say a light had been put out; it had not burned out, as the first object that met the gaze of the detective was the body of Tom Pearce.
There was not a question as to the fact that crime had been done.
The method of the deep damnation of the old boatman's taking off was plainly apparent.
"Can they both have been murdered" were words which fell in a hoarse whisper from the pallid lips of the detective.
Vance at the first glance concluded that Pearce was the victim of the vengeance of the smugglers, and if they would kill the old man they would not spare the girl.
It was the latter thought that caused the detective's heart to stand still, and when he did partially recover his nerve, his starting eyes moved round in search of the body of the girl.
He stepped into the room, and with tottering steps moved over to the door of the adjoining room, the chamber of Renie.
The door was closed, and the detective could not muster the nerve to open it, and a moan of anguish burst from him.
There he stood, an iron-nerved man, trembling and nerveless in expectancy of a revelation of horror; at length he uttered: "This will not do; I am Vance."
He pushed open the door, thrust forward his lantern and glanced in.
The room was vacant.
A sigh of relief fell from his lips.
He glanced around and became more and more reassured.
No ghastly sight of murdered beauty met his gaze, and an ejaculation of thankfulness struggled front between his lips.
The detective began a careful and thorough examination of the room.
There were no signs of a struggle, and another significant fact was revealed; the girl's bed had not been occupied; the tragedy had occurred in the day-time or early in the evening, before the old boatman and his family had retired to bed.
The detective returned to the main room and examined the body of the old man.
He also made a note of all the surroundings and took possession of several articles that lay scattered about the room.
He did more; he sought for evidence as to the identity of the assassin, and found several little articles which he felt certain would aid him in trailing down the guilty man.
Vance returned to the girl's chamber and renewed his search, and succeeded in making several discoveries cries which, he hoped, would serve as valuable clews in the future.
He was still searching, and deeply intent upon the duty, when he was disturbed by hearing a voice.
"Great mercy!
what has happened here?"
The detective was cool again.
He had recovered all his accustomed nerve, and he stepped to the outer room.
A man stood in the door-way.
It was the stranger, and he, too, held in his hand a masked lantern.
The man's eyes were fixed upon the face of the corpse.
"What has happened here?"
he demanded.
"Come in," said the detective.
"Whose body is that?"
"It is the body of old Tom Pearce."
"He was murdered," said the man.
"Come in," again commanded the detective.
"Did you know this body was here when you left me a few moments ago?"
"I did not."
In a hoarse voice the stranger asked; "Has the girl been murdered?"
"I trust not."
"Have you searched for her?"
"I have."
"And cannot find her?"
"No."
"What do you know about this tragedy?"
"As much as you do."
"No doubt at all."
"Do you suspect the assassin?"
"I do!
but come in."
"I can stand here."
"Come in, you may attract attention of someone passing."
"What harm if I do?"
"No, harm, but it may prove inconvenient, and may interfere with our efforts to learn the fate of the girl."
"One moment; do you know anything concerning this tragedy?"
"All I know is that I came to that door as you did, and my eyes fell upon the ghastly sight."
"Then you came here did you expect to find the old man alive?"
"I did."
"And the girl?"
"Yes."
"Then this is a surprise to you?"
"It is."
The stranger entered the room, and in a stern voice he demanded.
"Young man, who are you?"
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Vance did not betray the least trepidation, but said, in a calm voice: "My friend, I was just about to put that same question to you."
"My question came first, and I demand an answer."
"I don't care what you demand."
"I hold you at my mercy."
"Do you think so?"
"You are not what you seem," said the stranger.
"Nor are you," was the quick response.
"Who have I claimed to be, sir?"
"Renie's father."
"And you deny that I am her father?"
"I do."
"Who am I?"
"That is for you to tell."
"Who do you think I am?"
"I am not giving out my thoughts."
"Why not?"
"I've nothing as yet whereon to base an opinion."
"What difference does it male to you who I am?"
"Considerable."
"Will you explain how?"
"You are looking for the girl Renie, and so am I."
"You are?"
"Yes."
"What interest have you in the girl?"
"I am her friend."
"Can you find her--do you know where to look for her?"
"I think I do."
"Will you tell me frankly who you are?"
"No."
"And you demand to know who I am?"
"Yes."
"I have the same right as yourself to refuse to disclose my identity.
"No, sir."
"Why not?"
"You have claimed to be the girl's father."
"Well?"
"You are not her father."
"How do you know?"
"I know."
"It is to my interest to find the girl, and it is to your interest to aid me.
I will admit to you that I have not disclosed who or what I am."
"You must, if you desire my aid."
"I can pay you for your service.
Listen!
you claim to be a friend of the girl; so am I her friend."
"You know something concerning her real identity?"
"I do."
"And you desire my co-operation in, discovering the whereabouts of the girl?"
"Possibly I do."
"If you desire my assistance, you must make a confidant of me."
"First tell me; do you believe evil has befallen the girl?"
"Yes."
"What do you suspect?"
"There is no reason why I should make a confidant of you."
"There is."
"Explain wherein."
"If you will prove yourself an honest man, with honest purposes, I will tell you all in good time."
"It will be better to tell me at once."
"I will."
"When?"
"Speedily; but tell me, what has become of her?"
"I do not know."
"Put you admit what you suspect."
"Yes."
"Will you tell me what you suspect?"
"I believe she has been abducted."
The stranger betrayed great agitation.
He buried his face in his hands.
He was at the mercy of the detective, had the latter been disposed to take advantage of the situation.
A few moments' silence pervaded the room, and a strange scene was presented.
On the floor lay the corpse of the boatman; seated in a chair into which he had retreated was the man in the rubber coat, and standing over against him with a stern glance in his eye was the detective.
At length the man uncovered his face, and said: "You think she has been abducted?"
"Yes."
"Have you any suspicion as to the identity of the abductor?"
"I have."
"And you will know where to look for her?"
"I will know who to look for."
"Do you suspect the motive for the abduction?"
"Yes."
"What was the motive?"
"Renie is a beautiful girl."
"You told me differently before."
"I did."
"Now you admit she is beautiful?"
"Yes; one of the most beautiful girls I ever beheld."
"Will you describe her appearance?"
The detective hesitated a moment, but at length did describe the appearance of Renie.
A detective can better describe a missing person's appearance than any other party, as it is a part of their trade to accustom themselves to the art, and our hero's description was vivid and accurate.
"Yes, yes, it is she," muttered the stranger, involuntarily.
"From the description you are satisfied that the adopted daughter of Tom Pearce is the girl you are looking for, my friend?"
"Yes; there is no doubt."
"You recognize the description?"
"Yes."
"Then you have seen the girl?"
"Not since she was a year old."
"Not since she was a year old?"
exclaimed the detective.
"How can you know what she would look like now?"
"I knew her mother."
"I wish I were assured that you are her friend."
"I am her friend."
The real agitation the stranger had betrayed, had modified the detective's original opinion concerning the man.
"Answer me, are you really the girl's father?"
"I am her friend."
"You were at first ready to proclaim yourself her father; now you only claim to be a friend."
"I am her friend, and you must aid me to find her, young man; your service, if successful, will bring you more money than you have previously earned during your whole life."
"Oh, no."
"Yes, sir; I will pay you a fortune if you will find the girl."
"I already possess a fortune."
"You are rich?"
"I am rich."
"Your appearance would not indicate that you were a rich man."
"But you said a moment ago that I was not what I seemed."
"And I was correct?"
"You were right."
"Who are you?"
"Never mind; I am a friend to the girl."
"Why are you her friend?"
"I cannot tell you now, but I will admit that I am under deep obligations to her, and when I met you first to-night I was on my way to the cottage."
"How long a time since you saw the girl?"
"It is more than a week."
Strange revelations were to follow.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
The detective was beginning to take a more favorable view of the character of the man in the rubber coat.
"It is over a week since you saw Renie?"
"Yes."
"When you saw her last had you reason to fear any special danger she was likely to encounter?"
"Why do you ask that question?"
"You were on the way to this cottage, as you admit, after a week's absence, and when you reach here and find the old boatman murdered and the girl gone, you claim you have an idea as to what has befallen her."
"You reason well, my friend, and the time has arrived when absolute frankness must exist between you and me; the girl's immediate safety demands that you and I should perfectly understand each other.
I will admit that I had a suspicion concerning you."
"A suspicion concerning me!"
exclaimed the stranger.
"Yes."
"What suspicion did you indulge?"
"I looked upon you as an enemy of the girl."
"And that is why you first deceived me as to her appearance?"
"Yes."
"I am not her enemy."
"I trust you are not, and I must be convinced that you are not."
"What first led you to set me down as an enemy?"
"Shall I speak plainly?"
"Yes."
"The strange anxiety you showed concerning a certain mysterious box, especially after I had spoken of jewels and gems."
A peculiar smile flitted over the stranger's face, and after a moment's thoughtfulness, he said: "Surrender the box to me intact, and I will pay you as a reward the money value of all the jewels and gems you may find in it."
"Why are you so anxious to secure the box?"
"It contains proofs of the identity of the girl."
"And when her identity is established?"
"She will come into her rights."
"You know she has been debarred of certain rights?"
"Yes."
"How is it you have let her remain here so many years?"
"I believed her dead."
"When did you hear that she was living?"
"I was summoned a few weeks ago to the dying bed of a notorious criminal.
The dying man told me that he had been employed to run away with my child."
"Ah!"
interrupted the detective, "you are Renie's father?"
"The girl is my child."
"And you have all along believed her dead."
"I have all along believed her dead; but the dying man told me that she still lived, that he had placed the infant in charge of a fisherman's wife named Pearce.
He told me where the fisherman resided at the time the child was confided to his care, and I at once came here to find her."
"Will you tell me the whole story?"
"I can tell you no more."
"Why not?"
"I have reasons."
The detective revolved the man's revelations in his mind.
Had the man told him the whole story Vance would have been led to believe the tale, but despite his desire to do so, he still retained a lurking suspicion as to the purpose and motive of the man in the rubber coat.
"Well," said Vance, "the girl is missing."
"So it appears; but we must find her."
"You are right; I advise you to begin an immediate search for her."
"You will aid me?"
"No."
"You will not aid me?"
"I will not."
"Why not?"
"I told you that if you desired my aid you must confide to me all the facts; you have refused, and I refuse to aid you to find the girl."
The detective was testing the man, seeking to satisfy himself that the stranger really was the father of the missing Renie.
"Very well," said the stranger, "if you refuse to aid me, I shall prosecute the search on my own account."
"That is all right, but now let me give you a little advice; do not be found running around this coast unattended; your life is in danger."
"And I believe," exclaimed the stranger, "that you are the assassin."
As the man spoke he rose excitedly to his feet, and at the same instant, three men forced their way into the cabin.
A moment the five men glared at each other in silence, and a strange and weird scene was presented.
The strangers were determined-looking men, and, after a moment, one for them--who appeared to be the leader of the party--pointed toward the dead boatman, and said: "A murder has been committed here?"
"Yes," answered the detective.
"We found the old man lying here murdered, as you see."
"You found him lying there?"
"Yes."
"But that man, but a moment ago, denounced you as the murderer."
"The man did not know what he was saying."
"You must give an account of yourself."
The man in the rubber coat hastened to say: "Mine were but idle words."
"Ah!
you did not mean what you said?"
remarked the leader of the intruding party.
"I did not."
"You two men are our prisoners."
The man in the rubber coat became greatly excited, and declared his innocence, and protested against arrest, while the detective, as usual, was cool and unconcerned.
"What authority have you to make an arrest?"
he demanded.
"We do not need any authority.
We find you two men alone; we overheard one of you accuse the other, and that is all the warrant we need."
"I did not mean what I said!"
exclaimed the stranger.
"I found this man here as you found him.
I never met him before an hour ago."
"It makes no difference; you must both give an account of yourselves."
"You shall not arrest me!"
protested the stranger.
"You are already under arrest."
The detective was revolving the matter in his mind.
He could not afford to be arrested.
He could not give an account of himself; explanations at that moment would be very awkward.
The leader of the three men whispered to one of his companions, and the man addressed withdrew from the cabin.
Our hero discerned the purpose of his absence.
He had been sent for reenforcements, and it was necessary that he should make a strike at once.
He waited for the man who had been sent away, to get beyond hearing, when, in a deliberate manner, Vance said: "I want you men to get out of this cabin!"
"What right have you to order us out?"
"The same right that you have to declare an arrest."
"Make no attempt to leave this cabin," said the leader.
CHAPTER XL.
It was a critical moment, but the detective had been in worse positions a hundred times.
It would have been but a play spell to him had he wanted a scrimmage, but such was not his desire; all he wished was to get out of the place and get away before reenforcements arrived.
"You have no right to threaten me," said Vance.
"We take the right; you are both under arrest, and we will turn you over to the county authorities on the charge of murder."
The detective, unobserved, seized hold of a piece of broken oar, and the moment he had the club in his possession he leaped forward; his attack was so sudden and unexpected he had knocked over both men before they had any idea of his intentions.
As our readers know, the detective was an adept with the club, and a man capable of coolly taking advantage of any little favorable incident.
As the men were knocked over he called to the man in the rubber coat: "Follow me."
The stranger did not reed a second bidding, but leaped across the two prostrate men, and followed the detective from the cabin.
"We must move quickly," said Vance; and he led the way across the sand rifts.
"That was well done," said the stranger.
"It was needful; those men would not have turned us over to the regularly constituted authorities; they are part of a band of lawless men, and we world have been tried and executed before morning, under the auspices of Judge Lynch."
"We will be pursued and tracked," said the stranger.
"Not after we once get across the bay."
"Can you get us across?"
"I should say I could."
"You are a brave and determined man."
"What did you mean by accusing me of the murder?"
"I did not mean it when I accused you; I only wished to learn how you would receive the accusation."
The detective led the way to a little cove where a boat rocked in the tide.
"Can you row?"
"Yes."
"There is a boat; get over to the mainland as quick as you can."
"Will you not go?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It is not necessary for me to explain to you."
"But I have need of your services."
"We may meet again."
"We must meet again."
"I can be of no service to you."
"You can."
"Never, until you tell me the whole story about Renie.
Meantime, you haven't a moment to spare."
"But it is equally dangerous for you to remain here."
"No.
I can take care of myself; but I would not be answerable for you."
"Go with me."
"You will remain here until you are, captured.
Those men will scour the coast."
"They will find you."
"No."
"Then you must be one of them, that you do not fear them."
"I do not fear them.
But you must go at once.
Listen!
they are already on our track."
"Dare you remain?"
"Yes, yes; but you go."
"When shall I see you again?"
"Do you desire to see me?"
"Yes."
"Where do you stay in New York?"
The stranger gave the name of a hotel.
"Your name!"
"Selton."
"I will call at your hotel to-morrow."
"I can depend upon you?"
"Yes."
"Your name?"
"King."
"I will look for you.
Come and see me, and you will make your fortune."
"I will come; and now you hasten away."
The stranger entered the boat, and the detective glided away in the darkness.
Vance had gone but a short distance, when he saw several men moving along over the sand, and they were moving toward the cove.
As it proved, Mr. Selton was a good oarsman, and was out of sight when the men reached the beach.
The detective crept down and listened to what the men said.
The fellows had lanterns with them, and discerning the tracks of two men on the beach, they argued that both had gone off in the boat.
"They have got away," said one of the men.
"That's dead sure; and we've lost a good chance."
"What's your idea?"
"The man who beat us was that fellow Ballard.
We had him sure, but now it's all day.
He's gone off, and he has no further call to the coast."
"What brought him here to-night?"
"He came to find the girl Renie."
"Did you expect him?"
"Yes; Denman sent word to look out for him; our captain knew he would be coming to visit the cabin of old Tom Pearce."
"Who could have murdered Pearce?"
"That's the mystery.
I learned to-night that the girl had not been seen on the beach for a number of days; whoever killed old Pearce carried off the girl."
"Sol Burton had a grudge against Tom Pearce and, his daughter."
"Yes, but Burton was away on the 'Nancy.'
He had nothing to do with it."
"Do you suspect anyone?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Well.
I'm not giving out my suspicions; but we've made a blunder in letting that fellow get away to-night; but it's all up now unless some other of the games against him work out all right."
"I tell you we can run over and catch him on the mainland."
"Do you think so?"
"I do."
"Well, there's where your head ain't level.
We will never catch him now that he has got away from the coast."
The men walked away and the detective fell to a big scheme.
Quick as lightning he changed his appearance, worked a perfect transformation, and strolled down toward Rigby's, the old resort, of the gang before the storm of adversity set in over them.
Rigby was as deeply interested in the success of the smuggling business as any man connected with it.
When trade was good he had plenty of money and did a large business; but when it was bad his business decreased proportionately; up to the time of the arrest of the crew off the "Nancy" Rigby had been a passive man as far as the illicit traffic event, but when Ike Denman was in jail he sent for Rigby, and the man became an active partisan.
He had been let into the scheme with the capitalists, and the glow of big money was opened up to him.
A short time after the incident at the cabin of old Tom Pearce the residue of the gang began to assemble at the Rigby place.
The men were in an ugly and desperate mood.
Rigby had just returned from a trip to New York, where he had held a second interview with Denman.
The men had been awaiting his return.
Meantime the detective had stolen down to Rigby's place, and had taken up an outside position, from whence he could take note for a few seconds, and overhear what immediately followed the man's reappearance.
It was a lucky move on the part of our hero, as he got the remainder of the points needful for the carrying out of his immediate plans.
Rigby had just joined the waiting gang of smugglers, and upon his entrance in their midst, was greeted with the question: "What news do you bring from York?"
CHAPTER XLI.
Rigby did not make an immediate reply, but glanced around to see who was gathered in the place.
"Come, old man, give us the news."
"I am waiting to see if there are any strangers in our midst."
"There are no strangers present."
"That's all right; I expect some strangers."
"Who do you expect?"
"Well, boys, I'll tell you; I saw Denman, and he let me, into some secrets, and if luck favors, all will come out right; the Government has only one witness."
"Vance?"
"Yes; and if that man can be got rid of all will come out right."
"Did you expect to see Vance here when you looked us over?"
"No; but I expected to see one of the men who was after Vance, and you fellows must go slow if you come across any strangers on the coast."
"There were two strangers on the coast this night."
"There were?"
"Yes."
"Where were they?"
"Up at the Pearce cabin."
"Aha!
that means something; but, I'll you, I expect two or three men who are to trail Vance and if they ever catch him on this coast, or anywhere else, they'll down him!"
"Who are the men?"
"Ah!
that's just what no one is going to find out, except the few who are inside of the game; but go slow when you meet a stranger during the next few days.
Meantime, who was the man up at the Pearce cabin?"
"We counted him as Vance."
"It is possible it may have been Vance."
"There were two of them."
"Two of them?
"Yes."
"Then you can make up your mind that one of these men was was in our interest."
One of the gang related all that had occurred.
"Aha!
I see it all.
The man in the rubber coat was one of our fellows.
He is on the detective's track, you bet and it will all be right for Ike and the rest of the boys in the morning."
The conversation was continued for some time, and the death of old Tom Pearce was discussed in a sort of left hand manner; nothing definite was disclosed, but the detective was led to believe that a little open play on his part might give him a chance to pick up a few facts.
Spencer Vance was afraid of discovery, and was about moving from his hiding place when he became aware of the fact that he had been seen.
A great excitement immediately followed.
He stepped out from his hiding-place, and was at once surrounded by a dozen armed men.
The detective as usual, was cool and easy, and, when an opportunity offered, demanded: "Is there a man in your company named Rigby?"
Silence followed the detective's question.
He received no immediate answer, and he once more called out: "Is there a man in your midst named Rigby?"
The detective spoke in broken English.
Rigby answered himself by asking: "What do you want of Rigby?"
"Is there such a man here?"
"If there is, what difference does it make to you?"
"I have a message for him."
"A message?"
"Yes."
"Who from?"
"I'll tell Rigby."
"See here, my man, don't you go independent, or you will get into trouble."
"I can't get into any trouble if Rigby is around."
"My name is Rigby."
"Can I see you alone?"
"Anything you have to say can be spoken right out; we are all one company here."
"That would not be according to instructions."
Rigby really wanted to talk alone with the man, but did not wish to make it so appear.
"What do you say, boys, shall I let him see me alone?"
"Certainly," came the answer.
"Come along, my friend," commanded Rigby.
The detective followed the proprietor of the tavern inside the house, and was led to a rear room.
"Now what have you got to say?"
"You are Rigby!"
"Yes, I am Rigby."
"I must not make a mistake."
"You are not making a mistake."
"All right, then you are to give me your aid?"
"Give you my aid?"
"Yes."
"I don't understand."
"I am on the lay for Vance."
"Aha!
that's the racket!"
"Yes."
"Who sent you here?"
The detective mentioned the name of a man Rigby, had not spoken of during his talk with the smugglers.
"Do you know Denman?"
"The captain of the Nancy?"
"Yes."
"I never saw him.
I took no orders from him."
"Do you expect Vance down here?"
"I know he is coming."
"When?"
"He may come to-night."
"What is his game?"
"He is going to investigate the death of Tom Pearce."
"Aha!
does he know Pearce is dead?"
"Yes."
"How did he get that information?"
"It was carried to him."
"By whom?"
"That I cannot tell."
"He really knows the old boatman is dead?"
"Yes."
"Will he come alone?"
"No."
"Who comes with him?"
"Half a dozen other detectives."
"Then how will you have a chance to catch him?"
The detective was silent a moment.
He looked Rigby all over in a supercilious manner, but at length answered: "Don't you know how detectives work?"
"I'd like to have you tell me."
"He will hold his men in the background, and he will go alone to investigate, and call in his aids at the right moment."
"Ah!
I see!
and you will play against him?"
"If I am not interfered with I will."
"How do you know he has not been here?"
"I know he has not been here."
"Two men were here."
"Yes, I was on their track.
I know who they were."
CHAPTER XLII.
Rigby did not for a moment appear to suspect the truthfulness of the detective's story.
"Who were they?"
he demanded.
"Detectives."
"And Vance was one of them?"
"No."
"Were they connected with him?"
"That I cannot answer."
"And what do you propose to do?"
"Lay around for my man, if I am not interfered with.
It is my game to appear as one of the gang, and that will give me a chance to get well in on his trail when he comes."
"I can fix that part of the business for you."
"That is all I want; but, if I am to be jumped at every time I make a move, I'll get away."
"You were hiding around here?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you cone out openly?"
"I was waiting to got a chance to see you alone.
I did not want to be known to all your friends--you never can tell who, will talk too much."
"Our men don't talk."
"Some of them must have talked."
"What makes you think so?"
"How, else would Vance find out about the death of old Tom Pearce?"
"The death of Tom Pearce is as much a mystery to our men as to anyone else."
"Vance thinks your men did it."
"How do you know?"
"I've lain on his track, and overheard him talking with the United States District Attorney."
"Our men know nothing, about the death of Tom Pearce."
"Have they a suspicion?"
"I have not heard them say."
"I wish I had a point on that affair."
"Why?"
"It would give me a sure hitch on Vance."
"It's a good scheme; I will talk with the boys and see if any of them have any suspicion."
"What will you tell them about me?"
"Oh, I will fix that all right."
"They must not bother me."
"You will not be bothered."
"That's all right; go and see if you can pick up any points."
The detective was left alone; he was really only working the game to learn all he could about the death of old Tom Pearce, and all he wished to know was whether the smugglers had killed the old man or not; if they were innocent, he knew just in what direction to look for the assassin, and also where to look for the beautiful Renie.
Meantime the gang were anxiously waiting to hear the result of Rigby's conference with the man whom they had caught eavesdropping around the tavern.
Rigby rejoined his friends and customers, who at once crowded around him.
"Well, who is the fellow?"
"He's all right, boys; you remember what I told you about strangers being around here on the lookout for Vance!"
"Is that fellow one, then?"
"He's all right."
"Have you seen his credentials?"
"I tell you he is all right."
"Don't like his looks," said one man.
"Don't like his actions," said another.
"The way we found him looks bad," said a third.
"Now you fellows rest quiet; I know who the man is, and he's all right, the man don't travel who can fool me."
"You are satisfied he's all right?"
"Yes."
"Who were the other two men who were up at the cabin where the body of old Pearce lies?"
"Those are the fellows you ought to have nipped."
"Was Vance one of them?"
"That we can't tell, but Vance will be here to-night; and if you men do not spoil the game we can fix things all right."
"Is that what that fellow told you?"
"I know what I am talking about."
"Vance is to be here to-night?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's time he was here."
The answer caused a laugh.
Rigby saw that the men were not satisfied, and he sought to change the subject.
He said: "So old Pearce is dead?"
"He is."
"Where's the girl?"
"That's more than we'll tell you."
"I always thought Renie's good looks would bring trouble to someone sooner or later," said Rigby.
"You don't think any of the gang had anything to do with bringing harm to the old man?"
There came a general denial of any such suspicion.
The men, however, appeared to be quite restive as to the identity of the man whom they had found prowling around.
Rigby went inside to report what he had heard to the detective, and upon opening the door he uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
"Well, this gets me," he muttered.
The room was vacant--the man had left.
"Where can he be?"
muttered Rigby and he commenced a search, but the man was nowhere to be found.
A curse fell from his lips.
"Have I been fooled, after all?"
he muttered.
"I'll be shot if it don't look so."
The tavern-keeper continued his search, but it proved fruit less; the man was nowhere to be found.
"I daren't go and tell the boys about this," he muttered: "but it looks as though I had bees fooled."
The real fact was the tavern-keeper had been fooled.
Vance was not the man to depend upon hearsay.
He had followed after Rigby, and had overheard every word that had passed between the man and his friends.
The detective a was fully convinced, from what he overheard, that the smugglers were innocent of old Tom Pearce's death; indeed, he had so believed from the first; but it was one of his methods to make sure, and when once really convinced he knew as stated, where to look for the real assassin, and he folded his tent, like the Arab, and as silently stole away.
CHAPTER XLIII.
Upon the day following the scenes described in our preceding chapter, a strange interview was in progress in a magnificent apartment in a house situated in one of the most fashionable quarters of New York.
A beautiful young lady, richly attired, had been sitting alone in the elegant apartment described when a man of dark complexion entered the room, and, with silent step and a pleased smile upon his dark face, he advanced toward the girl.
Just a moment preceding the entrance of the dark-faced man, the girl had indulged in a brief soliloquy.
She murmured: "Well-well, my mind is made up.
I have fooled that villain!
He thinks I love him.
He thinks I have been dazzled and bewildered by the possession of all these fine clothes and the wearing of these costly jewels; but he is mistaken.
I hate him--I abhor him!
He is an assassin!
He thinks I do not know it; but I saw him strike down that good old man, Tom Pearce, and I have but hired him on with a promise of my love, only that I might hold him until an opportunity offers to hand him over to justice."
A moment the girl was thoughtful and silent, but speedily she resumed her soliloquy, salving: "I wonder what could have become of Vance!
He lives--he has been successful, I saw in a paper yesterday.
Why does he not come to me?
Well, well!
as he does not come to me, I will go to him.
It is time that I unmasked before this scoundrel, who thinks he has won me by the tragedy through which he temporarily obtained possession of me.
But we shall see!
I am 'Renie, the Wild Girl of the Shore,' as Vance once called rue, and I will prove myself more than a match for this deep, designing scoundrel."
The girl had just uttered the words above quoted when the door opened, and the man entered the room.
As stated, he advanced with a pleased smile upon his face.
"Renie, darling," he said.
"I have pleasant news for you."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, my dear.
To-day we sail for my beautiful home in Cuba where you will be the belle of society, and where we shall be married."
"We sail for Cuba to-day?"
"Yes, to-day."
"I thought you did not intend to go until the season was more advanced?"
"I have decided to go to-day; business calls me there."
"And you sail to-day?"
"Yes."
"I cannot go with you."
"You cannot go with me?"
"No."
At that moment a most extraordinary incident occurred, but its real character cannot be revealed until our narrative has progressed.
The incident, however, caused a complete change to come over the girl.
She had glanced in a mirror behind the man who had just made the announcement to her, and she had beheld a sight which caused, as stated, a complete change to come over her demeanor.
"You must go without me," sail the girl.
The latter spoke in a different tone.
The man glanced at her, and asked: "Why Renie, what has come over you.
Did you not give me to understand that you were prepared to go with me to Cuba any time I desired?"
"Yes; I gave you so to understand."
"Then why do you now refuse to go?"
"I will tell you; the time has come for me to unmask, Mr.
Garcia."
"The time has come for you to unmask?"
"Yes."
"I do not understand."
"You shall."
"I must."
"Murderer, I have been playing you that I might in the end entrap you into the hands of justice."
A change had come over the demeanor of the girl; but a still more remarkable change came over the face of Garcia.
He glanced at the girl with blazing eyes, and his hands worked nervously and there was a tremulousness in his voice as he asked: "Are you mad, girl?"
"No, I am not mad.
Do you not think I have been deceived; I know you, I have known who you were all the time, thou chief of the smugglers."
"And you have been deceiving me?"
"I have."
"And what has been your purpose?"
"To wait until a favorable moment when I could denounce you, and hand you over to justice."
Our readers have already discerned the truth; but we will make plain the incident which led up to the scene we are about describing.
Upon the very night Vance sailed on the yacht, Garcia, with a gang of men, appeared after midnight at the cottage of Tom Pearce.
The old fisherman was murdered and Renie was drugged and carried away; but the girl had been a witness of the murder before she was found insensible lying beside her bed.
When the girl recovered from the drug which had been administered to her, she found herself in a magnificently furnished apartment, and the man Garcia was at her side.
The villain had told the girl a cunning tale.
He told her that Tom Pearce had consigned her to his care, and proceeded with a story which it is not necessary for us to repeat.
The girl knew the tale to be a lie, but, at the moment she resolved to pretend to believe the story and fool the man, when she could lure him on to justice and condign punishment.
She had played her part well and Garcia, who was a conceited man, believed he had won the girl's love; and matters were going on in the most pleasant manner, when had received news of the capture of the gang of smugglers, and at once realized his peril, when he determined to fly with Renie to Cuba.
It was thus matters stood when the man made the announcement to the girl.
"Renie," said the man, "you are trifling with me; you are having a joke at my expense."
"I am not; I am resolved to bring you to justice!"
"And you do not love me?"
"I loathe you; your presence is a curse!"
"And you have been deceiving me?"
"I Have been deliberately deceiving you."
"And you announce your perfidy?"
"Yes; I do!"
"I cannot believe that you speak truly."
"The hour has come when I must speak truly.
I have been deceiving you, but now I speak the truth."
"Girl, do you fully comprehend what you are saying!"
"I do."
"Do you know your peril?"
"Yes."
"And you dare tell me that you are a beautiful cheat?"
"I dare."
"I am amazed."
"You will be more amazed, you villain."
"You think I am a villain?"
"I know you are."
"And you hate me?"
"Yes, I hate you!"
"Once for all, are you telling me the truth now?"
"I any telling you the truth."
"Then, rash girl, beware!"
CHAPTER XLIV.
As the man Garcia spoke a figure darted in through the door-way, and with a cry of joy Renie exclaimed: "You have come at last!"
"Yes; I am here."
Garcia rose to his feet, a look of terror upon his face.
He recognized the intruder at a glance; it was Vance, the Government detective.
The latter but exchanged a word with Renie, when he drew a pair of handcuffs and advanced toward Garcia.
The latter recoiled and demanded: "What would you do?"
"Arrest you as a smuggler."
"Approach me at your peril," exclaimed the felon, and he raised his hand in a threatening manner.
Vance had no time to spare, and Garcia was quickly overpowered and handcuffed.
Vance led Renie from the room.
The detective had come prepared.
He found several officers at the door, who took possession of the house and the villain Garcia.
Our hero heard Renie's story while taking her to a place of safety, and after leaving her, he proceeded to the hotel to meet the gentleman named Selton, whom he had season to believe had a strange story to tell.
Upon reaching the hotel Vance was shown to a handsome suite of rooms, and a few moments later, was joined by the gentleman whom he had met under such strange circumstances at the coast.
The meeting was cordial, and Mr. Selton said: "I have been waiting for you."
"Well, sir, and here I promised to call and I have kept my word."
"Now, sir, one word.
Have you learned any of the circumstances surrounding the death of old Tom Pearce?"
"He was murdered."
"And the murderer has been discovered?"
"Yes he has been arrested."
"Will you tell me all the circumstances?"
The detective told him the details of Garcia's arrest.
Mr. Selton showed a great deal of agitation as he asked: "And the girl Renie?"
Vance assumed a grave look as he said: "Mr. Selton, you must satisfy me that you have an honest right to inquire about that girl before I answer your question."
"I have a right."
"State the facts, sir."
"First tell me your own interest in the girl."
Vance told the real facts of his meeting with Renie, and when he had concluded, Mr. Selton said: "So you are Vance the great Government detective!"
"I am."
"I can confide in you; had you told me who you were, I Should have been pleased to have told my story, sooner."
"Better late than never."
"My tale is briefly told.
Renie is my daughter."
"Your daughter?"
"Yes."
"How came you to place her in the hands of old Tom Pearce?"
"I never did.
I supposed the child dead all these years; listen: Renie's mother died when the child was a week old, and a year later I married again; business called me to California, and while I was away I received a letter from my wife announcing the death of my infant child.
I remained away one year, and upon my return accepted as true all the circumstances as related to me concerning the death of my child.
"The years sped on, and another child, a son, was born to me; the latter lived to be fifteen a year ago.
He died, and then my wife was taken sick, and on her death-bed she made to me a terrible confession.
She told me bow she had employed a man to carry my child away, and lose it so that the infant's identity could never be discovered.
She told me that her motive was to secure my whole fortune for her unborn child.
Before she died she told me the name of the man to whom she had committed the business.
I spent a year searching for the man; I found him a few weeks ago, a convict for life.
He told me how he had disposed of the child, and I came here to search for her, and you know all the rest."
When Mr. Selton had concluded, Vance said: "I am satisfied, sir, that you have told me a true tale."
"Yes, sir, my tale is true, and now, please tell me of my Child."
"Your child is safe."
"You have found her?"
"I have."
"Where is she?
lead me to my child at once."
"No sir, that will not do, I must prepare her for the meeting; but first let me tell you of her."
Vance proceeded and related all the facts concerning Renie, and when the father learned that his child was educated to her rightful position in life he was rejoiced.
"Yes," said Vance, "your child is fitted to adorn any station in life; but you must see her and judge for yourself.
I will go and tell her the strange revelations that have come from your lips."
Vance proceeded to the place where he had left the girl, and by degrees prepared her for the wonderful announcement.
The girl listened to the story calmly, and when the detective had finished his tale, she said: "I am not surprised; I had hoped some day to know both father and mother, but I am happy in having found a father."
"Will you go to your father?"
"I will."
"When?"
"Now, at once."
The two entered a carriage, and half an hour later father and daughter were clasped in each other's arms.
The father had a little surprise for Vance.
He had removed certain little disguise appliances, and when father and daughter stood side by side, a most striking resemblance was apparent.
We will not attempt to describe all that passed between father and child, but the facts of their relationship were fully established, and the mystery of the box containing the supposed jewels was explained.
The convict who had committed the child to Mrs. Pearce had given her the box, and had represented that it was filled with costly jewels; but his statement was a lie, and the old lady's imagination had aided her in swelling the value of the contents of the box.
Mr. Selton proved to be a very wealthy man, living in a Western city, and Renie was taken to her grand home.
Meantime, Vance remained in New York to appear as a witness against the band of conspirators, and the result of his labors was the breaking up of one of the best organized smuggling schemes that was ever attempted in America.
When our hero's duties were over, upon invitation he went to pay a visit to Mr. Selton and his daughter, and there's a certain rumor in the air; but as yet we are not permitted to record that another of our heroes has hooked on to one of our heroines; but we will say that the chances very much favor the prospect that when Vance met the "Wild Girl of the Coast" upon that night, he met his future wife.
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations.
See 17563-h.htm or 17563-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/5/6/17563/17563-h/17563-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/5/6/17563/17563-h.zip) Two obvious typographical errors were corrected in transcribing this text.
For a complete list, please see the Transcriber's note at the end of the file.
KING'S CUTTERS AND SMUGGLERS 1700-1855 by E. KEBLE CHATTERTON Author of "Sailing Ships and Their Story," "The Romance of the Ship" "The Story of the British Navy," "Fore and Aft," Etc.
With 33 Illustrations and Frontispiece in Colours [Illustration: REVENUE CRUISER CHASING SMUGGLING LUGGER.
Before firing on a smuggler the cruiser was bound to hoist his Revenue colours--both pennant and ensign--no matter whether day or night.
(_from the original painting by Charles Dixon, R.I._)] London George Allen & Company, Ltd. 44 & 45 Rathbone Place 1912 [All rights reserved] Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh PREFACE I have in the following pages endeavoured to resist the temptation to weave a web of pleasant but unreliable fiction round actual occurrences.
That which is here set forth has been derived from facts, and in almost every case from manuscript records.
It aims at telling the story of an eventful and exciting period according to historical and not imaginative occurrence.
There are extant many novels and short stories which have for their heroes the old-time smugglers.
But the present volume represents an effort to look at these exploits as they were and not as a novelist likes to think they might have occurred.
Perhaps there is hardly an Englishman who was not thrilled in his boyhood days by Marryat and others when they wrote of the King's Cutters and their foes.
It is hoped that the following pages will not merely revive pleasant recollections but arouse a new interest in the adventures of a species of sailing craft that is now, like the brig and the fine old clipper-ship, past and done with.
The reader will note that in the Appendices a considerable amount of interesting data has been collected.
This has been rendered possible only with great difficulty, but it is believed that in future years the dimensions and details of a Revenue Cutter's construction, the sizes of her spars, her tonnage, guns, &c., the number of her crew carried, the names and dates of the fleets of cutters employed will have an historical value which cannot easily be assessed in the present age that is still familiar with sailing craft.
In making researches for the preparation of this volume I have to express my deep sense of gratitude to the Honourable Commissioners of the Board of Customs for granting me permission to make use of their valuable records; to Mr. F.S.
Parry C.B., Deputy Chairman of the Board for his courtesy in placing a vast amount of data in my hands, and for having elucidated a good many points of difficulty; and, finally, to Mr. Henry Atton, Librarian of the Custom House, for his great assistance in research.
E. KEBLE CHATTERTON.
CONTENTS CHAP.
PAGE I.
INTRODUCTION 1 II.
THE EARLIEST SMUGGLERS 14 III.
THE GROWTH OF SMUGGLING 40 IV.
THE SMUGGLERS' METHODS 56 V. THE HAWKHURST GANG 82 VI.
THE REVENUE CRUISERS 94 VII.
CUTTERS AND SLOOPS 121 VIII.
PREVENTIVE ORGANISATION 138 IX.
CUTTERS' EQUIPMENT 157 X.
THE INCREASE IN SMUGGLING 182 XI.
THE SMUGGLERS AT SEA 199 XII.
THE WORK OF THE CUTTERS 215 XIII.
THE PERIOD OF INGENUITY 239 XIV.
SOME INTERESTING ENCOUNTERS 257 XV.
A TRAGIC INCIDENT 276 XVI.
ADMINISTRATIVE REFORMS 295 XVII.
SMUGGLING BY CONCEALMENTS 320 XVIII.
BY SEA AND LAND 339 XIX.
ACTION AND COUNTER-ACTION 361 XX.
FORCE AND CUNNING 379 APPENDICES 403 ILLUSTRATIONS PLATES REVENUE CRUISER CHASING SMUGGLING LUGGER _Colour frontispiece_ FACING PAGE A REPRESENTATION OF YE SMUGGLERS BREAKING OPEN YE KING'S CUSTOM HOUSE AT POOLE 86 MR. GALLEY AND MR. CHATER PUT BY YE SMUGGLERS ON ONE HORSE NEAR ROWLAND CASTLE 88 GALLEY AND CHATER FALLING OFF THEIR HORSE AT WOODASH 88A CHATER CHAINED IN YE TURFF HOUSE AT OLD MILLS'S 89 CHATER HANGING AT THE WELL IN LADY HOLT PARK, THE ) BLOODY VILLAINS STANDING BY ) ) 90 THE BLOODY SMUGGLERS FLINGING DOWN STONES AFTER THEY ) HAD FLUNG HIS DEAD BODY INTO THE WELL ) H.M. CUTTER "WICKHAM," COMMANDED BY CAPTAIN JOHN FULLARTON, R.N.
178 H.M. CUTTER "WICKHAM" 179 IN TEXT PAGE "DOW SENT HIS MATE AND TEN MEN ON BOARD HER" 72 "CAME CHARGING DOWN ...
STRIKING HER ON THE QUARTER" 102 "A GREAT CROWD OF INFURIATED PEOPLE CAME DOWN TO THE BEACH" 187 "THE 'FLORA' WITH THE 'FISGARD,' 'WASSO,' AND 'NYMPH'" 202 "THE 'CAROLINE' CONTINUED HER COURSE AND PROCEEDED TO LONDON" 211 HOW THE DEAL BOATMEN USED TO SMUGGLE TEA ASHORE 213 "THE 'BADGER' WAS HOISTING UP THE GALLEY IN THE RIGGING" 265 "FIRE AND BE DAMNED" 278 THE SANDWICH DEVICE 314 THE SLOOP "LUCY" SHOWING CONCEALMENTS 324 CASK FOR SMUGGLING CIDER 326 THE SMACK "TAM O'SHANTER" SHOWING METHOD OF CONCEALMENT 329 FLAT-BOTTOMED BOAT FOUND OFF SELSEY 332 PLAN OF THE SCHOONER "GOOD INTENT" SHOWING METHOD OF SMUGGLING CASKS 334 THE SCHOONER "SPARTAN" 336 DECK PLAN AND LONGITUDINAL PLAN OF THE "LORD RIVERS" 337 "THE CRUISER'S GUNS HAD SHOT AWAY THE MIZZEN-MAST" 348 "THE 'ADMIRAL HOOD' WAS HEAVING TUBS OVERBOARD" 358 "GETTING A FIRM GRIP, PUSHED HIM ...
INTO THE WATER" 365 "LET'S ... HAVE HIM OVER THE CLIFF" 373 "UNDER COVER OF DARKNESS TOOK ON BOARD ... FORTY BALES OF SILK" 377 "ANOTHER SHOT WAS FIRED" 383 METHODS EMPLOYED BY SMUGGLERS FOR ANCHORING TUBS THROWN OVERBOARD 385 THE "RIVAL'S" INGENIOUS DEVICE 392 "TAKEN COMPLETELY BY SURPRISE" 398 King's Cutters & Smugglers CHAPTER I INTRODUCTION Outside pure Naval history it would be difficult to find any period so full of incident and contest as that which is covered by the exploits of the English Preventive Service in their efforts to deal with the notorious and dangerous bands of smugglers which at one time were a terrible menace to the trade and welfare of our nation.
As we shall see from the following pages, their activities covered many decades, and indeed smuggling is not even to-day dead nor ever will be so long as there are regulations which human ingenuity can occasionally outwit.
But the grand, adventurous epoch of the smugglers covers little more than a century and a half, beginning about the year 1700 and ending about 1855 or 1860.
Nevertheless, within that space of time there are crowded in so much adventure, so many exciting escapes, so many fierce encounters, such clever moves and counter-moves: there are so many thousands of people concerned in the events, so many craft employed, and so much money expended that the story of the smugglers possesses a right to be ranked second only to those larger battles between two or more nations.
Everyone has, even nowadays, a sneaking regard for the smugglers of that bygone age, an instinct that is based partly on a curious human failing and partly on a keen admiration for men of dash and daring.
There is a sympathy, somehow, with a class of men who succeeded not once but hundreds of times in setting the law at defiance; who, in spite of all the resources of the Government, were not easily beaten.
In the novels of James, Marryat, and a host of lesser writers the smuggler and the Preventive man have become familiar and standard types, and there are very few, surely, who in the days of their youth have not enjoyed the breathless excitement of some story depicting the chasing of a contraband lugger or watched vicariously the landing of the tubs of spirits along the pebbly beach on a night when the moon never showed herself.
But most of these were fiction and little else.
Even Marryat, though he was for some time actually engaged in Revenue duty, is now known to have been inaccurate and loose in some of his stories.
Those who have followed afterwards have been scarcely better.
However, there is nothing in the following pages which belongs to fiction.
Every effort has been made to set forth only actual historical facts, which are capable of verification, so that what is herein contained represents not what _might_ have happened but actually did take place.
To write a complete history of smuggling would be well-nigh impossible, owing to the fact that, unhappily through fire and destruction, many of the records, which to-day would be invaluable, have long since perished.
The burning down of the Customs House by the side of the Thames in 1814 and the inappreciation of the right value of certain documents by former officials have caused so desirable a history to be impossible to be written.
Still, happily, there is even now a vast amount of material in existence, and the present Commissioners of the Board of Customs are using every effort to preserve for posterity a mass of data connected with this service.
Owing to the courtesy of the Commissioners it has been my good fortune to make careful researches through the documents which are concerned with the old smuggling days, the Revenue cutters, and the Preventive Service generally; and it is from these pages of the past and from other sources that I have been enabled to put forth the story as it is here presented; and as such it represents an attempt to afford an authentic picture of an extremely interesting and an equally exciting period of our national history, to show the conditions of the smuggling industry from the seventeenth to the nineteenth century, and the efforts to put a stop to the same.
We shall soon find that this period in its glamour, romance, and adventure contains a good deal of similarity to the great seafaring Elizabethan epoch.
The ships were different, but the courage of the English seamen was the same.
Nor must we forget that those rough, rude men who ran backwards and forwards across the English Channel in cutters, yawls, luggers, and sometimes open boats, stiffened with a rich ballast of tea, tobacco, and brandy, were some of the finest seamen in the world, and certainly the most skilful fore-and-aft sailors and efficient pilots to be found anywhere on the seas which wash the coasts of the United Kingdom.
They were sturdy and strong of body, courageous and enterprising of nature, who had "used" the sea all their lives.
Consequently the English Government wisely determined that in all cases of an encounter with smugglers the first aim of the Preventive officers should be to capture the smugglers themselves, for they could be promptly impressed into the service of the Navy and be put to the good of the nation instead of being to the latter's disadvantage.
As everyone familiar with the sea is aware, the seamanship of the square-rigged vessel and of the fore-and-aft is very different.
The latter makes special demands of its own which, for the present, we need not go into.
But we may assert with perfect confidence that at its best the handling of the King's cutters and the smuggling craft, the chasing and eluding in all weathers, the strategy and tactics of both parties form some of the best chapters in nautical lore.
The great risks that were run, the self-confidence and coolness displayed indicated quite clearly that our national seafaring spirit was not yet dead.
To-day many descendants of these old smugglers remain our foremost fore-and-aft sailors, yet engaged no longer in an illicit trade but in the more peaceful pursuits of line fishermen, oyster dredging, trawling during the winter, and often shipping as yachts' hands during the summer.
But because we are to read fact and not fiction we shall scarcely find the subject inferior in interest.
Truth often enough is stranger, and some of the tricks and devices employed by the smuggling communities may well surprise us.
And while we shall not make any vain attempt to whitewash a class of men who were lawless, reckless, and sometimes even brutal in their efforts, yet we shall not hesitate to give the fullest prominence to the great skill and downright cleverness of a singularly virile and unique kind of British manhood.
In much the same way as a spectator looks on at a fine sporting contest between two able foes, we shall watch the clashing exploits of the King's men and the smugglers.
Sometimes the one side wins, sometimes the other, but nearly always there is a splendidly exciting tussle before either party can claim victory.
No one who has not examined the authentic records of this period can appreciate how powerful the smugglers on sea and land had become.
The impudence and independence of some of the former were amazing.
We shall give instances in due course, but for the present we might take the case of the Revenue cutter which, after giving chase to a smuggling vessel, came up to the latter.
Shots were exchanged, but the smuggler turned his swivel guns on to the Government craft with such a hot effect that the Revenue captain deemed it prudent to give up the fight and hurry away as fast as possible, after which the positions were reversed and the smuggler _actually chased the Revenue cutter!_ In fact during the year 1777 one of the Customs officials wrote sadly to the Board that there was a large lugger off the coast, and so well armed that she was "greatly an overmatch" for even two of the Revenue cruisers.
It seems almost ludicrous to notice a genuine and unquestionable report of a smuggling vessel coming into a bay, finding a Revenue cruiser lying quietly at anchor, and ordering the cruiser, with a fine flow of oaths, immediately to cut his cable and clear out; otherwise the smugglers promised to sink her.
The Revenue cutter's commander did not cut his cable, but in truth he had to get his anchor up pretty promptly and clear out as he was told.
It was not till after the year 1815 that the Government began seriously to make continuous headway in its efforts to cope with the smuggling evil.
Consider the times.
Between the years 1652 and 1816 there were years and years of wars by land or by sea.
There were the three great Anglo-Dutch wars, the wars with France, with Spain, to say nothing of the trouble with America.
They were indeed anxious years that ended only with the Battle of Waterloo, and it was not likely that all this would in any way put a stop to that restlessness which was unmistakable.
Wages were low, provisions were high, and the poorer classes of those days had by no means all the privileges possessed to-day.
Add to this the undoubted fact that literally for centuries there had lived along the south coast of England, especially in the neighbourhood of the old Cinque ports, a race of men who were always ready for some piratical or semi-piratical sea exploit.
It was in their blood to undertake and long for such enterprises, and it only wanted but the opportunity to send them roving the seas as privateers, or running goods illegally from one coast to another.
And it is not true that time has altogether stifled that old spirit.
When a liner to-day has the misfortune to lose her way in a fog and pile up on rock or sandbank, you read of the numbers of small craft which put out to salvage her cargo.
But not all this help comes out of hearts of unfathomable pity.
On the contrary, your beachman has an eye to business.
He cannot go roving nowadays; time has killed the smuggling in which his ancestors distinguished themselves.
But none the less he can legally profit by another vessel's misfortune; and, as the local families worked in syndicate fashion when they went smuggling, so now they mutually arrange to get the cargo ashore and, incidentally, make a very handsome profit as well.
We need not envy the Government the difficult and trying task that was theirs during the height of the smuggling era.
There was quite enough to think of in regard to foreign affairs without wanting the additional worry of these contraband runners.
That must be borne in mind whenever one feels inclined to smile at the apparently half-hearted manner in which the authorities seemed to deal with the evil.
Neither funds nor seamen, nor ships nor adequate attention could be spared just then to deal with these pests.
And it was only after the wars had at last ended and the Napoleonic bogey had been settled that this domestic worry could be dealt with in the manner it required.
There were waiting many evils to be remedied, and this lawlessness along the coast of the country was one of the greatest.
But it was not a matter that could be adjusted in a hurry, and it was not for another forty or fifty years, not, in fact, until various administrative changes and improvements had taken place, that at last the evil was practically stamped out.
As one looks through the existing records one cannot avoid noticing that there was scarcely a bay or suitable landing-place along the whole English coast-line that did not become notorious for these smuggling "runs": there is hardly a cliff or piece of high ground that has not been employed for the purpose of giving a signal to the approaching craft as they came on through the night over the dark waters.
There are indeed very few villages in proximity to the sea that have not been concerned in these smuggling ventures and taken active interest in the landing of bales and casks.
The sympathy of the country-side was with the smuggling fraternity.
Magistrates were at times terrorised, juries were too frightened to convict.
In short, the evil had grown to such an extent that it was a most difficult problem for any Government to be asked to deal with, needing as it did a very efficient service both of craft and men afloat, and an equally able and incorruptible guard on land that could not be turned from its purpose either by fear or bribery.
We shall see from the following chapters how these two organisations--by sea and land--worked.
If we exclude fiction, the amount of literature which has been published on smuggling is exceedingly small.
Practically the whole of the following pages is the outcome of personal research among original, authentic manuscripts and official documents.
Included under this head may be cited the Minutes of the Board of Customs, General Letters of the Board to the Collectors and Controllers of the various Out-ports, Out-port Letters to the Board, the transcripts from shorthand notes of Assizes and Promiscuous Trials of Smugglers, a large quantity of MSS.
of remarkable incidents connected with smuggling, miscellaneous notes collected on the subject in the Library of the Customs House, instructions issued at different times to Customs officers and commanders of cruisers, General Orders issued to the Coastguard, together with a valuable précis (unpublished) of the existing documents in the many Customs Houses along the English coast made in the year 1911 by the Librarian to the Board of Customs on a round of visits to the different ports for that purpose.
These researches have been further supplemented by other documents in the British Museum and elsewhere.
This volume, therefore, contains within its pages a very large amount of material hitherto unpublished, and, additional to the details gathered together regarding smuggling methods, especial attention has been paid to collect all possible information concerning the Revenue sloops and cutters so frequently alluded to in those days as cruisers.
I have so often heard a desire expressed among those interested in the literature of the sea to learn all about the King's cutters, how they were rigged, manned, victualled, armed, and navigated, what were their conditions of service at sea, and so on--finally, to obtain accounts of their chasing of smuggling craft, accounts based on the narratives of eye-witnesses of the incidents, the testimony of the commanders and crews themselves, both captors and captives, that I have been here at some pains to present the most complete picture of the subject that has hitherto been attempted.
These cutters were most interesting craft by reason both of themselves and the chases and fights in which they were engaged.
The King's cutters were employed, as many people are aware, as well in international warfare as in the Preventive Service.
There is an interesting letter, for instance, to be read from Lieutenant Henry Rowed, commanding the Admiralty cutter _Sheerness_, dated September 9, 1803, off Brest, in which her gallant commander sends a notable account to Collingwood concerning the chasing of a French _chasse-marée_.
And cutters were also employed in connection with the Walcheren expedition.
The hired armed cutter _Stag_ was found useful in 1804 as a despatch vessel.
But the King's cutters in the Revenue work were not always as active as they might be.
In one of his novels (_The Three Cutters_) Captain Marryat gives the reader a very plain hint that there was a good deal of slackness prevalent in this section of the service.
Referring to the midshipman of the Revenue cutter _Active_, the author speaks of him as a lazy fellow, too inert even to mend his jacket which was out at elbows, and adds, "He has been turned out of half the ships in the service for laziness; but he was born so, and therefore it is not his fault.
A Revenue cutter suits him--she is half her time hove-to; and he has no objection to boat-service, as he sits down in the stern-sheets, which is not fatiguing.
Creeping for tubs is his delight, as he gets over so little ground."
But Marryat was, of course, intentionally sarcastic here.
That this lazy element was not always, and in every ship, prevalent is clear from the facts at hand.
It is also equally clear from the repeated admonitions and exhortations of the Board of Customs, by the holding-out of handsome rewards and the threatenings of dire penalties, that the Revenue-cutter commanders were at any rate periodically negligent of their duties.
They were far too fond of coming to a nice snug anchorage for the night or seeking shelter in bad weather, and generally running into harbour with a frequence that was unnecessary.
The result was that the cutter, having left her station unguarded, the smugglers were able to land their kegs with impunity.
But we need not delay our story longer, and may proceed now to consider the subject in greater detail.
CHAPTER II THE EARLIEST SMUGGLERS It is no part of our intention to trace the history of the levying of customs through different reigns and in different ages, but it is important to note briefly that the evading of these dues which we designate smuggling, is one of the oldest offences on record.
The most ancient dues paid to the English sovereigns would seem to have been those which were levied on the exportation and importation of merchandise across the sea; and it is essential to emphasise at the outset that though nowadays when we speak of smuggling we are accustomed to think only of those acts concerned with imports, yet the word applies equally to the unlawful manner of exporting commodities.
Before it is possible for any crime to be committed there must needs be at hand the opportunity to carry out this intention; and throughout the history of our nation--at any rate from the thirteenth century--that portion of England, the counties of Kent and Sussex, which is adjacent to the Continent, has always been at once the most tempted and the most inclined towards this offence.
Notwithstanding that there are many other localities which were rendered notorious by generations of smugglers, yet these two between them have been responsible for more incidents of this nature than all the rest put together.
What I am anxious at first to emphasise is the fact that, although smuggling rose to unheard-of importance as a national danger during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (and this is the period to which we shall especially address ourselves presently as affording the fullest and the most interesting information on an ingenious phase of human energy), yet it was not a practice which suddenly rose into prominence during that period.
Human nature is much the same under various kings and later centuries.
Under similar circumstances men and women perform similar actions.
Confronted with the temptation to cheat the Crown of its dues, you will find persons in the time of George V. repeating the very crimes of Edward I.
The difference is not so much in degree of guilt as in the nature of the articles and the manner in which they have been smuggled.
To-day it may be cigars--centuries ago it was wool.
Although the golden age (if we may use the term) of smuggling has long since passed, I am by no means unconvinced that if the occasions of temptation recurred to carry on this trade as it was pursued during the eighteenth and the first half of the nineteenth centuries, there would not be found many who would be ready to apply themselves to such a task.
To some extent the modern improvements in living, in education, and increased respect for lofty ideals would modify this tendency; and long years have awakened so keen a regard for the benefits of law and order that the nefarious practice might not break out immediately on a large scale.
But when we speak of smuggling it is perhaps more correct to speak of it as a disease which has not been exterminated from the system, but is, as it were, a microbe that is kept well under control and not allowed to spread.
Everyone who is familiar with English history is aware of the important position which was occupied by the wool trade.
Because of the immense value to the nation of the fleece it was necessary that this commodity should be kept in the country and not sent abroad.
If in the present day most of our iron and coal were to be despatched abroad regardless of what was required by our manufacturers it would not be long before the country would begin to suffer serious loss.
So, in the thirteenth century, it was with the wool.
As a check to this a tax was levied on that wool which was exported out of the country, and during the reign of Edward III.
attempts were made by the threat of heavy penalties to prevent the Continent from becoming the receptacle of our chief product.
But the temptation was too great, the rewards were too alluring for the practice to be stopped.
The fleece was carried across from England, made into cloth, and in this state sent back to us.
Even in those days the town of Middleburgh, which we shall see later to have been the source of much of the goods smuggled into our country in the grand period, was in the fourteenth century the headquarters abroad of this clandestine trade.
We need not weary the reader with the details of the means which were periodically taken to stop this trade by the English kings.
It is enough to state that practically all the ports of Sussex and Kent were busily engaged in the illegal business.
Neither the penalties of death, nor the fixing of the price of wool, nor the regulating of the rate of duty availed in the long-run.
Licences to export this article were continually evaded, creeks and quiet bays were the scenes where the fleece was shipped for France and the Low Countries.
Sometimes the price of wool fell, sometimes it rose; sometimes the Crown received a greater amount of duty, at other times the royal purse suffered very severely.
In the time of Elizabeth the encouragement of foreign weavers to make their homes in England was likely to do much to keep the wool in the country, especially as there began to be increased wealth in our land, and families began to spend more money on personal comforts.
Even in the time of Charles I. proclamations were issued against exporting wool, yet the mischief still went on.
In the time of Charles II.
men readily "risked their necks for 12d.
a day.
"[1] The greatest part of the wool was sent from Romney Marsh, where, after nightfall, it was put on board French shallops with ten or twenty men to guard it, all well armed.
And other parts of Sussex as well as Kent and even Essex were also engaged in similar exportations.
But it is from the time of King Charles II.
that the first serious steps were taken to cope with the smuggling evil, and from here we really take our starting-point in our present inquiry.
Prior to his time the Customs, as a subsidy of the king, were prone to much variability.
In the time of James I., for instance, they had been granted to the sovereign for life, and he claimed to alter the rates as he chose when pressed for money.
When Charles I. came to the throne the Commons, instead of voting them for the extent of the sovereign's life, granted them for one year only.
At a later date in the reign of that unhappy king the grant was made only for a couple of months.
These dues were known as tonnage and poundage, the former being a duty of 1s.
6d.
to 3s.
levied on every ton of wine and liquor exported and imported.
Poundage was a similar tax of 6d.
to 1s.
on every pound of dry goods.
It was not till after the Restoration that the customs were settled and more firmly established, a subsidy being "granted to the king of tonnage and poundage and other sums of money payable upon merchandise exported and imported."
Nominally the customs were employed for defraying the cost of "guarding and defending the seas against all persons intending the disturbance of his subjects in the intercourse of trade, and the invading of this realm."
And so, also, there was inaugurated a more systematic and efficient method of preventing this export smuggling.
So far as one can find any records from the existing manuscripts of this early Preventive system, the chronological order would seem to be as follows: The first mention of any kind of marine service that I can trace is found in a manuscript of 1674, which shows the establishment of the Custom House organisation in that year for England and Wales.
From this it is clear that there had been made a beginning of that system which was later to develop into that of the Revenue cutters.
And when we recollect how extremely interested was Charles II.
in everything pertaining to the sea and to sloop-rigged craft especially, it seems very natural to believe that this monarch inspired, or at any rate very considerably encouraged, the formation of a small fleet of Custom House sailing craft.
Elsewhere I have discussed this matter at length, therefore it may suffice if attention is called to the fact that to Charles was due the first yacht into England, presented to him by the Dutch; while from his encouragement were born the sport of yachting and the building of English yachts.
He was very much concerned in the rig of sloops, and loved to sail in such craft, and his yacht was also most probably the first vessel of that rig which had ever been employed by English sailors.
Further still, he was something of a naval architect, the founder of the Greenwich Royal Observatory and the _Nautical Almanac_, and under his rule a fresh impulse was given to navigation and shipbuilding generally.
At any rate by the year 1674 there were among the smaller sailing craft of England a number of sloops and smacks employed doubtless for fishing and coasting work.
As a kind of marine police, the Custom House authorities determined to hire some of these to keep a watch on the "owlers," as the wool-smugglers were termed, so called, no doubt, because they had to pursue their calling always by night.
Whatever efforts had been adopted prior to his reign probably had consisted for the most part, if not entirely, of a land police.
But under this second Charles the very sensible and obvious idea of utilising a number of sailing craft was started.
In the above MS. volume the first reference is to "Peter Knight, Master of ye smack for ye wages of him self and five men and boy, and to bear all charges except wear and tear ...
£59."
"For extraordinary wear and tear," he was to be paid £59.
His vessel was the Margate smack.
In the same volume there is also a reference to the "Graves End smack," and to "Thomas Symonds for wages and dyett [diet] for himself, master and six men ... £56, 5s.
0d."
And for the "wear and tear to be disposed as ye Commrs.
direct ... £14, 15s.
0d."
There was yet a third vessel stationed a few miles away, the "Quinborrough smack," and a reference to "Nicholas Badcock for hire of ye smack, two men, and to bear all charges ...
£23."
These vessels were not known as Revenue cutters at this time, but as Custom House smacks.
They were hired by the Commissioners of the Customs from private individuals to prevent the owlers from smuggling the wool from Kent, Essex, and Sussex.
But it would seem that these smacks, even if they modified a little the activities of the owlers, did not succeed in bringing about many convictions.
Romney Marsh still sent its contribution across to France and Holland, much as it had done for generations.
But in 1698 the attack on the men of Kent and Sussex was strengthened by legislation, for by 7 & 8 William III.
cap.
28, it was enacted that "for the better preventing the exportation of wool and correspondence with France ... the Lord High Admiral of England, or Commissioners for executing the office of Lord High Admiral for the time being, shall from time to time direct and appoint one ship of the Fifth Rate, and two ships of the Sixth Rate, and four armed sloops constantly to cruise off the North Foreland to the Isle of Wight, with orders for taking and seizing all ships, vessels, or boats which shall export any wool or carry or bring any prohibited goods or any suspected persons."
It was due to William III.
's Government also that no person living within fifteen miles of the sea in those counties should buy any wool before he entered into a bond, with sureties, that all the wool he might buy should be sold by him to no persons within fifteen miles of the sea, and all growers of wool within ten miles of the sea in those counties were obliged within three days of shearing to account for the number of fleeces, and where they were lodged.
Instructions were duly issued to captains of sloops, and a scheme drafted for surrounding the whole of the coast with sloops, the crews consisting of master, mate, and mariners.
But from an entry in the Excise and Treasury Reports of 1685, it is clear that a careful regard even at that date was being had for the import smuggling as well.
The reference belongs to September 24, and shows that a "boarding" boat was desired for going alongside vessels in the Downs, and preventing the running in of brandies along the coast in that vicinity.
The charge for building such a boat is to be £25.
In another MS. touching the Customs, there is under date of June 1695 an interesting reference to "a Deale yoghall to be built," and that "such a boat will be here of very good use."
She is to be "fitt to go into ye roads for boarding men or other ocations when ye sloops may be at sea."
So much, then, for the present as to the guarding by sea against the smugglers.
Let us now turn to look into the means adopted by land.
The wool-owners of Romney Marsh were still hard at their game, and the horses still came down to the beach ladened with the packs ready to be shipped.
If any one were sent with warrants to arrest the delinquents, they were attacked, beaten, and forced to flee, followed by armed gangs on horseback.
But it was evident that the Crown was determined not to let the matter rest, for a number of surveyors were appointed for nineteen counties and 299 riding officers as well, though they made few seizures, and obtained still fewer condemnations, but at great expense to the State.
In 1703 it was believed that the owling trade, especially in Romney Marsh, was broken if not dead, although the smuggling by import was on the increase, especially as regards silks, lace, and such "fine" goods.
At that time for the two hundred miles of coast-line between the Isle of Sheppey and Emsworth--practically the whole of the Kentish and Sussex shore--fifty officers were being employed at a salary of £60 per annum, with an allowance to each of another £30 annually for a servant and horse to assist them during the night.
And there was authority also for the employment of dragoons to aid the riding officers, especially in the neighbourhood of Romney Marsh; but there was a number of "weak and superannuated" men among the latter, who did not make for the efficiency of the service.
We need not say much more about the wool-exportation.
In spite of all the efforts of the Custom House smacks and the assistance of his Majesty's ships of war, in spite, too, of further legislation, it still continued.
It went on merrily at any rate till the end of the eighteenth century, by which time the smuggling by imports had long since eclipsed its importance.
It was the wars with France during the time of William and Mary which increased and rendered more easy the smuggling into England of silk and lace.
And by means of the craft which imported these goods there used to be smuggled also a good deal of Jacobite correspondence.
As Kent and Sussex had been famous for their export smuggling, so these counties were again to distinguish themselves by illicit importation.
From now on till the middle of this eighteenth century this newer form of smuggling rose gradually to wondrous heights.
And yet it was by no means new.
In the time of Edward III.
steps had to be taken to prevent the importation of base coin into the realm, and in succeeding reigns the king had been cheated many a time of that which ought to have come to him through the duties of goods entering the country.
It was impossible instantly to put down a practice which had been pursued by so many families for so many hundreds of years.
But the existing force was not equal to coping with the increase.
As a consequence the daring of the smugglers knew no bounds--the more they succeeded the more they ventured.
A small gang of ten would blossom forth into several hundreds of men, there would be no lack of arms nor clubs, and adequate arrangements would be made for cellar-storage of the goods when safely brought into the country.
Consequently violence became more frequent than ever--bloodshed and all sorts of crimes occurred.
In the year 1723 several commissions or deputations were issued by the Chancellor of the Exchequer to captains of his Majesty's sloops to make seizures, and the following year the Treasury authorised the construction of seven sloops for service off the coast of Scotland.
The smugglers had in fact become so desperate, the English Channel was so thoroughly infested with them, and the Revenue service was so incapable of dealing with them in the manner that was obviously essential for effectiveness, that the Admiralty ordered the captains and commanders of His Majesty's ships to assist the Revenue officers all they could in order to prevent the smuggling trade, and to look out and seize all vessels employed in illegally exporting wool; for the Admiralty had been informed by the Commissioners of Customs that the Revenue officers frequently met with insults from French smuggling luggers manned by armed crews, who carried on a brisk smuggling trade by force and even dared the Revenue men to come aboard them.
But as the Revenue service afloat was assisted now by the Navy, so the Revenue land guard was also aided by the Military.
In 1713 arrangements had been made that dragoons should co-operate with the riding officers in their operations against the owlers, and there are plenty of skirmishes recorded showing that the dragoons were actually so employed.
Originally these soldiers were employed under the direction of the riding officers, but, as can well be expected, there was a good deal of jealousy and friction caused through the sharing of the soldiers in the rewards for seizures, and after the year 1822 this military assistance was not utilised to any great extent, although legally Army officers can still be called upon to render assistance against smuggling.
And, in passing, one might mention that this co-operation afloat between the Customs men and the Navy was equally noticeable for a certain amount of ill-feeling, as we shall mention on a later page.
Before the first quarter of the eighteenth century was completed, smuggling between England and the Continent was proceeding at a brisk pace, and by the middle of that century it had well-nigh reached its climax for fearlessness.
We have already alluded to the establishment of hired smacks and sloops inaugurated towards the end of the seventeenth century.
The sloop rig, as I have shown in another volume,[2] had probably been introduced into England from Holland soon after the accession of Charles II., but from that date its merits of handiness were so fully recognised that for yachts, for fishing craft, for the carrying of passengers and cargo up and down the Thames and along the coast as well as across to Ireland and the Continent, the rig was adopted very readily in place of the lug-sails.
The smack was also a sloop-rigged vessel.
We need not enter here into a discussion as to the comparative merits of sloops and cutters and smacks.
It is enough if we state that when it was realised that a vessel of say 100 tons, sloop-rigged, with her one mast, mainsail, and two headsails and square topsail (set forward of the mast on a yard) could be handled with fewer men and therefore less expense than a lugger of similar size; was also more suitable for manoeuvring in narrow channels, and for entering and leaving small harbours, the fishermen, coasters, and so on took to this improvement.
Thus most naturally the larger smuggling craft were till well on into the nineteenth century sloops or cutters, and equally natural was it that the Revenue availed themselves of this rig first by hiring smacks, and, later, by building for themselves.
These sloops, whether hired or owned, were given each a particular station to guard, and that plan was followed by the Revenue cruisers for many years to follow.
Among the Exeter documents of the Customs Department is included an interesting document dated July 10, 1703, wherein the Board of Customs informs the collector at the port of Dartmouth of the list of vessels appointed by the Commissioners to cruise against owlers, the district comprised extending from Pembroke in the west to the Downs in the east.
The following is the list of these vessels with their respective cruising territories:-NAME OF CRUISER LIMITS OF HER SPHERE _Rye_ Pembroke to Lundy Island _Discovery_ Milford to Swansea _Dolphin_ Milford to Exmouth _Hastings_ " " " _Woolwich_ Downs to Falmouth _Swan_ " " " _Fly_ Off Folkestone _Dispatch_ " " This fairly well covered the region to which goods were likely to be run from the Continent as well as that from which the owlers were wont to export their wool.
From an entry among the documents preserved in the Custom House at Newcastle, dated September 1729, we can see that also the north-east coast was guarded thus:-NAME OF CRUISER LIMITS OF HER SPHERE _Cruiser_ Flamborough Head to Newcastle _Deal Castle_ Newcastle to Leith _Spy_ Firth of Forth to Newcastle And about the last-mentioned date the _Deal Castle_ had succeeded in capturing four French smuggling craft and brought them into Shields.
To the other side of England the Isle of Man, which was a veritable contraband depôt, used to send quantities of dutiable goods, Liverpool being the favourite destination, and it was a more difficult matter here to deal with than in many other ports.
On October 9, 1713, the Collector at Liverpool writes to the Board of Customs that he thinks a sloop would be of little service for that port.
Some time ago they had one, which was not a success "by reason of ye dangerousness and difficulty of the harbour and ye many shoales of sand, which often shift in bad weather."
The Manxmen were a thoroughly lawless, desperate species of smugglers, who stopped at nothing, and were especially irate towards all Revenue and public officials, recognising no authority other than might and a certain respect for the Duke of Atholl, the owner of the Isle of Man.
Among the letters to Southampton there is a record dated June 14, 1729, which shows that a number of his Majesty's sloops were appointed by the Admiralty to cruise off the coasts of the kingdom to prevent the exporting of wool and the running of goods by the import-smugglers.
For instance, the Admiralty sloop _Swift_ was appointed to cruise between Portland, Poole, and Jack-in-the-Basket off the entrance to Lymington Harbour, Hants, her commander being a Captain Cockayne.
Similarly the sloop _Success_ (Captain Thomas Smith, commander) was to cruise between Portland and Spithead, and the _Rye_ (Captain John Edwards) between the Isle of Wight and Beachy Head to the eastward.
It was part of the duty of the Revenue officers at Southampton to see that these three ships constantly cruised on their station, and if their commanders were found negligent of this duty the matter was to be reported to the Board of Customs.
The Revenue craft were apparently not above suspicion, for in November of 1729 the Southampton officers of the Customs reported to headquarters that this very sloop, the _Swift_, every time she went across to Guernsey in connection with her duties of prevention, used to bring back quantities of wine, brandy, and other dutiable goods under the pretence that they were the ship's stores.
The intention, however, was nothing less than that which dominated the actions of the smugglers themselves--the very class against which the _Swift_ was employed--for Captain Cockayne's men used to find it no very difficult matter to run these goods ashore clandestinely under the very eyes of the unsuspecting Customs officers.
The Commissioners of the Customs therefore sent down strict instructions that the _Swift_ was to be rummaged every time she arrived at Southampton from Guernsey.
We shall have reason presently to refer more especially to the Channel Isles again, but it may suffice for the present to state that they were in the south the counterpart of the Isle of Man in the north as being a depôt whence the import smugglers fetched their goods across to England.
Additional to the Naval sloops just mentioned, there were two other cutters belonging to the Southampton station under the Revenue and not, of course, Admiralty-owned craft.
These vessels were respectively the _Calshot_ and the _Hurst_, and it is worth noting that at the time we are thinking of (1729) these vessels are referred to generally as "yatchs" or "yachts."
It was not quite seventy years since the first yacht--that presented to Charles II., named the _Mary_--had arrived in England, and it was only in 1720 that the first yacht club had been established, not in England, but in Cork.
If we may judge from contemporary paintings of yachts we can visualise the _Hurst_ and _Calshot_ as being very tubby, bluff-bowed craft with ample beam.
But what would especially strike us in these modern days would be the exceptionally long bowsprit, the forward end of which was raised considerably above the water than its after end, both jib and foresail each working on a stay.
The commander of the _Calshot_ yacht was a Captain Mears, and there is an entry in the Southampton documents to the effect that he was paid the sum of £2, 12s.
6d.
for piloting his vessel from Southampton to Guernsey and back in connection with the Preventive duties.
This trip took him five days, his pay being half a guinea a day.
It is clear from a record of the following year that Mears was employed by special arrangement, for on July 18, 1730, the Board of Customs decided that it was necessary that Captain John Mears, commander of the _Calshot_ yacht at Southampton, should now be placed on the same footing as the other commanders of the Revenue sloops and smacks in regard to the matter of wear and tear.
Henceforth the sum of 30s.
per ton was to be allowed him instead of £47 per annum.
Both yacht and her boats were to be kept in good repair, but the commander was first to give security to have the vessel and her boats generally in good order and reasonable repair, loss by violence of the sea or other unavoidable accidents excepted.
The commander was also to find the sloop and her boats with all manner of necessaries and materials, so that the Crown was to be at no charge on that account in the future; and every quarter the Comptroller and Collector of the port were to certify to the Board as to whether the yacht and boats were in good repair.
It would appear that these two vessels were not actually owned by the Customs but hired from Captain Mears; and less than a month before the above order the Surveyor-General of the Customs for Hampshire represented to the Board that it would be necessary to allow the commander of the _Hurst_ half-a-dozen muskets, two pairs of pistols, half-a-dozen swords or cutlasses, and these were accordingly ordered to be sent, together with two swivel guns, from Weymouth to Captain Mears "by the first coast vessel bound to" Southampton.
There was certainly need for a strict vigilance to be kept in that neighbourhood, for there was a good deal of smuggling then being carried on along the Hampshire shore in the vicinity of Hurst Castle and Beaulieu.
In another chapter we shall go into the important matter touching the flags that were worn by the vessels employed in looking after smuggling, but, in passing, we may call attention to a letter which the Board sent to Southampton at this time referring to the proclamation of December 18, 1702, by which no ships whatsoever were allowed to wear a pendant excepting those engaged in the service of the Royal Navy, but that the sloops employed in the several public offices (as, for instance, the Customs and the Excise) should wear Jacks, whereon was to be described the seal used in the respective offices.
And Captain John Mears, senior, of the _Calshot_, and Captain John Mears, junior, of the _Hurst_, were to be informed that they must deliver up their pendants to the Customs' office at Southampton and for the future forbear wearing a pendant.
Instead thereof they are to wear a Jack and ensign with the seal of office therein, "but the mark in the ensign is to be twice as large as that in the Jack; and if the captain should hereafter find that the not wearing a pendant will be any obstruction or hindrance to the service," the Board of Customs is to be informed.
[3] We have now seen something of the sloops and cutters on the south, the west, and the north-east coasts.
Let us take a glance at the district to the southward of Flamborough during this same period.
From the Hull letter book we find that in September of 1733 the Admiralty appointed Captain Burrish of the _Blandford_ and Sir Roger Butler of the _Bonetta_ to cruise between Flamborough and Newcastle; but Captain Oates of the _Fly_ and Captain Rycant of the _Tryal_ were to cruise between Flamborough and Yarmouth.
There is also a reference to the Revenue sloop _Humber_ employed in this neighbourhood on Preventive work.
She was a somewhat expensive craft to keep up, as she was frequently needing repairs and renewals.
First, she was to have a new cable which was to cost £20, 14s.
3-1/2d.
; and it is a striking reminder of those days of hemp and sail that this bill was paid to the "ropemakers."
A few months later she had to undergo repairs which amounted to £31, 10s.
6-1/4d., and less than six months afterwards she had to be given a new anchor which cost £18, 8s.
9d.
Three years later she was given a new suit of sails which came to £25, 17s.
1d.
but her old suit was sold for the sum of eight guineas.
And finally, in 1744, as she had begun to cost so much for repairing, the Board determined to sell her.
Notwithstanding that the south coast, by reason of its proximity to the Continent and the Channel Isles, was a convenient and popular objective for the smugglers running their goods from France and Holland, yet the Yorkshire coast was by no means neglected.
From Dunkirk and Flushing especially goods poured into the county.
There was a small sloop, for instance, belonging to Bridlington, which was accustomed to sail across the North Sea to one of the ports in Zealand, where a cargo was taken aboard consisting of the usual dutiable articles such as tea, tobacco, and gin.
The return voyage was then made and the goods landed clandestinely at some convenient spot between the Spurn Lighthouse and Bridlington.
Similarly, farther south than the Humber smuggling by illegal importation went on extensively in the early eighteenth century.
Sometimes a Dutch vessel would arrive in Grimsby Roads and succeed in quietly running her goods to the shore.
In the autumn of 1734 the master of the Dutch schuyt _The Good Luck of Camphire_, alias _The Brotherly Love_, had succeeded in running as many as 166 half-ankers[4] of brandy and 50 lbs.
of tea on the coast near Great Yarmouth, the skipper's name being Francis Coffee.
He was a notorious smuggler.
But on this occasion both he and his vessel were captured.
Still, matters were not always satisfactory on board the Revenue sloops and smacks, for whenever, at this time, there was an encounter with the smugglers afloat the latter were so violent and desperate that the captors went about their work with their lives in their hands.
Furthermore, it was not altogether a pleasing business to have to fire at fellow-countrymen, many of whom they had known from boyhood.
Then, again, there was not the space on these sloops and cutters, nor the amount of deck room to be found on the men-of-war; and to be cooped up in these comparatively small vessels always on the _qui vive_, usually near the shore but able to have shore-leave all too rarely, was calculated to make for restlessness.
Added to which a very considerable portion of the crews of these Revenue craft was composed of men who had spent years of their lives as smugglers themselves.
Consequently it was not altogether surprising that mutinies and refusals to obey their commander's orders were of frequent occurrence.
After a time it was decided that those members of the crew which had to be dismissed for such offences were to be handed over to the commander of the next man-of-war that should come along, and be pressed into the service of the Navy, though, it may be added, this was not always a welcome gift to the Naval commander compelled to receive a handful of recalcitrant men aboard his ship.
Then, again, when at last a handful of smugglers had been captured it was the duty of the Revenue officers to prosecute them before the magistrate at their own expense.
This was regarded as an unfair hardship, and in 1736 the system was modified by the Treasury allowing an officer a third of whatever amount was recovered, the prosecution to be carried on at the King's expense.
At the same time it was undeniable that some commanders of these sloops and cutters were not quite as active as they might be on their station.
There was too ready an excuse to run in from the sea and too great an inclination to spend valuable time in port.
They were accordingly now enjoined not to presume to lay up for the purpose of giving the ship's bottom a scrub, or for a refit, without previously giving the Collector and Comptroller of the port ten days' notice.
This was not to occur unless the cruiser really needed such attention; but if it was essential then to prevent the station remaining unguarded some other smack or vessel was to be sent out to take her place for the time being.
For the smugglers were kept so well informed of the movements of the Revenue ships that a contraband cargo of goods would soon be found approaching the shore during the night when the watch had been relaxed.
But from an early date--at any rate as far back as 1694--the East India ships were notorious also for smuggling into the country a considerable amount of goods that ought to have paid duty.
We shall bring forward instances presently of East Indiamen, homeward bound, being boarded as they come up Channel, or while waiting in the Downs and putting some of their cargo on board smuggling cutters and Deal boats, which was subsequently quietly and secretly brought into the country.
Silks were especially popular among the smugglers in this connection.
In those days, too, the more wealthy passengers coming home by these East Indiamen used to leave the ship at Spithead, where they came in for that purpose.
These passengers would then be put ashore at Portsmouth, and, proceeding by coach to London, thus shortened their sea journey.
But notwithstanding their ample means, many of these travellers were constantly found endeavouring to land dutiable articles.
In short, rich and poor, high and low, there was no class that did not endeavour to engage in smuggling either directly or indirectly.
Even if the party never ventured on the sea, he might be a very active aider and abettor in meeting the boat as it brought the casks ashore, or keeping a look out for the Preventive men, giving the latter false information, thus throwing them on the wrong scent.
Or again, even if he did not act the part of signaller by showing warning lights from the cliff, he could loan his cellars, his horses, or his financial support.
In fact there were many apparently respectable citizens who, by keeping in the background, were never suspected of having any interest in these nefarious practices, whereas they were in fact the instigators and the capitalists of many a successful run.
And as such they were without doubt morally responsible for the deaths by murder which occurred in those incidents, when violence was used after the Revenue men had come on to the scene.
But as to morality, was there ever a period when the national character was so slack and corrupt as in the eighteenth century?
FOOTNOTES: [1] "Smuggling in Sussex," by William Durrant Cooper, F.S.A., in vol.
x. of the _Sussex Archæological Collection_, to which I am indebted.
[2] _Fore and Aft: The Story of the Fore-and-Aft Rig._ London, 1911.
[3] "Southampton Letters," November 6, 1730.
But in 1719, the Customs Commissioners had, _inter alia_, agreed to provide Captain Mears with "a suit of colours" for the _Calshot_.
This provision was, therefore, now cancelled in the year 1730.
[4] A half-anker held 3-1/4 gallons.
CHAPTER III THE GROWTH OF SMUGGLING About the middle of the eighteenth century the smuggling of tea into the country had reached such extensive limits that the revenue which ought to have been expected from this source was sinking instead of rising.
In fact it came to this, that of all the tea that was consumed in this country not one half had paid duty and the rest was smuggled.
The bands of smugglers were well financed, were themselves hardy sailors and skilful pilots.
They had some of the best designed and best built cutters and luggers of that time.
They were able to purchase from an almost inexhaustible market, and to make a quick passage to the English shores.
Arrived there they could rely on both moral and physical support; for their friends were well mounted, well armed, and exceedingly numerous, so that ordinarily the cargo could be rapidly unshipped, and either hidden or run into the country with despatch.
Not once, but times without number the smuggling cutters had evaded the Revenue cruisers at sea, showing them a clean pair of heels.
With equal frequency had the Preventive men on land been outwitted, bribed, or overpowered.
And inasmuch as the duties on the smuggled articles were high, had they passed through the Customs, so, when smuggled, they could always fetch a big price, and the share for the smugglers themselves was by no means inconsiderable.
But it is always the case that, when large profits are made by lawless, reckless people, these proceeds are as quickly dissipated in extravagance of living.
It is sad to think that these seafaring men, who possessed so much grit and pluck, had such only been applied in a right direction, actually died paupers.
As one reads through the pitiful petitions, written on odd scraps of paper in the most illiterate of hands begging for clemency on behalf of a convicted smuggler, one can see all too clearly that on the whole it was not the actual workers but the middle-men who, as is usually the case, made the profits.
A life of such uncertainty and excitement, an existence full of so many hairbreadth escapes did not fit them for the peaceful life either of the fisherman or the farmer.
With them money went as easily as it had come, and taking into account the hardness of the life, the risks that were undertaken, the possibility of losing their lives, or of being transported after conviction, it cannot be said that these men were any too well paid.
Carelessness of danger led to recklessness; recklessness led on to a life that was dissolute and thriftless.
And in spite of the fact that these tear-stained appeals were usually signed by all the respectable inhabitants of the seaside village--the rector, the local shipbuilder, Lloyds' shipping agent, the chief landowners and so forth--many a wife and family had to starve or become chargeable to the Union, while the breadwinner was spending his time in prison, serving as an impressed sailor on board one of his Majesty's ships against the enemy; or, if he had been found physically unfit for such service, condemned to seven or more years of transportation.
But by the year 1745 smuggling had reached such a pitch that something had to be done.
The country was in such a state of alarm and the honest traders made such bitter complaints of the disastrous effect which these illicit practices were having on their prosperity that, on the 6th of February in that year, a Parliamentary Committee was formed "to inquire into the causes of the most infamous practice of smuggling and consider the most effectual methods to prevent the said practice."
For it was clear that in spite of all that had been done by the Customs and Excise, by the Admiralty and the military, they had not succeeded in obtaining the desired effect.
And during the course of this inquiry a great deal of interesting evidence came out from expert witnesses, some of whom had not long since been the greatest smugglers in existence, but had come forward and received the pardon of the State.
We may summarise the testimony obtained by this Committee as follows.
The smugglers, after sailing away from England, used to purchase the tea abroad sometimes with money but at other times with wool.
That was a serious matter in either alternative if, as was the case, the transactions were carried on to any large extent; for the country simply could not afford to be denuded either of its valuable wool--since that crippled the wool manufactures--or of the coin of the realm, which made for bankruptcy.
But this was not all.
England was at war with her neighbours, and the French only too gladly admitted the smuggling vessels into her ports, since these lawless and unpatriotic men were able to give information of the state of affairs in England.
There was in the Isle of Man at this time no levying of Customs or other duties, so that between that island and France there was kept up a constant trade especially in teas, other East India goods and brandies, which were afterwards conveyed clandestinely to English ports, especially to Liverpool, as already we have noted, and also to Glasgow, Dumfries, as well as to Ireland.
In the days when there were sloops at Liverpool doing duty for the Crown they used to set forth and do their best to stop this running, "but as it is a very dangerous station, a seizure is scarce heard of."
As illustrative of the achievements of smugglers at that time let us mention that it was reported officially from Yarmouth that on July 11 fifty smugglers had run a cargo of tea and brandy at Benacre in Suffolk, and only a fortnight later a band of sixty smugglers landed another contraband cargo at the same place, while a gang of forty got another cargo safely ashore at Kesland Haven.
A week later a still larger band, this time consisting of seventy, passed through Benacre Street with a large quantity of goods, a cart and four horses.
The smugglers at Kesland Haven had been able to bring inland their cargo of tea and brandy by means of fifty horses.
In one month alone--and this at the depth of the winter when cross-channel passages could not be expected to be too safe for small sailing craft--nine smuggling cutters had sailed from the port of Rye to Guernsey; and it was estimated that during the last half of the year there had been run on to the coast of Suffolk 1835 horse-loads of tea as well as certain other goods, and 1689 horse-loads of wet and dry goods, to say nothing of a large quantity of other articles that should have paid duty.
These were conveyed away up country by means of waggons and other vehicles, guarded by a formidable band of smugglers and sympathisers well armed.
Notwithstanding that the Revenue officers were in some cases aware of what was going on, yet they positively dared not attempt any seizures.
And in those instances where they had undertaken the risk they had been frequently beaten and left cruelly wounded with bleeding heads and broken limbs.
One reliable witness testified that whereas it was computed that at this time about 4,000,000 lbs.
of tea were consumed in this kingdom, yet only about 800,000 lbs.
of this had ever paid duty, so that there was considerably over 3,000,000 lbs.
weight of tea smuggled in.
Therefore on this one item of tea alone the loss to the Crown must have been something enormous.
Multiply this by the long years during which the smuggling went on, add also the duties which ought to have been paid on tobacco and spirits, even if you omit to include the amount which should have accrued from lace and other commodities, and you may begin to realise the seriousness of the smuggling evil as viewed by the Revenue authorities.
It was noted that a great deal of this contraband stuff was fetched over from Flushing and from Middleburgh, a few miles farther up on the canal.
The big merchant sailing ships brought the tea from the East to Holland, France, Sweden, and Denmark.
But the Dutch, the French, the Swedes, and the Danes were not great tea drinkers, and certainly used it in nothing like the quantities which were consumed in England.
But it was profitable to them to purchase this East Indian product and to sell it again to the smugglers who were wont to run across from England.
It should be added, however, that the species of tea in question were of the cheaper qualities.
It was also frankly admitted in evidence that many of the civil magistrates, whose duty it was to grant warrants for the arrest of these delinquents, were intimidated by the smugglers, while the officers of the Customs and Excise were terrorised.
At this period of the smuggling era, that is to say prior to the middle of the eighteenth century, most of the smuggled tea was brought over to the south coast of England in Folkestone cutters of a size ranging from fifty to forty tons burthen.
These vessels usually came within about three or four miles of the shore, when they were met by the smaller boats of the locality and the goods unladened.
Indeed the trade was so successful that as many as twenty or thirty cargoes were run in a week, and Flushing became so important a base that not merely did the natives subsidise or purchase Folkestone craft, but ship-builders actually migrated from that English port to Flushing and pursued their calling in Dutch territory.
As to the reward which the smugglers themselves made out of the transaction, the rates of payment varied at a later date, but about the years 1728 and 1729 the tea-dealers paid the men eight shillings a pound for the commodity.
And in spite of the seizures which were made by the Revenue cutters and the land guard, yet these losses, admitted a witness, were a mere trifle to the smugglers.
In fact he affirmed that sometimes one tea-dealer never suffered a seizure in six or seven years.
We can therefore readily believe that the financiers netted a very handsome profit on the whole, and there are still standing plenty of fine mansions in different parts of our country which are generally supposed to have been erected from the proceeds of this form of activity.
There was a kind of local intelligence bureau in most of the smuggling centres on the south coast, and so loyal and so watchful were these craftsmen that the inhabitants of the coast-line managed to let their _confreres_ know when the Custom House sloops had sailed out of port or when they hauled up for repairs and refit.
As a consequence the smuggling craft commonly escaped capture.
Animated by a natural hatred of all Government officials in general, especially of all those whose duty it was to collect taxes, dues, and any kind of tolls; disliking most of all the men of the Customs and Excise, and, further, being allied by sympathy and blood relationship to many of the smugglers themselves, it was almost impossible for the representatives of the Crown to make any steady progress in their work.
We all know that when a number of even average law-abiding people get together, that crowd somehow tends towards becoming a mob.
Each person, so to speak, forfeits his own individuality, that becomes merged into the personality and character of the mob, which all the time is being impelled to break out into something unlawful of a minor or greater degree.
Whenever you have stood among crowds you must have noted this for yourself.
It gets restive at the least opposition with which it is confronted, it boos and jeers with the smallest incitement; and, finally, realising the full strength of its unity, breaks out into some rash violence and rushes madly on, heedless of the results.
Many murders have been in this way committed by men who ordinarily and in their individual capacity would shrink from such crimes.
But having become merely one of the limbs, as it were, of the crowd they have moved with the latter and obeyed its impulses.
It was just the same when many of the dwellers of the country-side, many of the fishermen, labourers, and farm-hands found themselves assembled on the report of a pistol shot or the cry of angry voices coming up from the beach below.
Something was happening, some one was in trouble, and the darkness of the night or the gloom of the fog added a halo of mystery round the occasion.
Men and women came out from their cottages, some one got hit, and then a general affray began.
Clubs and pistols and cutlasses were busy, men were bellowing forth oaths, women shrieking, and the galloping of horses heard rapidly approaching.
Amid such excitements we can readily understand that a good many acts of violence and deep injury occurred which afterwards, when the heat of the event had vaporised, were regretted.
At the same time, notwithstanding that one is aware that the men were engaged in an unlawful pursuit and that they themselves fully appreciated their degree of guilt, yet we cannot but feel some sort of sympathy with a crew who, after a long and exciting passage through bad weather all the way across the Channel, after perhaps a breathless race against the Government cruisers, had finally succeeded in landing their tubs on the shore only to be pounced on immediately by the riding officers and a _posse_ of dragoons.
It must have been heart-breaking that all their carefully laid plans, all their hardships and trials should end in disaster.
Realising this and that their craft as well as their persons would be seized, it was but natural that they would fight like the most desperate of men.
And, at the same time, those their relatives on shore who largely depended on them for their bread and butter would rush to their aid with a spirit and an impetuosity that could only end in one way.
The pity of it all was that so much fine daring and enthusiasm were not being employed for a better cause and for more worthy results.
But the smugglers found that, contrary to what one would expect, their greatest risk was not when landing the goods, but when bringing them across from the Continent.
A seizure on land was, at any rate during the first half of the eighteenth century, comparatively rare if they had been able to get away from the sloops and cutters.
For the bodyguard of armed men on horseback who promptly met and escorted the contraband into the country frequently did as they had planned.
And when once the tea has arrived inland it was easily sold to people who bought it not in small quantities but took as much as 1000 lbs.
at a time.
In addition, there were a number of men called "duffers," who used to walk inland wearing coats in which a hundred-weight of tea was concealed between two layers of cloth stitched together.
They were accordingly said to "quilt" so much of this commodity.
These duffers, having set forth on their walk, would eventually arrive in London and dispose of the tea to hawkers who, in turn, carried it about the town and sold it to the consumers, who, even if they had possessed any scruples, could not possibly know that the leaves had been smuggled in without paying the Crown's levy.
But it was not merely by exercising the strictest vigilance on the activities of the Government sloops and land officers, nor entirely by resort to trickery and violence, to threats and intimidation that the smugglers managed to keep out of the hands of justice.
They even advanced one step further still, for there was a man named Norton whom they employed as their agent to defend them against prosecutions.
This Norton at one time had actually been in the employ of the Crown as clerk of the late Solicitor to the Customs.
And it was generally believed that Norton by some means--most probably by offering tempting bribes--obtained news from the clerks of the Customs' solicitor when a smuggler was likely to be arrested and a warrant was about to be issued.
Norton was then supposed to give the smuggler an immediate warning and the man was able to make himself scarce.
It was quite an easy operation, for in those days when there was no telegraph and no steamboat service across the Channel, all the "wanted" man had to do was instantly to board his cutter, set sail, and hurry across to France or Holland, where he was sure of a welcome, where also he could employ himself in arranging for cargoes to be run into England perhaps in the very vessel which had brought him across.
There were plenty of his compatriots resident in Flushing, so he need not feel homesick, and when at last the incident had blown over he could find his way back to Kent or Sussex.
It was reckoned that about this time there were at least 20,000 people in England employed in smuggling, and in some parts (as, for instance, the village of Hawkhurst, about which we shall have more to say presently) gangs of large numbers could be got together in a very short time.
In Hawkhurst alone 500 smugglers could be collected within an hour.
Folkestone, however, ran Hawkhurst fairly close with a similar notoriety.
Such gangs, well armed as they were, went about with impunity, for notwithstanding that they were well known, yet no one dared to molest them.
We mentioned just now that the danger to the State of this import smuggling was not merely that goods were brought into the country without payment being made to the Customs, but that inasmuch as the contraband goods were purchased abroad partly by wool and partly by actual coin England was being robbed both ways.
And as the wool exportation declined and the import smuggling rose, so the amount of gold that passed out of the country seriously increased.
At least £1,000,000 sterling were carried out of the kingdom each year to purchase these goods, and of this amount somewhere about £800,000 were paid for tea alone.
At a later date the price of tea often went up, but the dealer still made a profit of 40s.
on every 100 lbs.
We alluded just now also to the dangers of seizure, and it is worth remarking that these were recognised by the smugglers as being greater in one district than in another.
For instance, it was much more difficult to run goods into the counties of Kent and Sussex than into Suffolk, owing to the fleet at sea and the troops on the coast.
And as to the amount of support which could be relied on it was an admitted fact that there was not one person in ten in the country but would give the smugglers assistance, and even lend them horses and carts.
For the use of these the smugglers made payment at an increased rate.
There was one witness before this Commission who stated that he knew of about sixty English cutters of from thirty to forty tons burthen each, and five or six vessels of the same burthen belonging to merchants at Flushing which were employed constantly in running goods across to England, and several of those who gave evidence confessed that they had for years been actively engaged in smuggling, but had taken advantage of the late Act of Indemnity.
One reason alleged for smuggling tea was that the East India Company did not sufficiently supply the dealers with the low-priced kinds, whereas the Dutch did.
And it was further contended that if the price of tea were lessened sixpence per lb.
it would put a stop to smuggling of the commodity, for at this date, although other articles such as spirits and tobacco were brought in, yet there was far more tea run than anything else.
But at the same time the smugglers rather liked to include a quantity of brandy casks among their cargo for the reason that they were heavy and made very good ballast.
And as to the ships themselves, it was agreed that those of the smugglers were the best sailing fore-and-afters that were built in those days, and could easily out-sail both the King's ships and the Custom House sloops.
Finally, it was shown that in spite of the large and tempting rewards that were offered by advertisement for the apprehension of those persons who had been concerned in smuggling, no one had come forward to give information for the reason that, even if he would, he dared not.
And so fascinating was the call of smuggling, that although there were those who had willingly embraced the pardon granted them by the recent Act, forsaken this illegal trade and settled down on farms or devoted themselves to other occupations which were within the law, yet there were many others who had returned to their former practices.
After accumulating this evidence, the Committee issued their first report on March 24, 1745, and expressed themselves of the opinion that the high duties charged on tea and other commodities had certainly been one cause of smuggling.
But they also added that the exposing for sale of those boats and vessels which had been seized from the smugglers was certainly another potent reason, for these craft were frequently bought back by the men; they therefore recommended that all captured craft should be burned.
Furthermore, the Commission condemned the custom of allowing penalties to be compounded so easily.
As an instance of this last-mentioned custom we might call attention to three smugglers belonging to the county of Hampshire.
There is a reference to them in the Southampton Letters under date of April 28, 1730, from which it appears that Matthew Barton, John Gibort, and William Moadon of Fordingbridge were under prosecution for running goods ashore.
They subsequently offered to compound for the said offence on the following terms: Barton to pay the sum of £35, Gibort to pay £25, and Moadon £15.
But before allowing the matter to be settled straight away the Collector and Comptroller at Southampton were ordered to look carefully into the affair and to inquire what these men were generally esteemed to be worth.
CHAPTER IV THE SMUGGLERS' METHODS It was not till June of 1746 that the Committee issued their second report, and the evidence therein contained is even more interesting to us than any which had hitherto been given.
After the Solicitor to the Commissioners had shown how biassed juries frequently were towards prisoners brought up on charges connected with smuggling, how they declined to bring in a verdict against them even in spite of the clearest of evidence, another official (the Surveyor of the Searchers in the Port of London) stated that when he had received information that there had been a run of goods in a certain locality and had even received information as to the road along which they would be brought, he had been compelled to travel by night and carefully to avoid all the beaten paths.
Indeed, if people whom they might meet on the road noticed a Custom House officer and any soldiers together, their design would immediately be suspected and warning would promptly be sent to the smugglers, who would hide their goods.
He added, also, that he remembered on one occasion that a couple of vessels landed in the Isle of Thanet as much tea as could be loaded on the backs of two hundred horses.
But it was when the ex-smugglers came to give their evidence that the real secrets of the trade were unfolded.
Robert Hanning, who for years had been one of the most distinguished members of the industry, informed the Commission that formerly he was the principal dealer with the smugglers when he resided at Dunkirk.
Some idea of the colossal business which he had carried on may be gathered from his admission that he had sold teas, brandies, and wines to be run into England _to the extent of_ £40,000 _per annum_.
And let us not forget to bear in mind that of course this probably represented the value of the goods when they were put on board.
What they actually realised after they were smuggled into the English market must have been something considerable.
Hanning was followed by a certain Captain Joseph Cockburn, who had a very instructive story to tell, which must have amazed even the Commissioners.
This gallant skipper was now commanding one of his Majesty's sloops, but prior to that he had been engaged in privateering, and before that had commanded several vessels employed in smuggling.
From his very infancy he had been concerned in the practice of running goods, and his apprenticeship had been served to a smuggler at Rochester, who was nominally a fisherman.
Consequently, with an accumulated knowledge obtained first as a smuggler and subsequently as a pursuer of smugglers, there was not much, if anything at all, in connection with the work which could have missed his attention.
He proved himself a veritable encyclopædia of smuggling information, and even the following brief summary will show that his experience was something exceptional.
First of all, he instanced the case of five cutters which he knew were constantly employed in running tea and brandy from Boulogne into Kent and Sussex.
They imported at least six tons of tea and two thousand half-ankers of brandy _every week_.
He estimated that the six tons of tea would be purchased abroad for £1920.
The two thousand half-ankers of brandy, even if they cost but ten shillings apiece, would represent the sum of £1000; so altogether there was a total of nearly £3000 being carried out of the country in specie every week by these five cutters alone.
But he also knew of five other cutters which were constantly employed in fetching brandy and tea from Middleburgh and Flushing, and he reckoned that these ten cutters in the aggregate smuggled into the United Kingdom each year goods to the value of £303,680.
Possibly there was no living person who possessed so perfect and exact a knowledge of the smuggling trade, so we can have little reason to doubt for a moment the veracity of his figures.
Passing, then, to describe the methods employed by these men, he divided them into two classes.
Firstly, there were those adopted by the cutters and smacks which did little else than smuggle, and, secondly, there were the British ships which primarily carried on a legitimate trade to foreign parts.
As to the first class, the practice of these cutters and smacks was to put to sea from whatever port to which they belonged--London, Dover, Rye, Folkestone, or wherever it might be--having on board a small number of hands, their professed object being to fish.
Having stood some distance away from the land, they would be met during the night by a number of smaller craft, and under cover of darkness would take on board from the latter large crews, much merchandise, and a considerable amount of money.
The smaller craft rowed or sailed back to the beach before daylight, and the bigger craft, now well supplied with men, money, and merchandise, stood on their course for some Dutch or French port.
There they purchased such goods as they required, disposed of those which they had brought, and again set sail for home.
The vessel was again met at a convenient distance from the English shore by smaller boats if a favourable signal had been flashed from the land; and, using the darkness of the night, once more both the cargo and the supernumerary men were put into the boats, after which the latter ran the stuff ashore in casks already slung and in bales, while the smack headed for her harbour whence she had set out.
As she had just the same small crew as before no suspicions were aroused, and it was presumed she had been out fishing.
But additional to these comparatively large vessels there were smaller craft--open boats, yawls, and little sloops--which in fine weather were wont to run across from the south coast of England to Boulogne, Guernsey, and from the west of England to the Isle of Man.
They also loaded up with as much cargo as they could carry, and, since they were able to be beached, the process of discharging their contents as soon as they returned was much simpler.
These smaller craft also were in the habit of running out well clear of the land and meeting Dutch vessels, from which they would purchase similar kinds of goods and run them in by the usual methods.
In these lesser craft were frequently carried a great many stones, anchors, and heavy weights by means of which the half-ankers of brandy could be sunk near the shore and afterwards taken up as required.
The exact way in which this was done we shall discuss fully in a later chapter.
Some of the cobbles, "hovelings," and small fishing craft that were accustomed to run out to big sailing merchantmen under pretence of shipping pilots to take them into the next port, were actually engaged in smuggling all sorts of goods out of these ships.
Perhaps it was a lurking sympathy with the men engaged in a trade with which his earlier years had been so intimately associated that made Captain Cockburn suggest that it was because the Dutchmen brought such large quantities of fish into Billingsgate that the English fishermen found their work unprofitable, and were accordingly driven to devote themselves to smuggling.
But from evidence in other documents it would certainly seem that Cockburn was speaking the truth and that the fishing industry was not a very good livelihood at that time.
Then, secondly, there was the smuggling that was carried on by the trading sailing ships from abroad.
Great quantities of goods were being run into the country by colliers--they were usually brig-rigged--by corn-ships, packet-boats from the Continent and other vessels trading with Holland.
At least, one thousand five hundred vessels were engaged in this trade, "and," added Cockburn, "he scarcely ever knew one of them return without some prohibited or high duty goods."
The smuggling from these vessels was done in various ways.
There were the pilot-boats and fishing craft which frequently met them near the coast, as already explained.
Another way was for the merchantmen to put into harbours, roadsteads, and rivers, where they lay at anchor under pretence of waiting for orders.
Another method still, that was as simple as it was successful, consisted of landing their goods at outports on such holidays as the King's birthday, &c., when the Revenue officers were absent.
Cockburn admitted that he had done this himself and had run great quantities of brandies, teas, and Spanish liquorice even as much as nearly a ton of the latter at a time.
But besides these two classes there was a third.
The whole of the coasting trade in those days was of course done in sailing ships; and inasmuch as there were no railways for carrying merchandise there was a good deal more encouragement for the sailing ship owner than there is to-day.
The methods of smuggling adopted by these coasters was a little more complicated, and this was done by such means as fraudulently obtaining permits, by cockets clandestinely obtained, by false entry of one sort of goods for another, and by corrupting the Customs' officers.
To prove his case the captain gave the following examples, _all of which he had himself employed since the year 1738!_ As regards the obtaining of permits fraudulently, he said that he had gone to Dunkirk, taken aboard 2040 gallons of French brandy and cleared for North Bergen in Norway.
Of course he had no intention whatever of steering for that port, but in case he met any of the Custom House sloops as he approached the English coast, it would be convenient to show this clearance and so prevent his brandy being seized.
From Dunkirk, then, he sailed across the North Sea and ran up the river Humber.
There, by previous arrangement, one of those keels which are so well known in the neighbourhood of the Humber and Trent met him.
The keel had been sent from York down the Ouse with permits to cover the brandy.
The keel was cleared by a merchant at York, who obtained permits for conveying to Gainsborough a quantity of French brandy equal to that which Cockburn had on board his ship, though in fact the keel, notwithstanding that she obtained these permits, set forth with no brandy in her at all.
It was the point where the Ouse crosses the Trent at right angles that had been arranged as the trysting-place, and there the keel took on board from Cockburn the brandy which had come from Dunkirk.
Cockburn himself nailed the permits on to the heads of the casks, which in due course were taken by the keel, when the flood tide made again, to Gainsborough some distance up the Trent.
Arrived there the casks were properly taken into stock and entered in the Custom House books as if the brandy had been actually brought down from York and had previously paid duty.
On this one venture the garrulous skipper admitted that he cleared a profit by the brandy of £250 per cent., which was a remarkably handsome reward for so short a voyage as from Dunkirk.
Port wines, he said, were purchasable at Dunkirk because these had been taken from English merchantmen by privateers; and since there was little or no market for such wines in Spain they were brought into Dunkirk, whither resorted the smugglers eager to buy them.
He proceeded also to explain another method of cheating the customs.
Large quantities of very inferior British brandy were taken on board a ship and clearance was obtained for some other English port, but instead of proceeding to the latter the vessel would run across to Dunkirk or Holland, where she would unload the cheap brandy, and in its place take on board some high-priced French brandy equal in quantity to the British commodity which had been put ashore at the French port.
After this, with now a much more valuable cargo, the vessel would put to sea again and make for that British port for which originally she had cleared.
And as to the practice of bribery, he himself had several times bought permits from the Excise officers to cover smuggled brandy and tea.
On one occasion he had paid an officer fifty guineas for a permit to cover a certain quantity of tea and brandy about to be run into the country.
Next came Captain Ebenezer Hartley, who had also formerly commanded a ship that was engaged in smuggling.
He had known of large quantities of muslins and silks brought into the country on board East Indiamen.
These goods were smuggled by throwing them through the port-holes at night into boats waiting below, alongside the ship, or whilst the Custom officer was being entertained on board with food and drink.
Sometimes, he said, this was even done under the very eyes of the Revenue officer, who took no notice of it.
He recalled an incident in an earlier part of his life when he had sailed from England to Holland, in which country he had filled up with twenty-six casks of oil.
After that his orders were to cross the North Sea and meet a certain vessel which would await him off Aldborough.
This last-mentioned craft would give Hartley's vessel the signal by lowering her jib three times.
A more tragic story was related by George Bridges, a tidesman of the Port of London.
He showed that it did not always "pay" to be diligent in one's duty, for he quoted the case of a Captain Mercer, in the employ of the Custom House, who did now and then make a seizure, but he "was broke for doing his duty"; and when Mercer came into Cork on the occasion in question, the mob set upon him so that he was compelled to escape into the sheriff's house.
The mob then surrounded the house in their thousands until the sheriff interceded with them.
They were wild with fury and threatened to pull the house down, until the sheriff gave them his oath that Captain Mercer should never again be guilty of seizing the wool which the smugglers had endeavoured to export.
But the mob afterwards went to Passage and took hold of a Custom House officer named May.
They brought him forth from his house, cut out his tongue, and cut off his ears, one of which the witness said he remembered seeing nailed on to the Cork Exchange.
They dragged the man with a rope round his neck, gave him several blows, hurled him into the river, and finally the poor fellow died of his ill-treatment.
Although handsome rewards were offered for the discovery of the offenders, yet no one ever came forward.
One could quote similar instances of the vehemence of the smugglers from other sources.
For instance, on February 2, 1748-49, the Collector of the Port of Penzance wrote to the Board to give them some idea of the people among whom he had to work.
"The insolence," he said, "of some of the smuglers [_sic_] and wreckers in this neighbourhood is run to such a heighth, that tho our officers have from time to time secured severall Hogsheads, it has been by force taken from them [again], 'and the officers forced to save their lives.'"
Writing again on the 14th December, the same correspondent added that "the smugglers never behaved with more insolence than at present, or was it ever known to be carried on with more audaciousness," mentioning also that the previous night the snow[5] _Squirrel_ of North Yarmouth had driven ashore loaded with a cargo of brandy.
The country-folk had immediately boarded her, stripped the master of everything valuable, and then carried off all the brandy they could lay their hands on, and, in their haste, had set fire to the rest of the cargo, so that at the time of writing the whole ship was in flames.
He mentioned also a couple of months later the difficulty he had to secure arrests of smugglers, for even when he had obtained warrants for the apprehension of eight most notorious men, the constables excused themselves from doing their duty in serving the warrants, and pretended that the eight men had absconded.
And anyone who cares to examine the Treasury Books and Papers for this period will find similar cases.
In July of 1743 some smugglers had seized the Custom House boat at Dover and coolly employed her for their own purposes in running tea.
The Custom officers deemed matters to be in such a state that they begged that a man-of-war might be stationed on that coast to prevent smuggling.
Similarly in January of 1743-44, during a skirmish near Arundel between the preventive men assisted by some dragoons against a band of smugglers, the latter had wounded three of the soldiers and carried off an officer and two other dragoons on board the smugglers' cutter.
This was no unique occurrence, for sometimes the contraband runners, when infuriated, captured the would-be captors, hurried them out to sea, and then, having bound the unfortunate victims with a bit of spare rope and having tied a piece of ballast to their live bodies, they would be hurled overboard into the sea, and the soldier or preventive man would never be seen or heard of again unless his lifeless body were cast upon the beach.
At Folkestone, about this time, three men were carried off by the smugglers in trying to effect an arrest, and the supervisor at Colchester had been also carried off, but afterwards he had been released on promising not to mention the smugglers' names.
It was bad enough, therefore, for the Revenue men when they had the assistance of the dragoons, but it was infinitely worse when they had to contend alone.
There is an almost pathetic petition from the Folkestone riding-officers sent on New Year's Day 1744-45, begging for military assistance against the smugglers, as although there were soldiers stationed at Dover yet they were unobtainable, since they refused to march more than five miles.
And it was just as bad, if not worse, about this time in the Isle of Man, for the latter's inhabitants consisted almost exclusively of smugglers and their families, some of whom had long since been outlawed from England and Ireland.
So rich and prosperous, indeed, had these Manxmen become by means of smuggling that they were recognised with a degree of importance which was almost ludicrous.
The two deemsters (or deputy-governors) of the island even countenanced and protected the men, who would often assemble together to scheme and drink to the damnation of His Britannic Majesty.
Unhindered in their nefarious work, able to obtain all the cargo they required from France and the Channel Isles; able, too, to run their contraband into the west of England, they waxed exceedingly independent and wealthy.
At Douglas they had built themselves a good quay for the shelter of their ships and for convenience in landing their cargoes, the only drawback being that the harbour dried out at low water.
It happened that on the 26th of June 1750, that Captain Dow, commanding H.M. cruiser _Sincerity_[6] was, according to the orders received from the Board of Customs, on duty in Douglas Roads.
A notorious Irish smuggling wherry came in from Ireland and ran under the _Sincerity's_ stern, while the smugglers "with opprobrious, treasonable, and abusive language abused His Majesty King George and all that belonged to or served under him."
This, of course, was too much for any naval officer to endure, and Captain Dow immediately caused the ship to come alongside, and, after being rummaged, she was found to have concealed in a jar of butter-milk twenty-five English guineas tied up in a bag.
There were also papers on board which proved that this money was to be expended in the purchase of brandies and tea, &c., and that, having obtained these articles, she was then to return to Ireland.
The English captain therefore promptly seized both money and papers.
On the same day that this incident occurred a Dutch dogger[7] also came into Douglas Roads loaded with prohibited goods from Holland.
As soon as he had noticed her come to anchor Dow sent his boat to board her with his mate and six men, and to examine and see if she had the prohibited goods on board which were suspected.
If she had, then she was to be seized.
At the same time Dow had requested Mr. Sidebotham, his Majesty's officer in the Isle of Man, to cast off the _Sincerity's_ headfast and sternfasts from the shore.
But thereupon a riotous and angry mob, fearing that the cruiser should be able to get under weigh and seize the Dutch dogger, refused to allow Sidebotham to let go the ropes.
Armed with bludgeons, muskets, swords, and stones they rushed down on to the quay, and did all they could to force the cruiser on shore by aiming showers of stones at the cruiser's men and restraining Sidebotham in his endeavour to help the _Sincerity_.
They even carried the latter away by force, and beat and bruised him in the most brutal manner.
Captain Dow, realising that the intention of the mob was to get the _Sincerity_ stranded, determined to cut his cable and exhorted them in his Majesty's name to disperse, to which they paid not the slightest attention except to send more showers of stones on to the cruiser's decks.
Seeing from afar what was happening, the mate and six men who had been sent to board the dogger now returned to the _Sincerity_.
Whereupon the dogger, perceiving her chance, promptly got under way.
As the crowd on shore still continued to pelt his ship with stones and had already wounded two of his crew, the cruiser's commander fired amongst them.
For a time, at least, this dispersed them, and so Dow was able to get his vessel clear.
He immediately proceeded to follow the Dutch dogger, and chased her until she had, perforce, to run herself on to the sands at Ramsey to the north of the island.
Determined not to be beaten, Dow now sent his mate and ten men on board her, seized her, and marked her in several places with the sign of a broad arrow to denote her capture.
[Illustration: "Dow sent his mate and ten men on board her."]
But when the mate came to open the hatches several of the islanders who had been secreted on board, with the assistance of two boat-loads of armed men who had rowed off from the shore, seized the mate and his men, and threatened that if they resisted they would kill them.
Being completely overpowered, the eleven naval men were compelled to yield and be carried ashore, where they were shut up in cellars and finally carried down to Castletown Castle.
Meanwhile, the smugglers set to work on the dogger's cargo and landed it safely.
A few days later six of the eleven were released, but the other five were detained until Captain Dow should refund the twenty-five guineas he had seized from the Irish wherry.
In order to give him a fright they also sent word that the five men should be tried before one of their Courts of Judicature on the following Thursday, were he to fail to send the money.
As the captain declined to accede to their demands, the five prisoners were on July 5 brought up and remanded till a month later.
Finding it was impossible to obtain their release the commander of the _Sincerity_ weighed anchor and ran back to Ramsey to take in the six released men, and then, sailing away to Whitehaven, arrived at that place on the 10th of July.
We need not say more.
The story is sufficient to indicate the utter state of lawlessness which prevailed there.
Peopled by outlaws and by the scum of France, Holland, Ireland, Scotland, and England, they were a pretty tough proposition.
Their violence was rivalled only by their impudence; and fleets of wherries[8] would sail in company into Ireland and Scotland loaded with cargoes of cheap brandy, which had been brought from Holland for that purpose.
As a means of checking these Manx smugglers it was suggested that the English Government should employ a number of tenders in this neighbourhood, since they drew less water than the sloops-of-war and so would be more useful for a locality that was not well supplied with deep harbours.
Moreover, these tenders would be well able to take the ground in the harbours which dried out.
Such craft as the latter were of about 160 tons, mounted twelve to fourteen carriage guns, and were manned by a captain, second officer, two mates, two quartermasters, a gunner, a boatswain, carpenter, surgeon, and forty seamen.
From the south-east corner of England came reports not much better.
Just before the close of the year 1743 the Surveyor at Margate and his men were out on duty along the coast one night when five of them came upon a gang of about twenty-five smugglers.
An encounter quickly ensued, and as the latter were well armed they were, by their superior numbers, able to give the officers a severe beating, especially in the case of one unfortunate "whose head is in such a miserable condition that the Surveyor thought proper to put him under the care of a surgeon."
Both this Surveyor and the one at Ramsgate asserted that the smugglers were accustomed to travel in such powerful gangs, and at the same time were so well armed, that it was impossible to cope with them, there being seldom less than thirty in a gang "who bid defiance to all the officers when they met them."
On the 7th April 1746, the Collector and Controller of the Customs at Sandwich wrote to the Board: "We further beg leave to acquaint your Honours that yesterday about four o'clock in the afternoon a large gang of near 100 smuglers [_sic_] with several led horses went thro' this town into the island of Thanet, where we hear they landed their goods, notwithstanding that we took all possible care to prevent them.
"_P.S._--This moment we have advice that there is a gang of 200 smugglers more at St. Peter's in the Isle of Thanet."
Seven months later in that year, at nine o'clock one November morning, a gang of 150 smugglers managed to land some valuable cargo from a couple of cutters on to the Sandwich flats.
Several Revenue officers were despatched into the country for the purpose of meeting with some of the stragglers.
The officers came into collision with a party of these men and promptly seized two horse-loads of goods consisting of five bags of tea and eight half-ankers of wine.
But they were only allowed to retain this seizure for half-an-hour, inasmuch as the smugglers presently overpowered the Revenue men and wrested back their booty.
The preventive men were also considerably knocked about, and one of them had his thumb badly dislocated.
The officers declared that they knew none of the people, the latter being well supplied not with firearms but with great clubs.
A fortnight later, just a few miles farther along the coast, a gang of 150 smugglers succeeded in landing their goods at Reculvers near Birchington; and ten days later still another gang of the same size was able to land their goods near Kingsgate, between the North Foreland and Margate.
But it cannot be supposed that the Revenue officers were not aware of the approach of these incidents.
The fact was that they were a little lacking in courage to face these problems on every occasion.
Indeed, they were candid enough to admit that they dared not venture near these ruffians "without the utmost hazard of their lives."
But the riding-officers were not solely to blame, for where were the Custom House sloops?
How was it they were always absent at these critical times?
Indeed, the Collector and Controller informed the Commissioners that not one of these sloops had been seen cruising between Sandwich and Reculvers for some months past.
This complaint about the cruisers was made in March 1747, and in that same month another gang, two hundred strong, appeared on the coast, but this time, after a smart encounter, the officers secured and placed in the King's warehouse a ton of tea as well as other goods, and three horses.
A day or two later a gang of smugglers threatened to rescue these goods back again.
The property formed a miscellaneous collection and consisted of fifty pieces of cambric, three bags of coffee, some Flemish linen, tea, clothes, pistols, a blunderbuss, and two musquetoons.
To prevent the smugglers carrying out their intention, however, a strong guard was formed by an amalgamation of all the officers from Sandwich, Ramsgate, and Broadstairs, who forthwith proceeded to Margate.
In addition to these, it was arranged that Commodore Mitchell should send ashore from the Downs as many men as he could spare.
This united front was therefore successful, and for once the smugglers were overmatched.
And but for a piece of bad luck, or sheer carelessness, a couple of years later a smart capture might well have been brought about.
It was one day in August when the officers had received information that a gang of twenty men and horses had appeared near Reculvers to receive goods from a cutter that was seen to be hovering near the coast.
The smugglers on shore were cute enough to locate the officers, and by some means evidently signalled to the cutter, for the latter now put to sea again and the gang cleared off.
Although for some time after this incident both officers and dragoons patrolled the coast in the neighbourhood no one was ever fortunate enough to gather information either as to the cutter or the people who had vanished into the country with such rapidity.
And yet in spite of the very numerous sympathisers which these illicit importers possessed, yet of course there were some individuals who were as much against them as any officer of the Customs.
In the neighbourhood of Plymouth legitimate trade had suffered a great deal owing to these practices.
The mayor, aldermen, and merchants of Saltash were at last compelled to send a memorial to the Lords of the Treasury complaining that in the rivers adjacent to that place there were several creeks and inlets which were being made of considerable use by the smugglers for landing their goods.
Especially was this the case up the river Tamar, and all this had been and was still "to the great prejudice of the fair traders and merchants."
They pointed out that a great deal of it consisted of clandestine running from ships in the Sound, Hamoaze, and other anchorages round about there.
Large quantities of French linings, wines, and brandies were being run ashore with impunity and speedily sold in the adjacent towns or conveyed some distance into Devonshire.
The mayor therefore begged the Treasury for three additional Custom officers consisting of an inspector of roads and two tide-waiters to be established at Saltash, but the Treasury could not see their way to grant such a request.
But in other parts of the country the roads were kept carefully watched to prevent goods being brought inland.
The coaches which ran from Dover to London with passengers who had come across from the Continent were frequently stopped on the highway by the riding-officers and the passengers searched.
Harsh as this mode of procedure may seem to us to-day, yet it was rendered necessary by the fact that a good many professional carriers of contraband goods were wont to travel backwards and forwards between England and abroad.
Some years later, for example, when the Dover coach was stopped at "The Half-Way House," a foreigner, who was travelling by this conveyance and had been able to evade the Customs' search at Dover, was found to be carrying two gold snuff-boxes set with diamonds, four lockets also set with diamonds, eighteen opals, three sapphires, eight amethysts, six emeralds, two topazes, and one thousand two hundred torquoises--all of which were liable to duty.
And thus the illegal practices continued all round the coast.
From Devonshire it was reported that smuggling was on the increase--this was in the autumn of 1759--and that large gangs armed with loaded clubs openly made runs of goods on the shore, the favourite _locale_ being Torbay, though previously the neighbourhood of Lyme had been the usual aim of these men who had sailed as a rule from Guernsey.
All that the Collector could suggest was that an "impress smack" should be sent to that district, as he promised that the notorious offenders would make excellent seamen.
There was an interesting incident also off the north-east coast of England, where matters were still about as bad as ever.
We referred some pages back to the capture of a Dutch dogger off the Isle of Man; we shall now see another of these craft seized in the North Sea.
Captain Bowen of the sloop _Prince of Wales_, hearing that the dogger _Young Daniel_ was running brandy on the coast near to Newcastle, put to sea in search of her.
He came up with a number of those cobbles--open boats--which are peculiar to the north-east coastline, though at one time they were used as far south as Great Yarmouth.
The cobbles which he was able to intercept had just been employed in transferring the contraband from the dogger to the shore.
Bowen captured one of these small craft with a dozen casks aboard.
Another was forced ashore and secured by the land officers.
Meanwhile, the Dutchman stood out to sea so that he might be able to draw off the spirits from large casks into smaller ones, which were the better fitted for running ashore.
It was found afterwards that he had large numbers of these lesser casks, and during that evening she put about and crept stealthily in towards the shore again until she approached within about a mile of the mouth of the Tees.
Her intention was to run the rest of her cargo under cover of darkness, and her skipper had arranged for large numbers of men to be on that coast ready to receive and carry off these casks.
But Bowen was determined to head her off this project.
An exciting chase followed, during which--to quote an official report of the time--the dogger did her best "to eat the sloop out of the wind," that is to say sailed as close to the wind as she could travel in the hope of causing her adversary to drop to leeward.
For seven hours this chase continued, but after that duration the _Prince of Wales_ captured the _Young Daniel_ eight leagues from the shore.
This is not a little interesting, for inasmuch as the chase began when the dogger was a mile from the mouth of the river, the vessels must have travelled about 23 statutory miles in the time, which works out at less than 3-1/2 miles an hour.
Not very fast, you may suggest, for a Revenue cutter or for the Dutchman either.
But we have no details as to the weather, which is usually bad off that part of the coast in February (the month when this incident occurred), and we must remember that the doggers were too bluff of build to possess speed, and the time had not yet arrived when those much faster Revenue cutters with finer lines and less ample beam were to come into use.
FOOTNOTES: [5] A snow was a vessel with three masts resembling the main and foremast of a ship with a third and small mast just abaft the mainmast, carrying a sail nearly similar to a ship's mizzen.
The foot of this mast was fixed in a block of wood or step but on deck.
The head was attached to the afterpart of the maintop.
The sail was called a trysail, hence the mast was called a trysail-mast.
(Moore's _Midshipman's Vocabulary_, 1805.)
[6] It was the frequent custom at this time to speak of sloops as cruisers.
[7] A dogger was a two-masted Dutch fishing-vessel usually employed in the North Sea off the Dogger Bank.
She had two masts, and was very similar to a ketch in rig, but somewhat beamy and bluff-bowed.
[8] These, of course, were not the light rowing-boats of the kind that were in use on the Thames and elsewhere.
The term wherry was applied to various decked fishing-vessels belonging to England, Ireland, and the Isle of Man.
CHAPTER V THE HAWKHURST GANG We come now to consider the desperate character of a band of men who rendered themselves for all time notorious in the domestic history of our country by acts of unbridled violence and consummate cruelty.
But before we proceed to relate as fully as our limited space will allow the details of these incidents, it is necessary to remind ourselves once again of the great, solid mass of sympathy, both active and passive, that was always at the back of the smugglers.
Without this such daring runs by night could never have occurred: doubtful of the assistance which could be whole-heartedly given by the people on shore, the seafaring men would never have dared to take such enormous risks of life and goods.
Not merely did the villagers come down to the shore to help to bring the goods inland, not only did they lend their horses and carts, but they would tacitly suffer the smugglers to hide casks of spirits in wells, haystacks, cellars, and other places.
In Cornwall, for instance, fifty-five tubs of spirits were found concealed in a well, over the top of which a hay-stack had been built.
This was near Falmouth, one of the most notorious of the smuggling localities.
And there is actual record of at least one instance where the natives charged a rent of a shilling a tub for stowing away the smuggled goods.
In another county a cavern had most ingeniously been hollowed out under a pond big enough to hold a hundred casks, the entrance being covered over with planks carefully strewed with mould.
So clever and original was this idea that it was never discovered for many years.
But the most notorious, the most formidable, and certainly the most abominably cruel gang of smugglers which ever achieved notice was the Hawkhurst contingent.
The "Hawkhurst Gang," as they were known, were a terror to whatever law-abiding citizens existed in the counties of Kent and Sussex.
They feared neither Custom officers nor soldiery, they respected neither God nor man, and in the course of attaining their aims they stopped at no atrocity nor brooked any interference from anyone.
By the year 1747 smugglers had become so daring and committed such terrible crimes that the only course left open for decent people was to band together in mutual protection.
The inhabitants of one locality joined together under the title of the "Goudhurst Band of Militia," their leader being a man named Sturt, a native of Goudhurst, who had recently obtained his discharge from the Army.
But this union became known to the smugglers, who waylaid one of the militia, and by means of torture the whole of the defenders' plans were revealed.
After a while he was released and sent back to inform the militia that the smugglers on a certain day would attack the town, murder all its inhabitants, and then burn the place to the ground.
The day arrived and both forces were prepared.
Sturt had gathered his band, collected fire-arms, cast balls, made cartridges, and arranged entrenchments, when, headed by one Thomas Kingsmill, the Hawkhurst gang appeared in order to make the attack.
But after a smart engagement in which three were killed and many wounded, the smugglers were driven off, whilst others were captured and subsequently executed.
Kingsmill escaped for a time, and became the leader of the famous attack on the Poole Custom House in October 1747.
Another of the gang was named Perin and belonged to Chichester.
Perin was really a carpenter by trade, but after being afflicted with a stroke of the palsy, he became attached to the smugglers, and used to sail with them to France to purchase goods that were to be smuggled, such as brandy, tea, and rum.
Now in September of 1747 Perin went across the Channel in a cutter called _The Three Brothers_, loaded up with the above commodities, and was approaching the English coast when he was met with a rebuff.
For Captain William Johnson, who held a deputation from the Customs to seize prohibited goods, got to know of Perin's exploit, and on the 22nd of this month, whilst cruising in the Poole Revenue cutter, sighted _The Three Brothers_ to the eastward of Poole.
Whereupon the smuggler began to flee, and, running before the wind, fled to the N.N.W.
From five in the afternoon till eleven at night the Revenue cutter, with every stitch of canvas set, chased her, and after firing several shots caused her to heave-to.
Johnson then boarded her, and found that the tea was in canvas and oil-skin bags, but Perin and the crew of six had escaped in _The Three Brothers_ boat.
However, Johnson captured the cutter with her cargo and took the same into Poole.
The two tons of tea, thirty-nine casks of brandy and rum, together with a small bag of coffee, were conveyed ashore and locked up safely in the Poole Custom House.
Such was the introduction to the drama that should follow.
Enraged at their bad luck, the smugglers took counsel together.
They assembled in Charlton Forest, and Perin suggested that they should go in a body and, well-armed, break open the Poole Custom House.
So the next day they met at Rowland's Castle with swords and firearms, and were presently joined by Kingsmill and the Hawkhurst gang.
Till night had fallen they secreted themselves in a wood, and eventually reached Poole at eleven o'clock at night.
Two of their members were sent ahead to reconnoitre, and reported that a sloop-of-war lay opposite to the quay, so that her guns could be pointed against the doors of the Custom House; but afterwards it was found that, owing to the ebb-tide, the guns of the sloop could not be made to bear on that spot.
The band, numbering about thirty, therefore rode down to spot, and while Perin and one other man looked after their horses, the rest proceeded to the Custom House, forced open the door with hatchets and other implements, rescued the tea, fastening packages of the latter on to their horses, with the exception only of 5 lbs.
The next morning they passed through Fordingbridge in Hampshire, where hundreds of the inhabitants stood and watched the cavalcade.
Now among the latter was a man named Daniel Chater, a shoemaker by trade.
He was known to Diamond, one of the gang then passing, for they had both worked together once at harvest time.
Recognising each other, Diamond extended his arm, shook hands, and threw him a bag of tea, for the booty had been divided up so that each man carried five bags of 27 lbs.
[Illustration: _A Representation of ye Smugglers breaking open ye_ KING'S _Custom House at Poole_.]
After the Poole officers discovered what had happened to their Custom House, there was not unnaturally a tremendous fuss, and eventually the King's proclamation promised a reward for the apprehension of the men concerned in the deed.
Nothing happened for months after, but at last Diamond was arrested on suspicion and lodged in Chichester Gaol.
We can well imagine the amount of village gossip to which this would give rise.
Chater was heard to remark that he knew Diamond and saw him go by with the gang the very day after the Custom House had been broken open.
When the Collector of Customs at Southampton learned this, he got into communication with the man, and before long Chater and Mr. William Galley were sent with a letter to Major Battin, a Justice of the Peace for Sussex.
Galley was also a Custom House officer stationed at Southampton.
The object of this mission was that Chater's evidence should be taken down, so that he might prove the identity of Diamond.
On Sunday February 14, then, behold these two men setting out for Chichester.
On the way they stopped at the White Hart Inn, Rowland's Castle, for refreshment.
But the landlady suspecting that they were going to hurt the smugglers, with the intuition of a woman and the sympathy of a mother decided to send for two men named Jackson and Carter.
For this Mrs. Paine, a widow, had two sons herself, who though nominally blacksmiths were in fact smugglers.
Jackson and Carter came in, to whom the widow explained her suspicions, and these two men were presently followed by others of the gang.
Before very long they had got into conversation with Galley and Chater, and plied them with drink, so that they completely gave away the nature of their mission, and after being fuddled and insulted were put to bed intoxicated.
After a while, they were aroused by Jackson brutally digging his spurs on their foreheads and then thrashing them with a horse-whip.
They were then taken out of the inn, both put on to the same horse, with their legs tied together below the horse's belly.
They were next whipped as they went along, over the face, eyes, and shoulder, till the poor victims were unable to bear it any longer, and at last fell together, with their hands tied underneath the horse, heads downwards.
In this position the horse struck the head of one or the other with his feet at every step.
Afterwards the blackguardly tormentors sat the two men upright again, whipped them, and once more the men fell down, with heels in air.
They were utterly weak, and suffering from their blows.
[Illustration: Mr. Galley and Mr. Chater put by ye Smugglers on one Horse near Rowland Castle _A.
Steele who was Admitted a Kings Evidence B.
Little Harry.
C. Iackson D. Carter E. Downer.
F. Richards.
1.
Mr. Galley.
2.
Mr. Chater._] [Illustration: Galley and Chater _falling off their Horse at_ Woodash draggs their Heads on the Ground, while the Horse kicks them as he goes; the Smugglers still continuing their brutish Usage.]
We need not enlarge upon the details, some of which are too outrageous to repeat.
After a while they thought Galley was dead, and laid him across another horse, with a smuggler each side to prevent him falling.
They then stopped at the Red Lion, at Rake, knocked up the landlord, drank pretty freely, and then taking a candle and spade dug a hole in a sand-pit where they buried him.
But at a later date, when the body was exhumed, it was seen that the poor man had covered his eyes with his hands, so there can be little doubt but that Galley was buried alive.
As for Chater, they delayed his death.
Throughout Monday they remained drinking at the Red Lion, discussing what to do with him, Chater being meanwhile kept secured by the leg with an iron chain, three yards long, in a turf-house.
At dead of night they agreed to go home separately so that the neighbours might not be suspicious of their absence.
On Wednesday morning they again repaired to the Red Lion, after having left Chater in the charge of two of their number.
Then, having discussed what should be done with Chater, some one suggested that a gun should be loaded with two or three bullets, and after having tied a long string to the trigger, each member of the gang should take hold of the string together, and so become equally guilty of the poor man's death.
But this idea was unwelcomed, as it was thought it would put Chater too quickly out of his sufferings.
Meanwhile, Chater was visited at various times, to receive kicks and severe blows, and to be sworn at in the vilest and most scurrilous language.
[Illustration: Chater Chained in ye Turff House at Old Mills's Cobby, kicking him & Tapner, cutting him Cross ye Eyes & Nose, while he is saying the Lords Prayer.
Several of ye other smugglers standing by.]
One of the gang now came up to him, and uttering an oath, brandishing aloft a large clasp-knife, exclaimed: "Down on your knees and go to prayers, for with this knife I will be your butcher."
Terrified at the menace, and expecting momentarily to die, Chater knelt down on the turf and began to say the Lord's Prayer.
One of the villains got behind and kicked him, and after Chater had asked what they had done to Galley, the man who was confronting him drew his knife across the poor man's face, cut his nose through, and almost cut both his eyes out.
And, a moment later, gashed him terribly across the forehead.
They then proceeded to conduct him to a well.
It was now the dead of night, and the well was about thirty feet deep, but without water, being surrounded with pales at the top to prevent cattle from falling in.
They compelled him to get over, and not through these pales, and a rope was placed round his neck, the other end being made fast to the paling.
They then pushed him into the well, but as the rope was short they then untied him, and threw him head foremost into the former, and, finally, to stop his groanings, hurled down rails and gate-posts and large stones.
[Illustration: Chater hanging at the Well in LADY HOLT Park, the Bloody Villains Standing by.]
[Illustration: The Bloody Smugglers flinging down Stones after they had flung his Dead Body into the Well.]
I have omitted the oaths and some of the worst features of the incident, but the above outline is more than adequate to suggest the barbarism of a lot of men bent on lawlessness and revenge.
Drunk with their own success, the gang now went about with even greater desperation.
Everybody stood in terror of them; Custom officers were so frightened that they hardly dared to perform their duties, and the magistrates themselves were equally frightened to convict smugglers.
Consequently the contraband gangs automatically increased to great numbers.
But, finally, a reward of £500 was offered by the Commissioners of Customs for the arrest of everyone of the culprits, and as a result several were arrested, tried, convicted, and executed.
The murderers were tried at a special assize for smugglers held at Chichester, before three judges, and the seven men were sentenced to death.
William Jackson died in prison a few hours after sentence.
He had been very ill before, but the shock of being sentenced to death, and to be hung afterwards in chains and in ignominy, rapidly hastened his death, and relieved the executioner of at least one portion of his duty.
He had been one of the worst smugglers in his time, and was even a thief among thieves, for he would even steal his confederates' goods.
Between the sentence and the hour for execution a man came into the prison to measure the seven culprits for the irons in which their bodies were subsequently to be hung by chains.
And this distressed the men more than anything else, most of all Jackson, who presently succumbed as stated.
Mills, senior, had gradually been drawn into the smuggling business, though previously he had been quite a respectable man.
After giving up actual smuggling, he still allowed his house to be used as a store-place for the contraband goods.
His son, Richard, also one of the seven, had been concerned in smuggling for years, and was a daring fellow.
John Cobby, the third of the culprits, was of a weaker temperament, and had been brought under the influence of the smugglers.
Benjamin Tapner was especially penitent, and "hoped all young people would take warning by his untimely fate, and keep good company, for it was bad company had been his ruin."
William Carter complained that it was Jackson who had drawn him away from his honest employment to go smuggling, but John Hammond was of a more obdurate nature, and had always hated the King's officers.
According to the testimony of the Rev.
John Smyth, who visited them in gaol, all the prisoners received the Holy Communion at ten o'clock, the morning after being sentenced to death.
All the prisoners except the two Mills admitted that they deserved the sentence, but all the surviving six acknowledged that they forgave everybody.
On January 19, 1748-9, they were executed.
The two Mills were not hung in chains, but having neither friend nor relation to take them away their bodies were thrown into a hole near the gallows, into which also was placed Jackson's body.
Carter's body was hung in chains on the Portsmouth Road, near Rake; that of Tapner on Rook's Hill, near Chichester; those of Cobby and Hammond on the sea coast near Selsey Bill; so that from a great distance they could be observed across the sea by the ships as they went by east and west.
Later on, John, the brother of Richard Mills, and one of the gang, was also arrested.
When the above three judges were travelling down to Chichester for the trial of the seven men, John had intended waylaying their lordships on Hind Heath, but his companions had refused to support him.
But soon after his father's and brother's execution he met with a man named Richard Hawkins, whom he accused of having stolen two bags of tea.
Hawkins denied it, and was brutally and unmercifully thrashed to death in the Dog and Partridge Inn at Slindon Common, his body being afterwards carried a dozen miles, thrown into a pond, with stones attached, and then sunk.
John Mills was convicted and hanged at East Grinstead, and afterwards remained hanging in chains on Slindon Common.
Other members of the gang were also arrested, tried at the same assizes as highwaymen, and then executed.
* * * * * Later on, two of the smugglers who had given evidence against the men that were hanged at Chichester, gave information also, which led to the arrest of Kingsmill, Perin, and two others who had been concerned in breaking open the Poole Custom House.
Kingsmill, Perin, and one other were hanged at Tyburn in April of 1749; the other man, however, was pardoned.
Thus at length this dreaded Hawkhurst Gang was broken up.
CHAPTER VI THE REVENUE CRUISERS We drew attention some time back to the assistance occasionally rendered by soldiers when the Riding officers were about to arrest smugglers.
Early in the year 1740, or about the close of 1739, Thomas Carswell, one of the Revenue officers stationed at Rye, was murdered, and a corporal and three dragoons whom he had taken to his assistance were badly wounded, and a large quantity of tea that had been seized was rescued.
It was after this incident that Revenue officers of this port--perhaps the most notorious of all the south-east smuggling territory--were ordered that in future when they went forth to make seizures they were to have with them an adequate military force, and to this end they were to make previous arrangements with the commanding-officer of the forces in that district.
But in spite of the seizures which the officers on land from time to time effected, and notwithstanding the shortcomings of the Custom House cruisers in regard to speed, and the frequent negligence of their commanders, it still remains true that these cutters and sloops, at any rate until about the year 1822 (when the Coastguard service was instituted) continued to be the principal and the most important of all the machinery set in motion against the smugglers.
We have seen this service in working order as far back as the year 1674, at any rate, when the fleet consisted of only hired vessels.
We have also seen that they were employed in sufficient numbers all round the coast, and that the Customs authorities, not content merely to hire such vessels, also presently obtained some of their own.
It is possible that the smacks were used for such service even before the date 1674--perhaps very soon after Charles came to the throne--but there are no existing records of this to make the matter certain.
The Revenue preventive work, in so far as the cruisers were employed, was carried on by a mixed control, and embraced six separate and distinct types:-1.
There were the English Custom House smacks, cutters, and sloops, some of which were hired vessels: others were actually owned by the English Customs Board.
2.
There were the English Excise cruisers, which were controlled by the English Excise Board.
They appeared to be very similar to the craft in the first class.
3.
There were the Scottish Customs cruisers, under the control of the Scottish Customs Board.
The official at the head of these was known as the Agent for yachts.
4.
There were the Scottish Excise cruisers, controlled by the Scottish Excise Board.
5.
There were the Irish Revenue cruisers, controlled by the Irish Customs and Excise.
6.
And lastly, there were these vessels of the Royal Navy which were employed to assist the Revenue, such vessels consisting of ships of the fifth-rate, sixth-rate, and especially the armed sloops.
In the present volume it has been necessary, owing to the limits of our space, to restrict our consideration of cruisers chiefly to the most important of these, viz.
those of the English Custom House and those of the Royal Navy.
Under such a mixed rule it was obvious that many difficulties arose, and that the clashing of interests was not infrequent.
For instance, between the English Custom House cruisers and the English Excise cruisers there was about as much friendship as there exists usually between a dog and a cat.
Similarly between the former and the Naval cruisers there was considerable jealousy, and every display of that pompous, bombastic exhibition of character which was such a feature of the life of the eighteenth century, and the first years of the next.
Although the Revenue cruisers were employed primarily and ordinarily for the purpose of protecting the revenue, yet from time to time they were mobilised for coast defence.
On different occasions during the eighteenth century they were lent to the Admiralty, and well supplied with men and arms in readiness for actual warfare.
After the third quarter of the eighteenth century these Revenue cruisers seem to have been built in greater numbers and with some improvement as to design, which, seeing that they had so frequently been left well astern by the smuggling cutters, was more than necessary.
There was issued in November of 1780, by the Board of Customs, an interesting letter that shows how closely these cruisers approximated to vessels of war, even when they were not under the jurisdiction of the Admiralty.
This letter was sent to the Collector and Controller at the different English Customs ports, and began by referring to the fact that many applications had been made to the Board asking permission to take out Letters of Marque.
It will be remembered that this was a time when wars seemed to go on interminably, and there had been only a few brief intervals of peace ever since the Anglo-Dutch wars began.
The Commissioners replied that they had no objection to the commanders of the cruisers providing themselves with Letters of Marque, if done at the latter's own expense "during present hostilities": but the Board declined to bear any part of the expense for any damages that might be sustained in an engagement where no seizure had been made and brought into port for a breach of the Revenue laws, so long as a commander should continue to hold these Letters of Marque.
It was, in fact, a basis of no cure no pay.
Each commander was, further, strictly enjoined not to quit his station and duty as a Revenue officer "under pretence of looking for captures, it being our resolution to recall the permission hereby granted, as soon as it shall be discovered in any instance to be prejudicial to our service."
But this war-like and semi-war-like service was entirely subservient to their ordinary work.
It is evident from the correspondence of the Customs Board of this same year, 1780, that their minds were very uneasy.
The smugglers, far from showing any slackening, had become more active than ever.
These men had, to quote the words of the Commissioners, considerably increased the size and force of their vessels; they had also added to their number of both men and guns.
They had become so violent and outrageous, they had acquired so much audacity as to "carry on their illicit designs in sight of the Revenue cruisers," and "whenever they have appeared within a certain distance have actually fired into and threatened to sink them."
In such cases as these, it was reported to the Board, the mariners on board these cruisers have frequently refused to bear down and repel their attacks, explaining their conduct by saying that no provision was made for their support in case they received injury during these encounters.
To meet such objections as these the Board resolved to allow the sum of £10 per annum to every mariner employed on board their cruisers who should lose a hand or foot, or receive any greater injury by firearms "or other offensive weapons of the smugglers while in the actual execution of their duty so as to disable them from further service; and we have also resolved to pay the surgeons' bills for such of the mariners as may receive slighter wounds."
But it was stipulated that no allowance was to be paid unless certificates were produced from the commanders of these cruisers.
And before we go any further with the progress of these cutters, let us afford actual instances of the kind of treatment which had led the Board to make this allowance to its men.
Three years before the above resolution, that is to say on April 24, 1777, Captain Mitchell was cruising in command of the Revenue cutter _Swallow_ in the North Sea.
Off Robin Hood's Bay he fell in with a smuggling cutter commanded by a notorious contraband skipper who was known as "Smoker," or "Smoaker."
Mitchell was evidently in sufficient awe of him to give him a wide berth, for the cruiser's commander in his official report actually recorded that "Smoker" "waved us to keep off"!
However, a few days later, the _Swallow_, when off the Spurn, fell in with another famous smuggler.
This was the schooner _Kent_, of about two hundred tons, skippered by a man known as "Stoney."
Again did this gallant Revenue captain send in his report to the effect that "as their guns were in readiness, and at the same time waving us to go to the Northward, we were, by reason of their superior force, obliged to sheer off, but did our best endeavours to spoil his Market.
There [_sic_] being a large fleet of colliers with him."
But that was not to be their last meeting, for on May 2, when off Whitby, the _Swallow_ again fell in with the _Kent_, but (wrote Mitchell) the smuggler "would not let us come near him."
The following day the two ships again saw each other, and also on May 13, when off Runswick Bay.
On the latter occasion the _Kent_ "fired a gun for us, as we imagined, to keep farther from him."
The same afternoon the _Swallow_ chased a large lugsail boat, with fourteen hands in her, and supposed to belong to the _Kent_.
But the _Swallow_ was about as timid as her name, for, according to her commander, she was "obliged to stand out to sea, finding that by the force they had in their boat, and a number of people on shore, we had no chance of attacking them with our boat, as they let us know they were armed, by giving us a volley of small arms."
None the less the _Swallow_ had also fourteen men as her complement, so one would have thought that this chicken-hearted commander would at least have made an effort to try conclusions.
No doubt, the _Kent_ was a pretty tough customer, and both skipper and his crew likewise.
But there was something wanting in Captain Mitchell.
For consider another of the latter's exploits.
It was the last week of September of that same year, and the scene had again the Yorkshire coast for its background.
During the evening they espied what they rightly believed to be a smuggling cutter.
They got as far as hailing her, but, as it was very dark, and the _Swallow_ did not know the force of the cutter, Mitchell "thought it most prudent to leave her," and so came to anchor in Saltburn Bay.
But the smuggler had not done with this enterprising gentleman; so the next day the smuggler came into the bay, stood down under full sail, and came charging down on to the poor _Swallow_, striking her on the quarter, the smuggler swearing terrible oaths the meanwhile, that if Mitchell did not promptly cut his cable--it was the days of hemp, still--and hurry out of that anchorage, he would sink him.
What happened, do you ask?
Of course the _Swallow_ ought to have been under way, and should never have been lying there.
She was acting contrary to the orders of the Board.
But what must we think of a captain who calmly awaits the on-coming of a smuggler's attack?
Why, so soon as the _Swallow_ espied him approaching, did he not up anchor, hoist sails, and go to meet him with his crew at their stations, and guns all shotted?
But even after this gross insult to himself, his ship, and his flag, was the commander of a Revenue sloop to obey?
[Illustration: "Came charging down ... striking her on the quarter."]
Yes--it is shameful to have to record it--Mitchell did obey.
True, he didn't cut his cable, but he soon tripped his anchor and cleared out as ordered.
The poor _Swallow_ had been damaged both as to her tail and her wings, for the smugglers had injured the stern, taken a piece out of the boom, and carried away the topping-lift.
But evidently in those days the Revenue service attracted into its folds men of the type of Mitchell.
Take the case of Captain Whitehead of the Revenue cruiser _Eagle_.
Espying a smuggling vessel, he gave chase, and eventually came up with her, also off Saltburn.
Whitehead hailed her, but the smuggler's skipper replied--one cannot resist a smile--"with a horrid expression," and called his men to arms.
The smuggler then fired a volley with muskets, wounding one of the _Eagle's_ crew.
Presently they also fired their swivel-guns, "on which Captain Whitehead thought it prudent to get away from her as fast as he could, the greatest part of his people having quitted the deck."
The smuggler continued to fire at the retreating cruiser, and chased the _Eagle_ for a whole hour after.
The cutter turned out to be that which Mitchell had encountered on April 24, 1777, and her skipper was our friend "Smoker" again.
This smuggling craft was described as a stout cutter of 130 tons, and a crew of upwards of forty men.
She carried fourteen carriage guns, four three-pounders, as well as a great number of swivels.
"Smoker's" real name was David Browning, and he was recognised by the _Eagle's_ crew from his voice, which was familiar to several of them.
During that affray the Revenue cruiser received about twenty shot in her sails, about a dozen in her boat, and half as many in her fore-and main-mast.
She also had her mizzen halyards shot away.
From these details it would seem that she was dandy-rigged, that is to say, she had a mizzen or jigger in addition to her cutter rig, and on this jigger would be set a small lugsail as was the old custom.
Following on Mitchell's meeting with the _Kent_, we have a record belonging to July of that same year--1777.
This time a different result was to come about.
For instead of acting single-handed, the sloops _Prince of Wales_ and the _Royal George_--both being employed by the Scottish Excise Board, aided by H.M.S.
_Pelican_ and _Arethusa_--four of them--at last managed to capture this schooner.
She was found to be armed with sixteen four-pounders and twenty swivel-guns, and also had a large stock of gunpowder, blunderbusses, and muskets.
"Stoney" was taken out of her, and he was said to be an outlaw whose real name was George Fagg.
The guns and ammunition were taken ashore and put in the King's warehouse at Hull, and the crew of thirty-nine were placed on board the _Arethusa_.
Among these prisoners were those who had murdered a dragoon the previous year, while the latter was assisting a Custom officer at Whitby.
The arrest of these men was all the more interesting for a reward of £100 for their capture had been long outstanding.
The capture of the _Kent_ had been effected as follows: the two Excise cruisers were off St. Abb's Head on July 8, and hearing that the _Kent_ had been seen off Flamborough Head they sailed south, and off Filey fell in with her.
On being hailed, the smuggler beat to quarters, shouting to the cruisers.
"Fire, you ----, and be ---to you."
The battle at once commenced and continued smartly for an hour, when the _Pelican_ came up to give assistance to the two cruisers.
The _Kent_, big as she was, now used sweeps--it was reminiscent of the days of Elizabethan galleasses--and drew away.
However the _Pelican_ (a frigate) overhauled her, and the _Arethusa_ which had also come up gave valuable aid as well.
The two naval captains allowed the cruisers to seize the _Kent_, and to take her into Hull, but the prisoners were put on board the _Arethusa_ as stated.
The _Kent's_ master and four of the men had been killed.
It should be added that the day before this incident the _Pelican_ had also chased the _Kent_ out of Bridlington Bay, so the smuggler must have come further north in the meanwhile, thus meeting the two Scottish cruisers bound south.
The hatches of the _Kent_ were found to be unbattened, and her cargo in great disorder.
The latter consisted of 1974 half-ankers, and a large amount of tea packed in oilskin-bags to the number of 554.
This schooner had been built at that other famous home of smugglers, Folkestone.
She was specially rigged for fast sailing, her mainmast being 77 feet long, and her main-boom 57 feet.
It was found that her sails were much damaged by shot.
Her mainmast was shot through in two places, and her main-boom rendered quite unserviceable.
Ship and tackle were appraised at £1405, 16s., so with the addition of her cargo she represented a fair prize.
But "Smoker" was still at large even though "Stoney" was a prisoner.
It was in April of 1777, when Captain Mitchell had fallen in with him off Robin Hood's Bay.
A month later the Collector of Hull wrote up to the Board to say that a large lugger had been seen off Whitby, and well armed.
She was described as "greatly an overmatch" for any of the Revenue cruisers, "or even for a joint attack of two of them": and that as long as she and the armed cutter commanded by Browning, _alias_ "Smoker" continued so daringly to "insult" the coasts, there was little prospect of success.
For six months past the Revenue cruisers had not been able to make any seizures, because these smuggling craft not only brought over vast quantities themselves, but protected the smaller ones from the attempts of the Revenue cruisers.
A year later, and we find that Mitchell was every bit as slack as before.
This is made quite clear from a letter which the Collector of Hull was compelled on November 12 (1778) to write.
In this epistle he informs Mitchell that either he or his mate, one of them, must remain on board the _Swallow_ at night, when lying in the Humber.
For it appeared that two days earlier both were ashore.
The mariner who had the midnight watch on board the cruiser saw a vessel, supposed to be a privateer, come right up the Humber into Hull Roads, sail around the naval tender there lying, then sail round the _Swallow_, and finally down the river again.
Although there were twelve or fourteen men on the supposed privateer's deck, yet the _Swallow's_ watchman did not even hail her, Mitchell and his mate being ashore all the while.
Such incidents as the above show that there undoubtedly was cause for the complaints of the Customs Board that the commanders of their cruisers were not doing all that might have been done towards suppressing the evil at hand.
On the other hand, it was equally true that the delinquents with whom these commanders had to contest were of a particularly virulent and villainous type.
Thus, between the negligence of the one side, and the enterprise of the other, his Majesty's revenue had to suffer very considerably.
No better instance of the potency of this lawlessness could be afforded than by an event which happened in the summer of 1777.
Everyone knows, of course, that those were the days when men had to be impressed into the service of the Navy, so that, when any of these hardy smugglers were captured, they were valuable acquisitions to the Service, and far more useful than many of the disease-stricken crews which so often had to be shipped to make up a man-of-war's complement.
In the year we are speaking of a number of smugglers who had been captured on the North Sea were put on board H.M. tender _Lively_ by Captain O'Hara of the Impress service, the intention being to convey these men to one of his Majesty's ships at the Nore.
The tender got under way and was proceeding to her destination when the smuggler-prisoners mutinied, overpowered the _Lively's_ crew, and carried the _Lively_ into Flushing.
And similar examples of the impudence and violence of other North Sea smugglers could also be quoted.
On the 7th of May 1778, Captain Bland, of the _Mermaid_ Revenue cruiser, was off Huntcliff Fort, when he sighted a smuggling shallop.
[9] Bland promptly bore down, and as he approached hailed her.
But the shallop answered by firing a broadside.
The Revenue cruiser now prepared to engage her, whereupon the shallop hoisted an English pennant, which was evidently a signal for assistance, for a large armed cutter promptly appeared and came to the shallop's rescue.
Seeing that he was overmatched, Bland, therefore, sheered off.
During the same month Captain Whitehead, of the _Eagle_, to whom we have already referred, reported that he seldom went for a cruise without being fired on, and he mentioned that sometimes these smuggling vessels carried musket-proof breast-works--a kind of early armour-plating, in fact.
The principal rendezvous of the smuggling craft in the North Sea was Robin Hood's Bay.
Whenever the cruisers used to approach that bight the smugglers would sail out, fire upon them, and drive them along the coast.
Before firing, the smugglers always hoisted English colours, and on one occasion a smuggling craft had the temerity to run alongside a Revenue cruiser, hail her, and in a derisive manner ordered the commander to send his boat aboard.
We spoke just now of the superior sailing qualities which these smuggling craft frequently possessed over the Revenue cruisers, and on one occasion, in the North Sea, the master of a smuggling shallop, when being pursued, impudently lowered his lugsail--that would be his mizzen--to show that the cruiser could not come up and catch him.
And lest that dishonourable incident previously mentioned, of a cruiser being ordered out of Saltburn Bay, may be thought a mere isolated event, let us hasten to add that the cruiser _Mermaid_ was lying at anchor off Dunstanburgh Castle, on the Northumbrian coast, when Edward Browning came alongside her in an armed shallop named the _Porcupine_, belonging to Sandwich.
He insisted on the _Mermaid_ getting up her anchor and leaving that region: "otherwise he would do him a mischief."
Indeed, were these facts not shown unmistakably by actual eye-witnesses to be the very reverse of fiction, one might indeed feel doubtful as to accepting them.
But it is unlikely that cruiser-commanders would go out of their way to record incidents which injured their reputation, had these events never in reality occurred.
Some idea of the degree of success which smuggling vessels attained during this eighteenth century may be gathered from the achievements of a cutter which was at work on the south coast.
Her name was the _Swift_, and she belonged to Bridport.
She was of 100 tons burthen, carried no fewer than 16 guns and a crew of fifty.
During the year 1783 she had made several runs near Torbay, and on each occasion had been able to land about 2000 casks of spirits, as well as 4 or 5 tons of tea.
Afterwards the whole of this valuable cargo had been run inland by about 200 men, in defiance of the Revenue officers.
Then there was the _Ranger_, a bigger craft still, of 250 tons.
She carried an enormous crew for her size--nearly 100--and mounted 22 guns.
She had been built at Cawsand, that village which in smuggling days attained so much notoriety, and stands at the end of a delightful bay facing the western end of Plymouth Breakwater.
This vessel had a successful time in landing cargoes to the east of Torbay without paying the lawful duty.
And there were many fishing-boats of from 18 to 25 tons, belonging to Torbay, which were at this time accustomed to run across the Channel, load up with the usual contraband, and then hover about outside the limits of the land.
When they were convinced that the coast was clear of any cruisers they would run into the bay and land, sink or raft their cargoes, according to circumstances.
And now, leaving for the present actual skirmishes and chases in which the Revenue cruisers were concerned, let us look a little more closely into their organisation.
From the report by the Commissioners appointed to examine the Public Accounts of the kingdom, and issued in 1787, it is shown that the Custom House cruisers were of two classes: (1) Those which were owned by the Board, and (2) Those which were hired by contract.
And as to this latter class there was a further subdivision into two other classes; for one section of these vessels was furnished by the Crown, no charge being made for the hire.
But her outfit, her future repairs, in addition to the wages and victualling of the crew, and all other expenses, were paid out of the produce of the seizures which these cruisers effected.
After this, if anything remained beyond these deductions, the residue was to be divided between the Crown and the contractor.
Very often, of course, when a fine haul was made of a £1000 worth of cargo, there was quite a nice little sum for both parties to the contract, and a few other, smaller, seizures during the year would make the business quite a profitable undertaking.
But when the amount of seizures was not sufficient to defray the expenses the deficiency was supplied by the contractor and Crown in equal proportions.
That, then, was one of these two subdivisions of contracted cruisers.
But in the second of these the contractor provided the vessel, for which he was paid the sum of 4s.
6d.
a ton per lunar month.
It may seem at first that this was poor remuneration, especially when one recollects that to-day, when the Government hires liners from the great steamship companies, the rate of payment is £1 per ton per month.
In the case of even a 10,000-ton liner there is thus a very good payment for about thirty days.
But in the case of a cutter of 100 tons or less, in the eighteenth century, 4s.
6d.
per ton may seem very small in comparison.
However, we must bear in mind that although for this money the contractor was to find the outfit of the vessel, and be responsible for all repairs needed, yet the aforesaid contractor might make a good deal more in a lucky year.
It was done on the following basis.
From the produce of the seizures made by this subdivision of cruisers all remaining charges additional to those mentioned above were paid, but the surplus was divided between the Crown and contractor.
Thus the latter stood to gain a large sum if only a moderate number of seizures had been made, and there was, by this method, every incentive for the hired cruisers to use their best endeavours to effect captures.
Still, if there was a deficiency instead of a surplus, this was also shared by both contracting parties.
In the year 1784 there were, reckoning all classes, 44 cruisers employed, and 1041 men as crews.
Of these cruisers the Commander, the Chief Mate and Second Mate, and, in certain vessels, the Deputed Mariners, were all officers of the Customs.
In the case of the first class of cruisers--those which were on the establishment--these officers were appointed by the Board pursuant to warrants from the Treasury.
In the case of the second--those which were hired by contract--the officers were appointed by the Customs Board.
The captain of the cruiser was paid £50 per annum, the chief mate either £35 or £30, and the crew were each paid £15.
But, as we shall see from a later page, the rate of pay was considerably increased some years afterwards.
The victualling allowance was at the rate of 9d.
per diem for each man on board, and an allowance of 1s.
each was made by the lunar month for fire and candle.
This last-mentioned allowance was also modified in the course of time.
Some idea as to the seriousness, from a financial point of view, of this cruiser fleet may be gathered from the statement that these 44 vessels cost the Government for a year's service the sum of £44,355, 16s.
1d.
The largest of these forty-four cruisers was the _Repulse_, 210 tons.
She carried 33 men and was stationed at Colchester.
Her cost for this year (1784) was £1552, 16s.
8d.
She was not one of the hired vessels, but on the establishment.
Next in size came the _Tartar_, 194 tons, with 31 men, her station being Dover.
She was on the establishment, and her annual cost was £1304, 6s.
2-1/2d.
Of the same tonnage was the _Speedwell_, which cruised between Weymouth and Cowes.
There was also the _Rose_, 190 tons, with 30 men, stationed at Southampton, being on the establishment likewise.
Next to her in size came the _Diligence_, 175 tons, with 32 men.
She cruised between Poole and Weymouth.
She was one of the hired vessels, and was in 1784 removed from Weymouth to have her headquarters at Cowes.
The smallest of all the cruisers at this time was the _Nimble_, 41 tons and a crew of 30.
She also was a hired craft.
Her station was at Deal, and her annual cost was £1064, 9s.
9d.
for the year mentioned.
But though there was less expenditure needed at the outset, these contract ships were not altogether satisfactory: or rather it was the method than the cruisers themselves.
For if we have any knowledge at all of human nature, and especially of the dishonest character which so frequently manifested itself in the eighteenth century, we can readily imagine that the contractor, unless he was a scrupulously honourable man, would naturally succumb to the temptation to economise too strictly regarding the keeping the ship in the best condition of repair; or he might gain a little by giving her not quite a sufficiently numerous crew, thus saving both wages and victuals.
For the Crown allowed a certain number of men, and paid for the complement which they were supposed to carry.
Therefore, since this arrangement was marked by serious drawbacks, the contract system was discontinued, and at the beginning of 1788 fifteen contracts were ended, and five other cruisers' contracts were not renewed when they expired in that year.
All the cruisers in the employment of the Customs Service were now placed on the establishment, and the practice of paying the charges and expenses out of the King's share of the condemned goods was rescinded.
In the year 1797 the number of Customs cruisers was 37, the commanders being appointed by the Treasury; and it may be not without interest to mention the names, tonnage, and guns of some of those which were on the books for that year.
There was the _Vigilant_, which was described as a yacht, 53 tons, 6 guns, and 13 men; the _Vigilant_ cutter, 82 tons, 8 guns.
During the winter season she cruised with ten additional hands off the coasts of Essex, Kent, and Sussex.
There was another, the _Diligence_, given as of 152 tons; the _Swallow_, 153 tons and 10 guns; the _Lively_, 113 tons, 12 guns, and 30 men.
The _Swift_, 52 tons and 8 men, used to cruise between the Downs and the Long Sand (to the North of the North Foreland at the mouth of the Thames).
Some of the old names under the former dual system are seen to be commemorated in the _Nimble_ (41 tons, 2 guns, 15 men).
Her station was Deal, and she used to cruise between the Forelands.
The _Tartar_ of this period was of 100 tons, had 10 guns and 23 men.
But the _Greyhound_, probably one of the fastest cruisers, was of 200 tons, mounted 16 guns, and carried 43 men.
Her cruising ground was between Beachy Head and the Start, and her station at Weymouth.
A much smaller craft was the cruiser _Busy_ (46 tons and 11 men).
Her cruising was in a much smaller area--around Plymouth Sound and Cawsand Bay.
Owing to the fact that commanders had been wont too often to run into port for real or imaginary repairs, the Commissioners decided that in future, when a cruiser put in, she was to inform the Collector and Controller of that port by means of her commander, and both to give his reasons for coming in, and to estimate the length of time he was likely to remain in port, before his being able to sail again.
With regard to the prize-money which these cruisers were able to make; before the year 1790 there had been a diversity of practice in the method of sharing.
In allotting rewards to officers for seizing vessels which afterwards had been taken into the Revenue Service, it had formerly been the practice to deduct the whole of the charges out of the officers' moiety of the appraised value.
But from April 14, 1790, "for the encouragement of the seizing officers," the charge was deducted from the total appraised value, and the seizing officers were to be paid a moiety of the net produce, if any.
It had also been the custom to allow the commanders of Admiralty cruisers permission to use seized vessels as tenders.
But from May 6, 1790, this practice was also discontinued by the Board, who ordered that in case any such vessels were so employed at the different ports, the commanders were to deliver them up "with their tackle, apparel, and furniture," to the Collector and Controller of Customs.
We referred some time back to the fact that these Revenue cruisers at times were mobilised for war, and also that to them were granted Letters of Marque.
In this connection there is to be noted an interesting warrant, under the King's sign-manual, dated June 11, 1795, which reads:-"Whereas the Commissioners of our Treasury have represented unto us that the cutters in the service of our Revenues of Customs have captured several Ships and Vessels belonging to the enemy, and have recommended it unto us to issue our warrant to grant the proceeds of the Prizes that have been or shall be taken by the cutters in the service of our Customs, granted to the cutters capturing such prizes respectively, and the expenses of the proceedings, in regard thereto, among officers and crews of the vessels in the search of our Customs, who made the said captures, together with the head-money, in all cases where head-money is or may be due by law.... "Our will and pleasure is that the proceeds of all such Prizes as have been or shall be taken from the enemy in the course of the present war, by the cutters in the service of our Revenue of Customs, after deducting all expenses of the Letters of Marque granted to the cutters capturing such Prizes respectively, and the expenses of the proceedings in regard thereto, together with the head-money in all cases where head-money is or may be due by law, shall be distributed in the manner following; that is to say":-The Commander 14/32 ds.
Mate 7/32 ds.
Deputed Mariner, or deputed } 3/32 ds., exclusive of their mariners if more than one } shares as Mariners.
Other Mariners 8/32 ds.
If there is no deputed Mariner, The Commander 1/2 The Mate 1/4 Mariners 1/4 It may be mentioned, in passing, that a "deputed" mariner was one who held a deputation from the Customs Board.
Another warrant, similar to the above, and to the same effect, was issued on July 4, of that memorable year 1805.
In July of 1797, the Customs Commissioners drew attention to the third article of the "Instructions for the Commanders and Mates of the Cruisers employed in the service of this Revenue," reminding them that the commanders, mariners, and mates were in no case to be allowed to participate in the officers' shares of seizures made by the crews of the cruisers unless the first-mentioned had been actually present at the time when the seizure was made, or could afford satisfactory proof that they were necessarily absent on some duty.
Therefore the Board now directed that, whenever the crews of the cruisers made a seizure, a list of the officers who were not actually on board or in the boats of the cruisers at that time was to be transmitted to the Board with the account of the seizure.
Then follows the other instruction which has already been alluded to.
In order that the station of the aforesaid cruisers may never be left unguarded by their coming into port for provisions, or to be cleaned and refitted, or for any other necessary purpose, the commanders were instructed to arrange with each other "that nothing but absolute necessity shall occasion their being in Port at one and the same time."
It will be recognised that the object of this was, if possible, to keep the officers of the cruisers on board their vessels, and at sea, instead of ever running into port.
For it would seem that by more than one of these gentlemen the work of cruising on behalf of the Revenue Service was regarded too much in the light of a pleasant, extended yachting trip, with an occasional chase and seizure of a smuggling craft to break the monotony of their existence and to swell their purses.
But such a pleasant life was not that contemplated by the Customs authorities.
FOOTNOTES: [9] "Shallop, a sort of large boat with two masts, and usually rigged like a schooner."--MOORE.
CHAPTER VII CUTTERS AND SLOOPS We have spoken during the preceding chapters of the revenue cruisers sometimes as cutters and sometimes as sloops.
For the reason that will quickly become apparent let us now endeavour to straighten out any confusion which may have arisen in the mind of the reader.
Practically, sloops and cutters of these days were one and the same, with very minor differences.
In a valuable French nautical volume published in 1783, after explaining that the cutter came to the French from England, the definition goes on to state that in her rigging and sail-plan she resembles a sloop, except that the former has her mast longer, and inclined further aft, and has greater sail-area.
The cutter also has but little freeboard, and in order to carry her large sail-area she draws more water.
This authority then goes on to mention that such craft as these cutters are employed by the smugglers of the English Channel, "and being able to carry a good deal of sail they can easily escape from the guardships.
The English Government, for the same reason, maintain a good many of these craft so as to stop these smugglers."
Our English authority, Falconer, described the cutter as having one mast and a straight-running bowsprit that could be run inboard on deck.
But for this, and the fact that the cutter's sail-area was larger, these craft were much the same as sloops.
Falconer also states that a sloop differs from a cutter by having a fixed steeving bowsprit and a jib-stay.
Moore, who was also a contemporary, makes similar definitions in almost identical language.
The real difference, then, was that the cutter could run her bowsprit inboard, but the sloop could not.
Now, in the year 1785, a very interesting matter occupied the attention of the Board of Customs in this connection.
It appeared that in an important trial concerning a certain vessel the defence was set up that this vessel had changed her character by so altering her "boltsprit" that it became fixed and could not be run inboard.
It was found that all which her owners had done was to pass an iron bolt through the bits and heel of the bowsprit, clenching it.
The defendant insisted that thus he had rendered it a complete standing "boltsprit," and not a running one: and that, therefore, by such alteration, his vessel became transformed from a cutter to a sloop.
And, according to the definitions which we have just brought forward, one would have thought that this was a good defence.
However, the Crown thought otherwise, and contended that the alteration was a mere evasion of the Act in question, and that the vessel remained a cutter because such fastening could be removed at pleasure, and then the "boltsprit" would run in and out as it did before the alteration.
The jury also took this view, and the cutter, which thought herself a sloop, was condemned.
The Revenue officers and commanders of Admiralty sloops were accordingly warned to make a note of this.
For a number of years the matter was evidently left at that.
But in 1822 the Attorney and Solicitor-General, after a difficult case had been raised, gave the legal distinction as follows, the matter having arisen in connection with the licensing of a craft: "A cutter may have a standing bowsprit of a certain length without a licence, but the distinction between a sloop and a cutter should not be looked for in the rigging but in the build and form of the hull, and, therefore, when a carvel-built vessel corresponds as to her hull with the usual form of a sloop, she will not merely, by having a running bowsprit, become a cutter within the meaning of the Act of the 24 Geo.
III.
cap.
47, and consequently will not be liable to forfeiture for want of a licence."
From this it will be seen that whereas Falconer and other nautical authorities relied on the fixing of the bowsprit to determine the difference, the legal authorities relied on a difference in hull.
The point is one of great interest, and I believe the matter has never been raised before by any modern nautical writer.
[10] As to what a Revenue cutter looked like, the illustrations which have been here reproduced will afford the reader a very good idea.
And these can be supplemented by the following description which Marryat gives in _The Three Cutters_.
It should be mentioned that the period of which he is speaking is that which we have been contemplating, the end of the eighteenth century.
"She is a cutter," he writes, "and you may know that she belongs to the Preventive Service by the number of gigs and galleys which she has hoisted up all round her.
She looks like a vessel that was about to sail with a cargo of boats: two on deck, one astern, one on each side of her.
You observe that she is painted black, and all her boats are white.
She is not such an elegant vessel as the yacht, and she is much more lumbered up.... Let us go on board.
You observe the guns are iron, and painted black, and her bulwarks are painted red; it is not a very becoming colour, but then it lasts a long while, and the dockyard is not very generous on the score of paint--or lieutenants of the navy troubled with much spare cash.
She has plenty of men, and fine men they are; all dressed in red flannel shirts and blue trousers; some of them have not taken off their canvas or tarpaulin petticoats, which are very useful to them, as they are in the boats night and day, and in all weathers.
But we will at once go down into the cabin, where we shall find the lieutenant who commands her, a master's mate, and a midshipman.
They have each their tumbler before them, and are drinking gin-toddy, hot, with sugar--capital gin, too, 'bove proof; it is from that small anker standing under the table.
It was one that they forgot to return to the Custom House when they made their last seizure."
In 1786, by the 26 Geo.
III.
c. 40, section 27, it was made lawful for any commander of any of his Majesty's vessels of war, or any officer by them authorised, to make seizures without a deputation or commission from the Commissioners of the Customs.
Those were curious times when we recollect that apart altogether from the men-of-war of varying kinds, there were large numbers of armed smuggler-cutters, Custom-House cutters with letters of marque, privateers, and even Algerine corsairs from the Mediterranean, in the English Channel.
It is to-day only a hundred and fifty years ago since one of these Algerine craft was wrecked near Penzance in the early autumn.
We mentioned just now the Act of George III.
which required craft to be licensed.
This was another of the various means employed for the prevention of smuggling, and since the passing of this Act those luggers and cutters which engaged in the running of goods endeavoured to evade the Act's penalties by possessing themselves of foreign colours and foreign ship's papers.
Now, as a fact, by far the greater part of such craft belonged to Deal, Folkestone, and other south-coast ports of England.
Their masters were also from the same localities, and very few of them could speak Dutch or French.
But for the purpose of evading the English law they got themselves made burghers of Ostend, and notwithstanding that their crews were for the most part English they designated their craft as foreign.
During the year 1785 it happened that two of these pseudo-foreign smuggling craft were chased by an English frigate.
Owing to the fact that the frigate had no pilot on board, one of these vessels escaped, but the other, after a chase lasting five hours, realised that she would soon be overhauled.
Her master, therefore, threw overboard his cargo as the frigate fast approached, and in company with a number of his crew took to his large boat.
The lugger, after no fewer than twenty shots had been fired at her, hove-to.
On taking possession of the lugger and examining her papers it appeared that her master's name was the very English-sounding Thomas March, and yet he described himself as a burgher of Ostend, the vessel being owned by a merchant.
The master's excuse was that he was a pilot-boat cruising with a number of pilots on board, and for this reason it was decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and not detain him.
But the frigate's captain had noticed that before the lugger had hove-to during the evening a part of the cargo had been thrown overboard.
The following morning, therefore, he proceeded on board a Revenue cutter, "went into the track where the cargo was thrown overboard," and was able to find just what he had expected, for he located and drew out of the sea no fewer than 700 half-ankers of foreign spirits.
This precedent opened up an important question; for if a neutral vessel, or indeed any craft similarly circumstanced as the above, were to anchor off the English coast it was hardly possible to detect her in running goods, as it seldom took more than an hour to land a whole cargo, owing to the great assistance which was given from the people on the shore.
For, as it was officially pointed out, as soon as one of these vessels was sighted 300 people could usually be relied on with 200 or more carts and waggons to render the necessary service.
Therefore the commanders of the cutters sought legal advice as to how they should act on meeting with luggers and cutters without Admiralty passes on the English coast but more or less protected with foreign papers and sailing under foreign colours.
The matter was referred to the Attorney-General, who gave his opinion that vessels were forfeitable only in the event of their being the property in whole or part of his Majesty's subjects; but where the crew of such a vessel appeared all to be English subjects, or at any rate the greatest part of them, it was his opinion that there was a sufficient reason for seizing the vessel if she was near the English coast.
She was then to be brought into port so that, if she could, she might prove that she belonged wholly to foreigners.
"A British subject," continued the opinion, "being made a burgher of Ostend does not thereby cease to be a subject.
Vessels hovering within four leagues of the British coast, with an illicit cargo, as that of this vessel appears to have been, are forfeited whether they are the property of Britons or foreigners."
It was not once but on various occasions that the Customs Board expressed themselves as dissatisfied with the amount of success which their cruisers had attained in respect of the work allotted to them.
At the beginning of the year 1782 they referred to "the enormous increase of smuggling, the outrages with which it is carried on, the mischiefs it occasions to the country, the discouragement it creates to all fair traders, and the prodigious loss the Revenue sustains by it."
The Board went on to state that "diligent and vigorous exertions by the cruising vessels employed in the service of the Customs certainly might very much lessen it."
The Commissioners expressed themselves as dissatisfied with the lack of success, and ordered that the officers of the Waterguard were especially to see that the commander and mate of every Revenue vessel or boat bringing in a seizure were actually on board when such seizure was made.
A few days later--the date is January 16, 1788--the Board, having received information that great quantities of tobacco and spirits were about to be smuggled in from France, Flanders, Guernsey, and Alderney, warned the Preventive officers of the various ports, and directed the commanders of the Admiralty cruisers, which happened to be stationed near the ports, to be especially vigilant to intercept "these attempts of the illicit dealers, so that the Revenue may not be defrauded in those articles to the alarming degree it has hitherto been."
And the officers were bluntly told that if they were to exert themselves in guarding the coast night and day such fraudulent practices could not be carried on in the shameful manner they now were.
"And though the Riding officers may not always have it in their power to seize the goods from a considerable body of smugglers, yet if such officers were to keep a watchful eye on their motions, and were to communicate early information thereof to the Waterguard, they may thereby render essential service to the Revenue."
When the soldiers assisted the Revenue officers in making seizures on shore it was frequently the case that the military had difficulty in recovering from the Revenue men that share of prize-money which was their due.
The Collector of each port was therefore directed in future to retain in his hands out of the officers' shares of seizures so much as appeared to be due to the soldiers, and the names of the latter who had rendered assistance were to be inserted in the account of the seizures sent up to headquarters.
But the jealousy of the military's aid somehow never altogether died out, and ten years after the above order there was still delay in rendering to the army men their due share of the seizures.
The commanders of the Revenue cruisers were told to keep an especial watch on the homeward-bound East Indiamen to prevent "the illicit practices that are continually attempted to be committed from them."
Therefore these cruisers were not only to watch these big ships through the limits of their own station, but also to keep as near them when under sail as possible, provided this can be done with safety and propriety.
But when the East Indiamen come to anchor the cruisers are also to anchor near them, and compel all boats and vessels coming from them to bring-to in order to be examined.
They are "then to proceed to rummage such boats and vessels.
And if any goods are found therein they are to be seized, together with the boats in which they are found."
The importance of this very plain instruction is explained by the further statement that "some of the commanders of the cruisers in the service of the Revenue endeavour to shun these ships, and thereby avoid attending them through their station."
On Christmas Eve of 1784 the Customs Commissioners sent word to all the ports saying that they suspected that there were a good many vessels and boats employed in smuggling which were thus liable to forfeiture.
Therefore, within forty-eight hours from the receipt of this information sent by letter, a close and vigorous search was to be made by the most active and trusty officers at each port into every bay, river, creek, and inlet within the district of each port, as well as all along the coast, so as to discover and seize such illegal vessels and boats.
And if there were any boats quartered within the neighbourhood of each port, timely notice of the day and hour of the intended search was to be sent by the Collector and Controller in confidence to the commanding officer only, that he might hold his soldiers in readiness.
Yet, again the Board exhorted the Revenue officers "to exert yourselves to the utmost of your power ... and as it is very probable that the places where such boats and vessels are kept may be known to the officers who have long resided at your port, you are to acquaint such officers that if they value their characters or employments, or have any regard to the solemn oath they took at their admission, we expect they will, on this occasion, give the fullest and most ample information of all such places, and will cheerfully afford every other aid and assistance in their power, to the end that the said vessels and boats may be discovered and seized.
"And to prevent them from being launched into the water, and carried off by the smugglers after seizure, you are to cause one of the streaks (= strakes) or planks to be ripped off near the keel, taking care at the same time to do as little other injury to each boat as possible."
We now come to witness the reappearance of an old friend of whom we last made mention in the North Sea.
The year we are now to consider is 1788, and the 15th of July.
On that day H.M. cutter _Kite_ was sailing from Beachy Head to the westward.
She passed to the southward of the Isle of Wight without sighting it, as the weather was thick.
Later in the day it cleared as they got near to the Dorsetshire coast, and about 7.30 P.M., when they were between Peveril Point (near Swanage) and St. Alban's Head, and it was clearer and still not night, the ship's surgeon discovered a vessel some distance away on the weather bow.
The weather had now cleared so much that the house on the top of St. Alban's Head was quite visible.
The surgeon called the attention of a midshipman on board to the strange vessel.
The midshipman, whose name was Cornelius Quinton, took a bearing, and found that the stranger bore W.S.W.
from the cutter, and was steering E.S.E.
He also took a bearing of Peveril Point, which bore N.1/2W., and judged the smuggler to be about 9 miles from Peveril Point.
About 8 o'clock the cutter began to give chase, and this continued until 11 P.M., the course being now S.E.
After a time the lugger hauled up a point, so that she was heading S.E.
by S., the wind being moderate S.W.
During the chase the lugger did her best to get away from the cutter, and set her main topsail.
The cutter at the time was reefed, but when she saw the lugger's topsail going up she shook out her reefs and set her gaff topsail.
It was some little time before the _Kite_ had made up her mind that she was a smuggler, for at first she was thought to be one of the few Revenue luggers which were employed in the service.
About 11 o'clock, then, the _Kite_ was fast overhauling her, notwithstanding that the lugger, by luffing up that extra point, came more on the wind and so increased her pace.
It was at first a cloudy night--and perhaps that may have made the _Kite's_ skipper a little nervous, for he could hardly need to be reefed in a moderate breeze--but presently the sky cleared.
As the _Kite_ approached she hoisted her signals and fired a musket shot.
(As there is a good deal of confusion existing concerning the signals of the old Revenue cutters, it is worth noting that although it was night these signals were displayed.
I make this statement on the unimpeachable sworn evidence of the _Kite's_ crew, so the matter cannot be questioned.)
But in spite of these signals, which every seafaring man of that time knew very well meant that the pursued vessel was to heave-to, the lugger still held on and took no notice.
After that the _Kite_ continued to fire several times from her swivel guns.
Later still, as the _Kite_ came yet closer, the latter hailed her and requested her to lower her sails, informing her at the same time that she was a King's cutter.
Still the lugger paid no heed, so the cutter now fired at her from muskets.
It was only after this that the lugger, seeing her chance of escape was gone, gave up, lowered sail, wore round, and came under the _Kite's_ stern.
The cutter hoisted out a boat, the midshipman already mentioned was sent aboard the lugger, and the latter's master was brought to the _Kite_, when whom should they find to be their prisoner but David Browning, better known as "Smoker," of North Sea fame?
When the _Kite's_ captain asked for his papers "Smoker" replied that he had no papers but a bill of sale.
He was afterwards heard to remark that if he had understood the log line he would not have been so near the land as he was, and admitted he had been bound for Flushing, having doubtless just landed a cargo on the beach.
The lugger was found to be decked and clinker-built with a running bowsprit on which she set a jib.
Six carriage guns were also found on board, mounted on her deck.
Four of these guns were observed to be loaded, three with powder and one with shot, and they were 4-pounders.
After the capture was made the two vessels lay for a time hove-to on the heaving sea under the star-specked sky.
The lugger was then put in charge of the midshipman and a prize crew from the cutter, the prisoners being of course taken on board the _Kite_.
Both lugger and cutter then let draw their sails, and set a course N.E.
for the Isle of Wight until 2 A.M. As it then came on thick the vessels hove-to until daylight, when sail was made again, the lugger being sent on ahead to sound, so as to see how near they were approaching the Isle of Wight.
Later on they found themselves in 12 fathoms and judged themselves to be near the Owers.
Eventually, having steered about N.N.E.
and sighted Chichester Church in the distance, they went about and stood south, the wind having veered to W.N.W., and at 3.30 P.M. let go anchor in Spithead.
Browning in due time appeared in Court, and a verdict was given for the King, so that at last this celebrated smuggler had been caught after many an exciting chase.
It was not many years after this incident that a 70-ton cutter named the _Charming Molly_ arrived at Portsmouth.
A Customs officer went on board her and found a man named May, who produced the key of the spirit-room, saying he was master of the ship.
In the spirit-room the Customs officer found a hogshead of gin containing 62 gallons.
May was anxious to show that this was quite legitimate, as there were sixteen men aboard and the contents of this cask were for their use.
The Customs officer now inquired if there was any more liquor on the ship, and May replied in the negative, at first.
The officer then said he would search the cabin, whereupon May added that there was a small cask which he had picked up at sea and had kept for the crew's use.
This cask was found in May's own state-room, and contained about three gallons of brandy, though it was capable of holding another gallon and no doubt recently had so done.
However, May now said that that was the entire lot, and there was not a drop of anything else on board.
Yet again the officer was not to be put off, and found in the state-room on the larboard side a place that was locked.
May then explained that this locker belonged to a man named Sheriff, who was at present ashore, and had the key with him.
However May volunteered, if the officer saw fit, to open it, but at the same time assured him there was no liquor therein.
The officer insisted on having it broken open, when there were discovered two new liquor cases containing each twelve bottles of brandy, making in all eight gallons, and two stone bottles of brandy containing five gallons.
Even now May assured the officer that he had no more in the ship, but after a further search the officer found twelve dozen bottles of wine in a locked locker in the cabin.
We need not follow this case any further, but as a fine example of deliberate lying it is hard to beat.
Throughout the exciting career of a smuggler, when chased or captured, in running goods by night or stealing out to get clear of the land before the sun came up, this one quality of coolness in action or in verbal evasion ever characterised him.
He was so frequently and continuously face to face with a threatening episode that he became used to the condition.
FOOTNOTES: [10] See also Appendix I.
CHAPTER VIII PREVENTIVE ORGANISATION We have already frequently referred to the Riding officers who were attached to practically all the chief ports of England.
For the reasons already given the south-east coast had especially to be well provided in this respect.
And, because of the proximity to the Isle of Man, the Solway Firth had also to be protected efficiently by these officers, additional, of course, to the aid rendered by the cruisers.
Wales, however, seems to have been left practically unprotected.
In the year 1809 there was inaugurated what was known as the Preventive Waterguard in order to supplement the endeavours of the cruisers and Riding officers.
Under this arrangement the coast of England and Wales was divided into three districts, each of which was under an Inspecting Commander, the Revenue cruisers being now included in the Preventive Waterguard.
The three districts with the three Inspecting Commanders were as follows:-District 1.--Land's End to the Port of Carlisle inclusive.
Inspecting Commander, Captain John Hopkins.
District 2.--North Foreland to Land's End.
Inspecting Commander, Captain William Blake.
District 3.--North Foreland to the Port of Berwick inclusive.
Inspecting Commander, Captain John Sayers, "whose duty it is constantly to watch, inspect, and report to us [the Customs Board] upon the conduct of the Commanders of Cruisers and the Sitters of Preventive Boats along the district."
For it was because they required a more effectual control and inspection of the officers employed in preventing and detecting smuggling that this fresh organisation was made.
Certain stations were also allotted to the commanders of the cruisers, within each district--two to each station--and the stations and limits were also appointed for Preventive boats.
The "sitters" of the Preventive boats were those who sat in the stern of these open, rowed craft and acted in command of them.
The Collector and Controller were also addressed in the following terms, which showed that the Board were still doing their utmost to rid the service of the inefficiency and negligence to which we have had occasion to draw attention.
"You are to observe," wrote the Commissioners, "that one material object of the duty imposed upon the Inspecting Commanders is to see that the cruisers are constantly and regularly on their stations, unless prevented by some necessary and unavoidable cause, and with their proper complements of men and boats, and if they are off their station or in port personally to examine into the occasion of their being so, and that they are absent from their station no longer than is essentially requisite."
At the end of every year the Inspecting Commanders were to lay before the Board of Customs the conduct of the several officers within their district and the state in which smuggling then was, and "whether on the progress or decline, in what articles, and at what places carried on."
For the Board was determined "to probe the conduct of the Preventive officers and punish them" for any laxity and negligence, for which faults alone they would be dismissed.
And in order that the vigilance and faithful duty in the commanders and officers on board the cruisers "may not be deprived of fair and due reward" their rate of pay was now increased, together with some addition made to the allowance for victualling, "and also to provide for the certainty of an annual emolument to a fixed amount in respect to the commanders and mates, by the following regulations":-INSPECTING CRUISERS Commander, each per annum, £200 to be made up to £500 net.
1st Mates, each per annum, £75 to be made up to £150 net.
2nd Mates, each per annum, £50 to be made up to £75 net.
But these increases were conditional on their salaries, shares of seizures and penalties, and all other emoluments of that description not having amounted to the salaries now offered.
The deputed mariners were to have £5 or £3 each, per lunar month.
Mariners who had no deputation were to have £3 a month, boys on the cruisers £10 per annum.
As to victualling, the commanders and mates were to have 3s.
each per diem, mariners 1s.
6d.
each per diem.
Fire and candle for each person were to be allowed for at the rate of 1s.
6d.
per lunar month.
Under each Inspecting Commander were to be two tenders in each district, and the mates who were acting as commanders of these were to have their existing £75 a year raised to £150 net in case their salaries, shares of seizures, and other emoluments of that description should not amount to these sums.
Deputed mariners, mariners, boys, victualling, fire, and candle were all to be paid for just as in the case of the inspecting cruisers above mentioned.
This was to date from October 10, 1809.
A few months later a like improvement was made in the salaries of cruisers in general, for from the 5th of January 1810, commanders of these were to have their £100 per annum raised to £250 net--the above conditions "in case their salaries, shares of seizures, &c." did not make up this amount being also here prevalent--whilst first mates were to be raised from £60 to £100 net.
If second mates were carried they were to have £50 per annum, deputed mariners £5 per annum and £2, 10s.
per lunar month.
Mariners were to have £2, 10s.
per lunar month each, boys £10 per annum.
Victualling, fire, and candle to be as already stated.
The early years of the nineteenth century showed that the evil of the previous hundred years was far from dead.
The Collector at Plymouth, writing to the Board three days before Christmas of 1804, reported that there was a good deal of smuggling done, but that the worst places in his neighbourhood were two.
Firstly, there was that district which is embraced by Bigbury, the Yealm, and Cawsand.
In that locality the smuggling was done in vessels of from 25 to 70 tons.
But in summer time the trade was also carried on by open spritsail boats of from eight to ten tons.
These craft used to run across from Guernsey loaded with spirits in small casks.
Up the river Yealm (just to the east of Plymouth Sound) and at Cawsand Bay the goods were wont to be run by being rafted together at some distance from the shore and afterwards "crept" up (_i.e._ by means of metal creepers or grapnels).
The local smugglers would go out in their boats at low water during the night when the weather and the absence of the cruisers permitted and bring to land their booty.
It appeared that 17,000 small casks of spirits were annually smuggled into Cawsand and the Yealm.
Secondly, the district to the west of Plymouth embracing Polperro and Mevagissey.
The smuggling craft which brought goods to this locality were fast sailers of from 80 to 100 tons.
But the goods which came into the general district of Plymouth were not carried far inland.
Those whose work it was to carry the goods after being landed were known as "porters," and were so accustomed to this heavy work that they could carry a cask of spirits six miles across the country at a good rate.
When it is remembered that these casks were made necessarily strong of stout wood, that they contained each from 5 to 7-3/4 gallons, making a total weight of from 70 to 100 lbs.
at least, we can realise something of the rude physical strength possessed by these men.
During this same year the Collector at Dartmouth also reported that smuggling had increased a good deal recently in the counties of Devon and Cornwall.
The cutters and luggers from Guernsey carried their cargoes consisting of from 400 to 800 ankers of spirits each, with a few casks of port and sherry for the wealthier classes, who winked at the illicit trade, and some small bales of tobacco.
During the summer the goods were landed on the north side of Cornwall, between Land's End and Hartland Point, and thence distributed by coasters to Wales and the ports of the Bristol Channel, or carried inland on the backs of twenty or thirty horses, protected by a strong guard.
But in the winter the goods were landed on the shores of the Bristol Channel, the farmers coming down with horses and carts to fetch the goods, which were subsequently lodged in barns and caves.
Clovelly, Bideford, Combe Martin, and Porlock were especially notorious in this connection.
These goods were also regularly conveyed across Exmoor into Somersetshire, and other goods found a way into Barnstable.
Coasters on a voyage from one part of England to another frequently broke their voyages and ran over to Guernsey to get contraband.
The Island of Lundy was a favourite smuggling depôt in the eighteenth century.
From Ireland a good deal of salt was smuggled into Devonshire and Cornwall, the high duties making the venture a very profitable one--specially large cargoes of this commodity being landed near to Hartland Point.
And this Dartmouth Collector made the usual complaint that the Revenue cruisers of that period were easily outsailed by the smugglers.
The reader will recollect those regrettable incidents on the North Sea belonging to the eighteenth century, when we had to chronicle the names of Captains Mitchell and Whitehead in that connection.
Unhappily there were occasional repetitions of these in the early part of the nineteenth century on the south coast.
It happened that on the 19th of March in the year 1807 the _Swan_ Revenue cutter, a vessel of considerable size (for she had a burthen of 154 tons, a crew of twenty-three men, and was armed with twelve 4-pounders, two 9-pounders, and a chest of small arms) was cruising in the English Channel and found herself off Swanage.
It should be added that at that time there was a kind of volunteer Preventive Guard at various places along the coast, which was known as the "Sea Fencibles."
The Swanage "Fencibles" informed Mr. Comben, the cruiser's commander, that there were three luggers hovering off the coast, and these volunteers offered a number of their men to reinforce the _Swan's_ crew so that the luggers might be captured.
To this Comben replied with a damper to the volunteers' enthusiasm: "If I was to take them on board and fall in with the enemy we could not do anything with them."
So the _Swan_ sailed away from Swanage Bay to the eastward and at midnight made the Needles.
It now fell calm, but the luggers hove in sight and approached by means of their sweeps.
As they came on, the cutter, instead of preparing to receive them in the only way they deserved, did nothing.
But one of the _Swan's_ crew, whose name, Edward Bartlett, deserves to be remembered for doing his duty, asked Comben if he should fetch the grape and canister from below.
Comben merely replied: "There is more in the cabin than we shall want: it will be of no use; it is all over with us."
Such was the attitude of one who had signed into a service for the prevention of smuggling craft.
Instead of taking any definite action he waited despairingly for the enemy to come on.
He then issued no orders to his crew to prepare to engage; he just did nothing and remained inactive under the white cliffs.
But if their commander was a coward, at any rate his crew were determined to make a contest of it.
They had actually to urge him to fight, but the luggers were right close on to the cutter before Comben had given the word.
After that for three-quarters of an hour the crew fought the ship, and were at their respective quarters when Comben actually turned to the luggers and shouted to them: "Leave off firing; I have struck."
During the engagement he had shown great signs of fear and never encouraged his crew to fight.
Seeing that they were led by a coward, the _Swan's_ crew also took fright and thought it best to flee.
They therefore jumped into the cutter's boats and rowed ashore, leaving their valiant commander to look after the _Swan_ as best he might.
She was of course immediately captured by the luggers, and as for Comben, he was taken prisoner, carried to France, detained there, and did not return to England till after seven years, when an investigation was made into his conduct by the Surveyors-General of the Customs, his defence being that "his men had deserted him."
As for the latter, they reached the shore safely and were again employed in the Preventive Service.
It is quite clear that the Customs Board sometimes lent their cutters to the Admiralty; and there is a letter dated October 10, 1809, from the Admiralty, in which permission is given for the cutters in the service of that Revenue to be released from their station at Flushing under the command of Rear-Admiral Sir Richard Strachan, and there is also a Customs House minute of July 7, 1806, to the effect that the _Swan_ and _Hound_ Revenue cutters might be placed under the orders of Lord Keith in the room of the _Stag_ and _Swallow_, for use at Cowes and Shoreham, where these cruisers were to be stationed.
And it was in this same year that the Board again emphasized the importance of the Revenue Service being supported by the Navy and Army, and that to this end the most effectual encouragement should be held out to both branches, so that they might co-operate vigorously in the suppression of smuggling.
They further expressed themselves as of the opinion that "nothing will more effectually tend to encourage them to exert themselves than the certainty of receiving a speedy reward."
And yet, again, were the Revenue officers enjoined "to be particularly careful to secure the men employed in smuggling vessels whenever it may be possible to effect it, as their lordships have the strongest reasons for believing that the apprehension of being detained and impressed into his Majesty's service will have a great effect in deterring the persons engaged in these illegal pursuits from continuing their pernicious habits."
It was also part of the duty of the Customs officers to attend to the Quarantine, and the Customs Board resolved "that it is fit to direct a distinguishing flag to be used on board all boats employed in the Quarantine service."
At Sandgate Creek, Portsmouth, Falmouth, Bristol, Milford, Hull, Liverpool and Plymouth, by the advice of the Surveyor for Sloops, a flag was deposited in the Custom House at every port of the kingdom, and it was resolved that in the above ports there should be two, except Plymouth, which should have three.
Cruisers were also employed in the Quarantine Service.
We have already seen something of the conditions of service and the pay of the cruisers' crews.
He who was responsible for the upkeep and supervision of these cruisers was known as the Surveyor for Sloops.
For some time the Customs Board had been deliberating as to the adoption of some regulations for ascertaining the qualifications of those who desired to be commanders and mates of the cruisers.
That some improvement was essential must already have been made clear to the reader from the type of men who sometimes were placed in such positions of responsibility.
The following regulations were therefore adopted in the year 1807, "which appear to the Commissioners highly necessary for the safe conduct of the Service, as also for the safety of the vessels and crews committed to their charge."
They resolved accordingly:-"That all persons who shall be hereafter nominated to the situation of Commander or Mate of a Cruiser in the service of this Revenue, do attend the Surveyor of Sloops, &c. in London for the purpose of being examined on the several points submitted in the report of the said Surveyor, as essential for the qualification of officers of that description, namely, whether he understand navigation, is competent to lay off and ascertain courses and distances on the charts, can work a day's work and find the time of high and low water in any port of great Britain, and understand the use of a quadrant."
It was also further resolved:-"That no person be admitted to either of those situations who shall not be certified by the said Surveyors to be fully qualified in the particulars above referred to, which certificate is to be laid before the Board for their consideration, whether in case such person does not possess a competent knowledge of the coast on which he is to be stationed, or is not sufficiently acquainted with the sailing and management of cutters and luggers tho' generally qualified, it may not be fit to direct him to repair on board some cruiser, whose station is contiguous to that to which he is nominated, and cruise in such vessel for the space of one month, or until the commander thereof shall certify that he is thoroughly acquainted with that part of the coast, and also be fully competent to take charge of a cutter, or lugger, as the case may be, such a certificate to be referred to the Surveyor for Sloops, &c. for his report previous to such commander's or mate's commission being ordered to be made out."
And the commanders of the cutters who shall be ordered to instruct such persons are to be acquainted that they are at liberty to crave the extra expense they shall incur for victualling such persons for the Board's consideration.
"And the Surveyor for Sloops, &c. is to report more particularly the nature and objects of enquiry as to the qualification of persons nominated Sitters of Boats and by what officers in the outports those enquiries are made and the qualification of such persons certified: for the Commissioners' further consideration, as to any additional regulations in respect of persons so nominated."
It was, no doubt, because of such incidents as those which we have seen occurring in the Channel and North Sea that the Commissioners tightened up the regulations in the above manner.
That these incidents were not confined to any particular locality let us show by the two following examples.
The first had reference to William Horn, the Deputed Mariner and Acting Mate of the Revenue cutter _Greyhound_, whose station was at Weymouth.
On the 5th of March 1806 he was in charge of the cutter whilst on a cruise to the westward.
Off Portland the cutter fell in with a French lugger, which was a privateer.
Horn gave chase, gradually overhauled her, and even came up with her.
For a time he also engaged her, but because he subsequently gave up the fight, bore up and quitted her, allowing the privateer to escape, he was deemed guilty by the Customs Board of not having used his utmost endeavours to effect a capture, and was ordered to be superseded.
The second incident was of a slightly more complicated nature, and occurred on October 20, 1805, about midnight.
The two men implicated were a Captain Riches, who was in command of the Revenue cutter _Hunter_, and his mate Oliver.
This vessel, whose station was Great Yarmouth, was on the night mentioned cruising in the North Sea.
Presently the cutter sighted what turned out to be the Danish merchant ship, _The Three Sisters_, Fredric Carlssens master, from Copenhagen bound for St. Thomas's and St. Croix.
Oliver got into the cutter's boat and boarded the Dane.
He also demanded from the latter and took from him four cases of foreign Geneva, which was part of _The Three Sisters'_ cargo.
In spite of Carlssen's opposition, Oliver put these into his boat and rowed off with them to the _Hunter_.
Riches was obviously party to this transaction, and was accused "that contrary to the solemn oath taken at his admission into office, he did not only neglect to report to the Collector and Controller of Yarmouth or to the Board the misconduct of his Mate, in unlawfully taking from the said ship the four cases of Geneva in question, but did take out of them for his own use, and by so doing did connive at and sanction the aforesaid unproper conduct of his Mate."
It was also brought against Riches that he had not entered any account of this incident into his ship's journal, or made any record of the mate boarding the Dane.
In the end Riches was adjudged by the Board guilty of not giving information regarding his mate's conduct and of receiving one case of Geneva for his own use, but he was acquitted of connivance for want of evidence.
He was found guilty also of not having entered the incident in his journal.
Oliver was acquitted of having boarded the Danish ship for want of proof, but found guilty of having failed to keep a complete journal of his proceedings.
But a further charge was made that Riches caused a case of foreign spirits, which had been taken out of the Danish ship, to be brought ashore from the cutter and taken to his home at Yarmouth without paying the duty thereon.
Oliver was also accused of a similar crime with regard to two cases.
Riches was acquitted for want of proof of having caused the gin to be taken to his house, but found guilty of having received it, knowing the duty had not been paid.
Oliver was also found guilty, and both were accordingly dismissed.
And there was the case of a man named Thomas Rouse, who was accused of having been privy to the landing of a number of large casks of spirits and other goods from a brig then lying off the Watch-house at Folkestone.
This was on the night of May 20 and the early hours of May 21, 1806.
He was further accused of being either in collusion with the smugglers in that transaction or criminally negligent in not preventing the same.
It was still further brought against him that he had not stopped and detained the master of the brig after going on board, although the master was actually pointed out to him by a boat's crew belonging to the _Nimble_ Revenue cutter.
Rouse was found guilty of the criminal negligence and ordered to be dismissed.
And, in addition, the chief boatmen, five boatmen, and two riding-officers of the Preventive Service at that port were also dismissed for failing to do their utmost to prevent this smuggling, which had, in fact, been done collusively.
Those were certainly anxious times for the Customs Commissioners, and we cannot but feel for them in their difficulties.
On the one hand, they had to wrestle with an evil that was national in its importance, while on the other they had a service that was anything but incorruptible, and required the utmost vigilance to cause it to be instant in its elementary duties.
One of the reforms recommended towards the end of 1809 had reference to the supply of stores and the building and repairing of Custom House boats in London.
The object aimed at was to obtain a more complete check on the quantities and quality of the stores required for cruisers and Preventive boats.
And the example of the outports was accordingly adopted that, when articles were required for these craft that were of any value, the Collector and Controller of the particular port first sent estimates to the Board, and permission was not allowed until the Surveyor of Sloops had certified that the estimates were reasonable.
Nor were the bills paid until both the commander and mate of the cruiser, or else the Tide Surveyor or the Sitter of the Boat, as the case might be, had certified that the work was properly carried out.
And the same rule applied to the supply of cordage and to the carrying out of repairs.
As one looks through the old records of the Custom House one finds that a Revenue officer who was incapable of yielding to bribery, who was incorruptible and vigilant in his duty, possessed both courage and initiative, and was favoured with even moderate luck, could certainly rely on a fair income from his activities.
In the year we are speaking of, for instance, Thomas Story, one of the Revenue officers petitioned to be paid his share of the penalty recovered from William Lambert and William Taylor for smuggling, and he was accordingly awarded the sum of £162, 2s.
It was at this time also that the salaries of the Collectors, Controllers, and Landing Surveyors of the outports were increased so that the Collectors were to receive not less than £150 per annum, the Controller not less than £120, and the Landing Surveyor not less than £100.
And in addition to this, of course, there were their shares in any seizures that might be made.
Sometimes, however, the Revenue officers suffered not from negligence but from excess of zeal, as, for instance, on that occasion when they espied a rowing-boat containing a couple of seafaring men approach and land on the beach at Eastbourne.
The Revenue officials made quite certain that these were a couple of smugglers and seized their boat.
But it was subsequently discovered that they were just two Portuguese sailors who had escaped from Dieppe and rowed all the way across the Channel.
The Admiralty interfered in the matter and requested the release of the boat, which was presently made.
But two other Revenue officers, named respectively Tahourdin and Savery, in August of 1809 had much better luck when they were able to make a seizure that was highly profitable.
We have already referred to the considerable exportation which went on from this country in specie and the national danger which this represented.
In the present instance these two officials were able to seize a large quantity of coin consisting of guineas, half guineas, and seven shilling pieces, which were being illegally transported out of the kingdom.
When this amount came to be reckoned up it totalled the sum of £10,812, 14s.
6d., so that their share must have run into very high figures.
CHAPTER IX CUTTERS' EQUIPMENT In an earlier chapter we quoted from Marryat a passage which showed that the mariners of a Revenue cutter were dressed in red flannel shirts and blue trousers, and also wore canvas or tarpaulin petticoats.
The reason for the last-mentioned was appreciated by smuggler and Preventive men alike, and if you have ever noticed the Thames River Police dodging about in their small craft you will have noticed that at any rate the steersman has in cold weather some sort of apron wrapped round his legs.
But in the period of which we are now speaking the attached apron or petticoat was very useful for keeping the body warm in all weather, especially when the sitter of the Preventive boat had to be rowed out perhaps in the teeth of a biting wind, for several miles at night.
And the smugglers found their task of landing tubs through the surf a wet job, so they were equally glad of this additional protection.
[11] The period to which Marryat referred was the end of the eighteenth century.
As to the uniform of the Revenue officers we have the following evidence.
Among the General Letters of the Customs Board was one dated June 26, 1804, from which it is seen that the commanders of the cruisers petitioned the Board for an alteration in their uniform and that also of the mates, this alteration to be made at the expense of the officers.
The commanders suggested for their own dress:-"A silver epaulette, the button-holes worked or bound with silver twist or lace, side-arms, and cocked hats with cockades, and the buttons set on the coat three and three, the breeches and waistcoats as usual: "For the undress, the same as at present.
"For the mates, the addition of lappels, the buttons set on two and two, and cocked hats with cockades."
The Board consented to these alterations with the exception of the epaulettes, "the adoption of which we do not approve, lest the same should interfere with His Majesty's Naval Service."
Now in reading this, it is important to bear in mind that between the Revenue and Navy there was a great deal of jealousy.
[12] It went so far, at least on one occasion, as to cause a Naval officer to go on board a Revenue cutter and haul the latter's flag down.
The reason these epaulettes were disallowed may be explained by the fact that it was only nine years before the above date that epaulettes had become uniform in the Navy, for notwithstanding that epaulettes had been worn by officers since 1780, yet they were not uniform until 1795, although they were already uniform in the French and Spanish navies.
[13] Since, therefore, these adornments had been so recently introduced into the Navy, it was but natural that with so much jealousy existing this feature should not be introduced into the Revenue service.
Just what "the undress, the same as at present" was I have not been able to discover, but in the Royal Navy of that time the undress uniform for a captain of three years' post consisted of a blue coat, which was white-lined, with blue lappels and cuffs, a fall-down collar, gold-laced button-holes, square at both ends, arranged regularly on the lappels.
For a captain under three years the uniform was the same, except that the nine buttons were arranged on the lappels in threes.
For master or commander it was the same, except that the button-holes were arranged by twos.
[14] It was in January 1807 that the Customs Board took into consideration the appointment of several Revenue cruisers and the expediency of one general system for manning them according to the tonnage and construction of the vessel, the service and station on which she was to be employed.
They therefore distinctly classed the different cruisers according to their tonnage, description, and number of men originally allowed and since added, whether furnished with letters of marque or not.
And believing that it would be beneficial to the service that the complement of men should be fixed at the highest number then allotted to cutters in each respective class, they accordingly instructed the commanders of the different cruisers to increase their respective complements "with all practicable dispatch."
We now come to an important point concerning which there exists some little uncertainty.
By a letter dated July 17, 1807, Revenue officers were reminded that they were by law bound to hoist the Revenue colours and fire a gun as a signal "before they in any case fire on any smuggling vessel or boat."
"We direct you to convene the officers of the Waterguard belonging to your port," write the Commissioners to the Collector and Controller at each station, "including the officers and crew of the cruiser stationed there, and strictly to enjoin them whether on board cruisers or boats in no instance to fire on any smuggling vessel or boat, either by night (whether it be dark or light), or by day, without first hoisting the colours and firing a gun as a signal, as directed by law, and to take care that on any boat being sent out armed either from the shore or from a cruiser, in pursuit of seizures or any other purpose, such boat be furnished with a proper flag."
Two years later, on April 11, 1809, it was decided that cruisers could legally wear a pendant "conformable to the King's Proclamation of the 1st January 1801," when requiring a vessel that was liable to seizure or examination to heave-to, or when chasing such a vessel, but "at no other time."
It is important to bear in mind that the flags of chase were special emblems, and quite different from the ceremonial flags borne on the Customs buildings, hulks, and vessels not used actually in the chasing of smugglers.
In addition to my own independent research on this subject I am indebted for being allowed to make use of some MS. notes on this interesting subject collected by Mr. Atton, Librarian of the Custom House; and in spite of the unfortunate gaps which exist in the historical chain, the following is the only possible attempt at a connected story of the Custom House flag's evolution.
We have already explained that from the year 1674 to 1815 the Revenue Preventive work was under a mixed control.
We have also seen that in the year 1730 the Board of Customs called attention to the Proclamation of December 18, 1702, that no ships were to wear a pendant except those of the Royal Navy, but that the sloops employed in the several public offices might wear Jacks with the seal of the respective office.
From a report made by the Harwich Customs in 1726 it is clear that the King's colours were at that date hoisted when a Revenue cruiser chased a suspect.
But as to what the "King's Colours" were no one to-day knows.
Among the regulations issued to the Revenue cruisers in 1816 the commanders were informed that they were not to wear the colours used in the Royal Navy, but to wear the same pendants and ensigns as were provided by the Revenue Board.
By 24 George III.
cap.
47, certain signals of chase were prescribed.
Thus, if the cruiser were a Naval vessel she was to hoist "the proper pendant and ensign of H.M.
ships."
If a Custom House vessel she was to hoist a blue Customs ensign and pendant "with the marks now used."
If an Excise vessel, a blue ensign and pendant "with the marks now used."
After this had been done, and a gun fired (shotted or unshotted) as a warning signal, she might fire if the smuggler failed to heave-to.
And this regulation is by the Customs Consolidation Act of 1876 still in force, and might to-day be made use of in the case of an obstinate North Sea cooper.
What one would like to know is what were the marks in use from 1784 to 1815.
Mr. Atton believes that these marks were as follows:-At the masthead: a blue pendant with the Union in canton and the Customs badge of office (a castellated structure with portcullis over the entrance, and two barred windows and two port-holes, one barred and one open, the latter doubtless to signify that through which the goods might enter) in the fly.
At the gaff: a blue ensign similarly marked.
The English Excise, the Scottish Customs, Scottish Excise, and the Irish Revenue signals of chase were blue pendants and ensigns similarly flown, but as to the badges of office one cannot be certain.
The matter of English Customs flags has been obscured by the quotation in Marryat's _The King's Own_, where a smuggler is made to remark on seeing a Revenue vessel's flag, "Revenue stripes, by the Lord."
It has been suggested that the bars of the castle port and portcullis in the seal were called "stripes" by the sailors of that day, inasmuch as they called the East India Company's flag of genuine stripes the "gridiron."
But to me it seems much more likely that the following is the explanation for calling a Revenue cutter's flag "stripes."
The signal flags Nos.
7 and 8, which were used by the Royal Navy in 1746 to order a chase both consisted of stripes.
[15] No.
7 consisted of eleven horizontal stripes, viz.
six red and five white.
Flag No.
8 had nine horizontal stripes, viz.
red, white, blue repeated three times, the red being uppermost.
I submit that in sailor's slang these signals would be commonly referred to as "stripes."
Consequently whatever flags subsequently would be used to signal a chase would be known also as "stripes."
Therefore whatever signal might be flown in the Revenue service when chasing would be known as "stripes" also.
But by an Order in Council of the 1st of February 1817, the pendant and ensign were to be thus:-The pendant to have a red field having a regal crown thereon at the upper part next the mast.
The ensign to be a red Jack with a Union Jack in a canton at the upper corner next the staff, and with a regal crown in the centre of the red Jack.
This was to be worn by all vessels employed in the prevention of smuggling under the Admiralty, Treasury, Customs or Excise.
Now during an interesting trial at the Admiralty Sessions held at the Old Bailey in April of 1825, concerning the chasing of a smuggler by a Revenue cruiser, Lieutenant Henry Nazer, R.N., who was commanding the cutter, stated in his evidence that when he came near this smuggling vessel the former hoisted the Revenue pendant at the masthead, which he described as "a red field with a crown next the mast at the upper part of it."
He also hoisted the Revenue ensign at the peak-end, the "Union at the upper corner in a red field," the field of the ensign being also red.
It had a Jack in the corner.
This, then, was exactly in accordance with the Order in Council of 1817 mentioned above.
But my own opinion relative to the firing of the _first_ gun is in favour of the proposition that this was not necessarily unshotted.
I shall refer in greater detail to the actual incidents, here quoted, on a later page, but for our present purpose the following is strong proof in favour of this suggestion.
During a trial in the year 1840 (Attorney-General _v_.
William Evans) it transpired that Evans had entered the Medway in a smack without heaving-to, and the following questions and answers respectively were made by counsel and Richard Braddy, a coastguard who at the time of the incident was on duty at Garrison Fort (Sheerness):-_Question._ "Is the first signal a shot always?"
_Answer._ "A blank cartridge we fire mostly."
_Q._ "Did you fire a blank?"
_A._ "No, because she was going too fast away from me."
_Q._ "Did you hit her?"
_A._ "No."
To me it seems certain from this evidence of the coastguard that though the first signal was "mostly" blank, yet it was not always or necessarily so.
It was frequently discovered that smuggling vessels lay off the coast some distance from the shore and unshipped their cargoes then into smaller craft by which they were brought to land, and this practice was often observed by the Naval officers at the signal stations.
Thus, these smuggling runs might be prevented if those officers were enabled to apprise the Admiralty and Revenue cruisers whenever observed, so the Treasury put themselves in communication with the Customs Board with regard to so important a matter.
This was in the year 1807.
The Admiralty were requested to appoint some signals by which Naval officers stationed at the various signal-posts along the coasts might be able to convey information to his Majesty's and the Revenue cruisers whenever vessels were observed illegally discharging cargoes.
The Admiralty accordingly did as requested, and these signals were sent on to the commanders of the cutters.
This, of course, opened up a new matter in regard to the apportioning of prize-money, and it was decided that when any vessel or goods discharged therefrom should be seized by any of the cruisers in consequence of information given by signal from these stations, and the vessel and her goods afterwards were condemned, one-third of the amount of the King's share was to be paid to the officer and men at the signal-post whence such information was first communicated.
The obvious intention of this regulation was to incite the men ashore to keep a smart look-out.
The coast signal-stations[16] had been permanently established in the year 1795, and were paid off at the coming of peace but re-established when the war broke out again, permission being obtained from the owners of the land and a code of signals prepared.
The establishment of these signal-stations had been commenced round the coast soon after the Revolutionary war.
Those at Fairlight and Beachy Head were established about 1795.
[17] Each station was supplied with one red flag, one blue pendant, and four black balls of painted canvas.
When the Sea Fencibles, to whom we referred some time back, were established, the signal-stations were placed under the district captains.
This was done in March 1798, and the same thing was done when the Sea Fencibles had to be re-established in 1803.
The signal-stations at Torbay and New Romney (East Bay, Dungeness) had standing orders, says Captain Hudleston, to report all arrivals and departures direct to the Admiralty.
The Customs Board advanced another step forward when, in the year 1808, they considered whether "benefit might not arise to the service by establishing certain signals by which the commanders of the several cruisers in the service of the Revenue might be enabled to make their vessels known to each other, on meeting at sea, or to distinguish each other at a distance, and also to make such communications as might be most useful, as well as to detect any deception which might be attempted to be practised by the masters of vessels belonging to the enemy, or of smuggling vessels."
They therefore consulted "the proper officers on the subject," and a code of tabular signals was drawn up and approved and sent to the commanders of the cruisers in a confidential manner.
Each commander was enjoined to pay the most strict attention to such signals as might be made under the regulations, and to co-operate by every means in his power for the attainment of the objects in view.
These commanders were also to apprise the Customs Board of any matter which might arise in consequence thereof "fit for our cognisance."
These signals were also communicated to the commanders of the several Admiralty cruisers.
And we must remember that although naval signalling had in a crude and elementary manner been in vogue in our Navy for centuries, and the earliest code was in existence at any rate as far back as 1340, yet it was not till the eighteenth century that it showed any real development.
During the early years of the nineteenth century a great deal of interest was taken in the matter by such men as Mr. Goodhew, Sir Home Popham, Captain Marryat, and others.
It was the atmosphere of the French and Spanish wars which gave this incentive, and because the subject was very much in the Naval minds at that time it was but natural that the Revenue service should appreciate the advantage which its application might bestow for the prevention of smuggling.
Further means were also taken in the early nineteenth century to increase the efficiency of the cruisers.
In 1811, in order that they should be kept as constantly as possible on their stations, and that no excuses might be made for delays, it was decided that in future the Inspecting Commanders of Districts be empowered to incur expenses up to £35 for the repairs which a cutter might need, and £5 for similar repairs to her boats.
The commanders of the cruisers were also permitted to incur any expenses up to £20 for the cutter and boats under their command.
Such expenses were to be reported to the Board, with information as to why this necessity had arisen, where and by what tradesmen the work had been done, and whether it had been accomplished in the most reasonable manner.
At the end of the following year, in order still further to prevent cruisers being absent from their stations "at the season of the year most favourable for smuggling practices, and when illegal proceedings are generally attempted," _i.e._ in the dark days of autumn and winter and spring, and in order, also, to prevent several cutters being in the Port of London at the same time, "whereby the part of the coast within their respective districts would be left altogether without guard," the commanders of these cruisers were to give warning when it was apparent that extensive repairs were needed, or a general refit, or any other cause which compelled the craft to come up to London.
Timely notice was to be given to the Board so that the necessity and propriety thereof should be inquired into.
It was done also with a view to bringing in the cruisers from their respective stations only as best they might be spared consistent with the good of the service.
But they were to come to London for such purposes only between April 5 and September 5 of each year.
By this means there would always be a good service of cruisers at sea during the bad weather period, when the smugglers were especially active.
In our quotation from _The Three Cutters_ in another chapter we gave the colours of the paint used on these vessels.
I find an interesting record in the Custom House dated November 13, 1812, giving an order that, to avoid the injury which cruisers sustain from the use of iron bolts, the decks in future were to be fastened with composition bolts, "which would eventually prove a saving to the Revenue."
After ordering the commanders to cause their vessels to be payed twice every year either with paint or bright varnish, and not to use scrapers on their decks except after caulking, and then only to remove the unnecessary pitch, the instruction goes on to stipulate the only paint colours which are to be employed for cruisers.
These are such as were then allowed in the Navy, viz.
black, red, white, or yellow.
But apart from all the manifold difficulties and anxieties, both general and detailed, which arose in connection with these cruisers so long as they were at sea or in the shipwrights' hands, in commission or out of commission, there were others which applied more strictly to their crews.
Such an incident as occurred in the year 1785 needed very close attention.
In that year the English Ambassador at the Court of France had been informed by Monsieur de Vergennes that parties of sailors belonging to our Revenue cruisers had recently landed near Boulogne in pursuit of some smugglers who had taken to the shore.
Monsieur de Vergennes added that if any British sailors or other armed men should be taken in such acts of violence the French Government would unhesitatingly sentence them immediately to be hanged.
Of course the French Government were well within their rights in making such representations, for natural enough as no doubt it was to chase the smugglers when they escaped ashore, yet the trespass was indefensible.
The Board of Customs therefore instructed their cruisers, as well as those of the Admiralty "whose commanders are furnished with commissions from this Board," to make a note of the matter, in order that neither they nor their men might inadvertently expose themselves to the severity denounced against them by the French laws upon acts of the like nature.
In 1812 one of the mariners belonging to a cruiser happened to go ashore, and whilst there was seized by the press-gang for his Majesty's Navy.
Such an occurrence as this was highly inconvenient not only to the man but to the Board of Customs, who resolved that henceforth the commanders of cruisers were not to allow any of their mariners shore leave unless in case of absolute necessity "until the protections which may be applied for shall have been received and in possession of such mariners."
Another matter that required rectification was the practice of taking on board some of their friends and relatives who had no right to be there.
Whether this was done for pleasure or profit the carrying of these passengers was deemed to be to the great detriment of the service, and the Board put a stop to it.
It was not merely confined to the cruisers, but the boats and galleys of the Waterguard were just as badly abused.
The one exception allowed was, that when officers of the Waterguard were removing from one station to another, they might use such a boat to convey their families with them provided it did not interfere with the duties of these officers.
So also some of the commanders of the cruisers had even taken on board apprentices and been dishonest enough to have them borne on the books as able seamen, and drawn their pay as such.
The Board not unnaturally deemed this practice highly improper, and immediately to be discontinued.
No apprentices were to be borne on the books except the boy allowed to all cruisers.
After a smuggling vessel's cargo had been seized and it was decided to send the goods to London, this was done by placing the tobacco, spirits, &c., in a suitable coaster and despatching her to the Thames.
But in order to prevent her being attacked on the sea by would-be rescuers she was ordered to be convoyed by the Revenue cutters.
The commander of whatever cruiser was in the neighbourhood was ordered "to accompany and guard" her to the Nore or Sea Reach as the case might be.
Every quarter the cruisers were also to send a list of the seizures made, giving particulars of the cruiser--her name, burthen, number of guns, number of men, commander's name, number of days at sea during that quarter, how many days spent in port and why, the quantity of goods and nature of each seizure, the number and names of all smuggling vessels captured, both when and where.
There was also to be sent the number of men who had been detained, how they had been disposed of, and if the men had not been detained how it was they had escaped.
"Their Lordships are induced to call for these returns," ran the instruction, "in order to have before them, quarterly, a comparative view of the exertions of the several commanders of the Revenue cruisers....
They have determined, as a further inducement to diligence and activity in the said officers, to grant a reward of £500 to the commander of the Revenue cruiser who, in the course of the year ending 1st October 1808, shall have so secured and delivered over to his Majesty's Naval Service the greatest number of smugglers; a reward of £300 to the commander who shall have secured and delivered over the next greatest number, and a reward of £200 to the commander who shall be third on the list in those respects."
That was in September of 1887.
During the year ending October 1, 1810, Captain Gunthorpe, commander of the Excise cutter _Viper_, succeeded in handing over to his Majesty's Navy thirteen smugglers whom he had seized.
As this was the highest number for that year he thus became entitled to the premium of £500.
Captains Curling and Dobbin, two Revenue officers, were together concerned in transferring six men to the Navy, but inasmuch as Captain Patmour had been able to transfer five men during this same year it was he to whom the £300 were awarded.
Captain Morgan of the Excise cutter and Captain Haddock of the Custom House cutter _Stag_ each transferred four men during that year.
"But my Lords," states a Treasury minute of December 13, 1811, "understanding that the nature of the service at Deal frequently requires the Revenue vessels to co-operate with each other, do not think it equitable that such a circumstance should deprive Messrs.
Curling and Dobbin of a fair remuneration for their diligence, and are therefore pleased to direct warrants likewise to be prepared granting to each of those gentlemen the sum of £100."
In spite of the above numbers, however, the Treasury were not satisfied, and did not think that the number of men by this means transferred to the Navy had been at all proportionate to the encouragement which they had held out.
They therefore altered the previous arrangement so as to embrace those cases only in which the exertions of the cruisers' commanders had been of an exceptionally distinguished nature.
Thus during 1812 and the succeeding years, until some further provision might be made, it was decided that "the sum of £500 will be paid to such person commanding a Revenue cutter as shall in any one year transfer to the Navy the greatest number of smugglers, not being less than twenty."
The sum of £300 was to be paid to the persons commanding a Revenue cutter who in any year should transfer the next greatest number of smugglers, not being less than fifteen.
And £200 were to be paid to the commander who in one year should have transferred the third largest, not being less than ten.
This decision was made in January of 1812, and in the following year it was directed that in future the rewards granted to the commanders of the Revenue cruisers for delivering the greatest number of smugglers should be made not exclusively to the commanders but distributed among the commander, officers, and crew according to the scale which has already been given on an earlier page in this volume.
At the end of the year 1813 it was further decided that when vessels and boats of above four tons measurement were seized in ballast and afterwards broken up, not owing to their build, their construction, or their denomination, but simply because they had been engaged in smuggling, the seizing officers should become entitled to 30s.
a ton.
There was also a system instituted in the year 1808 by which the widows of supervisors and surveyors of Riding officers and commanders of cruisers were allowed £30 per annum, with an additional allowance of £5 per annum for each child until it reached the age of fifteen.
The widows of Riding officers, mates of cutters, and sitters of boats specially stationed for the prevention of smuggling were allowed £25 per annum and £5 for each child until fifteen years old.
In the case of the widows of mariners they were to have £15 a year and £2, 10s.
for each child till the age of fifteen.
And one finds among those thus rewarded Ann Sarmon, the widow, and the three children of the commander of the _Swan_ cutter stationed at Cowes; the one child of the mate of the _Tartar_ cutter of Dover; the widow of the mate of the _Dolphin_ of St. Ives; the widow of the Riding officer at Southampton; the widow and children of the commander of the cutter _Hunter_ at Yarmouth; and likewise of the _Hunter's_ mate.
After the 10th of October 1814 the allowance for victualling the crews of the Revenue cruisers was augmented as follows:--For victualling commander and mate, 3s.
a day each and 1s.
6d.
per lunar month for fire and candle.
For victualling, fire, and candle for mariners, 1s.
10d.
a day each.
The daily rations to be supplied to each mariner on board the cruisers were to consist of 1-1/2 lbs.
of meat, 1-1/2 lbs.
of bread, and two quarts of beer.
If flour or vegetables were issued the quantity of bread was to be reduced, and if cheese were supplied then the amount was to be reduced in proportion to the value and not to the quantity of such articles.
And, in order to obtain uniformity, a table of the rations as above was to be fixed up against the fore side of the mast under the deck of the cruiser, and also in some conspicuous place in the Custom House.
Very elaborate instructions were also issued regarding the use of the tourniquet, which "is to stop a violent bleeding from a wounded artery in the limbs till it can be properly secured and tied by a surgeon."
The medicine chest of these cruisers contained the following twenty articles: vomiting powders, purging powders, sweating powders, fever powders, calomel pills, laudanum, cough drops, stomach tincture, bark, scurvy drops, hartshorn, peppermint, lotion, Friar's balsam, Turner cerate, basilicon (for healing "sluggish ulcers"), mercurial ointment, blistering ointment, sticking-plaster, and lint.
In short, with its fleet of cruisers well armed and well manned, well found in everything necessary both for ship and crew; with good wages, the offer of high rewards, and pensions; with other privileges second only to those obtainable in the Royal Navy; the Customs Board certainly did their best to make the floating branch of its Preventive service as tempting and efficient as it could possibly be.
And that there were not more captures of smugglers was the fault at any rate not of those who had the administration of these cutters.
[Illustration: H.M. CUTTER _WICKHAM_ Commanded by Captain John Fullarton, R.N.
From a contemporary painting in the possession of Dr. Robertson-Fullarton of Kilmichael.]
A very good idea as to the appearance of a nineteenth century Revenue cruiser may be obtained by regarding the accompanying photographs of his Majesty's cutter _Wickham_.
These have been courteously supplied to me by Dr. Robertson-Fullarton of Kilmichael, whose ancestor, Captain Fullarton, R.N., had command of this vessel.
The original painting was made in 1806, and shows a fine, able vessel with ports for seven guns a-side, being painted after the manner of the contemporary men-of-war.
To facilitate matters the central portion of the picture has been enlarged, and thus the rigging and details of the _Wickham_ can be closely examined.
It will be observed that this cutter has beautiful bows with a fine, bold sheer, and would doubtless possess both speed and considerable seaworthiness essential for the west coast of Scotland, her station being the Island of Arran.
In the picture before us it will be seen that she has exceptionally high bulwarks and appears to have an additional raised deck forward.
The yard on which the squaresail was carried when off the wind is seen lowered with its foot-ropes and tackle.
The mainsail is of course loose-footed, and the tack is seen well triced up.
Two things especially strike us.
First, the smallness of the yard to which the head of the gaff-topsail is laced; and secondly, the great size of the headsail.
She has obviously stowed her working jib and foresail and set her balloon jib.
When running before a breeze such a craft could set not merely all plain sail, but her squaresail, square-topsail and even stun'sls.
Therefore, the smuggling vessel that was being chased must needs be pretty fleet of foot to get away.
[Illustration: H.M. Cutter Wickham This shows an early Nineteenth Century King's Cutter (_a_) running before the wind with square sails and stuns'ls set, (_b_) on a wind with big jib set.]
Campbeltown in those days was the headquarters of no fewer than seven large Revenue cruisers, all being commanded by naval officers.
They were powerful vessels, generally manned by double crews, each having a smaller craft to act as tender, their chief duties being to intercept those who smuggled salt, spirits, and tea from the Isle of Man.
The officers and men of the cutters made Campbeltown their home, and the houses of the commanders were usually built opposite to the buoys of the respective cutters.
The merits of each cutter and officer were the subject of animated discussion in the town, and how "old Jack Fullarton had carried on" till all seemed to be going by the board on a coast bristling with sunken rocks, or how Captain Beatson had been caught off the Mull in the great January gale, and with what skill he had weathered the headland--these were questions which were the subjects of many a debate among the enthusiasts.
This Captain John Fullarton had in early life served as a midshipman on a British man-of-war.
On one occasion he had been sent under Lord Wickham to France on a certain mission in a war-vessel.
The young officer's intelligence, superior manners, and handsome appearance so greatly pleased Lord Wickham, that his lordship insisted on having young Fullarton alone to accompany him ashore.
After the mission was over Lord Wickham suggested procuring him some advancement in the service, to which Fullarton replied, "My lord, I am sincerely grateful for your undesired kindness, and for the interest you have been pleased to show in regard to my future prospects.
Since, however, you have asked my personal views, I am bound to say I am not ambitious for promotion on board a man-of-war.
I have a small property in Scotland, and if your lordship could obtain for me the command of one of his Majesty's cutters, with which I might spend my time usefully and honourably in cruising the waters around my native island of Arran, I should feel deeply indebted to you, and I should value such an appointment above all others."
Soon afterwards, the cutter _Wickham_ was launched, and Mr. Fullarton obtained his commission as captain, the mate being Mr. Donald Fullarton, and most of the crew Arran men.
[18] FOOTNOTES: [11] The use of the petticoat as a seaman's article of attire dates back to the time of Chaucer: "A Shipman was ther, woning fer by weste: For aught I woot, he was of Dertemouthe.
He rood up-on a rouncy, as he couthe, In a gowne of falding to the knee."
"Falding" was a coarse cloth.
[12] See Appendix VIII.
[13] See Captain Robinson's, _The British Fleet_, p. 503.
[14] _Ibid._, p. 502.
[15] I am indebted to a suggestion made on p. 183, vol.
i.
No.
7 of _The Mariner's Mirror_.
[16] See article by Captain R. Hudleston, R.N., in _The Mariner's Mirror_, vol.
i.
No.
7.
[17] _Victoria County Hist.
: Sussex_, vol.
ii.
p. 199.
[18] For these details I am indebted to the kindness of Dr. Robertson-Fullarton, who has also called my attention to some information in an unlikely source--_The Memoirs of Norman Macleod, D.D._, by Donald Macleod, 1876.
CHAPTER X THE INCREASE IN SMUGGLING By an Order in Council, dated September 9, 1807, certain rewards were to be paid to the military for aiding any officer of the Customs in making or guarding any seizure of prohibited "or uncustomed goods."
It was further directed that such rewards should be paid as soon as possible, for which purpose the Controllers and Collectors were to appraise with all due accuracy all articles seized and brought to his Majesty's warehouse within seven days of the articles being brought in.
The strength of all spirits seized by the Navy or Military was also to be ascertained immediately on their being brought into the King's warehouse, so that the rewards might be immediately paid.
The tobacco and snuff seized and condemned were ordered to be sold.
But when these articles at such a sale did not fetch a sum equal to the amount of the duty chargeable, then the commodity was to be burnt.
Great exertions were undoubtedly made by the soldiers for the suppression of smuggling, but care had to be taken to prevent wanton and improper seizures.
The men of this branch of the service were awarded 40s.
for every horse that was seized by them with smuggled goods.
Everyone is aware of the fact that, not once but regularly, the smugglers used to signal to their craft at night from the shore as to whether the coast were clear, or whether it were better for the cutter or lugger to run out to sea again.
From a collection of authentic incidents I find the following means were employed for signalling purposes:-1.
The commonest signal at night was to wave a lantern from a hill or some prominent landmark, or from a house suitably situated.
2.
To take a flint and steel and set fire to a bundle of straw near the edge of a cliff.
3.
To burn a blue light.
4.
To fire a pistol.
5.
The above were all night-signals, but for day-work the craft could signal to the shore or other craft by lowering and raising a certain sail so many times.
There were very many prosecutions for signalling to smuggling craft at many places along our coast.
A sentence of six months' imprisonment was usually the result.
Similarly, the Preventive officers on shore used to fire pistols or burn a blue light in signalling to themselves for assistance.
The pistol-firing would then be answered by that of other Customs men in the neighbourhood.
And with regard to the matter of these signals by the friends of smugglers, the Attorney-and Solicitor-General in 1805 gave their opinion to the effect that it was not even necessary for the prosecution to prove that there was at that time hovering off the coast a smuggling craft, or that one was found to have been within the limits; but the justice and jury must be satisfied from the circumstances and proof that the fire was lit for the purpose of giving a signal to some smugglers.
By the summer of 1807 smuggling in England and Wales had increased to what the Commissioners of Customs designated an "alarming extent."
An Act was therefore passed to ensure the more effectual prevention of this crime, and once again the Revenue officers were exhorted to perform their duty to its fullest extent, and were threatened with punishment in case of any dereliction in this respect, while rewards were held out as an inducement to zealous action.
Under this new Act powers were given to the Army, Navy, Marines, and Militia to work in concert with each other for the purpose of preventing smuggling, for seizing smuggled goods, and all implements, horses, and persons employed or attempting to bring these ashore.
The lack of vigilance, and even the collusion with smugglers, on the part of Revenue officials was still too real to be ignored.
Between Dover and Rye, especially, were tobacco, snuff, spirits and tea run into the country to a very considerable extent.
And the Government well knew that "in some of the towns on the coast of Kent and Sussex, amongst which are Hastings, Folkestone, Hythe, and Deal, but more especially the latter, the practice of smuggling is carried on so generally by such large gangs of men, that there can exist no hope of checking it but by the constant and most active vigilance of strong military patrols, with parties in readiness to come to their assistance."
So wrote Mr. W. Huskisson, Secretary of the Treasury, to Colonel Gordon in August 1807.
The Deal smugglers went to what Mr. Huskisson called "daring lengths," and for this reason the Treasury suggested that patrols should be established within the town of Deal, and for two or three miles east and west of the same.
And the Treasury also very earnestly requested the Commander-in-chief for every possible assistance from the Army.
It was observed, also, that so desperate were these smugglers, that even when they had been captured and impressed, they frequently escaped from the men-of-war and returned to their previous life of smuggling.
To put a stop to this the Treasury made the suggestion that such men when captured should be sent to ships cruising at distant foreign stations.
Some idea of the violence which was always ready to be used by the smugglers may be gathered by the incident which occurred on the 25th of February 1805.
On this day the cutter _Tartar_, in the service of the Customs, and the Excise cutter _Lively_ were at 10 P.M. cruising close to Dungeness on the look-out for smuggling craft.
At the time mentioned they saw a large decked lugger which seemed to them indeed to be a smuggler.
It stood on its course and eventually must run its nose ashore.
Thereupon a boat's crew, consisting of men from the _Tartar_ and the _Lively_, got out their oars and rowed to the spot where the lugger was evidently about to land her cargo.
They brought their boat right alongside the lugger just as the latter took the ground.
But the lugger's crew, as soon as they saw the Revenue boat come up to her, promptly forsook her and scrambled on to the beach hurriedly.
It was noticed that her name was _Diana_, and the Revenue officers had from the first been pretty sure that she was no innocent fishing-vessel, for they had espied flashes from the shore immediately before the _Diana_ grazed her keel on to the beach.
Led by one of the two captains out of the cutters, the Revenue men got on board the smuggler and seized her, when she was found to contain a cargo of 665 casks of brandy, 118 casks of rum, and 237 casks of Geneva.
Besides these, she had four casks, one case and one basket of wine, 119 bags of tobacco, and 43 lbs.
of tea--truly a very fine and valuable cargo.
But the officers had not been in possession of the lugger and her cargo more than three-quarters of an hour before a great crowd of infuriated people came down to the beach, armed with firearms and wicked-looking bludgeons.
For the lugger's crew had evidently rushed to their shore friends and told them of their bad luck.
Some members of this mob were on horseback, others on foot, but on they came with oaths and threats to where the lugger and her captors were remaining.
"We're going to rescue the lugger and her goods," exclaimed the smugglers, as they stood round the bows of the _Diana_ in the darkness of the night.
The Revenue men warned them that they had better keep off, or violence would have to be used to prevent such threats being carried out.
[Illustration: "A great crowd of infuriated people came down to the beach."]
But it was impossible to expect reason from an uncontrolled mob raging with fury and indignation.
Soon the smugglers had opened fire, and ball was whistling through the night air.
The _Diana_ was now lying on her side, and several muskets were levelled at the Revenue men.
One of the latter was a man named Dawkins, and the smugglers had got so close that one villainous ruffian presented a piece at Dawkins' breast, though the latter smartly wrested it from him before any injury had been received.
But equally quickly, another smuggler armed with a cutlass brought the blade down and wounded Dawkins on the thumb.
A general engagement now proceeded as the smugglers continued to fire, but unfortunately the powder of the Revenue men had become wet, so only one of their crew was able to return the fire.
Finding at length that they were no match for their aggressors, the crews were compelled to leave the lugger and retreat to some neighbouring barracks where the Lancashire Militia happened to be quartered, and a sergeant and his guard were requisitioned to strengthen them.
With this squad the firing was more evenly returned and one of the smugglers was shot, but before long, unable to resist the military, the smugglers ceased firing and the beach was cleared of the mob.
The matter was in due course reported to the Board of Customs, who investigated the affair and ordered a prosecution of the smugglers.
No one had been captured, however, so they offered a reward of £200.
That was in the year 1805; but it was not till 1813 or 1814 that information came into their hands, for no one would come forward to earn the reward.
In the last-mentioned year, however, search was made for the wanted men, and two persons, named respectively Jeremiah Maxted and Thomas Gilbert, natives of Lydd, were arrested and put on their trial.
They were certainly the two ringleaders of that night, and incited the crowd to a frenzy, although these two men did not actually themselves shoot, but they were heard to offer a guinea a man to any of the mob who would assist in rescuing the seized property.
Still, in spite of the evidence that was brought against these men, such was the condition of things that they were found not guilty.
But it was not always that the Revenue men acted with so much vigour, nor with so much honesty.
It was towards the end of the year 1807 that two of the Riding officers stationed at Newhaven, Sussex, attempted to bribe a patrol of dragoons who were also on duty there for the prevention of smuggling.
The object of the bribe was to induce the military to leave their posts for a short period, so that a cargo of dutiable goods, which were expected shortly to arrive, might be smuggled ashore without the payment of the Crown's duties.
For such a suggestion to be made by Preventive men was in itself disgraceful, and showed not merely a grossly dishonest purpose but an extraordinary failure of a sense of duty.
However, the soldiers, perhaps not altogether displeased at being able to give free rein to some of the jealousies which existed between the Revenue men and the Army, did not respond to the suggestion, but promptly arrested the Riding officers and conducted them to Newhaven.
Of these two it was afterwards satisfactorily proved that one had actually offered the bribe to the patrol, but the other was acquitted of that charge.
Both, however, were dismissed from the Customs service, while the sergeant and soldiers forming the patrol were rewarded, the sum of £20 being sent to the commanding officer of their regiment, to be divided among the patrol as he might think best.
It was not merely the tobacco, spirits, and tea which in the early years of the nineteenth century were being smuggled into the country, although these were the principal articles.
In addition to silks, laces, and other goods, the number of pairs of gloves which clandestinely came in was so great that the manufacture of English gloves was seriously injured.
In the year 1811 so ineffectual had been the existing shore arrangements that an entirely new plan was inaugurated for suppressing smuggling.
The Riding officers no doubt had a difficult and even dangerous duty to perform, but their conduct left much to be desired, and they needed to be kept up to their work.
Under the new system, the office of Supervisor or Surveyor of Riding officers was abolished, and that of Inspector of Riding officers was created in its stead.
The coast of England was divided into the following three districts:-No.
I. London to Penzance.
No.
II.
Penzance to Carlisle.
No.
III.
London to Berwick.
There were altogether seven of these Inspectors appointed, three being for the first district, two for the second, and two for the third.
The first district was of course the worst, because it included the English Channel and especially the counties of Kent and Sussex.
Hence the greater number of Inspectors.
Hence, also, these three officers were given a yearly salary of £180, with a yearly allowance of £35 for the maintenance of a horse.
The Inspectors of the other two districts were paid £150 each with the same £35 allowance for a horse.
In addition, the Inspectors of all districts were allowed 10s.
a day when upon inspections, which were not to last less than 60 days in each quarter in actual movement, "in order by constant and unexpected visitations, strictly to watch and check the conduct of the Riding officers within their allotted station."
Under this new arrangement, also, the total number of Riding officers was to be 120, and these were divided into two classes--Superior and Inferior.
Their salaries and allowances were as follows:-FIRST DISTRICT Superior Riding Officer £90 Inferior " " 75 Allowance for horse 30 SECOND AND THIRD DISTRICTS Superior Riding Officer £80 Inferior " " 65 Allowance for horse 30 The general principle of promotion was to be based on the amount of activity and zeal which were displayed, the Superior Riding officers being promoted from the Inferior, and the Inspectors of Districts being promoted from the most zealous Superior Riding officers.
And there was, too, a difficulty with regard to the smugglers when they became prisoners.
We have already remarked how ready they were to escape from the men-of-war.
In the year 1815 there were some smugglers in detention on board one of the Revenue cutters.
At that time the cutter's mate was acting as commander, and he was foolish enough to allow some of the smugglers' friends from the shore--themselves also of the same trade--to have free communication with two of the prisoners without anyone being present on behalf of the Customs.
The result was that one of the men succeeded in making his escape.
As a result of this captive smugglers were not permitted to have communication with their friends except in the presence of a proper officer.
And there was a great laxity, also, in the guarding of smugglers sent aboard his Majesty's warships.
In several cases the commanders actually declined to receive these men when delivered by the Revenue department: they didn't want the rascals captured by the cutters, and they were not going to take them into their ship's complement.
This went on for a time, until the Admiralty sent down a peremptory order that the captains and commanders were to receive these smugglers, and when an opportunity arose they were to send them to the flagship at Portsmouth or Plymouth.
As illustrative of the business-like methods with which the smugglers at this time pursued their calling, the following may well be brought forward.
In the year 1814 several of the chief smuggling merchants at Alderney left that notorious island and settled at Cherbourg.
But those small craft, which up till then had been wont to run across to the Channel Isles, began instantly to make for the French port instead.
From Lyme and Beer in West Bay, from Portland and from the Isle of Wight they sailed, to load up with their illicit cargoes, and as soon as they arrived they found, ready awaiting them in the various stores near the quays, vast quantities of "tubs," as the casks were called, whilst so great was the demand, that several coopers were kept there busily employed making new ones.
Loaded with spirits they were put on board the English craft, which soon hoisted sail and sped away to the English shores, though many there must have been which foundered in bad weather, or, swept on by the dreaded Alderney Race and its seven-knot tide, had an exciting time, only to be followed up later by the English Revenue cutters, or captured under the red cliffs of Devonshire in the act of taking the tubs ashore.
For the Customs Board well knew of this change of market to Cherbourg, and lost no time in informing their officers at the different outports and the cruiser-commanders as well.
A large number of the merchant-smugglers from Guernsey at the same time migrated to Coniris, about eight miles from Tregner, in France, and ten leagues east of the Isle of Bas, and twelve leagues S.S.W.
from Guernsey.
Anyone who is familiar with that treacherous coast, and the strength of its tides, will realise that in bad weather these little craft, heavily loaded as they always were on the return journey, must have been punished pretty severely.
Some others, doubtless, foundered altogether and never got across to the Devonshire shores.
Those people who had now settled down at Coniris were they who had previously dealt with the smugglers of Cawsand, Polperro, Mevagissey, and Gerrans.
To these places were even sent circular letters inviting the English smugglers to come over to Coniris, just as previously they had come to fetch goods from Guernsey.
And another batch of settlers from Guernsey made their new habitation at Roscore (Isle of Bas), from which place goods were smuggled into Coverack (near the Lizard), Kedgworth, Mount's Bay, and different places "in the North Channel."
Spirits, besides being brought across in casks and run into the country by force or stealth, were also frequently at this time smuggled in through the agency of the French boats which brought vegetables and poultry.
In this class of case the spirits were also in small casks, but the latter were concealed between false bulkheads and hidden below the ballast.
But this method was practically a new departure, and began only about 1815.
This was the smuggling-by-concealment manner, as distinct from that which was carried on by force and by stealth.
We shall have a good deal more to say about this presently, so we need not let the matter detain us now.
Commanders of cruisers were of course on the look-out for suspected craft, but they were reminded by the Board that they must be careful to make no seizures within three miles of the French and Dutch coasts.
And that was why, as soon as a suspected vessel was sighted, and a capture was about to be made, some officer on the Revenue cutter was most careful immediately to take cross-bearings and fix his position; or if no land was in sight to reckon the number of leagues the ship had run since the last "fix" had been made.
This matter naturally came out very strongly in the trials when the captured smugglers were being prosecuted, and it was the business of the defending counsel to do their best to upset the officers' reckoning, and prove that the suspected craft was within her proper and legitimate limits.
Another trick which sprang up also about 1815, was that of having the casks of spirits fastened, the one behind the other, in line on a warp.
One end of this rope would be passed through a hole at the aftermost end of the keel, where it would be made fast.
As the vessel sailed along she would thus tow a whole string of barrels like the tail of a kite, but in order to keep the casks from bobbing above water, sinkers were fastened.
Normally, of course, these casks would be kept on board, for the resistance of these objects was very considerable, and lessened the vessel's way.
Any one who has trailed even a fairly thick warp astern from a small sailing craft must have been surprised at the difference it made to the speed of the vessel.
But so soon as the Revenue cutter began to loom big, overboard went this string of casks towing merrily below the water-line.
The cutter would run down to her, and order her to heave-to, which she could afford to do quite willingly.
She would be boarded and rummaged, but the officer would to his surprise find nothing at all and be compelled to release her.
Away would go the cruiser to chase some other craft, and as soon as she was out of the range of the commander's spy-glass, in would come the tubs again and be stowed dripping in the hold.
This trick was played many a time with success, but at last the cruisers got to hear of the device and the smugglers were badly caught.
I shall in due season illustrate this by an actual occurrence.
What I want the reader to bear in mind is, that whilst the age of smuggling by violence and force took a long time to die out, yet it reached its zenith about the middle or the last quarter of the eighteenth century.
Right till the end of the grand period of smuggling violence was certainly used, but the year 1815 inaugurated a period that was characterised less by force and armed resistance than by artfulness, ingenuity, and all the inventiveness which it is possible to employ on a smuggling craft.
"Smugglers," says Marryat in one of his novels, "do not arm now--the service is too dangerous; they effect their purpose by cunning, not by force.
Nevertheless, it requires that smugglers should be good seamen, smart, active fellows, and keen-witted, or they can do nothing.... All they ask is a heavy gale or a thick fog, and they trust to themselves for success."
It was especially after the year 1816, when, as we shall see presently, the Admiralty reorganised the service of cruisers and the Land-guard was tightened up, that the smugglers distinguished themselves by their great skill and resource, their enterprise, and their ability to hoodwink the Revenue men.
The wars with France and Spain had come to an end, and the Government, now that her external troubles allowed, could devote her attention to rectifying this smuggling evil.
This increased watchfulness plus the gradual reduction of duties brought the practice of smuggling to such a low point that it became unprofitable, and the increased risks were not the equivalent of the decreased profits.
This same principle, at least, is pursued in the twentieth century.
No one is ever so foolish as to try and run whole cargoes of goods into the country without paying Customs duty.
But those ingenious persons who smuggle spirits in foot-warmers, saccharine in the lining of hats, tobacco and cigars in false bottoms and other ways carry out their plans not by force but by ingenuity, by skill.
CHAPTER XI THE SMUGGLERS AT SEA Had you been alive and afloat in June of 1802 and been cruising about near Falmouth Bay, or taken up your position on the top of one of those glorious high cliffs anywhere between St. Anthony and the Dodman, and remembered first to take with you your spyglass, you would have witnessed a very interesting sight; that is to say, if you had been able to penetrate through the atmosphere, which was not consistently clear throughout the day.
For part of it, at any rate, was hazy and foggy just as it often is in this neighbourhood at that time of year, but that was the very kind of conditions which the smuggler loved.
Between those two headlands are two fine bays, named respectively Gerrans and Veryan, while away to the south-west the land runs out to sea till it ends in the Lizard.
A whole history could be written of the smuggling which took place in these two bays, but we must content ourselves with the one instance before us.
On this day it happened that his Majesty's frigate _Fisgard_ was proceeding up Channel under the command of Captain Michael Seymour, R.N.
The time was three in the afternoon.
In spite of the haziness it was intermittent, and an hour earlier he had been able to fix his position by St. Anthony, which then bore N. by W. distant six or seven miles.
He was then sailing by the wind close-hauled lying S.S.E.1/2E., in other words, standing away from the land out into mid-channel, the breeze being steady.
By three o'clock the _Fisgard_ had only travelled about another six or seven miles, so that she was now about 12-1/2 miles from St. Anthony or just to seaward of the Lizard.
It was at this time that the frigate sighted a smaller craft, fore-and-aft rigged and heading N.N.W., also on a wind, the breeze being abaft her port, or, as they called it in those days, the larboard-beam.
This subsequently turned out to be the cutter _Flora_, and the course the cutter was taking would have brought her towards the Dodman.
The haze had now lifted for a time, since although the _Flora_ was quite eight miles away she could be descried.
Knowing that this cutter had no right to be within a line drawn between the Lizard and Prawl Point, the _Fisgard_ starboarded her helm and went in pursuit.
But the _Flora's_ crew were also on the look-out, though not a little displeased that the fog had lifted and revealed her position.
When she saw that the _Fisgard_ was coming after her she began to make off, bore up, and headed due North.
But presently she altered her tactics and hauled round on the starboard tack, which would of course bring her away from the land, make her travel faster because her head-sails would fill, and she hoped also no doubt to get clear of the Prawl-to-Lizard line.
Before this she had been under easy sail, but now she put up all the canvas she could carry.
But unfortunately the _Flora_ had not espied earlier in the day another frigate which was also in the vicinity.
This was the _Wasso_, and the haze had hidden her movements.
But now, even though the weather was clearing, the bigger ship had been hidden from view because she had been just round the corner in Mevagissey Bay.
And at the very time that the _Flora_ was running away from the _Fisgard_ and travelling finely with every sail drawing nicely and getting clear of the cliffs, the _Wasso_ was working her way round the Dodman.
As soon as the latter came into view she took in the situation--the cutter _Flora_ foaming along out to sea and the _Fisgard_ coming up quickly under a mountain of canvas.
So now there were two frigates pursuing the cutter, and the _Flora's_ skipper must have cursed his bad luck for being caught in this trap.
But that unkind haze was favouring the King's ships to-day, for ere the chase had continued much longer, yet a third frigate came in sight, whose name was the _Nymph_.
This was too much for the _Flora_ to be chased by three ships each bigger and better armed than herself.
The _Nymph_ headed her off, and the cutter seeing it was all up reluctantly hove-to.
On examination she was found to have a cargo of gin, brandy, and tobacco, which she would have succeeded in running ashore had the haze not played such tricks.
However, she had done her best for three exciting hours, for it was not until six on that wintry evening that she was captured by the _Nymph_, and if she had been able to hold on a little longer she might have escaped in the night and got right away and landed her cargo elsewhere before the sun came out.
But, as it was, her skipper James Dunn had to take his trial, when a verdict was given in favour of the King, and Dunn was fined £200.
[Illustration: The _Flora_ with the _Fisgard_, _Wasso_, and _Nymph_.]
We must pass over the next two years and travel from one end of the English Channel to the other till we find ourselves again in Kentish waters.
The year is 1804, and the 14th of June.
On this summer's day at dawn the gun-brig _Jackal_, commanded by Captain Stewart, R.N., was cruising about to the Nor'ard of the Goodwins.
As day broke he was informed that three smuggling vessels had just been espied in the vicinity.
The latter certainly was not more than three miles from the land, and it was fairly certain what their intention was.
When Captain Stewart came on deck and convinced himself of their identity he ordered out his boats, he himself going in one, while one of his officers took command of another, each boat having about half-a-dozen men on board.
We mentioned just now how important it was in such cases as this that the position should be defined as accurately as possible.
Immediately the boats had left the _Jackal_ the pilot of the latter and one of the crew on board took bearings from the North Foreland and found the _Jackal_ was about 7-3/4 miles from this landmark.
They also took bearings of the position of the three smuggling luggers, and found these were about three or four miles off and bore from the _Jackal_ E. by S. To return to Captain Stewart and the two boats: for the first twenty minutes these oared craft gained on the luggers owing to the absence of wind, and the smugglers could do nothing.
The dawn had revealed the presence of the _Jackal_ to the smugglers no less than the latter had been revealed to the gun-brig.
And as soon as the illicit carriers realised what was about to happen they, too, began to make every effort to get moving.
The early morning calm, however, was less favourable to them than to the comparatively light-oared craft which had put out from the _Jackal_, so the three luggers just rolled to the swell under the cliffs of the Foreland as their canvas and gear slatted idly from side to side.
But presently, as the sun rose up in the sky, a little breeze came forth which bellowed the lug-sails and enabled the three craft to stand off from the land and endeavour, if possible, to get out into the Channel.
In order to accelerate their speed the crews laid on to the sweeps and pulled manfully.
Every sailorman knows that the tides in that neighbourhood are exceedingly strong, but the addition of the breeze did not improve matters for the _Jackal's_ two boats, although the luggers were getting along finely.
However, the wind on a bright June morning is not unusually fitful and light, so the boats kept up a keen chase urged by their respective officers, and after three hours of strenuous rowing Captain Stewart's boat came up with the first of these named the _I.O._ But before he had come alongside her and was still 300 yards away, the master and pilot of this smuggler and six of her crew was seen to get into the lugger's small boat and row off to the second lugger named the _Nancy_, which they boarded.
When the _Jackal's_ commander, therefore, came up with the _I.O._ he found only one man aboard her.
He stopped to make some inquiries, and the solitary man produced some Bills of Lading and other papers to show that the craft was bound from Emden to Guernsey, and that their cargo was destined for the latter place.
The reader may well smile at this barefaced and ingenuous lie.
Not even a child could be possibly persuaded to imagine that a vessel found hovering about the North Foreland was really making for the Channel Isles from Germany.
It was merely another instance of employing these papers if any awkward questions should be asked by suspecting Revenue vessels or men-of-war.
What was truth, however, was that the _I.O._ was bound not to but from Guernsey, where she had loaded a goodly cargo of brandy and gin, all of which was found on board, and no doubt would shortly have been got ashore and placed in one of the caves not far from Longnose.
Moreover, the men were as good as convicted when it was found that the spirits were in those small casks or tubs which were only employed by the smugglers; and indeed never had such a cargo of spirits to Guernsey been carried in such small-sized kegs, for Guernsey always received its spirits in casks of bold dimensions.
It was further pointed out at the trial that the luggers could not have been bound on the voyage alleged, for they had not enough provisions on board.
The Solicitor-General also demonstrated the fact that when these luggers were approached in deep water--that is, of course after the three hours' chase--they could not possibly have been making for Guernsey.
The farther they stood from the shore the greater would be their danger, for they would be likely at any hour to fall in with the enemy's privateers which were known to be cruising not far off.
But to return to the point in the narrative when we digressed.
Captain Stewart, a quarter of an hour before finally coming up with the _I.O._, had fired several times to cause her to heave-to, but this they declined to do, and all her crew but one deserted her as stated.
Leaving one of his own men on board her the naval officer, after marking her with a broad arrow to indicate she had been seized, went with his four remaining men in pursuit of the second lugger, which was rowing away with all haste, and alongside which the _I.O.
's_ boat was lying.
But, as soon as Stewart began to approach, the men now quitted the lugger and rowed back to the _I.O._ He opened fire at them, but they still persisted, and seeing this he continued to pursue the second lugger, boarded her and seized her, the time being now about 6.30 A.M.
Afterwards he waited until his other boat had come up, and left her crew in charge of this second lugger, and then rowed off to the first lugger again, but once more the _I.O.
's_ people deserted her and rowed towards the shore.
Undaunted he then went in pursuit of the third lugger, but as a breeze came up she managed to get away.
Presently he was able to hail a neutral vessel who gave him a passage back, and at midday he rejoined the _I.O._, which was subsequently taken captive into Dover, and at a later date ordered to be condemned.
She had belonged to Deal and was no doubt in the regular smuggling industry.
Then there was the case of the lugger _Polly_, which occurred in January of 1808.
Because vessels of this kind were, from their construction, their size, and their rig especially suitable for running goods, they were now compelled to have a licence before being allowed to navigate at all.
This licence was given on condition that she was never to be found guilty of smuggling, nor to navigate outside certain limits, the object of course being to prevent her from running backwards and forwards across the English and Irish Channels.
In the present instance the _Polly_ had been licensed to navigate and trade, to fish and to carry pilots between Bexhill and coastwise round Great Britain, but not to cross the Channels.
To this effect her master, William Bennett, had entered in a bond.
But on the date mentioned she was unfortunately actually discovered at the island of Alderney, and it was obvious that she was there for the purpose of loading the usual cargo of goods to be smuggled into England.
Six days later she had taken on board all that she wanted, but just as she was leaving the Customs officer examined her licence; and as it was found that she was not allowed to "go foreign," and that to go to Alderney had always been regarded a foreign voyage, she was promptly seized.
Furthermore, as there was no suggestion of any fishing-gear found on board it was a clear case, and after due trial the verdict was given for the King and she was condemned.
There is existing an interesting application from the boat-masters and fishermen of Robin Hood's Bay (Yorkshire) in connection with the restrictions which were now enforced regarding luggers.
These poor people were engaged in the Yarmouth herring-fishery, and prayed for relief from the penalties threatened by the recent Act of Parliament, which stipulated that luggers of a size exceeding 50 tons burthen were made liable to forfeiture.
As their North Sea craft came under this category they were naturally in great distress.
However the Customs Board pointed out that the Act allowed all vessels and boats of the above description and tonnage "which were rigged and fitted at the time of the passing thereof and intended for the purpose of fishing" to be licensed.
Whenever those tubs of spirits were seized from a smuggling craft at sea they were forwarded to the King's warehouse, London, by those coasting vessels, whose masters were "of known respectability."
And by a different conveyance a sample pint of every cask was to be transmitted to the same address.
The bungs of the casks were to be secured with a tin-plate, and under a seal of office, each cask being branded with the letters "G.R.," and the quantity given at the head of each cask.
But those spirits which were seized on land and not on sea were to be sold by public auction.
All smuggling transactions of any account, and all seizures of any magnitude, and especially all those which were attended by any attempt to rescue, were to be reported separately to the Customs Board.
Small casks which had contained seized spirits were, after condemnation, sometimes allowed to fall into the hands of the smugglers, who used them again for the same purpose.
To put a stop to this it was ordered that these tubs were in future to be burnt or cut to pieces "as to be only fit for firewood."
Even as early as 1782 considerable frauds were perpetrated by stating certain imports to be of one nature when they were something entirely different.
For instance a great deal of starch had been imported under the denomination of flour from Ireland.
The Revenue officers were therefore instructed to discriminate between the two articles by the following means.
Starch "when in flour" and real flour could be differentiated by putting some of each into a tumbler of water.
If the "flour" were starch it would sink to the bottom and form a hard substance, if it were real flour then it would turn into a paste.
Starch was also much whiter than flour.
And a good deal of spirits, wine, tea, and tobacco brought into vessels as ship's stores for the crew were also frequently smuggled ashore.
Particularly was this the case in small vessels from Holland, France, Guernsey, Jersey, and Alderney.
One day in the month of May, 1814, a fine West Indian ship named the _Caroline_ set sail from the Island of St. Thomas with a valuable cargo of dutiable goods, and in due time entered the English Channel.
Before long she had run up the coast and found herself off Fairlight (between Hastings and Rye).
The people on shore had been on the look-out for this ship, and as soon as the _Caroline_ hove in sight a boat put off to meet her.
Some one threw down a line which was made fast to the boat, and from the latter several men clambered aboard.
After the usual salutations they accompanied the master of the ship and went below to the cabin, where some time was spent in bargaining.
To make a long story short, they arranged to purchase from the _Caroline_ 25 gallons of rum and some coffee, for which the West Indiaman's skipper was well paid, the average price of rum in that year being about 20s.
a gallon.
A cask of rum, 3 cwt.
of coffee in a barrel and 2 cwt.
in a bag were accordingly lowered over the ship's side into the boat and away went the little craft to the shore, having, as it was supposed, cheated the Customs.
The _Caroline_ continued her course and proceeded to London.
The Customs authorities, however, had got wind of the affair and the matter was brought to a conclusion before one of his Majesty's judges.
[Illustration: "The _Caroline_ continued her course and proceeded to London."]
But East Indiamen were just as bad, if not a great deal worse, for it was their frequent practice to arrive in the Downs and sell quantities of tea to the men who came out from Deal in small craft.
The commodity could then be kept either for the use of their families and sold to their immediate friends, or sent up to London by the "duffers" in the manner we spoke of in an earlier chapter.
In the instances when spirits were smuggled into the country there was usually some arrangement between the publicans and the smugglers for disposing of the stuff.
But, you may ask, how did the Deal boatmen manage to get the tea to their homes without being seen by the Customs officers?
In the first place it was always difficult to prove that the men really were smugglers, for they would be quite wide-awake enough not to bring obvious bales ashore; and, secondly, the Deal men had such a reputation as desperate characters that no officer, unless he was pretty sure that a smuggling transaction was being carried on and could rely, too, on being well supported by other Customs men and the soldiers, would think of meddling in the matter.
But, lastly, the men who came ashore from the East Indiamen had a smart little dodge of their own for concealing the tea.
[Illustration: How the Deal Boatmen used to Smuggle Tea Ashore.]
The accompanying picture is no imaginary instance, but is actually taken from an official document.
The figure is supposed to represent one of these Deal boatmen, and the numerals will explain the methods of secreting the tea.
(1) Indicates a cotton bag which was made to fit the crown of his hat, and herein could be carried 2 lbs.
of tea.
He would, of course, have his hat on as he came ashore, and probably it would be a sou'wester, so there would be nothing suspicious in that.
(2) Cotton stays or a waistcoat tied round the body.
This waistcoat was fitted with plenty of pockets to hold as much as possible.
(3) This was a bustle for the lower part of the body and tied on with strings.
(4) These were thigh-pieces also tied round and worn underneath the trousers.
When all these concealments were filled the man had on his person as much as 30 lbs.
of tea, so that he came ashore and smuggled with impunity.
And if you multiply these 30 lbs.
by several crews of these Deal boats you can guess how much loss to the Revenue the arrival of an East Indiamen in the Downs meant to the Revenue.
Another old dodge, though different in kind, was employed by a smuggling vessel when at sea and being chased towards evening, or on one of those days when the atmosphere is hazy or foggy.
To prevent her canvas being a mark against the horizon, the lugger would lower her sail, and her black hull was very difficult to distinguish in the gathering gloom.
This happened once when the smuggling cutter _Gloire_, a vessel of 38 tons burthen belonging to Weymouth, was being chased about midnight in January of 1816 by the Revenue cutter _Rose_.
The smuggler had hoped to have been able to run his goods ashore at Bowen Bottom, Dorset, but the _Rose_ was too smart for him, launched her galley, and seized her with a full cargo of half-ankers.
CHAPTER XII THE WORK OF THE CUTTERS If the reader will carry his mind back to 1787 he will recollect that in this year we saw a reformation in the system of the Revenue cruisers, and the practice of employing hired craft was discontinued.
This reformed system went on until the year 1816, when a highly important change occurred in the administration of these vessels.
On the 5th of April in that year all the Revenue cruisers which previously had been under the control of the Board of Customs now passed into the hands of the Admiralty.
The general object was to adopt more effectual means for putting a stop to the smuggling, and these vessels were of course to be employed in co-operation with the ships of his Majesty's Navy afloat and the Revenue officers on shore.
Due notice was accordingly sent from the Customs office informing the commanders of cruisers that they were to place themselves under the orders of the Admiralty in the future.
But the cost of these cruisers was still to be borne by the Customs as before.
It may seem a little curious that whereas the Board of Customs had controlled these vessels for about a hundred and fifty years this sudden change should have been made.
But, primarily, any customs organisation must belong to the shore.
The employment of cruisers was in its origin really an afterthought to prevent the Crown being cheated of its dues.
In other words, the service of sloops and cutters was a kind of off-shoot from the service on land.
It was only because the smuggling was so daring, because the Crown was so regularly robbed that some means of dealing with these robbers on sea and on even terms had to be devised.
But, of course, with the Admiralty the case was quite different.
For long centuries that department had to deal with ships and everything therewith connected.
Therefore to many it seemed that that department which controlled the Navy should also control that smaller navy comprised by the Revenue cruisers.
At this date we must recollect that the Battle of Waterloo had been won only a few months, that once and for all Napoleon had been crushed and broken, that at last there had come peace and an end of those wars which had seemed interminable.
From this return of peace followed two facts.
Firstly, the European ports were now opened afresh not merely to honest traders, but to the fleets of smugglers who could go about their work with greater safety, with less fear of being captured by privateers.
Thus it was most probable that as the English Channel was now practically a clear sphere there would be a renewed activity on the part of these men.
But, secondly, it also followed that the Admiralty, charged no longer with the anxiety and vigilance which a naval war must bring with it, was free to devote its manifold abilities, most especially in respect of organisation, for the benefit of the Revenue department.
At one and the same time, then, there was the chance of greater smuggling activity and a more concentrated effort to put down this smuggling.
Furthermore, inasmuch as the wars had ended the Navy needed fewer men.
We know how it was in the case of Naval officers, many of whom found themselves unemployed.
But it was not less bad for the seamen, many of whom had drifted into the service by the way we have seen--through being captured smuggling and then impressed.
Returned once more to their native haunts after long separation, was it likely that having done so much roving, fought so many battles, sailed so many miles, passed through so many exciting incidents that they would quietly take to tilling the fields or gathering the crops?
Some, no doubt, did; others applied themselves to some other industries for which they were fitted.
But there were very many who went back to the occupation of the smuggler.
They had heard the call to sea, and since fishing was in a bad way they must resume running illicit cargoes again.
Agriculture and the like have few fascinations for men who have fought and roamed the sea most of their lives.
So when some enterprising rascal with enough ready capital came along they were more than prepared to take up the practice once more.
That was how the matter was viewed from their side.
But the Government were determined that an evil which had been a great worry for at least a century and a half of English history should be stamped out.
The only way was to make the smuggling unprofitable.
Inasmuch as these men for the most part made their profits through being able to undersell the fair trader (because there were no Custom duties paid) the most obvious remedy would have been to lower the rates of import duties.
But since that was not practicable, the only possible alternative was to increase the dangers and risk to which a smuggler must expose himself.
And instantly the first step, then, must be towards establishing "such a system of discipline and vigilance over the Revenue cruisers and boats as shall give the country the benefit of their constant and active services."
These smuggling pests must be sought out, they must never be allowed to escape, to laugh defiantly at the Crown's efforts, and they must be punished severely when captured.
It was therefore deemed by the Treasury that there would be a greater efficiency in these cruisers if "put under naval watchfulness and discipline, controlled by such authority as the Department of the Admiralty may think fit."
The change came about as stated, and the Admiralty retained in the service those officers and crews of the Revenue cruisers as by length of service and in other ways had shown that they were fit and efficient.
Those, however, who had grown too old for the work were superannuated.
Similarly, with regard to the Preventive boatmen, these were also taken over by the Admiralty, but here, again, only those who were capable were accepted, while for the others "some moderate provision" was made.
On the last day of July in that year were sent out the regulations which the Admiralty had drawn up respecting the salaries, wages, victualling, &c., of the Revenue cruisers.
These may be summarised as follows, and compared with rates which have been given for previous years.
They were sent addressed in each case to the "Commander of His Majesty's Cruiser employed in the prevention of smuggling."
And first as to payment: (I.)
CRUISERS OF THE FIRST CLASS, _i.e._ of 140 tons burthen and upwards.
Commander to have £150 per annum 1st Mate " 80 " 2nd Mate " 45 " (II.)
CRUISERS OF THE SECOND CLASS, _i.e._ of 100 tons and upwards but under 140 tons.
Commander to have £130 per annum 1st Mate " 70 " 2nd Mate " 40 " (III.)
CRUISERS OF THE THIRD CLASS, _i.e._ of less than 100 tons.
Commander to have £110 per annum 1st Mate " 60 " (No 2nd Mate) The wages of the following persons were to remain the same in all classes, viz.
: Deputed Mariners £2 8s.
per lunar month Seamen 2 0 " " Boys 10 0 per annum Muster books were ordered to be kept regularly, and the sum of 1s.
6d.
was allowed to the commander a day for each man borne on the books and actually victualled, to provide for the following proportion of provisions:--1-1/2 lbs.
of meat, 1-1/2 lbs.
of bread, 1/2 gallon of beer.
The commander was also allowed 3s.
a day for his own victuals, and a like sum for each of his mates.
Allowance was made for a medicine chest to the extent of £3 annually.
All expenses of pilotage were to be paid by the Navy, "but the commanders and mates are to make themselves acquainted with the coasts, &c., and no general pilot will be allowed for more than two months after a cruiser's arrival on any new station."
And there is now a notable innovation, which marked the advent of a new age.
Instead of the prevailing hempen cables with which these cruisers had been supplied and had been in use for centuries among our ships, these cutters were ordered to be furnished with chain cables "in order that the vessels may have the less occasion for going to a King's Port to refit or make purchases."
If a man were injured or became sick whilst in the service so as to need surgical aid, the expense was to be allowed.
And in order still further to make the cruisers independent of the shore and able to offer no excuse for running into harbour they were ordered never to proceed to sea without three weeks' provisions and water.
As to the widows of mariners, they were to receive £10 per annum.
So much, then, for the new conditions of service in these Revenue craft as undertaken by the Admiralty.
Let us now obtain some idea of the duties that were attached to these officers and vessels.
The commanders were directed by the Admiralty to make themselves familiar with the Acts of Parliament for the prevention of smuggling, Orders in Council, Proclamations, &c., and to obey the instruction of whatever admiral they were placed under, as also the commanders of any of his Majesty's ships whom they might fall in with "diverting you from the cruise on which you are employed."
Each commander was assigned his own particular station for cruising, and he was never to lie in any harbour, bay, or creek unless by stress of weather or other unavoidable necessity.
He was to keep a look-out for vessels of a suspicious appearance, which, in respect of size and build, appeared to be adapted for smuggling.
Especially was he to look out for French craft of this description.
Having arrested them he was to hand them over to the nearest man-of-war.
He was also to keep a smart look-out for the smugglers' practice of sinking goods and afterwards creeping for them.
The cruisers were to visit the various creeks and bays; and whenever weather permitted the commander was to send a boat and crew to examine such places at night.
And, if necessary, the crew were to remain there until the cruiser came to fetch them back in the morning.
Care was to be taken that the smugglers themselves no less than their craft and goods were to be captured, and the commanders of these cruisers were to co-operate with the Land-guard and keep in close touch with the Riding officers ashore as well as the Sitters of Preventive boats, and to agree upon a code of signals between them, as, for example, by making false fires at night or the hoisting of proper colours in the different parts of the vessel by day, so that the shore officers might be informed of any suspicious vessels on the coast.
These cruisers were also to speak with all the ships with which they fell in, and to direct any ships subject to quarantine to proceed to quarantine stations.
And if they came across some merchantman or other vessel, which they suspected of smuggling, the cruiser was to accompany such craft into port.
And they were enjoined to be particularly careful to guard East India ships to their moorings, or until, the next station having been reached, they could be handed over to the next cruiser.
The commanders of the cruisers were also to be on their guard against the practice in vogue among ships that had been to Holland and France with coals, for these craft were especially prone on their return to putting dutiable goods into light craft from London, or on the coast, but chiefly into cobbles or small fishing craft at sea.
And even when it should happen that a cruiser had to be detained in port for repairs, the commander was to spare as many officers and seamen as possible and to employ these in keeping a regular watch on the high grounds near the sea, so as to watch what was passing, and, if necessary, despatch a boat and part of the cruiser's crew.
The commanders were reminded that the cruisers were not to wear the colours used in the Royal Navy, but to wear the same ensigns and pendants as provided by the Revenue Board under 24 Geo.
III.
c. 47, sect.
23.
On a previous page we went into the matter of firing at the smuggling craft with shotted or with unshotted guns.
Now among the instructions which were issued by the Admiralty on taking over these Revenue cruisers was the clear order that no officer of a cruiser or boat was justified in shooting at a suspected smuggling vessel until the former shall have first hoisted his pendant and ensign, nor unless a gun shall have been first fired as a signal.
The date of this, of course, was 1816.
But among the documents preserved at the Swansea Custom House there is an interesting letter dated July 1806, written by the Collector to Mr. Hobhouse, stating that a Mr. Barber, the sailing-master of the _Cleveland_, had been committed for trial on a charge of wilful murder, he having fired a shot to cause a boat to bring-to and thus killed a man.
This, taken in conjunction with the testimony of the Sheerness Coastguard, to which I alluded by anticipation and shall mention again, seems to me fairly conclusive that in _practice_ at least there was no fixed rule as to whether the first gun were shotted or unshotted.
At the same time the above quoted instruction from the Admiralty, although loosely worded, would seem to have meant that the first gun was merely to be of the nature of a warning signal and no shot fired in this first instance.
And then, again, among these instructions cropped up the reminder that in times past commanders of cruisers had not been wont to keep the sea in bad weather--a period when the conditions were most favourable for smugglers--but now the Admiralty remarked that if the commander should be deficient in "this most essential part of your duty" he would be superseded.
On the west coasts of England and Scotland especially some of the commanders had been accustomed in former years to pass the night in some harbour, bar, or creek instead of cruising on their station and counteracting the designs of the smugglers, "who will always prefer the night time for carrying on his operations."
Consequently the Admiralty now strictly charged the commanders to cruise during the night, and no matter of private concern must serve as a pretext for any intermission.
They were also to maintain a regular communication with the commander of any other vessel with which they had been instructed to cruise in concert.
And cruisers were to be furnished with the laws relative to smuggling and not to exceed the powers vested in the commanders by law.
As to any un-Customed or prohibited goods these were to be secured in the King's Warehouse at the next port, and care was to be taken that these goods remained undamaged or pilfered by the crew.
And after the goods had been thus put ashore both the commander and mate were carefully to search the smuggling vessel, the boxes, and bedding of her crew to see if anything had been kept back.
Whenever a vessel was seized at sea precautions must be taken to ascertain the distance from the shore "by causing two points of land to be set, and the bearings thereof to be noted by two or more of your officers and mariners who are acquainted with those points of land, so that each of them may be in condition to swear to the bearings from the note taken by him at the time, to be produced by him upon the trial of the vessels."
Any papers found on board the smuggling craft were immediately to be initialled by the persons present, and no cruiser or any of her boats should be employed in carrying passengers or pleasure parties.
The commander and mate were to keep separate journals of all the proceedings of the cruiser relating to wind and weather, bearings, and distances from the land, soundings, &c., every twenty-four hours so that the admiral could tell whether the cruisers had used every exertion to suppress smuggling, or had been negligent and slack in their duties.
For this purpose the twenty-four hours were divided into three parts thus:--Midnight to 8 A.M., 8 A.M. to 4 P.M., and 4 P.M. to midnight.
In each of these three divisions the commander was to fix his position by cross-bearings and soundings if in less than 30 fathoms.
This was to be done a little before sunrise, at noon, and a little before sunset, provided that if the land were not seen or the cruiser be chasing a vessel, this fact was to be noted in the journal, and the bearings and soundings were to be taken whenever the land should be seen.
An exact copy of this journal was to be sent after the end of each month to the admiral under whose command the cruiser happened to be placed.
The table on p. 228 is an example of the journal of one of these craft, and will show instantly the kind of record which was kept.
On the 1st of January, 1817, the Preventive boats were put under the control of Captain Hanchett, R.N., who was known as the Controller-General of the Preventive Boat Service.
There was an effort made also in this department to obtain increased efficiency.
And the following articles were ordered to be supplied to each Preventive boat:--one small flat cask to hold two gallons of fresh water, one small water-tight harness cask to hold provisions, one chest of arms and ammunition, one Custom House Jack, two "spying-glasses" (one for the watch-house, the other for the boat), one small bucket for baling, one "wall piece," forty rounds of cartridges, thirty muskets or carbines, preference being given to carbines with musket-ball bore where new ones are to be purchased, twenty light pistols, balls in proportion to the above, bayonets, cutlasses, pouches, tucks, small hand hatchets for cutting away rigging, musket flints, pistol flints, a set of implements for cleaning arms, a set of rummaging tools, and a dark "lanthorn."
With this full inventory these open, oared boats could go about their work for long spells in bays, up creeks and estuaries, on the prowl for the smugglers by night.
JOURNAL OF HIS MAJESTY'S REVENUE CRUISER THE "VIGILANT," JOHN SMITH, COMMANDER, FOR THE MONTH OF JULY 18--------+------+--------+------+--------------------+---------+-------------| | | | Observation made.
| | Day of | | | +----------+---------+ | the | | | | |Bearings | | Week | | |At Sea| | and |Soundings|Occurrences and | | | or in| Land |Distances| in | and Month | Wind.|Weather.| Port.| Seen.
|in Miles | Fathoms | Remarks.
-------+------+--------+------+----------+---------+---------+-------------July |E.S.E.|Moderate|At sea|Red Head |W.N.W.
|Above 30 |Cruising in Monday | | | | |9 miles | |station spoke 1st., | | | | | | |a vessel from Morning| | | | | | |the Baltic or | | | | | | |laden with first | | | | | | |hemp, &c., but part | | | |Light, |S.W.
by | |sea running | | | |Bell Rock |S.
12 | |high, did not | | | | |miles | |board her.
Saw | | | | | | |H.M.
sloop | | | | | | |_Cherokee_ to | | | | | | |the N.E.
at | | | | | | |9 A.M. -------+------+--------+------+----------+---------+---------+-------------Noon or| | | |Fifeness |W.N.W.
5 | 23 |Nothing second | | | | |miles | |remarkable part | | | |Isle of |S.W.
by | |occurred.
| | | |May |W.
6 | | | | | | |miles | | -------+------+--------+------+----------+---------+---------+-------------Evening| | | |Fifeness |S.
by E. | 12 |Lost sight of or | | | | |8-1/2 | |the _Cherokee_ third | | | | |miles | |standing off part | | | | | | |and on in St. | | | |Light, |E.
by S. | |Andrews Bay.
| | | |Bell Rock |9 miles | |Sent out the | | | | | | |boat with Mr. | | | | | | |Jones, second | | | | | | |mate, to visit | | | | | | |the creeks.
-------+------+--------+------+----------+---------+---------+-------------Whenever any vessels were seized and condemned a full, descriptive account was sent to London regarding their size, breadth, depth, burthen, age, where built, draught, scantlings, the nature of the wood, how fastened, whether the craft appeared strained, how many guns she carried, what was the probable expense of having her refitted, how long she would last when this had been done, whether she had the reputation for rowing or sailing quickly, and what was her value.
If it was recognised that she was a serviceable vessel she was not to be destroyed but employed in the Preventive service.
Among the names of the Revenue cutters about this time were the _Scorpion_, _Enchantress_, _Jacobus_, and _Rattlesnake_.
There was a good deal of smuggling now going on in Essex, and the last-mentioned was employed to watch the river Blackwater in that district.
Lieutenant Neame, R.N., was also ordered to proceed to the Blackwater with the lugger _Fortune_, and arrived there to take charge of the _Rattlesnake_.
This was in September 1818; and here let us remark that although the Preventive Water-guard originally had charge of the whole coast of England, yet a few months before the above date--it occurred actually in July 1817--the staff between the North and South Forelands was withdrawn, and this part of the coast was placed under the charge of the Coast Blockade.
Under the arrangement of 1816, when the cruisers had been put under the care of the Admiralty, the Preventive Waterguard had come under the authority of the Treasury, but now, in 1817, came the change mentioned.
Towards the close of 1818 this Coast Blockade, instead of being confined merely to that coast between the two Forelands, was extended till it reached on the one side Shellness by the mouth of the East Swale, and on the other right away down Channel to Cuckmere Haven (between Newhaven and Beachy Head).
The history of this change may be summed up as follows.
It was suggested in the year 1816 by Captain M'Culloch of H.M.S.
_Ganymede_ (which was one of the vessels employed in the prevention of smuggling between Dungeness and North Foreland) that it would be advantageous to land the crews of the vessels employed on the cruisers and Naval ships engaged in preventing smuggling.
The men were to be put ashore every day just after sunset and so form a guard along the coast during the night.
In the morning, just before sunrise, the men were to be put on board their ships once more.
So the experiment was tried and was found to be so successful that this method of guarding the coast was adopted by a Treasury Minute of June 19, 1817.
The district between the Forelands was assigned to Captain M'Culloch, who had with him the officers and crew of H.M.S.
_Severn_.
Those boats and men which had belonged to the Preventive service stationed between the Forelands were withdrawn, and the entire protection of this district was left to Captain M'Culloch's force.
This was known as the Coast Blockade, and was afterwards extended as just mentioned to Sheppey and Seaford.
If we may anticipate for a moment in order to preserve continuity, let us add that in the year 1821 this span of coast was divided into three, each division being subdivided into four districts.
The divisions were under the superintendence of a senior lieutenant, a midshipman, one petty officer of the first class and one of the second.
The districts, on the other hand, were under the superintendence of a junior lieutenant.
The men were divided into parties of ten, each party having about a mile of coastline, and guard-houses were established along the coast at a distance of about every four miles.
The seamen volunteered into the service, and, if found effective, of good character, but had no relatives in the neighbourhood, they were accepted.
The object of this last condition was to prevent their showing any sympathy with the smugglers of the district.
These men undertook to serve for three years, and for payment of wages they were borne on the books of any of his Majesty's ships.
We can thus see how gradually the influence of the Admiralty had been exerted over the Preventive work which had been carried on by the Customs.
There are then three steps.
First in assisting the Revenue cruisers, and, lastly, by taking charge of the Land-guard.
The proof of the wisdom of this change was seen in results, for the Revenue derived better protection because of the Admiralty influence.
There was better discipline, greater activity, and a smarter look-out was kept.
Thus it came about that in that very south-eastern district which had been for so long a time notorious for its nefarious trade, the smugglers found their calling a very difficult one.
And both these changes in respect of cruisers and Land-guard had been made certainly not with the enthusiastic support of the Board of Customs, who had indeed expressed their doubts as to whether such a transformation were prudent.
Some idea of the number of his Majesty's ships and vessels which were employed in the prevention of smuggling in the year 1819 may be gathered from the following list.
It should, however, be mentioned that these did not include the numbers of Custom House cruisers which the Admiralty had begun to control, but were actually the Naval ships which aided those of the Revenue:-Plymouth supplied 10 ships and 4 tenders Portsmouth " 8 " 3 " Sheerness " 8 " 2 " Leith " 7 " 1 tender Ireland " 12 " 1 " at a total cost of £245,519.
But it should also be borne in mind that these ships of the Navy, or at any rate by far the greater number of them, would have been in commission whether employed or not in the prevention of smuggling, and in certain cases these ships were employed in the Preventive service for only a part of the year.
Without the Revenue cutters the Navy could not possibly have dealt with the smugglers, and this was actually admitted in a Treasury Minute of January 15, 1822.
The total number of Revenue cruisers employed in Great Britain and Ireland during the year 1819, as distinct from the ships of the Royal Navy, amounted to 69.
The following year this number had increased to 70.
These were apportioned thus:-20 under the Commander-in-Chief at Sheerness 11 " " " " Portsmouth 14 " " " " Plymouth 12 " " " " Leith 11 were employed in Ireland 2 were employed by the Commissioners of Customs -70 == To sum up then with regard to the Preventive Water-guard, let us state that this had been constituted in 1809 to supplement the efforts of the cruisers and Riding officers, the coast of England and Wales being divided into three parts, and placed under the control of Inspecting Commanders.
Under this arrangement were included the Revenue cruisers themselves.
Then in 1816 the Admiralty had taken over these cruisers from the Preventive Water-guard, and the following year the Coast Blockade had taken over that portion of the coast between the Forelands, to be extended in 1818 to Shellness and Seaford respectively.
The sphere of activity on the part of the Preventive Water-guard was thus by the year 1819 considerably curtailed, and from the instructions which were now issued to the Inspecting Commanders we can see how the rest of the coastline other than that section just considered was dealt with.
Each station consisted of one chief officer, one chief boatman, two commissioned boatmen, and four established boatmen.
There was a six-oared boat with her rudder and wash-boards--"wash-streaks" they are officially called--a five-fathom rope as a light painter, eight good ash oars, two boat-hooks.
She was a sailing craft, for she was provided with a fore-mast, main-mast, and mizzen-mast, with "haul-yards," travellers, down-hauls, sheets, &c. Her canvas consisted of foresail, mainsail, and mizzen with a yard for each.
She carried also a jib, the casks for water and provisions, a boat's "bittacle" (= binnacle), with compass and lamp.
She was further furnished with a couple of creeping irons for getting up the smugglers' kegs, a grapnel, a chest of arms and ammunition, the Custom House Jack and spy-glass as already mentioned.
This vessel was rigged as a three-masted lugger with a jib.
There is no mention of a bowsprit, so either one of the oars or a boat-hook would have to be employed for that purpose.
In addition to this larger boat there was also on the station a light four-oared gig fitted with mast, yard (or "spreet"), a 7 lb.
hand lead, 20 fathoms of line for the latter, as well as ballast bags to fill with stones or sand.
If the established crews were inadequate during emergency extra men could be hired.
The boats were painted twice a year, but "always to be completed before the bad weather sets in, and the colours to be assimilated as near as possible to those used by the natives and smugglers which frequent the coast which are least conspicuous."
If any of the established boatmen intermarried with families of notorious smugglers the Inspecting Commander was to send information to the Controller-General.
Furthermore, no one was to be appointed to any station within twenty miles of his place of birth or within twenty miles of the place where he had resided for six months previous to this appointment.
The name, colour, rig, and other description of any vessel about to depart on a smuggling trip or expected to arrive with contraband goods on the coast were to be given by the Inspecting Commander both to the admirals commanding the men-of-war off the coast in that neighbourhood, to the captains and commanders of any men-of-war or Revenue cruisers, and also to the Inspecting Commander of the Preventive Water-guard on either side of him.
And in order to keep the men up to their duties the Preventive stations were to be inspected often, and at certain times by day and night.
The Inspecting Commanders were to perform their journeys on horseback and to proceed as much as possible by the sea-coast, so as to become well acquainted with the places where the smugglers resort.
The officers and boatmen were ordered to reside as near their duty as possible and not to lodge in the houses of notorious smugglers.
Officers and men were also to be private owners of no boats nor of shares in public-houses or fishing-craft.
The Inspecting Commanders were to report the nature of the coast, the time, the manner, and the method in respect of the smuggling generally carried on in the district.
If there were any shoals or rocks, not generally laid down or known, discovered when sounding to possess a different depth of water, or if anything should occur which might be useful for navigating the coasts of the kingdom, then cross bearings were to be taken and noted.
These men were also to render every assistance in case of wrecks and to prevent goods being smuggled therefrom into the country.
If any of these Preventive boatmen were wounded in fighting with a smuggler they were to be paid full wages for twenty-eight days or longer, and a reasonable surgeon's bill would be also paid.
And to prevent any possible excuse for discontinuing a chase, the boat was never to leave the beach without the two-gallon keg of fresh water.
And to prevent any obvious possibility, this boat was never to be left by day or night without one of the boat's crew to guard it.
The latter was always to have ready some sort of floating buoy, "loaded at one end and a piece of bunting at the other," for marking the place where goods might be thrown overboard in a chase.
The Inspecting Commanders were also to be on their guard against false information, which was often given to divert their attention from the real place where the smuggling was occurring.
"As night is the time when smugglers generally run their cargoes, it is expected that the boat, or her crew, or the greater part of them will be out, either afloat or on land, as often as circumstances will permit, which must be, at least, five nights a week."
They were ordered generally to co-operate with the Revenue cruisers and to keep a journal of all proceedings.
When out at night time they were to have a candle and "lanthorn" in the boat as well as the boat's "bittacle," and not to rummage a vessel without the candle being carefully secured in the lanthorn to prevent accident by fire.
All suspicious ships were to be rummaged, and whenever the weather would not permit of the boat keeping the sea, the crew and Inspecting Commander were to keep a look-out by land.
Even as late as 1819, when the great wars had come to an end, it was found that the transfer of smugglers to the Navy had continued to be the most effectual means of protecting the Revenue.
The sum of £20 was granted for each smuggler taken, and this was paid to the individual or individuals by whom or through whose means the smuggler was absolutely secured, and it was not to be paid to the crew in general.
But when chasing a smuggling craft, whether by night or day, they were not to fire at the delinquents until the Custom House Jack had been displayed.
The salary of each Inspecting Commander, it may be added, was now £200 per annum and £60 for the first cost and upkeep of an able horse.
CHAPTER XIII THE PERIOD OF INGENUITY Just as there had been a great improvement in the reorganisation brought about by the advent of the Coast Blockade, so the Preventive service on shore generally was smartened up.
That this was so is clear from the existing correspondence.
For instance, five more Preventive boats were to be stationed between Shellness and Southwold, and three between Cuckmere Haven and Hayling Island; another boat was sent to Newton (Yorkshire), another to Dawlish (Devonshire), and another to Happisburgh (Norfolk) or, as it was then spelt, Hephisburg.
Some idea of the activity of the cruisers may be seen from the number of smugglers which these craft had been able to capture.
The reader will recollect that during the year ending October 1, 1810, the highest number of smugglers handed over to the Navy was thirteen, and this was done by Captain Gunthorpe of the Excise cutter _Viper_.
He thus became entitled to the sum of £500.
It will be remembered also that it was afterwards decided that, beginning in 1812, £500 would be paid only if the number captured was not less than twenty.
But now from a Treasury Minute of October 20, 1818, we find that, although the former number of captures was over thirteen, it was just under twenty.
And, here again, Captain Matthew Gunthorpe, this time commanding the Excise cutter _Vigilant_, and Captain Robert Hepburn of the Excise cutter _Regent_, in the year 1816 seized nineteen smugglers each, or a total of thirty-eight.
As neither captain had reached the twenty and both were equal, it was decided to add the second and third rewards together (_i.e._ £300 plus £200) and to give £250 to Captain Gunthorpe, officers and crew, and £250 to Captain Hepburn, officers and crew.
And there is on record at this time a memorial from one W. Blake, the son of W. Blake, senior.
The last-mentioned had been commander of the cutter _Nimble_, but was drowned in 1816.
His son now prayed for the reward of £300 to be paid to the family of the deceased, as he had captured sixteen smugglers.
After the Admiralty had taken over the Revenue cruisers they did not neglect to sanction a pension system, and the following scheme was embraced:--Commanders of cruisers on retiring were to have from £91, 5s.
to £155, 2s.
6d.
per annum, according to their length of service; and for any wound received they were to have an additional £91, 5s.
per annum.
First mates were pensioned after five years' service at the rate of £35 a year, but after thirty years' service they were to have £85 a year as pension.
And so it was arranged for all ratings down to the boys.
The widow of a commander killed or drowned in the service was allowed £65 a year.
And now that we are in that period after the year 1815 we must not fail to bear in mind that this is the epoch when the smugglers were using ingenuity in preference to force.
The busiest part had yet to come and did not occur till the third decade of the nineteenth century.
But even from the time of the Battle of Waterloo until, say, about 1825 there were ten years in which the smugglers left no device untried which they could conceive to enable them to outdo the Revenue authorities.
And we may now proceed to give actual instances of these ingenious attempts.
We begin with the early part of 1816.
At this time the Tide-Surveyor at one of the out-ports had reason to suspect that the French market-boats which used to sail across to England were in the habit of bringing also a good deal of silks and other prohibited goods.
At last he went on board one of these craft and immediately after she had arrived he caused the whole of her cargo to be put ashore.
He then searched her thoroughly from deck to keelson, but he found nothing at all.
However, he was determined not to give up his quest, and had part of her ceiling examined minutely, and was then surprised to note that some fresh nails had apparently been driven.
He therefore caused the ceiling to be ripped off, when he discovered that a large variety of contraband goods had been neatly stowed between the ship's timbers.
It was only a few months later in that same year that another Revenue officer boarded a Dutch schuyt which was bound from Amsterdam to London.
Her cargo consisted of 500 bundles of bulrushes, but on making his examination these innocent articles were found to conceal between the rushes forty-five boxes of glass in illegal packages, and also some other prohibited goods which had been shipped from the United Kingdom for exportation and were intended to have been again clandestinely relanded.
The reader will remember our mentioning the name of Captain M'Culloch just now in connection with the Coast Blockade.
Writing on the 2nd of April, 1817, from on board H.M.S.
_Ganymede_ lying in the Downs, this gallant officer stated that, although it was known that the smugglers had constructed places ashore for the concealment of contraband goods under the Sand Hills near to No.
1 and No.
2 batteries at Deal, yet these hiding-places were so ingeniously formed that they had baffled the most rigid search.
However, his plan of landing crews from his Majesty's ships to guard this district (in the manner previously described) had already begun to show good results.
For two midshipmen, named respectively Peate and Newton, commanding the shore parties in that neighbourhood, had succeeded in locating five of those places of concealment.
"This discovery," continued the despatch, "I am assured will be a most severe blow to the smugglers, as they were enabled to remove their cargoes into them in a few minutes, and hitherto no person besides themselves could form any idea of the manner in which their store-holes were built.
They are generally 4 feet deep, of a square form and built of a 2-inch plank, with the scuttle in the top, into which a trough filled with shingle is fitted instead of a cover to prevent their being found out by pricking; and I understand they were built above two years ago.
I have ordered them to be destroyed, and parties are employed in searching for such concealments along the other parts of the beach."
Thus, thanks to the Navy, the smugglers had been given a serious repulse in the most notorious district.
Then there was also the danger of collusive smuggling.
For instance, when a smuggler had been frustrated from successfully landing a cargo of spirits from a small foreign vessel or boat he might go and give information to a Custom officer so that he might have the goods seized by the latter, the arrangement being that the smuggler should be paid a fair portion of the reward which the officer should receive for the seizure.
Inasmuch as the officers' rewards were by no means inconsiderable this method might fully indemnify the smuggler against any loss.
Just before Christmas of 1819 the Custom officers at Weymouth seized on board a vessel named _The Three Brothers_ sixteen half-ankers and seven small kegs or flaggons of foreign spirits.
These were found to be concealed under a platform of about nine feet in length fitted on either side of the keelson, and of sufficient height for one cask.
Its breadth was such as to allow of two casks and a flaggon.
When full this secret hiding-place would contain about thirty casks in all.
The whole concealment was covered with stone and iron ballast.
The platform was fitted with false bulkheads and filled up with large stones so as to avoid suspicion, the entrance to which was made (after removal of the ballast) from the bottom of the forecastle through two bulkheads about two feet apart.
Another instance was that of a consignment of four cases which had come over from France.
These cases contained plaster figures and appeared to be hollow.
However, the Custom officers had their suspicions and decided to perforate the plaster at the bottom with an auger.
After making still larger holes there were extracted from inside the following amazing list of articles:--Two clock movements, six pieces of bronze, thirty-two pieces of porcelain, and two small paintings.
A certain other French craft was boarded by the Revenue officers who, on measuring her range of deck and also under it including the bulkheads, found a greater difference than the rake would fairly account for.
They were naturally highly suspicious and proceeded to take down part of the bulkhead aft, when they discovered that this bulkhead was not single but double, being between the cabin and the hold.
This bulkhead was made of solid oak planking and was 2 feet 10 inches thick.
It was securely nailed, and the cavity thus made extended from one side of the hull to the other, giving a breadth of 7 feet 2 inches, its length being about 2 feet 2 inches, and the height 3 feet 6 inches.
It will thus be readily imagined that a good quantity of spirits, wine, and plums from France could easily therein be contained and brought ashore when opportunity presented itself.
At another port a vessel was actually discovered to have false bows.
One might wonder how it was that the officer ever found this out, but he was smart enough to measure the deck on the port side, after which he measured the ship below.
He found a difference of over a foot, and so he undertook a thorough search of the ship.
He first proceeded to investigate the forepeak, but he was unable to discover any entrance.
He therefore went to the hold, examined the bulkhead, and observed that the nails of the cleats on the starboard side had been drawn.
He proceeded to force off the cleats, whereupon one of the boards of the bulkhead fell down, and a quantity of East India silk handkerchiefs came tumbling out.
Needless to say, this proved a serious matter for the vessel's skipper.
Sometimes too, cases used to come over from France containing carton boxes of artificial flowers.
These boxes, it was found, were fitted with false bottoms affording a space of not more than a quarter of an inch between the real bottom and the false.
But into this space was squeezed either a silk gauze dress or some parcels "very nicely stitched in," containing dressed ostrich feathers.
The flowers were usually stitched down to the bottom of the boxes to prevent damage, so it was difficult to detect that there was any false bottom at all.
However, after this practice had been in vogue for some time it was discovered by the Revenue officers and the matter made generally known among the officials at all the ports, so that they could be on the alert for such ingenuity.
Sometimes when a Revenue officer was on her station she would come across a sailing craft, which would be found to have quite a considerable number of spirits in small casks together with a number of other prohibited goods.
If the master of such a craft were told by the cruiser's officer that they would have to be seized as they were evidently about to be smuggled, the master would reply that they were nothing of the kind, but that whilst they were on the fishing grounds working their nets they happened to bring these casks up from the sinkers and warp which had kept them below water; or they had found these casks floating on the sea, and had no doubt been either lost or intentionally thrown overboard by some smuggling vessel while being chased by a Revenue cruiser.
It became a very difficult matter to ascertain under such circumstances whether the master were speaking the truth or the reverse, for it was not altogether rare for the kegs to be picked up by fishermen in the manner indicated.
So the only way out of this dilemma was for the commanders of the cruisers to bring such craft as the above to the nearest Custom House, where the master could be brought ashore and subjected to a cross-examination as to where they found these casks and what they proposed doing with them.
A seizure was made at Deal about the year 1818 consisting of thirty-three packages of China crape and silk.
These had been very artfully concealed in the ballast bags of a lugger called the _Fame_, belonging to London.
One package was found in each bag completely covered up with shingles or small stones, so that even if a suspicious officer were to feel the outside of these bags he would be inclined to believe that they contained nothing but ballast, and if he opened them he would think there was nothing else but stones, for the goods were carefully squeezed into the centre of the bags and surrounded with a good thickness of shingle.
Another dodge which was discovered at Shoreham on a vessel which had come from Dieppe was to have the iron ballast cast in such a form that it was not solid but hollow inside.
By this means a good deal of dutiable stuff could be put inside the iron and then sealed up again.
There was a ship, also, named the _Isis_, of Rye, which fell into disgrace in endeavouring to cheat the Customs.
She was a smack of 26-16/94 tons burthen, her master being William Boxhall.
It was while she was lying at her home port that one of the Revenue officers discovered a concealment under her ballast, the entrance to which was obtained by unshipping two bulkhead boards forward.
There was one concealment on each side of the keel, and each contained enough space to hold from twenty to twenty-four ankers of spirits.
Along the Kentish coast a good deal of smuggling used to go on by means of galleys which were rowed by six, ten, and even twelve oars.
As these were navigated by foreigners and sailed under foreign papers, the Customs officers were a little puzzled as to what exactly could be done.
Could such craft be seized even when found with no cargoes on board, when they were either hauled up the beach or were discovered hovering off the coast?
After applying to the Board of Customs for guidance they were referred to the Act,[19] which provided that any boat, wherry, pinnace, barge, or galley that was built so as to row with more than four oars, if found within the counties of Middlesex, Surrey, Kent, or Essex, or on the river Thames, or within the limits of the Port of London, Sandwich, or Ipswich, or the creeks thereto belonging, should be forfeited together with her tackle.
The object of this was clearly to prevent the shortest cross-Channel route being traversed from Holland or France by big, seaworthy but open, multiple-oared craft, with enough men to row them and enough space to carry cargo that would make the smuggling journey worth while.
The following fraud was detected at one of the out-ports in 1819.
An entry had been made of twenty-seven barrels of pitch which had been imported in a ship from Dantzic.
But the Revenue officers discovered that these casks were peculiarly constructed.
Externally each cask resembled an ordinary tar-barrel.
But inside there was enclosed another cask properly made to fit.
Between the cask and the outside barrel pitch had been run in at the bung so that the enclosure appeared at first to be one solid body of pitch.
But after the affair was properly looked into it was found that the inner cask was filled with such dutiable articles as plate glass and East India china.
Sometimes tubs of spirits were packed up in sacks and packs of wool and thus conveyed from the coast into the interior of the country; and in the seizing of some goods at Guernsey it was found that tea had been packed into cases to resemble packages of wine which had come out of a French vessel belonging to St. Malo.
Nor was the owner of a certain boat found at Folkestone any novice at this high-class art.
Of course those were the days when keels of iron and lead were not so popular as they are to-day, but inside ballast was almost universal, being a relic of the mediæval days when so much valuable inside space was wasted in ships.
In this Folkestone boat half-a-dozen large stones were used as ballast, which was a very natural thing for such a craft.
But when these stones came to be examined they were found to have been hollowed out and to have been fitted with tin cases which were filled with spirits.
One cannot acquit the owner of any fraudulent intent, but one certainly can admire both his ingenuity and the great patience which must have been necessary to have hollowed a cavity from such an unyielding material as stone.
This was equalled only by the cargo from Guernsey.
Four sacks said to contain potatoes from the Channel Isles were opened by the Revenue officers at a certain port, and, on being examined, it was found that these were not potatoes at all.
They were so many rolls of tobacco which had been fashioned to resemble the size and form of the vegetable, and then covered artfully over with a thin skin and finally clayed over so cleverly that they had every appearance of the potatoes they pretended to be.
But the Channel Isles were still notorious.
In twelve sacks of flour imported from Jersey were found hidden in the middle twelve bales of tobacco weighing 28 lbs.
each.
A few weeks later three boxes of prunes also from Jersey were opened, when it was discovered that the prunes were not more than three inches deep at the top and three inches deep at the bottom.
But between there was a space in which were concealed--in each box--a paper parcel of silk, some scarves and gloves, &c. But in order to make the total weight of the box approximate to that which would have existed had it been full of prunes a square piece of lead was placed above and another underneath these dutiable articles.
But to me the most ingenious method of all was that which was employed in 1820 for smuggling tobacco.
The offending ship was one of the vessels employed in the transport service, and the man who thought of the device was not far from being a genius.
He first of all obtained the quantity of tobacco which he proposed--no doubt with the assistance of more than one confederate--to smuggle ashore.
He then proceeded to divide this into two, each of which formed one strand.
Afterwards he made these strands into a rope, every bit of it being tobacco.
But then he took a three-strand hawser and laid this over the tobacco, so that when the hawser was finished no one could suspect the tobacco without first cutting or unlaying the rope.
I have not been able to discover how this trick was ever suspected.
Nothing less than an accident or the information of a spy could possibly lead to detection in such a clever case.
There were all sorts of varieties of concealments now practised since the "scientific" period of smuggling had come in.
And since those wicked old days have passed, and with them a good many of the old-fashioned types of craft, it may be well that examples of these misdirected efforts should be collected herewith.
There was a smack, for instance, which was found to have under her ballast a large trunk that was divided into four separate compartments each about 15 feet long and could contain twelve half-ankers.
One end of the trunk was fixed against the bulkhead of the cabin, and extended the whole length of the hold opening at the forward end close to the keelson by unshipping two pieces of the bulkhead.
Another instance of the employment of false bows to a craft was found on searching the fishing smack _Flower_, of Rye, whose master's name was William Head.
It was observed that this false section would hold as much as forty to fifty half-ankers, the entrance being on the port side of the false bow, where a square piece took out, being fastened by a couple of screws, the heads of which were concealed by wooden bungs imitating treenails.
The _Flower_ was further discovered to have a false stern, the entrance to this being by means of the upper board of this stern on the port side in the cabin.
She was a vessel 39 feet 2-1/2 inches long, 12 feet 1-1/2 inches beam, 5 feet 9-1/2 inches deep, and of 23-1/2 tons burthen, being fitted with a standing bowsprit and sloop-rigged.
An almost identical set of concealments was found in the smack _Albion_ at Sandwich, a vessel of over 42 tons burthen.
The entrance to her false stern was through a small locker on the port and starboard sides.
She was further fitted with a false stern-post and false timbers.
A considerable amount of ingenuity must have been exercised in the case of an open four-oared boat which was seized at Dover together with twelve ankers of spirits.
The device was as follows:--Across the bow end of the boat was the usual thwart on which an oarsman sat.
At the after end where the stroke sat was another thwart.
Under each of these thwarts was an ordinary stanchion for supporting the thwart.
But each of these two stanchions had been made hollow.
Thus, through each a rope could be inserted, and inasmuch as the keel had also been pierced it was possible to pass one rope through at the bow-thwart and another at the stern-thwart, these ropes penetrating the boat from thwart to keel.
The inboard ends of these two ropes were carelessly lashed round the thwarts or covered with gear, so there was no untoward appearance.
But at the other ends of the ropes were fastened the twelve ankers, which were thus towed along under the keel of the craft, and not trailing out astern as was sometimes done in the case of bigger boats.
Thus because the whole body of the boat covered the floating casks it was very unlikely that their presence would be suspected.
The smack _Strawberry_ of Deal, on being searched, was found to have a false bottom, capable of containing a considerable quantity of goods.
This bottom was constructed by two leaden cases fixed on the timbers the whole length of the hold, one on each side of the keelson, and ceiled over with the usual ceiling, having the ballast placed over it.
The cases opened on each side of the hold by taking out a plank from the temporary ceiling.
In the case of the lugger _Fox_ (as usual belonging to Rye), a vessel over 16 tons, John Souden, master, there were found to be double bottoms underneath the bed cabins, the entrance being made from underneath the cabins, and then unshipping a small piece of board about a foot square, each concealment being able to hold from fifty to sixty pieces of bandana silks.
Another smuggling device in vogue during this ingenious period had to be employed in such places as Ramsgate harbour, where it would have been utterly impossible to have employed ordinary methods.
It resembled very much the method employed at Dover, mentioned just now.
A rowing-boat would come into the harbour, apparently with nothing in her nor anything towing astern.
But there were fifteen or so half-ankers underneath her hull, spirits of course being contained in these casks.
Now the latter were all fastened to a long iron bar, the ropes to the boat being fastened to this bar.
Consequently, after the boat had reached her corner of Ramsgate harbour, all she had to do was to let go the ropes and the iron bar would keep the kegs on the sandy bottom and prevent them from disclosing their identity by floating.
At low water the smugglers could have gone to get them up again, for they would not move far even with the ebb tide.
Unfortunately, however, the Revenue Tide Surveyor at this port preceded the smugglers, and by creeping for the bar and tubs with grapnels succeeded in locating what he wanted.
On another occasion at one of the out-ports, or rather along the neighbouring beach, thirty-three gallons of spirits, contained in nineteen small casks, were recovered in a startling manner.
Going along the beach were noticed among the chalk rocks and stones of the neighbourhood some other objects.
These were the casks, but they had been so cleverly covered over with a cement of chalk, to which was fastened seaweed in the most natural manner, that seeing them there among the rocks of the shore they would never have been discovered by the Revenue men, had not it been (as one may guess) for a hint given by an informer.
Otherwise there they would have remained until the smugglers found it convenient to come and fetch them.
We called attention just now to the concealing of tobacco in rope.
This device evidently became a fine art, and had succeeded on many an occasion.
At any rate in Flushing tobacco was openly on sale in the shops ready for smuggling into England already made up into ropes.
You could get anything as big as a hawser and as small as a sail-tyer done up so ingeniously as to deceive almost any one.
In fact on washing these slightly with a little rum they had every appearance of hempen rope.
FOOTNOTES: [19] 8 George I. cap.
18.
CHAPTER XIV SOME INTERESTING ENCOUNTERS Rowing about on the night of Lady Day, 1813, a six-oared boat, which had been launched from the Custom House cutter _Lion_, was on the prowl in that bay which extends all the way from Dungeness to Folkestone.
When the watchers in this craft were off Hythe, and only about a quarter of a mile from the shore, they saw coming along over the dark waters a lugsail boat with foresail and mizzen making towards Dymnchurch, which is just to the west of Hythe.
It was about an hour before midnight, and as this suspicious craft did not come near to the _Lion's_ boat the latter rowed towards her and hailed her.
"What boat is that?"
they asked.
"A Folkestone boat," came back the answer.
Thereupon John Wellar, a deputed mariner in the Customs boat, shouted to the lugger to heave-to, for he guessed what the game was.
"Heave-to!"
roared the lugger's master.
"We'll see you d----d first!"
But the rowing-boat was not to be put off with mere insults, and quickly pulled up alongside the craft.
One of the men in the Customs boat then stood up and looked into the lugger and remarked that she was full of kegs.
Wellar therefore immediately jumped into her, followed by three or four of his men, and seized her.
On board he found three men, and them also he secured.
He further discovered 144 half-ankers of spirits, consisting of brandy and gin from across the Channel, which were subsequently taken to the Custom House at Dover.
A little more than a year later, Robert Baker, the lugger's master, was brought before the judge and fined £100.
There was an interesting incident which occurred a few years later in the eastern corner of England, which led to trouble for a man named Henry Palmer of Harwich.
This man was master and owner of a yawl named the _Daisy_, which belonged to Ipswich.
About midday on the 22nd of March 1817, one of the Preventive officers, named Dennis Grubb, observed the _Daisy_ sailing up the Orwell, which flows from Ipswich past Harwich and out into the North Sea.
Grubb was in a six-oared galley, and about three-quarters of a mile below Levington Creek, which is on the starboard hand about a third of the way up the river between Harwich and Ipswich.
With Grubb was another man, and on seeing the _Daisy_ they began rowing towards her.
Whether Grubb had any reason for suspecting her more than any other craft, whether he had received warning from an informer, cannot be stated.
But what is true is that he was determined to have her examined.
However, notwithstanding that Palmer must have known perfectly well that this was a preventive boat, and that he was in duty bound to stop when hailed, it was obvious that, as soon as the galley came near, the _Daisy_ instantly went about on the other tack and stood away from the boat.
The latter in turn pulled after the yawl and was again approaching when the _Daisy_ once more tacked and ran away.
But at last the galley came up, and just as Grubb was in the act of stepping aboard, Palmer coolly remarked that he had some tubs aboard, following this up by the explanation that he had got them on the trawling ground.
This was too obvious a lie to be believed for a moment.
Grubb accordingly inquired how it was that Palmer had come past Harwich since the latter was his home, to which he answered that he was bound for Ipswich, as there his vessel was registered.
But inasmuch as there were two of the Revenue cutters as well as a guardship lying at the entrance to the river, how was it that he had not stopped to hand the tubs over to them?
For either the Customs cutter _Griper_, or the Excise cutter _Badger_, would have been the ordinary receptacle, instead of waiting till a Preventive galley overtook the _Daisy_.
When Grubb asked how Palmer had come by all these tubs he said that he had caught them in his trawl, whereupon the preventive man examined the net and found it damp but certainly not wet, as it would have been had Palmer's version been the truth.
Furthermore, if these tubs had been caught in the trawl there would have been a number of holes torn, but Grubb found there to be no holes.
There were no fewer than forty-eight of these tubs found on the _Daisy_--all half-ankers, and fitted with slings ready for landing--and inasmuch as it was clear that the net had not been lately used Palmer was obviously lying.
The iron which, had it been dragged along the sea-bed, would have been polished bright with the sand, was actually not bright but rusty, thus proving that it had not been recently used.
Grubb therefore felt justified in arresting the yawl, and taking her and her tubs to the Custom House.
Later on he made a thorough search of her, and found a creeping-iron which had five prongs and a long shank.
The reader is well aware that such an implement was used by the smugglers but never found on board a genuine fishing-craft.
For getting up sunken tubs it was essential, and for that purpose it was evidently on board the _Daisy_.
Moreover, it was found to be both wet and polished bright as to its prongs, and there was still some wet mud sticking thereto.
The case, of course, duly came on to be tried, and the Attorney-General suggested that at that time, in nine cases out of every ten, the tubs of smuggled spirits were not brought directly to port but sunk at different places in the sea, located by landmarks and buoys, fishing-boats being sent out later on to get them by these creepers, and to bring them in by small quantities as opportunity permitted.
Palmer's defence was that they had found the tubs just outside Harwich harbour, opposite to Landguard Fort, at about seven o'clock the previous evening.
But it was a somewhat strange fact that though this fishing-vessel should have been out all night not a single fish was found on board.
And when Palmer was asked how it was that if he had found these tubs, and had intended to hand them over to the Customs authorities, he had been so careful to stow them all below and not leave them on deck to be visible to the _Griper_ and _Badger_ as he passed?
His reply, that he had put the tubs below lest a puff of wind might blow them overboard, somehow did not convince the judge, and the verdict went against him.
A curious instance of an abuse of office was seen in the occurrence which centred round a certain Mr. Thomas Moore Slade.
Mr. Slade was Agent Victualler for the Chatham Victualling Office, and from his connection with that department he had the power of employing some of his Majesty's vessels belonging to the department.
This gentleman got to know that a splendid collection of pictures was about to be dispersed in France.
They were of great value both artistically and intrinsically, and had belonged to the late Duke of Orleans.
Slade therefore, quite unjustifiably, determined to make use of one of the craft under his charge for the purpose of fetching these pictures into the country, and thus cheating the Government of its dues, which would have been very heavy in this transaction.
The way he went about it was to direct a man named Thomas Cheney, who commanded the sloop _Grace_ (belonging to the King's Victualling Office), to get under way and proceed a certain distance from Chatham.
After he had come out of the Medway and had reached the Nore he was to open a letter which Slade had given him, wherein he would find his instructions.
The _Grace_ in due course hoisted sails and anchor and found herself out by the Nore.
On opening the letter, Cheney was surprised to find he was directed to proceed to Calais.
He informed the crew, who were very indignant, as they had all thought they were bound for Deptford.
So that night they put back to Sheerness and let go anchor.
The following day, with a reluctant company on board, they started off again and reached Ramsgate, where they lay all night.
On the third day they crossed the Channel and got into Calais Roads, anchored, and remained there all night.
It should be added that Slade had taken the precaution to put on board this sloop before she left England a Mr. Thomas Aldridge, an expert judge of pictures, his exact description for this voyage being as supercargo, a term which signifies an officer in a trading vessel whose duty it is to manage the sales and superintend all the commercial concerns of the voyage.
Having arrived, then, off Calais, Cheney, Aldridge, and some of the crew proceeded ashore and, guided by the art expert, went to a certain Monsieur Dessein, who kept an hotel in that town.
From him they obtained a large number of cases containing the Orleans collection, and brought them off to the _Grace_.
Altogether there were no less than fifteen of these cases, and although the _Grace_ was a vessel of some thirty-two tons burthen, yet the weight of these paintings was sufficiently great to lower her water-line a good six inches.
After this valuable cargo had been got aboard and stowed, a gale of wind sprang up and detained them for a few days, but at length they cleared from the French coast and steered for the Downs.
From there they rounded the North Foreland, and after running up the Thames entered the Medway and let go at Gillingham until it was dark.
But as soon as night had fallen they got going once more, and ran alongside the Victualling Wharf at Chatham.
The pictures were brought up from the sloop and taken ashore by means of a crane, and then quietly carried into Mr. Slade's house.
By this he had thus saved the cost both of carriage and of duty, the pictures being afterwards sold for a very large sum.
However, this dishonest business at length leaked out, an action was brought against Slade, and a verdict was given for the King and for six pictures of the single value of twenty guineas.
On the evening of a November day in the year 1819, the Revenue cutter _Badger_, under the command of Captain Mercer, was cruising in the English Channel between Dungeness and Boulogne.
About seven o'clock it was reported to the commander that about a quarter of a mile away there was a lugger steering about N.W.
by W. towards the English coast.
The _Badger_ thereupon gave chase, but as she drew nearer and nearer the lugger altered her course many times.
Carrying a smart press of canvas, the _Badger_, which was one of the fastest vessels employed in the Revenue, came up rapidly.
As usual she fired her warning gun for the lugger to heave-to, but all the notice taken by the chased ship was to go about on the other tack and endeavour still to escape.
But presently the cutter, running with the wind on her quarter and doing her eight knots to the lugger's four or five, came up to her foe so quickly as to run right past her.
But before the _Badger_ luffed up she hailed the lugger (whose name was afterwards found to be the _Iris_ of Boulogne) and ordered her to heave-to.
"I be hove-to," answered back one of the lugger's crew in unmistakable English.
[Illustration: "The _Badger_ was hoisting up the galley in the rigging."]
Meanwhile the _Badger_ was hoisting up the galley in the rigging preparatory to launching, and the crew stood by ready to get in.
As soon as the _Badger_ had shot past, down went her helm and she came alongside the _Iris_ as the galley was dropped into the leaden waters.
But just at that moment the _Badger's_ people overheard some men on the lugger exclaim, "Now's your time," whereupon the crew of the lugger also launched their boat, forsook the _Iris_, and began to row off as fast as they could.
The _Badger_ called to them--among whom was a man named Albert Hugnet--ordering them under pain of being shot to come alongside the cutter.
They replied that they were coming, but that they could not find their thole-pins, saying that they had only two oars on one side and one oar on the other.
This was said in English, and was obviously a mere excuse to gain time.
Meanwhile the cutter's galley and men had come alongside the lugger, in which they found 110 half-ankers, containing 382 gallons of brandy, and 157 half-ankers of Geneva, 55 bags of tea, and 19 bags containing 355 lbs.
of manufactured tobacco.
As the men of the _Iris_ showed no signs of coming back, the prize-crew on the lugger hailed the _Badger_, giving information that the smugglers were escaping.
"Lie close," came the command, so the cutter trimmed her sheets and went in pursuit, and fired some shots in the direction of the retreating boat.
But it was no use, for the boat was quickly lost from sight among the waves and disappeared entirely.
There was some sea on at the time, so no one among the Revenue men envied the _Iris's_ crew their task of rowing across to Boulogne, a distance of somewhere about twenty-seven miles, in that weather and athwart very strong tides, with the certainty of having a worse time as the Ridens and the neighbourhood of Boulogne was approached.
In fact the chief mate of the cutter remarked, some time after, though he had seen these tub-boats go across the sea in all weathers, and were splendidly seaworthy, yet he considered it was not very wise of the _Iris's_ crew to risk it on such a night as that.
Convinced, then, that the men were making for France, the lugger, with her prize crew on board, presently sailed up after the cutter, hoping to come across their captives.
But neither cutter nor lugger could find the men, and concluded, no doubt, that the tub-boat had foundered.
But, at a later date, Albert Hugnet was arrested, and in the following June was brought to trial and punished.
It then came out that the whole boat-load had escaped with their lives.
For Andres Finshaw was called as evidence for the defence.
He had been one of the lugger's crew, and showed that after rowing away that night they had not fetched across to the French coast, but having the good luck to find a French fishing-craft only a quarter of a mile away, they were taken aboard her and thus returned to France.
It was also brought out very clearly by the other side that when first seen the _Iris_ was within nine miles of the English coast, and afterwards the _Badger_ steered N.W.
by W. towards the south of Dungeness, and after five and a half miles saw the Dungeness light and the South Foreland light, took cross-bearings of these, and having marked them off on the chart, fixed their position as about three miles from the coast.
Thus when the lugger was first encountered the latter was about nine miles from the land.
The date of that incident, then, was the 12th of November, and Hugnet was not then captured.
We may now pass over the next four weeks till we come to the 10th of December in that same year.
At eight o'clock in the morning the Revenue cutter _Eagle_ was cruising off the coast of Kent when she observed a lugger bearing about N.W.
by N. from them.
The lugger was under all sail and heading S.E.
for Boulogne, having come out from East Dungeness Bay.
The weather was thick, it was snowing, and no land was in sight, Dungeness being the nearest portion of the English coast.
It did not take long for the _Eagle's_ commander to guess what was happening, especially when that bay was so notorious, and the cutter began to give chase, the wind being roughly N.W.
But as the _Eagle_ pursued, the lugger, as was the approved custom, hauled up and came on a wind, hoping to get away and outpace the cutter.
But in this the smugglers were not successful, and eventually the _Eagle_ overhauled her.
The cutter's galley was now launched, and after having been for three-quarters of an hour rowed quickly by the aid of her eight men, the lugger was reached and hailed.
The usual warning signal was fired from a musket in the boat and colours shown.
The lugger, however, declined to heave-to as requested.
"If you don't heave-to," roared the chief mate of the _Eagle_, as he looked towards the helmsman, "we'll fire right into you."
On this the lugger lowered her sails, the galley bumped alongside, and the chief mate and crew, pistols in hand, leapt aboard.
"Where are you from?"
asked the chief mate.
The answer came in French, which the latter did not understand, but he thought they said they were bound from Bordeaux to Calais.
If so, it was an obvious and foolish lie.
Mr. Gray--for that was the mate's name--then inquired how many men were aboard, and the answer returned that there were seven.
Gray then called the lugger's men aft, and separated the English from the foreign, and found there were five French and two English.
The two latter, said the Frenchman (who was none other than Albert Hugnet, whom we spoke of just now), were just passengers.
A few minutes later, the skipper contradicted himself and said there were not seven but nine, all told.
Gray then proceeded to look for the other two, and jumped down forward into the forepeak.
As the place was dark he put his cutlass in first and rummaged about.
In a moment the cutlass brought up against something soft.
Gray had struck a man, hiding there, on the legs and thighs.
He was called upon by the cutter's mate to come out, and instantly obeyed, fearing no doubt that the cutlass would assail him again if he didn't.
As he emerged he was followed by another man, and another, and yet another; in fact from that dark hole there came out a procession of seven, all of whom were found to be Englishmen.
It was noticeable that most, if not all, were dressed in short jackets and petticoat trousers.
They were clearly sailors, and not landsmen--passengers or anything else.
In plain language they were out-and-out smugglers.
What was especially to be noted was the fact that their trousers were quite wet right up to their middles.
In some cases their jackets were also wet up to their elbows.
All this clearly pointed to the fact that they had not long since put off from the shore, where they had succeeded in landing a contraband cargo by wading from the lugger to the beach; and such a thick atmosphere as there was on the previous night must have made it highly convenient for them.
Nevertheless, even for these weather-hardened seamen, it cannot have been altogether pleasant penned up in sopping clothes in a dark forepeak with an unseen cutlass waving about in their midst and seizure pending.
These men also Gray ordered to go aft, and put them together so that he might see how many altogether were English and how many French.
It was found that there were nine of them English and five French.
Taking possession of the helm, Gray let the sails draw and ran down to the _Eagle_, telling his prisoners he was going to get further instructions from his commander.
There were no tubs found on the lugger, which was as might be expected, but there was a solitary hoop which had evidently come off whilst these tubs were being hauled out, and there were also found two pairs of slings which were universally employed for getting the half-ankers ashore.
These slings were made of small line, and were passed round the circumference of the cask at its "bow" and "stern," sufficient line being left so that there were two lines, one to pass over each of a man's shoulders.
These two lines could be joined to other two on another cask, and so each smuggler could land with one tub on his back and another on his chest, in much the same way as you see a sandwich-man carrying boards in the street.
On examining this lugger there was no bilge-water found in the forepeak, so those seven shivering men could not have made the excuse that the vessel was damp in that portion.
To cut a long story short, the lugger was eventually taken into Harwich, having been discovered seventeen miles from the French coast and eleven from the English shore.
Assuming the lugger had travelled at about four knots an hour, this would mean that she had started off from the English beach on her return journey about 5 A.M., the previous hours of the night having doubtless been spent in unloading the tubs somewhere between Folkestone and Dungeness or perhaps Rye.
Thus Hugnet, having at last been caught, had to stand his trial for both this and the occurrence of the previous month.
And a verdict in each case having been returned against him, his activities in running backwards and forwards across the English Channel were, for a time at least, considerably modified.
These tub-boats, which we have had cause to mention more than once, were usually not towed but carried on the lugger's deck.
A tub-boat got its name from the fact that when the lugger was too big to run her nose on the beach the tubs were landed in these boats.
For that reason they were made very deep, with plenty of high freeboard, and were accordingly wonderfully good sea-boats, though they were somewhat heavy to row even without their spirituous cargoes.
As one looks through the gaol-books and other smuggling records, one finds that there was a kind of hereditary custom that this running of contraband goods should pass on from father to son for generations.
Thus there are constant repetitions, in different ages, of men bearing the same surname engaged in smuggling and becoming wonderfully notorious in this art.
Among such family names must be mentioned that of Rattenbury.
The man of whom we are about to speak was flourishing during the second decade of the nineteenth century, and his christian name was John.
In November 1820--it is significant how often this dark month crops up in the history of smuggling, when the weather was not likely to tempt those Revenue cruisers' commanders, who preferred the snug shelter of some creek or harbour--John Rattenbury happened to find himself at Weymouth.
Into that port also came a vessel named the _Lyme Packet_, which was accustomed to trade between Lyme and Guernsey.
But on this occasion the ship had just received the misfortune of carrying away her bowsprit--possibly in the Portland Race--and her master, John Cawley, decided to run into Weymouth for repairs.
Whilst these were being taken in hand what should be more natural than that the _Lyme Packet's_ master should drift into a local public-house?
Having brought up comfortably in that haven of rest, he was promptly discovered by his old friend Rattenbury, who had also made for the same house of refreshment.
The usual greetings took place, and Rattenbury inquired how it was that Cawley came to be there, and an explanation of the accident followed.
According to the skipper's own version, they got into conversation, and, over a glass of grog, Rattenbury volunteered the remark that if Cawley would be willing to sail across to Cherbourg to fetch a cargo of spirits he would pay him at a rate that would make it much more profitable than trading between Lyme and Guernsey.
In fact he was willing to pay Cawley as much as twelve shillings a cask, adding that in one voyage this skipper, who happened also to be owner, would make more money thereby than in the regular course of trade in a twelvemonth.
Such a proposition was more than a tempting one, and Cawley gave the matter his attention.
Unable to resist the idea, he acquiesced, it being agreed that Rattenbury should accompany him to France, where they would take in a cargo of spirits, Cawley to be paid his twelve shillings for every cask they were able to bring across.
So, as soon as the bowsprit was repaired and set in its place, the _Lyme Packet_ cast off her warps and ran out of Weymouth harbour.
She made direct for Cherbourg, where they anchored in the roadstead.
Rattenbury now went ashore and returned accompanied by 227 casks of spirits made up in half-ankers.
These were put on board and the voyage back to England commenced, the intention being to make for West Bay and land the goods somewhere near Sidmouth.
Having arrived off the Devonshire coast, Rattenbury took the _Lyme Packet's_ boat and rowed himself ashore, landing at Beer Head, his object being to get assistance from the men of Sidmouth for landing his goods.
It was then about 1 A.M.
The captain of the _Lyme Packet_ kept his ship standing off and on during the night, and hovered about that part of the coast till daybreak.
But as Rattenbury had not returned by the time the daylight had come back, Cawley became more than a little nervous and feared lest he might be detected.
Before very long--the exact time was 6.30 A.M.--Robert Aleward, a mariner on the Revenue cutter _Scourge_, on turning his eye into a certain direction not more than three miles away, espied this _Lyme Packet_, informed his commander, and a chase was promptly begun.
Cawley, too, saw that the _Lyme Packet_ had been observed, and began to make preparations accordingly.
He let draw his sheets, got the _Lyme Packet_ to foot it as fast as she could, and as the three intervening miles became shorter and shorter he busied himself by throwing his casks of spirits overboard as quickly as he and his crew knew how.
The distant sail he had noticed in the early morning had all too truly turned out to be the Revenue cutter, but he hoped yet to escape or at any rate to be found with nothing contraband on board.
It was no good, however, for the cruiser soon came up, and as fast as the _Lyme Packet_ had dropped over the half-ankers, so quickly did the _Scourge's_ men pick them up again in the cutter's boats.
Having come up alongside, the cutter's commander, Captain M'Lean, went on board, seized Cawley and his ship as prisoners, and eventually took both into Exmouth.
Judicial proceedings followed with a verdict for the King, so that what with a broken bowsprit and the loss of time, cargo, ship, and liberty the voyage had in nowise been profitable to Cawley.
CHAPTER XV A TRAGIC INCIDENT And now we must turn to an occurrence that was rather more tragic than the last, though the smugglers had only themselves to blame.
The reader is already aware of the practice existing at this time of actually rowing contraband across from France to England in large boats pulling four or more oars.
As one who have myself rowed a craft most of the way from Calais to Dover in a flat calm, I cannot altogether envy the smugglers their job.
However, on May 11, 1818, Captain Hawtayne, commanding H.M.S.
_Florida_, was cruising in the English Channel on the look-out for contraband craft.
Evidently he had received certain information, for at eight o'clock that evening he ordered Mr. Keith Stewart, master's mate, to man one of the ship's boats and to intercept any boat that might leave the French coast that looked at all of a suspicious nature.
This order was duly obeyed.
A galley was observed some time before, which had no doubt aroused Captain Hawtayne's suspicions.
This galley had been seen to come out of Calais harbour and to be rowed towards the westward.
But she must have spotted the _Florida_, for she very shortly put back.
But before long Mr. Stewart's boat fell in with another craft--a long white galley named the _St.
Thomas_.
This was now about 1 A.M., and for a time the _St.
Thomas_ had the impudence to pretend she was a French police boat.
When descried she was about five or six miles to the N.N.W.
of Cape Blanc Nez, and was steering to the westward.
The night was dark, for the moon had disappeared behind a cloud as Mr. Stewart's boat came up alongside and hailed the strange craft.
He began by asking what boat she was.
The steersman replied by inquiring what boat Mr. Stewart's was.
The latter answered that it was the King's boat.
At that time the _St.
Thomas's_ sails were up, and now Mr. Stewart ordered the steersman to lower them.
He made no answer, but, turning round to his crew exhorted them to pull quickly, saying, "Give way, my boys, give way."
Thereupon the smugglers cheered and pulled as hard as they could.
Mr. Stewart again ordered the steersman to lower sail, adding that should he fail to do so he would fire at him.
But this did not awe the _St.
Thomas_.
"Fire and be damned," answered the steersman.
"If you fire, I will fire.
We are as well armed as you are."
Stewart held his hand and did not fire, but ordered his men to pull closer.
Coming alongside, he addressed the steersman, saying it was absolutely essential that he should examine the _St.
Thomas_ and that he knew they were Englishmen, adding that he was unwilling that there should be any bloodshed by firing into the boat.
[Illustration: "Fire and be damned."]
With this the _Florida_'s boat pulled up on the other's quarter, and the bowmen hooked on with the boat-hook.
The _St.
Thomas's_ steersman knocked the boat-hook away and threatened to shoot the bowman if he did not let go.
For a short time thereafter the boats separated and drifted apart.
But a second time his Majesty's boat pulled up alongside, and Mr. Stewart jumped forward into the bows and ordered one of his own men to stand by ready to accompany him on board.
The steersman of the other, however, was determined, and resisted Stewart's attempt, at the same time presenting a pistol and threatening to shoot the officer if he advanced one step further.
On that the men of _St.
Thomas_ ceased rowing, drew in their oars, and rushed aft to where the steersman was standing in the stern.
Matters began to look ugly, and being convinced that these men were bent on desperate resistance, Mr. Stewart was compelled to fire with his pistol at the steersman, who immediately fell.
Stewart instantly leapt aboard, but was nearly jostled into the sea by two of the enemy.
He ordered the whole of this crew to go forward, but they declined to obey, and followed this up by threatening that if they still refused he would have to use his sword and cut them down.
The only member of his own crew who had already got aboard as well was his coxswain, and owing either to himself or the action of the coxswain in stepping from one boat to the other, the two craft had drifted apart, and for a time there was considerable risk that the men, who were obvious smugglers, would fall on these two.
But the naval officer had already cut down two of their number with his sword, and after that the rest went forward and were obedient.
The _St.
Thomas_ was rather a large craft of her kind.
Additional to her sails, she rowed five on one side, six on the other, and also had a steersman, the additional oarsman being no doubt placed according to the tide so that his work might in some measure counteract the great leeway which is made by small vessels crossing the strong tidal stream of the English Channel.
As all was now quiet on board, Mr. Stewart searched her and found she was laden with kegs, which, said the crew, were filled with tea and tobacco, these kegs being as usual already slung for putting ashore or sinking.
Later on it was found that out of this crew no less than six were English, besides one man who had been born at Flushing of English parentage, though he called himself a Dutchman.
The rest were all foreigners.
No one can read such an incident as this without regretting that they should have ever led to slaughter.
It is a serious thing to take any man's life when there is no warfare, and it is still more dismal if that man is of the same nationality as the one who deals death.
If the whole of the _St.
Thomas's_ crew had been killed there could have been no blame on Mr. Stewart, for he was only carrying out his orders and acting in self-defence.
The smugglers were fully aware they were in the wrong, and they were responsible for any consequences that might accrue.
The officer had given them ample warning, and he had only used severe measures when absolutely compelled.
But there is a more satisfactory side to this regrettable incident, which one is only too glad to be able to record.
The man who had been so badly wounded desired to speak to Mr. Stewart, and when the latter had approached him he turned to him and said: "You've killed me; sir, I'm dying."
Mr. Stewart saw that this was perfectly true, and that the man was in no sense exaggerating.
"Well, I'm sorry for it," he said, "but it was your own fault."
"Yes," answered the dying man, "I know that, but I hope you won't make things worse than they are.
I freely forgive you."
This was the steersman who had so strenuously opposed the boarding of the _St.
Thomas_.
We can quite sympathise with the feelings of Mr. Stewart, and be thankful that those lawless days of violence have long since passed.
If you talk with any of the Revenue officers still living who were employed in arresting, lying in wait for, receiving information concerning, and sometimes having a smart fight with the smugglers, you will be told how altogether hateful it was to have to perform such a duty.
It is such incidents as the above which knock all romance out of the smuggling incidents.
An encounter with fisticuffs, a few hard blows, and an arrest after a smart chase or a daring artifice, whilst not lessening the guilt of smuggling, cannot take away our interest.
Our sympathies all the time are with the Revenue men, because they have on their side right, and in the long-run right must eventually conquer might.
But, as against this, the poorer classes in those days were depressed in ignorance with low ideals, and lacking many of the privileges which no thinking man to-day would refuse them.
And because they were so daring and so persistent, because they had so much to lose and (comparatively speaking) so little really to gain, we extend to them a portion of our sympathy and a large measure of our interest.
They were entirely in the wrong, but they had the right stuff in them for making the best kind of English sailormen, the men who helped to win our country's battles, and to make her what she is to-day as the owner of a proud position in the world of nations.
Ten of these twelve men were taken as prisoners to the _Florida_, and the _St.
Thomas_ with her cargo still aboard were towed by the _Florida_ into Yarmouth Roads, and there delivered to the Collector of Customs.
She was found to be a 54-foot galley--a tremendous length for an oared craft--with no deck, and rigged with three lugsails and jib, her size working out at about 11 tons burthen.
On delivering the cargo at Yarmouth it was found that there were altogether 207 kegs.
The ten uninjured prisoners were taken before the Yarmouth magistrates, and the two whom the officer had cut down were sent on shore immediately the _Florida_ arrived in that port.
The English steersman, to whose case we call special attention, died, two others were fined £100 each, two were sent to gaol, and one, who was the son of the man who died, was liberated, as it was shown that he had only been a passenger.
The man who had been born of English parents at Flushing was also set free, as the magistrates had not sufficient proof that he was a British subject.
A few months prior to the above occurrence Lieutenant John Wood Rouse was in command of his Majesty's schooner _Pioneer_.
On the 11th of January 1817 he was cruising between Dungeness and Point St. Quintin, when his attention was drawn to a lugger whose name we may state by anticipation was the _Wasp_.
She appeared to be making for the English coast on a N.W.
bearing, and was distant about six miles.
In order to cut her off and prevent her from making the shore Lieutenant Rouse sent one of his men named Case with a galley to cross her bows.
At the same time he also despatched another of his boats under the care of a Mr. Walton to make directly for the lugger.
This occurred about 10 A.M., and the chase continued till about 3.45 P.M., when the schooner came alongside the lugger that had, by this time, been seized by Mr. Case.
Lieutenant Rouse was then careful to take bearings of the land, and fixed his position so that there should be no dispute as to whether the lugger were seized within the legal limits.
On capturing the lugger, only two persons were found on board, and these were at once transferred to the _Pioneer_.
To show what liars these smugglers could become, one of these two said he was a Frenchman, but his name was the very British-sounding William Stevenson.
The other said he was a Dutchman.
Stevenson could speak not a word of French, but he understood English perfectly, and said that part of the cargo was intended for England and part for Ireland, which happened to be the truth, as we shall see presently.
He also added that of the crew of eight three were Dutchmen and five English, for he had by now forgotten his own alleged nationality.
Prior to the arrival of Mr. Case's boat the lugger had hoisted out her tub-boat and rowed away as fast as the waves would let her, with all the crew except these two.
She was found to have a cargo of tobacco and tea, as well as Geneva, all being made up into suitable dimensions for landing.
On examining the ship's papers it was indicated that she was bound for Bilbao in Spain.
But these papers had evidently been obtained in readiness for such an occurrence as the advent of the schooner.
When it is mentioned that this lugger was only a large galley with absolutely no deck whatever, and capable of being rowed by ten men, it was hardly credible that she would be the kind of craft to sail round Ushant and across the Bay of Biscay.
"Was she calculated to carry a cargo to Spain?"
asked counsel at the trial two years later.
"I will risk my experience as a sailor," answered one of the witnesses, "that I would not have risked my life in a boat of that description."
But, unfortunately for the smugglers, there was discovered on board a tin box which absolutely gave their case away.
In this tin box was found an instructive memorandum which it requires no very great ingenuity to decipher, and ran something as follows:-"For B. Valden.
From Tusca Tower to Blackwater Hill, allowing half a point for the tide.
For W. Martensons Glyn.
From Tusca N.E.
until Tara Hill bears N.W.
10 pieces of chocolate 10 gulders.
10 pieces of gays[20] 10 ditto.
A proportion of G., say one-third, and let it be strong as possible.
A vessel coming in the daytime should come to anchor outside the banks.
At Clocker Head, Bryan King.
At the Mountain Fort, Henry Curran.
And Racklen, Alexander M'Donald."
Now anyone on consulting a chart or map of the south-west and west of the British Isles can easily see that the above was just a crude form of sailing directions to guide the ship to land the goods at various places in Ireland, especially when the box also contained a paper to the following effect:-"The Land's End to Tusca 135 miles N.N.E.
A berth off Scilly 150 N.E.3/4N."
The ship was to take such goods as mentioned to the above individuals, and here were the landmarks and courses and the division of the goods.
"A proportion of G," of course, referred to the amount of Geneva, but the gentleman for whom it was intended did not get it "as strong as possible."
Not one of these places mentioned was within hundreds of miles of Bilbao, but all the seamarks were to guide the mariners to Ireland.
Tara Hill, Tuscar Rock and so on were certainly not Spanish.
But these instructions were by no means uncommon.
They were technically known among smugglers as "spot-notes," that is to say, indications of the spots where the goods were to be landed.
When Stevenson found that his captors had become possessed of these papers he was considerably confused and embarrassed, even going so far as to ask for them to be given back to him--a request which was naturally declined.
The lugger was taken captive into Dover, and Stevenson, being an Englishman, was committed to gaol in the Dover town prison, from which he succeeded in escaping.
The Dutchman was let off, as he was a foreigner.
The men who had rowed away in the tub-boat escaped to France, having taken with them out of the galley one parcel of bandanna handkerchiefs.
The rule in these cases was to fine the culprit £100 if he was a landsman; but if he was a sailor he was impressed into the Navy for a period of five years.
There must be many a reader who is familiar with some of those delightful creeks of Devonshire and Cornwall, and has been struck with the natural facilities which are offered to anyone with a leaning for smuggling.
Among these there will rise to the imagination that beautiful inlet on whose left bank stands Salcombe.
Towards the end of June in the year 1818 William Webber, one of the Riding officers, received information that some spirits had been successfully run ashore at the mouth of this harbour, "a place," remarked a legal luminary of that time, "which is very often made the spot for landing" this class of goods.
Webber therefore obtained the assistance of a private in the 15th Regiment, and early in the evening, as he had been informed that the goods were not yet carried away, but still were lying deposited somewhere near the beach, proceeded to the spot.
He and the hussar arrived at the place about nine o'clock on this June evening and managed to conceal themselves behind a hedge.
They had not very long to wait before they heard the sound of some men talking, and a man named James Thomas was observed to remark: "We couldn't have had a better time for smuggling if we had lain abed and prayed for it."
Through the openings in the hedge Webber and the hussar could see the outline of the delinquent, and the voice was more than familiar to the Riding officer.
We can readily appreciate Thomas's ecstasy when we remark that it had now become rather dark and a sea-haze such as frequently comes up in fine weather after a hot day was beginning to spread itself around.
For some time longer the two men continued to remain in their hiding-place, and then heard that Thomas and his accomplice had become joined by a number of other people.
The sound of horses' hoofs being led down to the beach was also distinctly heard, and there were many signs of accelerated activity going on.
Presently there came upon the ears of the Riding officers the noise which proceeds from the rattling of casks, and from some convenient hiding-place, where they had remained, these were at last brought forth, slings were prepared, and then the load was placed on the backs of the several horses.
At this point, deeming that the time had come to interfere, the Riding officer and the hussar crept out from their place of concealment and advanced towards the band of smugglers.
But, alert as hares, the latter, so soon as they realised their own danger, took to their heels and ran helter-skelter away.
Thomas, however, was too wrath to hasten, and began to curse his men.
He began by complaining that the kegs which had been brought forth were wonderfully "slack," that is to say they were not as full as they might have been, hinting that someone had been helping himself to their contents of spirits.
"If you had brought these a little sooner," referring doubtless to both horses and casks, "we should have been three miles on our way home."
But scarcely had he finished his sentence than the last of his band had fled, leaving him behind with both horses and casks.
He was promptly arrested and eleven months later prosecuted by the Attorney-General.
Because the smugglers were so frequently assisted in their work by those night signals to which we alluded some time back it had been made a penal offence to show a light for the purpose of signalling within six miles of the coast.
Arising out of such an offence, John Newton and another found themselves prosecuted for an incident that occurred about the middle of December 1819.
The comparative seclusion of that big bight which extends from the Bill of Portland to the promontory well known to many readers as Hope's or Pope's Nose, was much favoured by the smuggling fraternity.
This West Bay was well out of the English Channel and the track of most of his Majesty's ships, and there were plenty of hills and high ground from which to show friendly signals to their comrades.
Rattenbury and Cawley, as we related, had in vain tried to land their cargo hereabouts, though there were many others who, before the Revenue cutters became smarter at their duty, had been able to run considerable quantities of dutiable goods in the vicinity of Sidmouth and Lyme.
On the afternoon of this winter's day two small sailing craft had been noticed by the Preventive shore officers to be tacking about near the land, but did not appear to be engaged in fishing.
It was therefore reasonably supposed they were about to run some contraband ashore after dark.
A Mr. Samuel Stagg and a Mr. Joseph Pratt, stationed at Sidmouth in the Preventive service, were all the time keeping a smart look-out on these boats, and somewhere about five o'clock in the evening launched their oared-cutter and rowed off towards them.
After a chase they came alongside the first, which was named the _Nimble_, and boarded her.
They found therein three men consisting of John Newton, John Bartlett, and Thomas Westlake; but as they searched her and found no trace of any casks or packages of tobacco, the Preventive men left her to row after the other craft.
It was now, of course, quite dark, and there was blowing a nice sailing breeze.
Scarcely had they started to row away before the _Nimble_ hoisted sail and by means of flint and steel began to make fire-signals, and kept on so doing for the next half hour.
This was, of course, a signal for the second boat, and as soon as the latter observed these signs she also made sail and hurried away into the darkness of the bay.
It was impossible for the officers to get up to her, for they would stand every chance of losing themselves in the vast expanse of West Bay, and the craft might take it into her head to run down Channel perhaps into Cornwall or eastwards round to Portland, where goods often were landed.
Therefore deeming one craft in arrest to be worth two sailing about in West Bay, they went back and seized the _Nimble_.
The three men, whose names we have given, were taken ashore, tried, and found guilty.
But as illustrative of the times it is worth noting that John Bartlett had before this occurrence actually been engaged for some time as one of the crew of that Revenue cutter about which we spoke some time back in this very bay.
And so, now, "for having on the high seas, within six miles of the coast, made a certain light on board a boat for the purpose of giving a signal to a certain person or persons," he was, in company with his two colleagues, condemned.
That the age of lawless mobs was by no means past, may be seen from the incident which now follows.
It had been thought that the Act which had been passed, forbidding any boat built to row with more than four oars, would have put a considerable check to activities of the smugglers.
But these boats not only continued to be built, but also to be navigated and used for the contraband purposes.
The Revenue officers of the district of Christchurch, Hants, had reason in April of 1821 to believe that a boat was being constructed in their neighbourhood of such dimensions and capable of being rowed with such a number of oars as made her liable to seizure.
Therefore, taking with them a couple of dragoons, two of these Revenue officers proceeded on their way to the district near Milton, which is, roughly speaking, the centre of that bay which is bounded on one side by Christchurch Head, and on the other by Hurst Point.
They had not arrived long at their destination before it was found that about thirty men had concealed themselves in an adjoining wood.
The officers had found the boat they were looking for in a meadow, and were about to seize it.
It was found to be covered over with sails, having been hidden in the meadow for safety's sake, for since it was made to row seven aside it was clearly liable to forfeiture.
One of the two officers now went off to fetch assistance, and whilst he was away two of the smugglers came forth and fraternising with the two dragoons, offered them some brandy which they drank.
In a short while both soldiers had taken such a quantity of the spirits that they became utterly intoxicated and helpless.
One of the two smugglers then gave a whistle, and about thirty men issued forth from the wood, some of them in various forms of disguise.
One had a deer's skin over his face, others had their faces and hands coloured with blue clay and other means.
These men angrily demanded from the solitary officer the sails which he had removed from the boat, but their requests were met by refusal.
The mob then seized hold of the sails, and a tussle followed, whereupon the officer threatened to shoot them.
He managed to retain hold of one sail, while the mob held the other and took it away.
About three o'clock in the afternoon the other officer returned with the Lymington Preventive officer, two Custom House men, and three dragoons.
They found the intoxicated soldiers, one of whom was lying prostrate on the field, while the other was ludicrously and vainly endeavouring to mount his horse.
The seven men now united, and got a rope by which they began to remove the boat from its hiding-place, when a great many more people came on to the scene in great indignation.
As many as fifty, at least, were now assembled, and threats and oaths were bandied about.
During this excitement some of the crowd cut the rope, while a man named Thomas Vye jumped into the boat, and rather than see her fall into the hands of the enemy, endeavoured to stave her in.
The remainder of the story is but brief.
For, at last, the seven men succeeded in pulling the boat away in spite of all the crowd's efforts, and dragged it even across a couple of fields, where there was a road.
Here a conveyance was waiting ready, and thus the boat was taken away, and at a later date Vye was duly prosecuted by the Crown for his share in the proceedings.
FOOTNOTES: [20] "Gays" was evidently trade slang to denote bandanna silk handkerchiefs, which were frequently smuggled, and some of which were found on board.
CHAPTER XVI ADMINISTRATIVE REFORMS By an Order in Council of May 5, 1821, it was directed that henceforth all sums which were awarded for arrests on shore of any person concerned in smuggling should be paid in the following proportions.
He who made the arrest was to have three-quarters of the reward, which was to be divided into equal proportions if there were more than one person.
If there were any officer or officers present at the time of arrest, these were to have one quarter of the reward.
The officer commanding the party was to have two shares, each of the other officers having one share.
The reward payable for a smuggler convicted and transferred to the Navy amounted to £20.
And here let it be added that the persons liable to arrest in regard to smuggling were: (1) Those found on smuggling vessels; (2) Those found unloading or assisting to unload such craft; (3) Those found to be carrying away the landed goods or concerned in hiding the same.
But before conviction it was essential to prove that the seized spirits were foreign; that the vessel had come from foreign parts; that the party who detained the smugglers was a Customs Officer; and that the offenders were taken before a proper magistrate.
We now come to the year 1821, when the Commissioners of Inquiry made an important report touching the Revenue service.
They suggested that the Riding Officers were not valuable in proportion to their cost, and so it came about that the Inspectors and superior officers, as well as a large number of the inferior classes, were dispensed with, but a small percentage of the lowest class was retained as a Preventive Mounted Guard, the annual cost of this being only the modest sum of £5000.
This Preventive Guard was to be employed in watching for any gatherings of smugglers, and whenever any goods might be landed and carried up into the country, they were to be followed up by the members of this guard.
They were also to maintain a communication between the different stations.
Up to the year 1821, from those early days of the seventeenth century and earlier, the Revenue cruisers were the most important of all the means employed for suppressing smuggling.
But the same inquiry which had made its recommendations regarding the Riding Officers also reported that the efficacy of the vessels employed in protecting the Revenue was not proportionate to the expense incurred in their maintenance.
They advised, therefore, that their numbers should be reduced, and that whereas they had in 1816 come under the care of the Admiralty, they should now be restored to the control of the Customs.
But the officers and crews of these cruisers were still to be selected by the Admiralty.
And thus in the year 1822 these recommendations were carried into effect, and a new order inaugurated.
It was by a Treasury Minute of February 15, 1822, that it was directed that the whole of the force employed for the prevention of smuggling "on the coast of this kingdom," was to be consolidated and transferred, and placed under the direction of the Customs Board.
This force was to consist of the cruisers, Preventive Water-guard, and Riding Officers.
And henceforth the commanders of cruisers were to receive their orders from the Controller-General of the Coastguard, who was to be responsible to the Board of Customs.
The one exception to this change was that the Coast Blockade on the coast of Kent and Sussex, which had shown itself so satisfactory that it was left unaltered.
The Preventive Water-guard became the Coastguard, and this--rather than the cruisers--should form the chief force for prevention of smuggling, the Riding Officers, or Preventive Mounted Guard, being merely auxiliary by land, and the cruisers merely auxiliary by sea.
To what extent the number of cruisers were reduced can be estimated by stating that whereas there were forty-seven of these Revenue craft employed in England in 1821, there were only thirty-three two years later, these consisting of the _Mermaid_, _Stag_, _Badger_, _Ranger_, _Sylvia_, _Scout_, _Fox_, _Lively_, _Hawk_, _Cameleon_, _Hound_, _Rose_, _Scourge_, _Repulse_, _Eagle_, _Tartar_, _Adder_, _Lion_, _Dove_, _Lapwing_, _Greyhound_, _Swallow_, _Active_, _Harpy_, _Royal George_, _Fancy_, _Cheerful_, _Newcharter_, _Fly_, _Seaflower_, _Nimble_, _Sprightly_, _Dolphin_.
The first-class cruisers were of 140 tons and upwards, the second class of from 100 to 140 tons, and the third class were under 100 tons.
In 1824 the cruisers on the Irish coast and the Scotch coast were also transferred to the Customs Board, and from that date the entire Coastguard service, with the exception of the Coast Blockade, was directed, as stated, by the Controller-General.
In the year 1829, the instructions were issued to the Coastguard.
Afloat, these applied to the commanders, mates, gunners, stewards, carpenters, mariners, and boys of the cruisers.
Ashore, they were applicable to the Chief Officers, Chief Boatmen, Mounted Guard, Commissioned Boatmen, and Boatmen, both sections being under their respective commanders.
Each member of the Mounted Guard was provided with a good horse and sword, with an iron scabbard of the Light Cavalry pattern, as well as a couple of pistols and ammunition.
The cruiser commanders were again enjoined to keep the sea in bad weather and at night, nor were they permitted to come to harbour except when really necessary.
In 1831 came the next change, when the Coastguard took the place of the Coast Blockade, which had done excellent duty for so many years in Kent and Sussex.
The aim was to make the Coastguard service national rather than departmental.
To promote the greatest efficiency it was become naval rather than civil.
It was to be for the benefit of the country as a nation, than for the protecting merely of its revenues.
Thus there was a kind of somersault performed; and the whole of the original idea capsized.
Whereas the Preventive service had been instituted for the benefit of the Customs, and then, as an after-thought, became employed for protection against the enemy across the Channel, so now it was to be exactly the other way on.
The Revenue was to be subservient to the greater and national factor.
In this same 1831, the number of cruisers had risen to thirty-five in England, but many of them had tenders.
There were altogether twenty-one of these latter and smaller craft, their tonnage varying from twenty-five to sixty.
And the next year the Mounted Guard was reorganised and the Riding Officers disappeared.
With the cordon of cruisers afloat, and the more efficient Coastguard service ashore, there was a double belt round our coasts, which could be relied upon both for national and Revenue services.
By this time, too, steam was invading the domain of the ship, and in 1839, besides the old-fashioned sailing cutters and tenders, there was a steamer named the _Vulcan_, of 200 tons, taken into the service, her duty being to cruise about and search for suspicious vessels.
In some parts of the country, also, there was assistance still rendered by the Mounted Guard for watching the roads leading inland from the beach to prevent goods being brought up.
With this increased efficiency it was but natural that a change should come over the character of the smuggling.
Force was fast going out of date.
Except for a number of rather startling occasions, but on the whole of exceptional occurrence, violence had gone out of fashion.
But because of the increased vigilance along the coast the smuggler was hard put to devise new methods of running his goods into the country without being surprised by the officials.
Most, if not all, of the old syndicates of French and Englishmen, who made smuggling a roaring trade, had died out.
The armed cutters had long since given way to the luggers as the smuggling craft.
Stealth had taken the place of violence, concealments and sunken goods were favoured rather than those daring and outrageous incursions which had been in the past wont to take place.
And yet, just as a long-standing illness cannot be cured at once, but keeps recurring, so there were periods when the smuggling disease kept breaking out and seemed to get worse.
Such a period was that between 1825 and 1843, but it was pointed out to the Treasury that so long as the high duties continued, "Your Lordships must look only to the efficiency of the Coastguard for the continued absence of successful enterprises, and that smuggling would immediately revive upon the slightest symptom of relaxation on the part of the Commissioners of Customs."
The service was therefore glad to encourage Naval Lieutenants to serve as Chief Officers of the Coastguard.
Among the general instructions issued to the Coastguard of the United Kingdom in 1841, were definite orders to the commanders of cruisers.
Thus, if ever a cruiser ran aground the commander was to report it, with full particulars of the case and extent of damage.
During the summer season the Inspecting Commanders were to take opportunities for trying the comparative speeds of these cruisers.
Whenever cruisers should meet at sea, in any roadstead or in any harbour, they were to hoist their ensigns and pendants as an acknowledgment that each had seen the other; and when both had thus hoisted their colours they might immediately be hauled down.
This was also to be done when one cruiser should pass another at anchor.
Cruisers were again reminded that they were to wear only the ensigns and pendants appointed for the Revenue service, and not such as are used in the Royal Navy.
Nor were salutes to be fired by cruisers except on particular and extraordinary occasions.
It was further ordered that no alteration was to be made in the hull, masts, yards, sails, or any fitments of the cruisers, without the sanction of the Controller-General.
To prevent unnecessary expense on fitting out or refitting of any of the cruisers, the use of leather was to be restricted to the following: the leathering of the main pendants, runners in the wake of the boats when in tackles, the collar of the mainstay, the nip of the main-sheet block strops, leathering the bowsprint traveller, the spanshackle for the bowsprit, topmast iron, the four reef-earings three feet from the knot.
All old copper, copper-sheathing, nails, lead, iron and other old materials which were of any value, were to be collected and allowed for by the tradesmen who perform the repairs.
New sails were to be tried as soon as received in order to ascertain their fitness.
Both boats and cruisers were also to be painted twice a year, above the water-line, this to be done by the crews themselves.
A general pilot was allowed for two months when a cruiser arrived on a new station, and an occasional pilot was permissible in cases of necessity, but only licensed pilots were to be employed.
General pilots were paid 6s.
a day as well as the usual rations of provisions.
The cruisers were provided with charts of the coast off which they were employed.
Naval officers holding appointments as Inspecting Commanders of cruisers, Chief Officers of stations and Mates of cruisers were ordered to wear the greatcoat established by any Admiralty regulation in force for the time being, with epaulettes, cap, and side-arms, according to their ranks.
Commanders of cruisers, if not naval officers, were to wear a blue lappel-coat, buttoned back with nine Coastguard uniform buttons and notched button-holes, plain blue stand-up collar with gold lace loop and button on each side thereof--the loop to be five inches long, and the lace three-quarters of an inch in breadth.
There were also to be three buttons and notched button-holes on each cuff and pocket, as well as three buttons in the folds of each skirt.
The waistcoat was to be white or blue kerseymere, with uniform buttons, white or blue pantaloons or trousers, with boots, a blue cloth cap similar in shape to those worn in the Royal Navy, with two bands of gold lace three-quarters of an inch broad, one at the top and the other at the bottom of the headpiece.
The sword was to have a plain lace knot and fringe tassel, with a black leather belt.
White trousers were worn on all occasions of inspection and other special occasions between April 23 and October 14.
Blue trousers were to be worn for the other months.
In 1849 the Select Committee on the Board of Customs expressed the opinion that the number of cruisers might be reduced, and the Landguard practically abolished; but it was deemed advisable that these protections being removed, the coastline of defence ought to be strengthened by securing the services of Naval Lieutenants who had retired from the Navy on half-pay.
So the number of cruisers and tenders which in 1844 had reached seventy-six, and in 1849 were fifty-two, had now sunk to fifty in the year 1850.
In 1854, on the outbreak of war with Russia, 3000 men were drafted into the Navy from the Coastguard, their places being filled by pensioners.
During the war considerable service was also rendered by the Revenue cruisers, by capturing the Russian ships in the Northern Seas, for we must recollect that, just as in the wars with France, there were two centres to be dealt with, viz., in the north and south.
The war with Russia, as regards the sea service, was prosecuted both in the Narrow Seas and in the Black Sea, and the Russian trade was badly cut up.
As many as eleven Russian ships were captured by means of these British cutters, and no less than eight of these prizes were condemned.
The fact is worthy of being borne in mind when considering the history of these craft which have long since passed from performing active service.
The next modification came in 1856, when it was resolved to transfer the control of the Coastguard to the Admiralty; for in spite of the great change which had been brought about in 1831, all the Coastguard officers and men while being appointed by the Admiralty, were none the less controlled by the Customs.
However, this condition was now altered, but in the teeth of opposition on the part of the Customs, who represented to the Treasury that considerable inconvenience would result from this innovation.
But on the 1st of October 1856, the control of the Coastguard was transferred to the Admiralty, as it had been foreshadowed.
And with that we see practically the last stage in the important development which had been going on for some years past.
It was practically the finale of the tendency towards making the service naval rather than civil.
For the moment, I am seeking to put the reader in possession of a general idea of the administrative features of the service, which is our subject, during the period between 1822-1856.
At the last-mentioned date our period devoted to cutters and smugglers practically ends.
But before proceeding to deal with the actual incidents and exciting adventures embraced by this period, it may be convenient just to mention that these changes were followed in 1869, when the services of civilians employed in any capacity in the Coastguard were altogether dispensed with, and since then the general basis of the Coastguard development has been for the better defence of our coasts, so as to be vigilant against any disembarkation by a foreign power, at the same time providing to a certain extent for the manning of the ships of the Royal Navy when required.
Thus, the old organisation, with which the Customs Board was so closely and for so long a time connected, changed its character when its sphere became national rather than particular.
Its duty henceforth was primarily for the protection of the country than for the prevention of smuggling.
But between 1822--when the Admiralty yielded up their responsibilities to the Customs Board--and the year 1856, when again the control was returned to the Admiralty, no material alterations were made in the methods of preventing smuggling, the most important event during that period--apart altogether from the actual smuggling incidents--was the change which had been brought about in 1831.
During the different reigns and centuries in which the smuggling evil had been at work, all sorts of anti-smuggling acts had been passed.
We can well understand that a certain amount of hasty, panic-driven legislation had from time to time been created according to the sudden increase of contraband running.
But all these laws had become so numerous, and their accumulation had made matters so intricate, that the time had come for some process of unravelling, straightening out, and summarising.
The systematising and clarification were affected by the Act of January 5, 1826 (6 Geo.
IV.
cap.
108).
And one of the most important features of this was to the effect that any vessel belonging wholly or in part to his Majesty's subjects, found within four leagues of the coast of the United Kingdom, with prohibited goods on board, and not proceeding on her voyage, was to be forfeited.
Any vessel or boat, not square-rigged, belonging wholly or in part to his Majesty's subjects, and found in the British (as it was then frequently designated) Channel or Irish Channel, or elsewhere within 100 leagues of the coast, with spirits or tobacco in casks or packages of less size than 40 gallons; or tea, tobacco, or snuff, in any package containing less than 450 lbs.
in weight--this craft was to be forfeited.
And vessels (not square-rigged), if found unlicensed, were also to be forfeited.
But whale-boats, fishing-boats, pilot's boats, purely inland boats, and boats belonging to square-rigged ships were exempt.
But, of course, smuggling was still very far from being dead, and the Revenue cruisers had always to be on the alert.
Some idea of the sphere of activity belonging to these may be gathered from the following list of cruiser stations existing in the early 'twenties.
The English cruiser stations consisted of: Deptford, Chatham, Sheerness, Portsmouth, Cowes, Weymouth, Exmouth, Plymouth, Fowey, Falmouth, Penzance, Milford, Berwick, Grimsby, Boston, North Yarmouth, Harwich, Gravesend, Dover, Poole, Brixham, Ilfracombe, Douglas (Isle of Man), Alderney, Dover, Seaford, Dartmouth, Holyhead, Southend (in the port of Leigh).
In Scotland there were: Leith, Montrose, Stranraer, Stornoway, Aberdeen, Cromarty, Campbeltown, Greenock.
In Ireland there were: Kingstown, Larne, Killibegs, Westport, Galway, Cork, and Dunmore East.
It was to such places as the above that the cruisers repaired for their provisions.
When smugglers had been captured and taken on board these cruisers they were allowed not to fare as well as the crew, but to have only two-thirds of the victuals permitted to the mariners.
In 1825 additional instructions were issued relating to the victualling of his Majesty's Revenue Cruisers, and in future every man per diem was to have:-One pound of biscuit, 1/3 of a pint of rum (wine measure), until the establishment of the imperial measure, when 1/4 of a pint was to be allowed, the imperial gallon being one-fifth greater than the wine gallon.
Each man was also to have 1 lb.
beef, 1/2 lb.
flour, or in lieu thereof 1/2 pint of oatmeal, 1/4 lb.
suet, or 1-1/2 oz.
of sugar or 1/4 oz.
of tea, also 1 lb.
of cabbage or 2 oz.
of Scotch barley.
They were to be provided with pure West India rum, of at least twelve months old.
Further regulations were also taken as to the nature of the men's grog.
"As it is considered extremely prejudicial to the health of the crew to suffer the allowance of spirits to be drank raw, the Commanders are to cause the same to be served out to them mixed with water, in the proportion of three parts water and one part spirits, to be so mixed and served out in presence of one of the mates, the boatswain, gunner, or carpenter, and one or two of the mariners."
Smugglers detained on board were not to have spirits.
Before proceeding to sea each cruiser was to have on board not less than two months' supply of salt beef, spirits; suet or sugar and tea in lieu, as well as Scotch barley.
With reference to the other articles of food, they were to carry as large a proportion as could be stowed away, with the exception of fresh beef and cabbages.
But two years prior to this, that is to say on April 5, 1823, the Board of Customs had reduced the victualling allowances, so that Commander and mates and superintendents of Quarantine received 2s.
6d.
a day each; mariners 1s.
3d.
; and mariners of lazarettes (hospitals 1s.
for quarantine) 1s.
3d.
a day.
As to the methods of the smugglers, these continued to become more and more ingenious, though there was a good deal of repetition of successful tricks until the Revenue officers had learnt these secrets, when some other device had to be thought out and employed.
Take the case of a craft called the _Wig Box_, belonging to John Punnett.
She was seized at Folkestone in the spring of 1822 by a midshipman of the Coast Blockade.
There were found on her six gallons of spirits, which were concealed in the following most ingenious manner.
She was quite a small vessel, but her three oars, her two masts, her bowsprit, and her bumpkin, had all been made hollow.
Inside these hollows tin tubes had been fitted to contain the above spirits, and there can be little doubt but that a good many other small craft had successfully employed these means until the day when the _Wig Box_ had the misfortune to be found out.
There is still preserved in the London Custom House a hollow wooden fend-off which was slung when a ship was alongside a quay.
No one for a long time ever thought of suspecting that this innocent-looking article could be full of tobacco, lying as it was under the very eyes of the Customs officers of the port.
And in 1820 three other boats were seized in one port alone, having concealed prohibited goods in a square foremast and outrigger, each spar being hollowed out from head to foot and the ends afterwards neatly plugged and painted.
Another boat was seized and brought into Dover with hollow yards to her lugsails, and a hollow keel composed of tin but painted to look like wood, capable of holding large quantities of spirits.
But there was a very notorious vessel named the _Asp_, belonging to Rye, her master's name being John Clark, her size being just under 24 tons.
In 1822 she was seized and found to have a false bow, access to which was by means of two scuttles, one on each side of the stem.
These scuttles were fitted with bed-screws fixed through false timbers into the real timbers, and covered with pieces of cork resembling treenails.
The concealment afforded space for no fewer than fifty flat tubs besides dry goods.
But in 1824 another vessel of the same name and port, described as a smack, was also arrested at Rye, and found to have both tobacco and silk goods concealed.
This was effected by means of a false bottom to the ship, which extended as far aft as the ballast bulkhead.
The entrance to the concealment was by means of a couple of scuttles on each side of her false keelson, these scuttles being screwed down in such a manner as also to be imperceptible.
Also on either side of her cabin there were other hiding-places underneath the berths, and so constructed that they deceived more than one Revenue officer who came aboard to rummage her.
The latter had bored holes through the lining, so as to try the distance of that lining from the supposed side of the vessel.
Finding this distance not to exceed the fair allowance for the vessel's scuttling, the officers had gone ashore quite satisfied.
From the number of gimlet-holes in the lining it was clear that the officers had been imposed upon considerably.
But what these officers had taken for the side of the ship was only an intermediary planking, the actual concealment being between that and the vessel's side.
To get to the entrance of these concealments, the bedding had to be taken out, which they had no doubt omitted to do.
But if they had done this they would have been able properly to get to the lining, when two small pieces of wood about an inch square let into the plank made themselves apparent.
And these, if removed with the point of a knife or chisel, brought small pieces of cork (circular in shape) to become visible.
As soon as these corks were removed, the heads of bed-screws were observable, and these being unscrewed allowed two boards running the whole lengths of the berths to be taken up, by which means were revealed the concealments capable of containing a considerable quantity of dry goods.
Somewhat reminiscent of this ship was the French vessel, _St.
Antoine_, which was seized at Shoreham.
She had come from Dieppe, and her master was named A. Fache.
The after part of her cabin was fitted with two cupboards which had shelves that took down, the back of which was supposed to be the lining of the transom.
But on taking the same up, timbers showed themselves.
On examining the planks closely, it was noticed that they overlapped each other, the timbers being made to act as fastenings.
On striking the lower end of the false timbers on one side, it moved round on a bolt, and one plank with a timber was made to shift on each side of the false stern-post, forming a stern-frame with the other.
Below the cupboards down to the run of the vessel the same principle was followed.
The entrance to this was by taking down the seats and lockers in the cabin, and a false stern-post appeared to be fastened with a forelock and ring, but by unfastening the same, the false stern-post and middle plank could be taken down.
Two ingenious instances of the sinking of contraband goods were found out about the year 1823, and both occurred within that notorious south-east corner of England.
The first of these belongs to Sandwich, where three half-ankers of foreign spirits were seized floating, being hidden in a sack, a bag of shingle weighing 30 lbs.
being used to act as a sinker.
Attached to the sack were an inflated bladder and about three fathoms of twine, together with a small bunch of feathers to act as a buoy to mark the spot.
When this arrangement was put into use it was found that the bladder kept the sack floating one foot below the surface of the water.
The feathers were to mark the spot where the sack, on being thrown overboard, might bring up in case any accident had occurred to the bladder.
At spring tides the rush of the water over the Sandwich flats causes a good deal of froth which floats on the surface.
The reader must often have observed such an instance on many occasions by the sea.
The exact colour is a kind of dirty yellow, and this colour being practically identical with that of the bladder, it would be next to impossible to tell the difference between froth and bladder at any distance, and certainly no officer of the Revenue would look for such things unless he had definite knowledge beforehand.
[Illustration: The Sandwich Device.
In the sack were three half-ankers.
A bag of shingle acted as sinker, and the bladder kept the sack floating.]
The second occurrence took place at Rye.
A seizure was made of twelve tubs of spirits which had been sunk by affixing to the head of each a circular piece of sheet lead which just fitted into the brim of the cask, and was there kept in its place by four nails.
The weight of the lead was 9 lbs., and the tubs, being lashed longitudinally together, rolled in a tideway unfettered, being anchored by the usual lines and heavy stones.
The leads sank the casks to the bottom in 2-1/2 fathoms of water, but at that depth they in specific gravity so nearly approximated to their equal bulk of fluid displaced that they could scarcely be felt on the finger.
The leads were cast in moulds to the size required, and could be repeatedly used for the same purpose, and it was thought that the smuggling vessels, after coming across the Channel and depositing their cargoes, would on a later voyage be given back these pieces of lead to be affixed to other casks.
A clinker-built boat of about 26 tons burthen named the _St.
François_, the master of which was named Jean Baptiste La Motte, of and from Gravelines, crossed the North Sea and passed through the Forth and Clyde Canal in the year 1823 to Glasgow.
Nominally she had a cargo of apples and walnuts, her crew consisting of six men besides the master.
She was able to land part of her cargo of "apples" at Whitby and the rest at Glasgow, and afterwards, repassing safely through the canal again, returned to Gravelines.
But some time after her departure from Scotland it was discovered that she had brought no fruit at all, but that what appeared to be apples were so many portions of lace made up into small boxes of the size of apples and ingeniously painted to resemble that fruit.
As showing that, even as late as the year 1824, the last of the armed cutters had not been yet seen, we may call attention to the information which was sent to the London Custom House through the Dublin Customs.
The news was to the effect that in February of that year there was in the harbour of Flushing, getting ready for sea, whither she would proceed in three or four days, a cutter laden with tobacco, brandy, Hollands, and tea.
She was called the _Zellow_, which was a fictitious name, and was a vessel of 160 tons with a crew of forty men, copper-bottomed and pierced for fourteen guns.
She was painted black, with white mouldings round the stern.
Her boom also was black, so were her gaff and masthead.
The officers were warned to keep a look-out for her, and informed that she had a large strengthening fish on the upper side of the boom, twenty cloths in the head, and twenty-eight in the foot of the mainsail.
It was reported that she was bound for Ballyherbert, Mountain Foot, and Clogher Head in Ireland, but if prevented from landing there she was consigned to Ormsby of Sligo and Burke of Connemara.
In the event of her failing there also she had on board two "spotsmen" or pilots for the coast of Kerry and Cork.
There was also a lugger at the same time about to proceed from Flushing to Wexford.
This vessel was of from 90 to 100 tons, was painted black, with two white mouldings and a white counter.
She carried on her deck a large boat which was painted white also.
Tobacco was discovered concealed in rather a curious manner on another vessel.
She had come from St. John, New Brunswick, with a cargo of timber, and the planks had been hollowed out and filled with tobacco, but it was so cleverly done that it was a long time before it was detected.
All sorts of vessels and of many rigs were fitted with places of concealment, and there was even a 50-ton cutter named the _Alborough_, belonging to London, employed in this business, which had formerly been a private yacht, but was now more profitably engaged running goods from Nieuport in Belgium to Hull.
The descriptions of some of these craft sent to the various outports, so that a smart look-out for them might be kept up, are certainly valuable to us, as they preserve a record of a type of craft that has altered so much during the past century as almost to be forgotten.
The description of the sloop _Jane_, for instance, belonging to Dumbarton in 1824, is worth noting by those who are interested in the ships of yesterday.
Sloop-rigged, and carvel built, she had white mouldings over a yellow streak, and her bulwark was painted green inside.
Her cross-jack yards,[21] as they are called, her bowsprit-boom, her gaff and studding-sail boom were all painted white, and she had three black hoops on the mast under the hounds.
Her sails were all white, but her square topsail and topgallant-yards were black.
The _Jane_ was a 90-tonner.
The reader will remember considering some time back an open boat which was fitted with hollow stanchions under the thwarts, so that through these stanchions ropes might pass through into the water below.
I have come across a record of a smack registered in the port of London under the singularly inappropriate name of the _Good Intent_.
She was obviously built or altered with the sole intention of being employed in smuggling.
I need say nothing of her other concealments under the cabin berths and so on, as they were practically similar to those on the _Asp_.
But it was rather exceptional to find on so big a craft as the _Good Intent_ a false stanchion immediately abaft the fore scuttle.
Through this stanchion ran a leaden pipe about two inches in diameter, and this went through the keelson and garboard strake, so that by this means a rope could be led through and into the vessel, while at the other end a raft of tubs could be towed through the water.
By hauling tightly on to this line the kegs could be kept beautifully concealed under the bilge of the vessel, so that even in very clear water it would not be easy to suspect the presence of these tubs.
The other end of this pipe came up through the ship until it was flush with the deck, and where this joined the latter a square piece of lead was tarred and pitched so as scarcely to be perceived.
There must indeed have been a tremendous amount of thought, as well as the expenditure of a great deal of time and money, in creating these methods of concealment, but since they dared not now to use force it was all they could do.
FOOTNOTES: [21] The cro'jack yard was really the lower yard of a full-rigged ship on the mizzen-mast, to the arms of which the clews or lower corners of the mizzen-topsail were extended.
But as sloops were fore-and-aft craft it is a little doubtful what is here meant.
Either it may refer to the barren yard below the square topsail carried by the sloops of those days--the clews actually were extended to this yard's arms--or the word may have been the equivalent of what we nowadays call cross-trees.
CHAPTER XVII SMUGGLING BY CONCEALMENTS Second cousin to the method of filling oars and spars with spirits was that adopted by a number of people whose homes and lives were connected with the sea-shore.
They would have a number of shrimping nets on board, the usual wooden handles being fitted at one end of these nets.
But these handles had been purposely made hollow, so that round tin cases could be fitted in.
The spirits then filled these long cavities, and whether they caught many shrimps or not was of little account, for dozens of men could wade ashore with these nets and handles on their backs and proceed to their homes without raising a particle of suspicion.
It was well worth doing, for it was calculated that as much as 2-1/2 gallons of spirit could be poured into each of these hollow poles.
Collier-brigs were very fond of smuggling, and among others mention might be made of the _Venus_ of Rye, an 80-ton brig which between January and September one year worked three highly profitable voyages, for besides her ordinary cargo she carried each time 800 casks of spirits, these being placed underneath the coals.
There was also the brig _Severn_ of Bristol, which could carry about five keels of coal, but seldom carried more than four, the rest of the space of course being made up with contraband.
In 1824 she worked five voyages, and on each occasion she carried, besides her legitimate cargo, as much as eight tons of tobacco under her coals.
And there was a Danish-built sloop named the _Blue-eyed Lass_ belonging to Shields, with a burthen of 60 odd tons, also employed in the coal trade.
She was a very suspicious vessel, and was bought subsequently by the people of Rye to carry on similar work to the other smuggling craft.
All sorts of warnings were sent to the Customs Board giving them information that _The Rose in June_ (needless to say of Rye) was about to have additional concealments added.
She was of 37 tons burthen, and had previously been employed as a packet boat.
They were also warned that George Harrington, a noted smuggler resident at Eastbourne, intended during the winter months to carry on the contraband trade, and to land somewhere between Southampton and Weymouth.
He had made arrangements with a large number of men belonging to Poole and the neighbouring country, and had obtained a suitable French lugger.
In 1826 the smacks _Fox_ and _Lovely Lass_ of Portsmouth were seized at that port with kegs of spirits secreted under their bottoms in a thin contemporary casing, as shown in the accompanying diagram.
The ingenious part of this trick was that there was no means of communication into the concealment from the interior of the vessel.
Thus any officer coming aboard to search would have little or no reason to suspect her.
But it was necessary every time this vessel returned from abroad with her contraband for her to be laid ashore, and at low water the kegs could be got at externally.
To begin with there were pieces of plank two inches thick fastened to the timbers by large nails.
Then, between the planks and the vessel's bottom the tubs were concealed.
The arrangement was exceeding simple yet wonderfully clever.
Practically this method consisted of filling up the hollow below the turn of the bilge.
It would certainly not improve the vessel's speed, but it would give her an efficacious means of stowing her cargo of spirits out of the way.
And it was because of such incidents as this last mentioned that orders were sent to all ports for the local craft and others to be examined frequently _ashore_ no less than afloat, in order that any false bottom might be detected.
And the officers were to be careful and see that the name of the ship and her master painted on a ship corresponded with the names in her papers.
Even open boats were found fitted with double bottoms, as for instance the _Mary_, belonging to Dover.
She was only 14 feet long with 5 feet 9-1/2 inches beam, but she had both a double bottom and double sides, in which were contained thirty tin cases to hold 29 gallons of spirits.
Her depth from gunwale to the top of her ceiling[22] originally was 2 feet 8-1/2 inches.
But the depth from the gunwale to the false bottom was 2 feet 5-3/4 inches.
The concealment ran from the stem to the transom, the entrance being made by four cuttles very ingeniously and neatly fitted, with four nails fore and aft through the timbers to secure them from moving--one on each side of the keelson, about a foot forward of the keelson under the fore thwart.
Even Thames barges were fitted with concealments; in fact there was not a species of craft from a barque to a dinghy that was not thus modified for smuggling.
The name of the barge was the _Alfred_ of London, and she was captured off Birchington one December day in 1828.
She pretended that she was bound from Arundel with a cargo of wood hoops, but when she was boarded she had evidently been across to "the other side"; for there was found 1045 tubs of gin and brandy aboard her when she was captured, together with her crew, by a boat sent from the cruiser _Vigilant_.
The discovery was made by finding an obstruction about three feet deep from the top of the coamings, which induced the Revenue officer to clear away the bundles of hoops under the fore and main hatchways.
He then discovered a concealment covered over with sand, and on cutting through a plank two inches thick the contraband was discovered.
The accompanying diagram shows the sloop _Lucy_ of Fowey, William Strugnell master.
On the 14th of December 1828 she was seized at Chichester after having come from Portsmouth in ballast.
She was found to be fitted with the concealment shown in the plan, and altogether there were 100 half-ankers thus stowed away, 50 being placed on each side of her false bottom.
She was just over 35 tons burthen, and drew four feet of water, being sloop rigged, as many of the barges in those days were without the little mizzen which is so familiar to our eyes to-day.
[Illustration: The Sloop _Lucy_ showing Concealments.]
Cases of eggs sent from Jersey were fitted with false sides in which silks were smuggled; trawlers engaged in sinking tubs of spirits; a dog-kennel was washed ashore from a vessel that foundered off Dungeness, and on being examined this kennel was found to be fitted with a false top to hold 30 lbs.
of tobacco; an Irish smack belonging to Cork was specially fitted for the contraband trade, having previously actually been employed as a Coastguard watch-boat.
There was a vessel named _Grace_ manned by three brothers--all notorious smugglers--belonging to Coverack (Cornwall).
This vessel used to put to sea by appointment to meet a French vessel, and having from her shipped the contraband the _Grace_ would presently run the goods ashore somewhere between Land's End and Newport, South Wales; in fact, all kinds of smuggling still went on even after the first quarter of that wonderful nineteenth century.
About the year 1831 five casks imported from Jersey was alleged to contain cider, but on being examined they were found to contain something else as well.
The accompanying sketch represents the plan of one of these.
From this it will be seen that the central space was employed for holding the cider, but the ends were full of tobacco being contained in two tin cases.
In this diagram No.
1 represents the bung, No.
2 shows the aperture on each side through which the tobacco was thrust into the tin cases which are marked by No.
3, the cider being contained in the central portion marked 4.
Thus the usual method of gauging a cask's contents was rendered useless, for unless a bent or turned rod were employed it was impossible to detect the presence of these side casks for the tobacco.
[Illustration: Cask for Smuggling Cider.]
One may feel a little incredulous at some of the extraordinary yarns which one hears occasionally from living people concerning the doings of smugglers.
A good deal has doubtless arisen as the result of a too vivid imagination, but, as we have shown from innumerable instances, there is quite enough that is actual fact without having recourse to invention.
I know of a certain port in our kingdom where there existed a legend to the effect that in olden days the smugglers had no need to bring the tubs in with them, but that if they only left them outside when the young flood was making, those tubs would find their own way in to one particular secluded spot in that harbour.
A number of amateur enthusiasts debated the point quite recently, and a wager was made that such a thing was not possible.
But on choosing a winter's day, and throwing a number of barrels into the water outside the entrance, it was found that the trend of the tide was always to bring them into that corner.
But, you will instantly say, wouldn't the Coastguard in the smuggling days have seen the barrels as they came along the top of the water?
The answer is certainly in the affirmative.
But the smugglers used to do in the "scientific" period as follows, and this I have found in a document dated 1833, at which time the device was quite new, at least to the Customs officials.
Let us suppose that the vessel had made a safe passage from France, Holland, or wherever she had obtained the tubs of spirits.
She had eluded the cruisers and arrived off the harbour entrance at night just as the flood tide was making.
Overboard go her tubs, and away she herself goes to get out of the sphere of suspicion.
These tubs numbered say sixty-three, and were firmly lashed together in a shape very similar to a pile of shot--pyramid fashion.
The tops of the tubs were all painted white, but the raft was green.
Below this pyramid of tubs were attached two grapnel anchors, and the whole contrivance could float in anything above seven feet of water.
It was so designed that the whole of the tubs came in on the tide below water, only three being partially visible, and their white colour made them difficult to be seen among the little waves.
But as soon as they came to the spot where there were only seven feet of water the two grapnels came into action and held the tubs moored like a ship.
And as the tide rose, so it completely obliterated them.
Some one was of course on the look-out for his spirits, and when the tide had dropped it was easy enough to wade out and bring the tubs ashore, or else "sweep" them ashore with a long rope that dragged along the bottom of the harbour.
During the year 1834 smuggling was again on the increase, especially on the south and east coasts, and it took time for the officers to learn all these new-fangled tricks which were so frequently employed.
Scarcely had the intricacies of one device been learnt than the smugglers had given up that idea and taken to something more ingenious still.
Some time back we called attention to the way in which the Deal boatmen used to walk ashore with smuggled tea.
About the year 1834 a popular method of smuggling tea, lace, and such convenient goods was to wear a waistcoat or stays which contained eighteen rows well stuffed with 8 lbs.
weight of tea.
The same man would also wear a pair of drawers made of stout cotton secured with strong drawing strings and stuffed with about 16 lbs.
of tea.
Two men were captured with nine parcels of lace secreted about their bodies, a favourite place being to wind it round the shins.
Attempts were also made to smuggle spun or roll tobacco from New York by concealing them in barrels of pitch, rosin, bales of cotton, and so on.
In the case of a ship named the _Josephine_, from New York, the Revenue officers found in one barrel of pitch an inner package containing about 100 lbs.
of manufactured tobacco.
[Illustration: The Smack _Tam O'Shanter_ showing Method of Concealment (see Text).]
The accompanying plan of the smack _Tam O'Shanter_ (belonging to Plymouth), which was seized by the Padstow Coastguard, will show how spirits were sometimes concealed.
This was a vessel of 72 tons with a fore bulkhead and a false bulkhead some distance aft of that.
This intervening space, as will be seen, was filled up with barrels.
Her hold was filled with a cargo of coals, and then aft of this came the cabin with berths on either side, as shown.
But under these berths were concealments for stowing quite a number of tubs, as already explained.
A variation of the plan, previously mentioned, for smuggling by means of concealments in casks was that which was favoured by foreign ships which traded between the Continent and the north-east coasts of England and Scotland.
In this case the casks which held the supplies of drinking water were fitted with false sides and false ends.
The inner casks thus held the fresh water, but the outer casks were full of spirits.
After the introduction of steam, one of the first if not the very first instance of steamship smuggling by concealment was that occurring in 1836, when a vessel was found to have had her paddle-boxes so lined that they could carry quite a large quantity of tobacco and other goods.
Another of those instances of ships fitted up specially for smuggling was found in the French smack _Auguste_, which is well worth considering.
She was, when arrested, bound from Gravelines, and could carry about fifty tubs of spirits or, instead, a large amount of silk and lace.
Under the ladder in the forepeak there was a potato locker extending from side to side, and under this, extending above a foot or more before it, was the concealment.
Further forward were some loose planks forming a hatch, under which was the coal-hole.
This appeared to go as far as the bulkhead behind the ladder, and had the concealment been full, it could never have been found, but in walking over where the coals were, that part of the concealment which extended beyond the locker which was empty sounded hollow: whereupon the officers pulled up one of the planks and discovered the hiding-place.
It was decided in 1837 that, in order to save the expense of breaking up a condemned smuggling vessel, in future the ballast, mast, pumps, bulkheads, platforms, and cabins should be taken out from the vessel: and that the hull should then be cut into pieces not exceeding six feet long.
Such pieces were then to be sawn in a fore-and-aft direction so as to cut across the beams and thwarts and render the hull utterly useless.
The accompanying sketch well illustrates the ingenuity which was displayed at this time by the men who were bent on running goods.
What is here represented is a flat-bottomed boat, which perhaps might never have been discovered had it not been driven ashore near to Selsey Bill during the gales of the early part of 1837.
The manner in which this craft was employed was to tow her for a short distance and then to cast her adrift.
She was fitted with rowlocks for four oars, but apparently these had never been used.
Three large holes were bored in her bottom, for the purpose which we shall presently explain.
[Illustration: Flat-Bottomed Boat found off Selsey.
The sketch shows longitudinal plan, the method of covering with net, and midship section.]
Built very roughly, with half-inch deal, and covered over with a thin coat of white paint, she had a grommet at both bow and stern.
She measured only 16 feet long and 4 feet wide, with a depth of 2 feet 2 inches.
It will be noticed that she had no thwarts.
Her timbers were of bent ash secured with common French nails, and alongside the gunwales were holes for lacing a net to go over the top of this boat.
Her side was made of three deal planks, the net being made of line, and of the same size as the line out of which the tub-slings were always made.
The holes in her floor were made for the water to get in and keep her below the surface, and the net, spreading from gunwale to gunwale, prevented her cargo of tubs from being washed out.
It was in order to have ample and unfettered room for the tubs that no thwarts were placed.
She would be towed astern of a smack or lugger under the water, and having arrived at the appointed spot the towrope would be let go, and the grapnels attached to both grommets at bow and stern would cause her to bring up when in sufficiently shallow water.
Later on, at low tide, the smugglers' friends could go out in their boats with a weighted line or hawser and sweep along the bottom of the sea, and soon locate her and tow her right in to the beach.
In order to prevent certain obvious excuses being made by dishonest persons, all British subjects were distinctly forbidden to pick up spirits found in these illegal half-ankers, only officers of the Royal Navy, the Customs, and the Excise being permitted so to do.
But it was not always that the Revenue cruisers were employed in catching smugglers.
We have pointed out that their duties also included Quarantine work.
In the spring of 1837 it was represented to the Treasury that there was much urgent distress prevailing in certain districts of the Highlands and Western Islands of Scotland owing to the failure of the last harvest.
Sir John Hill was therefore directed to proceed to Scotland and take such steps as might be necessary for the immediate supply of seed, corn, and potatoes, and the officers and commanders of the Revenue cruisers were directed to afford him every assistance.
[Illustration: Plan of the Schooner _Good Intent_ showing Method of Smuggling Casks.]
In the previous chapter attention was called to the singular inappropriateness of calling a smuggling vessel the _Good Intent_.
That was a smack belonging to the year 1824, which was found at Rye.
But this name seems to have had a certain amount of popularity among these ingenious gentlemen, for there was a smuggling schooner named the _Good Intent_ which was seized in the year 1837.
How cleverly and effectively she was fitted up for a smuggling voyage can be ascertained by considering the accompanying longitudinal plan.
She had a burthen of 72 tons, and was captured by the Revenue cruiser _Sylvia_ in Mount's Bay on the 14th of March.
The plan denotes her principal features, including her sail-room and general store right aft.
Immediately forward of this was the first concealment on the port side only.
Entrance was gained by means of a slide which was nailed up, and here many casks could easily be stored.
Next to this came the after bulkhead, but forward of this was also a false bulkhead, the distance between the real and the false being 2-1/2 feet, and affording a space to contain 138 kegs.
Under the cabin were coals, and around the coals under the cabin deck were placed some kegs.
The fore bulkhead had also a false bulkhead 2 feet 5 inches apart, and this space held as many as 148 kegs.
Under the deck of the forepeak were also 21 kegs.
The length of these kegs was 17 inches, and they were nearly a foot in diameter.
Each cask contained 4-1/2 gallons of French brandy.
This vessel was found to have merely limestone ballast in her hold, but her illicit cargo was more valuable to her than if she had been fully laden with the commodity which she usually and legitimately traded in.
Later in the same year, and by the same cruiser _Sylvia_, this time off Land's End, the Jersey schooner _Spartan_, a vessel of 36-1/2 tons, was seized, as she was found to be fitted up with similar concealments (see sketch).
[Illustration: The Schooner _Spartan_.
1.
Hollow beam.
2.
Opening for entering No.
3.
3.
Place of concealment.]
One day about the middle of the last century a 16-ton Grimsby fishing-smack named _Lord Rivers_ left her native port and journeyed south.
Her owner and master was in a dismal frame of mind, and complained to his mate that things were pretty bad, and he was becoming remarkably poor.
The fishing was not prospering so far as he was concerned, and so after thinking the matter over he was proposing to take the ship over to Boulogne and get a cargo of between thirty and forty gallons of spirits.
His mate heard what he had to say and agreed to go with him.
So to Boulogne they proceeded, where they purchased the spirits from a dealer, who brought the spirits on board, not in casks but in skins and bladders, making about fifty in all.
These were deposited in the smack's hold, and she then cleared out of harbour and went to the fishing-grounds, where, to make matters appear all right, she remained twenty-four hours, for the purpose of obtaining some oysters by dredging.
Whilst on the fishing-grounds the spirits were stowed in a neat concealment at the stern of the vessel on both sides abaft the hatchway.
Before long the smack got going and ran into Dover with the oysters and her spirits, lowered her sails, and made everything snug.
In due course the bladders of spirits were got out of the hold in small numbers, and placed in baskets and covered over with a sufficiently thick layer of oysters to prevent their presence being detected.
These baskets were taken to a neighbouring tap-room, the landlord of which bought as much as he wanted, and a local poulterer bought the rest of the spirits and oysters as well.
[Illustration: Deck Plan and Longitudinal Plan of the _Lord Rivers_ (see Text).]
But the local Coastguard had for a long time been suspicious of this vessel, and evidently this was not her first voyage in the smuggling trade.
He had watched and followed the man who took the bladders ashore, and now came on board to see what he could find.
The deck plan will clearly convey to the reader the way in which the smack was fitted up with concealments.
The letters A and A indicate two portions of the deck planking, each portion being about a couple of feet long.
These were movable, and fitted into their places with a piece of spun-yarn laid into the seams, and over this was laid some putty blackened on the top.
At first sight they appeared to be part of the solid planking of the deck, but on obtaining a chisel they were easily removed.
There was now revealed the entrance to a space on each side of the rudder-case in the false stern capable of containing thirty or forty gallons of spirits.
This in itself was conclusive, but when the Coastguard also found that the putty in the seams was soft and fresh, and that a strong smell of spirits emanated from this cavity, it was deemed that there was more than adequate reason for arresting the smack even though the hold was quite empty.
Thus the _Lord Rivers_ came to a bad end.
FOOTNOTES: [22] The ceiling of a ship signified the inside planks.
CHAPTER XVIII BY SEA AND LAND Having now seen the evolution of the smuggling methods from brute force and superiority of ships and crews to the point where the landing of dutiable goods became a fine art, and having been able to obtain an idea of the manifold changes which occurred in the administration of the Preventive service between the years 1674 and 1856, we may now resume our narrative of the interesting encounters which occurred between the smugglers on the one hand and the Preventive force on the other.
Up to the year 1822 we have dealt with the different incidents which used to go on around our coast, and we shall now be in a position to appreciate to their full the notable exploits of cruisers and smugglers in that late period between the years 1822 and 1856.
This covers the epoch when improved architecture in regard to the craft employed, greater vigilance on the part of the cruisers, and a keener artfulness in the smugglers themselves were at work.
Consequently some of these contests represent the best incidents in the whole history of smuggling.
But it was not always that the Revenue cruisers and Preventive boats were in the right.
There were occasions when the commanders suffered from too much zeal, though certainly these were quite exceptional.
There is the case of the _Drencher_ which well illustrates this.
She was a Dutch vessel which had been on her voyage to Italy, and was now returning home up the English Channel with a cargo of oil, bound for Amsterdam.
Being somewhat square and ample of form, with the characteristic bluff bows much beloved by her countrymen, and being also very foul on her bottom through long voyaging, she was only a dull sailer.
[23] And such being the case, when she fell in with head winds her skipper and part-owner, Peter Crook, decided to let go anchor under Dungeness, where many a sailing craft then, as to-day, has taken shelter in similar circumstances.
Whilst she was at anchor waiting for a favourable slant, one of the numerous fishing-boats which are always to be seen hereabouts came alongside the _Drencher_[24] and asked the skipper if he required any assistance.
Crook replied that if the wind was still ahead, and he was compelled to remain there till the next day, he would want some fuel for his stove.
The fisherman sold some of his catch to the Dutchman, and then went on his way.
But soon after this a boat in the Preventive service, commanded by a Mr. MacTavish, a midshipman, came alongside and boarded the _Drencher_.
The midshipman inquired what the Dutchman had had to do with the fishing-boat, and Crook answered that he had done nothing except to purchase some fish.
But this did not satisfy Mr. MacTavish, who proceeded now to examine what was on board.
Of course he found some casks of spirits, and asked Crook how they came to be there, to which Crook answered that they had been found floating in a former voyage and he had picked them up.
This looked doubtful, but it was quite probable, for often the weights of stones from sunken tubs broke adrift and the tubs floated up to the surface.
Especially was this the case after bad weather.
We can well understand the midshipman's suspicions, and need not be surprised to learn that he felt justified in seizing the ship because of these tubs found on board.
He had the anchor broken out, the sails hoisted, and took her first into Dover, and afterwards from Dover to Ramsgate, where most of her cargo was unloaded.
But after a time she was ordered to be released and allowed to proceed to Holland, and later still her skipper brought an action against MacTavish for having been wrongfully detained for thirty days, for which demurrage he claimed four guineas a day, besides damage to her cable and other things, amounting in all to £208.
The reader will recollect that in another chapter we saw a couple of sailing craft dodging about suspiciously in West Bay, one of which began to fire signals to the other in order to warn her of the Preventive boat: and we saw that the crew of three men in the offending craft were arrested and found guilty.
One of these men, it will be remembered, was John Bartlett, who had at one time been a boy on a Revenue cutter.
From the incident which led to his arrest in 1819 let us pass to the 14th of September 1823.
The scene is again West Bay, and the old passion is still strong in Bartlett notwithstanding his sentence.
A little to the west of Bridport (Dorset) is Seatown, and just beyond that comes Golden Cape.
On the night of the above date one of the Seatown Revenue officers about 1 A.M. noticed flashes coming from the cliff between Seatown and Golden Cape.
He proceeded to the cliff, which at high-water runs straight up out of the sea.
It was a dark night with no moon, a little breeze, and only slight surf on the shore--ideal conditions for any craft bent on smuggling.
On the cliff the officer, named Joseph Davey, espied a man.
He hailed him, thinking it was some one else, and asked him if he were Joey Foss.
"Yes," came back the answer, but when the officer seized him he discovered it was not Foss but the notorious John Bartlett.
Up came another Revenue man named Thomas Nines to assist Davey, but in a few minutes Bartlett gave a loud whistle, whereupon Nines looked out seaward and exclaimed, "There's a boat."
"I sees him," answered Davey as the craft was approaching the shore.
By this time, also, there were ten or twelve men coming towards the officers, and Bartlett managed to run down to the shore, shouting "Keep off!"
"Keep off!"
as loudly as he could.
The officers ran too, but the boat turned round and put off to sea again.
In the course of a few minutes there rose up a large fire on the cliff, about a hundred yards from where the officers were.
It was another signal of warning to the boat.
For Bartlett, having got away from the officers, had doubtless lit this, since it flared up near to where he was seen to run.
The officers remained on the coast until daylight, and then launching their boat rowed a little way from the shore, and found a new buoy moored just by the spot where the lugger had been observed to turn round when hailed and warned.
It was clear, on examination, that the buoy had not been in the water many hours, and after "creeping" along the sea bottom hereabouts they brought up sixty kegs, which were also quite new, and had evidently only been sunk when Bartlett sung out his warning.
The latter was again arrested, and found guilty when subsequently tried.
So again Bartlett had to retire from smuggling.
It happened only a few weeks before this incident that a seaman named Willis was on shore with his officer.
Willis belonged to H.M.S.
_Severn_, which was moored off Dover for the prevention of smuggling.
The officer was a naval midshipman named Hope, stationed ashore.
Whilst on their duty they began to notice a man, whose name was William Clarke, near Chalk Fall, carrying a basket of nets and fishing lines.
For a time both Willis and Hope took shelter under the Chalk Cliff as it was raining, but presently Willis separated from his officer to go to his appointed station.
It occurred to him that Clarke appeared to be unnecessarily stout, and he was sure that he was trying to smuggle something.
Willis went up to him and said he intended to search him, to which Clarke replied, "Certainly."
He admitted he had some liquor there, but he hoped Willis would take no notice of it.
The seaman insisted that he must take notice, for if it turned out to be foreign spirits he must seize it: whereupon Clarke flung down a couple of half-crowns and asked him to say nothing about it.
Willis again protested that he must see what the man had beneath his gabardine.
But at this Clarke took a knife from his pocket and cut a large bladder which he had under his clothes, containing half a gallon of spirits, and a spirituous liquor poured out on to the ground.
Willis put his finger to it and found that it was foreign brandy.
But the amusing legal aspect of this incident was that this foreign liquor could not be seized, nor could the man be prosecuted for having it, and it could not be condemned.
But Clarke had indeed destroyed that which he had so early brought safely home.
This was just one instance of the good work which the Coast Blockade was performing, Willis and other seamen being landed every night from H.M.S.
_Severn_ to act as guard at different points along the coast.
In the annals of smugglers and cruisers there are few more notable incidents than that which occurred on the 13th of January 1823, in the English Channel.
On this day the Revenue cutter _Badger_ was cruising off the French coast under the command of Lieutenant Henry Nazer, R.N.
He was an officer of the Excise, but the cutter at that time was in the service of the Customs, her station being from the South Foreland to Dungeness.
About 7.30 A.M. the officer of the watch came below and told him something, whereupon Nazar hurried on deck and observed a suspicious sail on the starboard tack, the wind being E.S.E.
The _Badger_ was at that time about nine or ten miles off the French coast, somewhere abreast of Etaples, and about six or seven leagues from the English shore.
The craft which was seen was, to use the lieutenant's own language, "a cutter yawl-rigged," which I understand to signify a cutter with a small lug-sail mizzen, as was often found on smugglers.
At any rate, he had every reason to believe that this was a smuggling craft, and he immediately made sail after her.
At that hour it was just daybreak, and the smuggler was about three or four miles off--to the eastward--and to windward, but was evidently running with sheets eased off in a westerly direction.
But when the smuggler saw the _Badger_ was giving chase he also altered his course.
It was a fine, clear, frosty morning, and the _Badger_ quickly sent up his gaff topsail and began to overhaul the other, so that by nine o'clock the two vessels were only a mile apart.
The _Badger_ now hoisted his Revenue pendant at the masthead, consisting of a red field with a regal crown at the upper part next the mast, and he also hoisted the Revenue ensign (that is to say "a red Jack with a Union Jack in a canton at the upper corner and a regal crown in the centre of the red Jack") at his peak.
These signals instantly denoted that the ship was a Revenue cruiser.
Lieutenant Nazar also ordered an unshotted gun to be fired as a further signal that the smuggler was to heave-to, but the stranger paid no attention and hoisted no colours.
Ten minutes later, as it was perceived that his signals were disregarded, the _Badger's_ commander ordered a shot to be fired at her, and this was immediately returned by the smuggler with one of her stern guns.
From this time a running fire was kept up for nearly three hours, but shortly before midday, whilst the cutter was still chasing her and holding on the same course as the other, the _Badger_ came on at such a pace that she ran aboard the smuggler's starboard quarter whilst both ships were still blazing away at each other.
The smuggler's crew then cried out for quarter in English.
This was granted by the _Badger's_ commander, who had a boat lowered, but whilst in the act of so doing the treacherous smuggling craft recommenced firing.
It was a cowardly thing to do, for Reymas, their own captain, had particularly asked the _Badger's_ commander to forgive them and overlook what they had done, whilst other members of the crew cried out to the same effect.
This had caused a cessation of fire for about five minutes, and was only reopened by the smugglers' treachery.
One of the _Badger's_ mariners named William Cullum, was in consequence shot dead by a musket aimed at him by one of the smugglers.
Cullum was standing by the windlass at the time, and died instantly.
[Illustration: "The Cruiser's Guns had shot away the Mizzen-Mast."]
The _Badger_, therefore, again began to fire into the other ship, but in about another five minutes the smuggler again called for quarter, and this was again granted.
The cruiser sent her boat aboard her, and brought off the smuggler's crew, amounting to twenty-three men, though two others had been killed in the affray.
The _Badger's_ chief mate, on boarding the smuggler, sent away the latter's crew in their own boat, and seven of these men were found to be wounded, of whom one died the following morning.
The name of the vessel was seen to be the _Vree Gebroeders_.
She was of 119 tons burthen, and had the previous day started out from Flushing with a cargo of 42 gallons of brandy, 186 gallons of Geneva--these all being in the 3-1/2 gallon half-ankers.
But there was also a good deal of other cargo, consisting of 856 bales of tobacco which contained 51,000 lbs., thirteen boxes of tea, and six bags of sugar.
All these goods were made up in illegal-sized packages and she had nothing on board except what was contraband.
The chests of tea were found all ready slung for landing with small ropes.
The _Vree Gebroeders_ was provisioned for three months, and was armed with four carronades, 9-pounders, and two swivel muskets, bayonets, and other arms of different kinds.
Her destination had been for Ireland.
When the chief mate of the _Badger_ boarded her he found that the cruiser's guns had shot away the mizzen-mast, but the smuggler's skipper remarked to the chief mate that the spare topmast on deck would serve for a mizzen and that the square-sail boom would make an outrigger, and that the trysail would be found below, but so far, he said, this sail had never been bent.
Later on the chief mate found also the deck-log of the _Vree Gebroeders_, which had been kept on two slates, and it was a noticeable fact that these were kept in English.
They read thus:-+-------------------------------+ | N.W.
by N. | | Remarks, Monday 13th.
| | N.W.
by W. At 6.30 Ostend | | Light bore S.E.
distant | | 12 miles.
| | At 4 a.m. Calais Light | | bore E. by S. | +-------------------------------+ So when the _Badger_ first sighted this craft the latter had made her last entry in the log, only three and a half hours before.
It was significant that English charts were also found among the ship's papers, though her manifest, her certificate, her bill of lading, and other certificates were all in Dutch.
The books found included Hamilton Moore's _Navigation_, another similar work by Norie, the _British Channel Pilot_, and _Navigation of the North Seas_.
There was also found a Dutch ensign and a Dutch Jack on board, but there was even an English Prayer-book.
The prisoners remained on board the _Badger_ until next day, when they were transferred to H.M.S.
_Severn_.
The _Vree Gebroeders_ was taken into Dover, and was valued, together with her cargo, at the handsome sum of £11,000, which would have been a fine amount of prize money; but in spite of the clear evidence at the trial, the jury were so prejudiced in favour of the smugglers that they found the prisoners not guilty, their contention being that the ship and cargo were wholly foreign, and that more than half of the crew were foreigners.
It had been an unfortunate affair.
Besides the death of Cullum and the two smugglers killed and the seven smugglers wounded, Lieutenant Nazer, James Harper, William Poppedwell, Daniel Hannibel, and James Giles were all wounded on the _Badger_, Nazer being wounded on the left shoulder by a musket ball.
The smuggler's crew had made ludicrous efforts to pretend they were Dutch.
Dutch names were assumed, but witnesses at the trial were able to assign to them their proper appellations, and it was significant that the crew spoke English without a foreign accent.
Her commander insisted his name was Reymas, but his real name was Joseph Wills, and he had been foremost in the calling for quarter.
Another of the crew, who pretended his name was Jan Schmidt, was found to be an Englishman named John Smith.
The vessel herself had been built by a Kentishman, living at Flushing, the previous year.
And here is another of those occasions when there was displayed an excess of zeal, though under the circumstances who would blame the Preventive officer for what he did?
In February of 1824, a man named Field and his crew of three came out from Rye--that hotbed of smugglers--and intended to proceed to the well-known trawling ground about fifteen miles to the S.W.
of Rye, abreast of Fairlight, but about five or six miles out from that shore.
Unfortunately it fell very calm, so that it took them some time to reach the trawling ground, and even when with the assistance of the tide they did arrive there, the wind was so scant that it was useless to shoot the trawl in the water.
Naturally, therefore, it was a long time before they had obtained their cargo of flat fish, and when a little breeze sprang up they had to get back to Rye, as their provisions had run short.
On their way back, when they were only about four or five miles from their harbour, they fell in with a small open sailing-boat named the _Rose_, containing four or five men.
Field's bigger craft was hailed by the _Rose_ and asked to be taken in tow, as they also had run short of provisions, and were anxious to get back to harbour at once.
Field's boat took one of their crew on board, whilst the rest remained in the _Rose_ and were towed astern.
It was now about four or five in the morning, and they had not proceeded more than another couple of miles before they were hailed again, but this time by a boat under the command of a Preventive officer named Lipscomb, who had been sent by Lieutenant Gammon, R.N., from the revenue cruiser _Cameleon_.
The cutter's boat bumped alongside Field's craft, which was called the _Diamond_.
After making fast, Lipscomb and his boat's crew jumped aboard, and announced that they suspected the _Diamond_ was fitted with concealments, and he wished to examine her.
But after rummaging the ship nothing suspicious was found.
Lipscomb then explained that he had been ordered by Lieutenant Gammon to take the _Diamond_ and to bring her alongside the _Cameleon_ and then to order Field and his crew to go aboard the cruiser as prisoners.
This, of course, did not lead to harmony on board.
Lipscomb attempted to seize hold of the tiller, so as to steer the vessel back to Hastings Roads, where the cruiser was lying.
But Field turned to him and said-"I don't know about your having the helm.
You don't know where the cutter is any more than I do."
With that, Field pushed the man aside, grasped hold of the tiller, and shoved it hard up, and bearing away, ran the vessel out seawards.
But after keeping on this course for twenty minutes they fell in with the _Cameleon_, and the two vessels came near to each other.
The cruiser's commander shouted to Lipscomb, and ordered him to get into the cruiser's galley, which had been towing astern of the _Diamond_ all this time, and to row to the cruiser.
This was done, and then Lipscomb received his orders.
He was to return to the trawler and seize the hands and bring them to the _Cameleon_.
So the galley returned again and brought the _Diamond's_ crew as ordered.
It was now 7 A.M., and they were kept as prisoners on the cutter till 9 A.M. the following day.
Lipscomb and his boat's crew of four now took charge of the _Diamond_, and began to trim sheets, and before long the two craft got separated.
When Field proceeded on board the _Cameleon_ he took with him his ship's papers at the lieutenant's orders.
He then ventured to ask how it was that his smack had been detained, to which Gammon replied that he had received information from the Collector of Customs at Rye.
Field, however, was incredulous.
"I rather doubt your word," he said, whereupon the officer took out of his pocket a letter, doubled the page down one or two lines, and showed the doubting skipper that it was as the lieutenant had stated.
Gammon then went below and took Field's papers with him, and there they remained till the following morning.
The _Cameleon_ went jogging along, and having arrived abreast of Hastings, Gammon sent one of his crew ashore in the cutter's boat, and later on fetched him back.
The object, no doubt, was to send the _Diamond's_ papers ashore to be examined as to their veracity, though nothing was said to Field on the subject.
It is clear that the reply from the authorities came back that the papers were found in order, and that Field was not known as a smuggler; for after the man who had been sent ashore returned, the _Cameleon_ made sail, and stood out to sea for a distance of eighteen miles.
She had lost sight of the _Diamond_ and her prize crew, and it was not till about breakfast time the following day that the cruiser found the smack again.
When at length the two craft did come together, Lipscomb was called on board the cruiser and summoned below to Gammon.
What exactly the conversation was never came out, but from subsequent events it is fairly clear that Gammon asked what opinion Lipscomb had been able to form of the _Diamond_, and that the latter had to admit she was a genuine trawler; for soon after, the lieutenant sent the steward for Field and one of his men to go below.
The two men did as they were ordered.
"Good morning," said the cruiser's commander as they came into the cabin, "here are your papers, Field."
Field hesitated for a moment; then answered-"I don't know, sir, as to taking them.
I'm not altogether satisfied about being detained so long.
And had I been aboard the smack, and you had refused to let me have the tiller," he continued, getting angrier every moment, "I would have shot you as sure as you had been a man."
"You may do as you please," came the commander's cool reply, "about taking them, but if you do not choose to take them, I shall take you away to Portsmouth and give you up to the Port Admiral, and let him do with you as he thinks proper."
Thinking therefore that it were better to be discreet and hold his tongue, Field took the papers, went up again on deck, collected his men, went back to his smack, and the incident ended--for the present.
But the Revenue men had clearly made an error this time, and had acted _ultra vires_.
About a year later Field, as a master and part-owner of the _Diamond_, brought an action against Gammon for assault and detention, and was awarded a verdict and £5 damages.
It is curious to find what sympathy the smugglers sometimes received in a section of society where one would hardly have expected this to exist.
There are at least three instances of men of position and wealth showing their feelings undisguisedly in favour of these lawless men.
There was a Lieut.-Colonel Chichester, who was called upon for explanations as to his conduct in this respect; there was the case also of the naval officer commanding H.M. sloop _Pylades_ being convicted and dismissed the service for protecting smugglers, and, most interesting of all, was the incident which centred round Sir William Courtenay.
The facts of this case may be summarised as follows.
On Sunday afternoon, the 17th of February 1833, the Revenue cutter _Lively_ was cruising at the back of the Goodwins, when about three o'clock she descried a vessel about five or six miles off which somehow aroused suspicions.
The name of the latter was eventually found to be the _Admiral Hood_.
At this time the sloop was about midway between England and France, her commander being Lieutenant James Sharnbler, R.N.
The _Admiral Hood_ was a small dandy-rigged fore-and-after, that is to say, she was a cutter with a small mizzen on which she would set a lugsail.
The _Lively_ gave chase, and gradually began to gain on the other.
When the _Admiral Hood_ was within about a mile of the _Lively_, the former hauled across the latter, and when she had got on the _Lively's_ weather-bow the Revenue craft immediately tacked, whereupon the _Admiral Hood_ put about again and headed for the French coast.
After vainly attempting to cause her to heave-to by the usual Revenue signals, the _Lively_ was compelled to fire on her, and one shot was so well placed that it went clean through the dandy's sail, and thinking that this was quite near enough the _Admiral Hood_ hove-to.
But just prior to this, Lieutenant Sharnbler had ordered an officer and two men to take spyglasses and watch her.
At this time they were about fifteen or sixteen miles away from the North Foreland.
One of the men looking through his glass observed that the _Admiral Hood_ was heaving tubs overboard, and it was then that the first musket was fired for her to heave-to, but as the tubs were still thrown overboard for the next three-quarters of an hour, the long gun and the muskets were directed towards her.
The two vessels had sailed on parallel lines for a good hour's chase before the firing began, and the chase went on till about a quarter to five, the tide at this time ebbing to the westward and a fine strong sailing breeze.
There was no doubt at all now that she was a smuggler, for one of the _Lively's_ crew distinctly saw a man standing in the _Admiral Hood's_ hatchway taking tubs and depositing them on deck, whilst some one else was taking them from the deck and heaving them overboard, the tubs being painted a dark green so as to resemble the colour of the waves.
As the _Lively_ came ramping on, she found numbers of these tubs in the wake of the _Admiral Hood_, and lowered a boat to pick them up, and about twenty-two were found a hundred yards from the smuggler, and the _Lively_ also threw out a mark-buoy to locate two other tubs which they passed.
And, inasmuch as there was no other vessel within six miles distance, the _Admiral Hood_ beyond a shadow of doubt was carrying contraband.
[Illustration: "The _Admiral Hood_ was heaving tubs overboard."]
After the vessel was at length hove-to, she was seized and ultimately taken into Rochester, and information was duly laid against the persons who had been engaged in this smuggling adventure.
But it is here that Sir William Courtenay comes into the story.
This gentleman, who had his seat at Powderham Castle, Devon, came forward and swore positively that the tubs, which the _Lively_ was supposed to have picked up, had been seen floating off the coast.
He himself was staying on a visit to Canterbury, and on that Sunday afternoon happened to be sailing about off the Kentish coast, and sighted the _Lively_ about two o'clock.
He kept her in sight, he said, until four o'clock.
He also saw the _Admiral Hood_, and witnessed her being chased by the _Lively_, but he had seen the tubs for most of the day, as they had come up with the tide from the westward.
With his own eyes, and not through a spy-glass, he witnessed the _Admiral Hood_ being captured by the cruiser, and followed up this evidence by remarking that "the tubs I saw picked up did not come out of the _Lord Hood_.
I say so sterling and plump."
This was exactly the reverse of the testimony as given by the crew of the _Lively_, so it was evident that some one was lying.
But to make a long story short, it was afterwards found that Sir William was not only _not_ afloat that afternoon, did not see the tubs, did not see the two crafts, but was miles away from the scene, and at the time of the chase was in church.
He was accordingly brought for trial, found guilty, and sentenced to be imprisoned for three calendar months, and after the expiration of this, he was to be "transported to such a place beyond the seas as his Majesty may direct, for the term of seven years."
He was convicted on unmistakable testimony of having committed perjury; in fact, Mr. Justice Parke, in giving judgment at the time, remarked that it was the clearest evidence in a perjury case that had ever fallen to his lot to try.
As to the motive, it was thought that it was done solely with a desire to obtain a certain amount of popularity among the smugglers.
Sir William saw that the case would go against the latter unless some one could give evidence for their side.
Therefore, abusing his own position and standing, he came forward and perjured himself.
It is a curious case, but in the history of crime there is more than one instance of personal pride and vanity being at the root of wrong-doing.
FOOTNOTES: [23] How slow she was may be guessed by the fact that she took seven hours to go from Dover to the Downs even under the expert handling of MacTavish's crew.
[24] She was officially described as a dogger.
CHAPTER XIX ACTION AND COUNTER-ACTION It is conscience that makes cowards of us all, and this may be said of smugglers no less than of law-abiding citizens.
A trial was going on in connection with a certain incident which had occurred in Cawsand Bay, Plymouth Sound.
It was alleged that, on the night of November 17, 1831, a man named Phillips had been shot in the knee whilst in a boat, trying with the aid of some other men to get up an anchor.
The chief officer of the Preventive service at Cawsand was accused by Phillips of having thus injured him, and the case in the course of time was brought into court.
Among the witnesses was one whom counsel believed to be not wholly unconnected with smuggling.
Whether or not this was true we need not worry ourselves, but the following questions and answers are well worth recording.
Cawsand was a notorious smuggling locality, and its secluded bay, with plenty of deep water almost up to the beach, made it highly suitable for sinking tubs well below the surface of the water.
And then there must have been very few people ashore who had never been concerned in this contraband trade.
In such villages as this you might usually rely on the local innkeeper knowing as much as anyone in the neighbourhood on the subject of smuggling.
Such a man, then, from Cawsand, illiterate, but wideawake, went into the witness-box for counsel to cross-examine, and the following dialogue carries its own conviction:-_Question._ "You are an innkeeper and sailor, if I understand you rightly?"
_Answer._ "Yes!"
_Q._ "Is that all?"
_A._ "Mariner and innkeeper."
_Q._ "Is that all the trades you follow?"
_A._ "Fishing sometimes."
_Q._ "What do you fish for?"
_A._ "Different sorts of fish."
_Q._ "Did you ever fish for half-ankers?"
_A._ "Half-ankers?"
_Q._ "Casks of spirits--is that part of your fishing-tackle?"
_A._ "No, I was never convicted of no such thing."
_Q._ "I am not asking you that.
You know what I mean.
I ask whether it is part of your profession."
_A._ "No, it was not."
_Q._ "You never do such things?"
_A._ "What should I do it for?"
_Q._ "I cannot tell you.
I ask you whether you do it, not what you do it for."
_A._ "I may choose to resolve whether I tell you or not."
_Q._ "I will not press you if your conscience is tender.
You will not tell me whether you do a little stroke in the Fair trade upon the coast?
You will not answer me that question?"
_A._ "I am telling the truth."
_Q._ "Will you answer that question?"
_A._ "No."
_Q._ "Are you or are you not frequently in practice as a smuggler?"
_A._ "No!"
And that was all that could be got out of a man who probably could have told some of the best smuggling yarns in Cornwall.
The inhabitants so thoroughly loathed the Preventive men that, to quote the words of the man who was chief officer there at the time we are speaking of, "the hatred of the Cawsand smugglers is ... so great that they scarcely ever omit an opportunity of showing it either by insult or otherwise."
There was a kind of renaissance of smuggling about the third decade of the nineteenth century, and this was brought on partly owing to the fact that the vigilance along our coasts was not quite so smart as it might have been.
But there were plenty of men doing their duty to the service, as may be seen from the account of Matthew Morrissey, a boatman in the Coastguard Service at Littlehampton.
About eleven o'clock on the evening of April 5, 1833, he saw a vessel named the _Nelson_, which had come into harbour that day.
On boarding her, together with another boatman, he found a crew of two men and a boy.
The skipper told him they were from Bognor in ballast.
Morrissey went below, got a light, and searched all over the after-cabin, the hold, and even overhauled the ballast, but found nothing.
He then got into the Coastguard boat, took his boat-hook, and after feeling along the vessel's bottom, discovered that it was not as it ought to have been.
"I'm not satisfied," remarked the Coastguard to her skipper, Henry Roberts, "I shall haul you ashore."
One of the crew replied that he was "very welcome," and the Coastguard then sent his companion ashore to fetch the chief boatman.
The Coastguard himself then again went aboard the _Nelson_, whereupon the crew became a little restless and went forward.
Presently they announced that they would go ashore, so they went forward again, got hold of the warp, and were going to haul on shore by it when the Coastguard observed, "Now, recollect I am an officer in his Majesty's Revenue duty, and the vessel is safely moored and in my charge; and if you obstruct me in my duty you will abide by the consequences."
He took the warp out of their hands, and continued to walk up and down one side of the deck while the crew walked the other.
This went on for about twenty minutes, when Henry Roberts came up just as the Coastguard was turning round, and getting a firm grip, pushed him savagely aft and over the vessel's quarter into the water.
Heavily laden though the Coastguard was with a heavy monkey-jacket, petticoat canvas trousers over his others, and with his arms as well, he had great difficulty in swimming, but at last managed to get to the shore.
The chief boatman and the other man were now arriving, and it was found that the _Nelson's_ crew had vanished.
The vessel was eventually examined, and found to have a false bottom containing thirty-two tubs of liquor and twenty-eight flagons of foreign brandy.
Roberts was later on arrested, found guilty, and transported for seven years.
[Illustration: "Getting a firm grip, pushed him ... into the water."]
A few pages back we witnessed an incident off Hastings.
On the 5th of January 1832, a much more serious encounter took place.
Lieutenant Baker, R.N., was cruising at that time in the Revenue cutter _Ranger_ off the Sussex coast, when between nine and ten in the evening he saw a suspicious fire on the Castle Hill at Hastings.
Believing that it was a smuggler's signal, he despatched his four-oared galley, with directions to row between Eccles Barn and the Martello Tower, No.
39.
At the same time the _Ranger_ continued to cruise off the land so as to be in communication with the galley.
About 1 A.M. a report was heard from the Hastings direction, and a significant blue light was seen burning.
Baker therefore took his cutter nearer in-shore towards the spot where this light had been seen.
He immediately fell in with his galley, which had shown the blue light, and in her he found about two hundred casks of different sizes containing foreign spirits, and also five men who had been detained by the galley.
The men of course were taken on board the cruiser, and as the morning advanced, the _Ranger_ again stood into the shore so that the lieutenant might land the spirits at the Custom House.
Then getting into his galley with part of his crew, the tubs were towed astern in the cutter's smaller boat.
But on reaching the beach, he found no fewer than four hundred persons assembled with the apparent intention of preventing the removal of the spirits to the Custom House, and especially notorious among this gang were two men, named respectively John Pankhurst and Henry Stevens.
The galley was greeted with a shower of stones, and some of the Revenue men therein were struck, and had to keep quite close to the water's edge.
Stevens and Pankhurst came and deposited themselves on the boat's gunwale, and resisted the removal of the tubs.
Two carts now came down to the beach, but the mob refused to allow them to be loaded, and stones were flying in various directions, one man being badly hurt.
Lieutenant Baker also received a violent blow from a large stone thrown by Pankhurst.
But gradually the carts were loaded in spite of the opposition, and just as the last vehicle had been filled, Pankhurst loosened the bridle-back of the cart which was at the back of the vehicle to secure the spirits, and had not the Revenue officers and men been very smart in surrounding the cart and protecting the goods, there would have been a rescue of the casks.
Ultimately, the carts proceeded towards the Custom House pursued by the raging mob, and even after the goods had been all got in there was a good deal of pelting with stones and considerable damage done.
Yet again, when these prisoners, Pankhurst and Stevens, were brought up for trial, the jury failed to do their duty and convict.
But the Lord Chief Justice of that time remarked that he would not allow Stevens and Pankhurst to be discharged until they had entered into their recognisances to keep the peace in £20 each.
But next to the abominable cruelties perpetrated by the Hawkhurst gang related in an earlier chapter, I have found no incident so utterly brutal and savage as the following.
I have to ask the reader to turn his imagination away from Sussex, and centre it on a very beautiful spot in Dorsetshire, where the cliffs and sea are separated by only a narrow beach.
On the evening of the 28th of June 1832, Thomas Barrett, one of the boatmen belonging to the West Lulworth Coastguard, was on duty and proceeding along the top of the cliff towards Durdle, when he saw a boat moving about from the eastward.
It was now nearly 10 P.M.
He ran along the cliff, and then down to the beach, where he saw that this boat had just landed and was now shoving off again.
But four men were standing by the water, at the very spot whence the boat had immediately before pushed off.
One of these men was James Davis, who had on a long frock and a covered hat painted black.
Barrett asked this little knot of men what their business was, and why they were there at that time of night, to which Davis replied that they had "come from Weymouth, pleasuring!"
Barrett observed that to come from Weymouth (which was several miles to the westward) by the east was a "rum" way.
Davis then denied that they had come from the eastward at all, but this was soon stopped by Barrett remarking that if they had any nonsense they would get the worst of it.
After this the four men went up the cliff, having loudly abused him before proceeding.
On examining the spot where the boat had touched, the Coastguard found twenty-nine tubs full of brandy lying on the beach close to the water's edge, tied together in pairs, as was the custom for landing.
He therefore deemed it advisable to burn a blue light, and fired several shots into the air for assistance.
Three boatmen belonging to the station saw and heard, and they came out to his aid.
But by this time the country-side was also on the alert, and the signals had brought an angry crowd of fifty men, who sympathised with the smugglers.
These appeared on the top of the cliff, so the four coastguards ran from the tubs (on the beach) to the cliff to prevent this mob from coming down and rescuing the tubs.
But as the four men advanced to the top of the cliff, they hailed the mob and asked who they were, announcing that they had seized the tubs.
The crowd made answer that the coastguards should not have the tubs, and proceeded to fire at the quartette and to hurl down stones.
A distance of only about twenty yards separated the two forces, and the chief boatman ordered his three men to fire up at them, and for three-quarters of an hour this affray continued.
It was just then that the coastguards heard cries coming from the top of the cliff--cries as of some one in great pain.
But soon after the mob left the cliff and went away; so the coastguards went down to the beach again to secure and make safe the tubs, where they found that Lieutenant Stocker was arriving at the beach in a boat from a neighbouring station.
He ordered Barrett to put the tubs in the boat and then to lay a little distance from the shore.
But after Barrett had done this and was about thirty yards away, the lieutenant ordered him to come ashore again, because the men on the beach were bringing down Lieutenant Knight, who was groaning and in great pain.
What had happened to the latter must now be told.
After the signals mentioned had been observed, a man named Duke and Lieutenant Knight, R.N., had also proceeded along the top of the cliff.
It was a beautiful starlight night, with scarcely any wind, perfectly still and no moon visible.
There was just the sea and the night and the cliffs.
But before they had gone far they encountered that mob we have just spoken of at the top of the cliff.
Whilst the four coastguards were exchanging fire from below, Lieutenant Knight and Duke came upon the crowd from their rear.
Two men against fifty armed with great sticks 6 feet long could not do much.
As the mob turned towards them, Lieutenant Knight promised them that if they should make use of those murderous-looking sticks they should have the contents of his pistol.
But the mob, without waiting, dealt the first blows, so Duke and his officer defended themselves with their cutlasses.
At first there were only a dozen men against them, and these the two managed to beat off.
But other men then came up and formed a circle round Knight and Duke, so the two stood back to back and faced the savage mob.
The latter made fierce blows at the men, which were warded off by the cutlasses in the men's left hands, two pistols being in the right hand of each.
The naval men fired these, but it was of little good, though they fought like true British sailors.
Those 6-foot sticks could reach well out, and both Knight and Duke were felled to the ground.
Then, like human panthers let loose on their prey, this brutal, lawless mob with uncontrolled cruelty let loose the strings of their pent-up passion.
They kept these men on the ground and dealt with them shamefully.
Duke was being dragged along by his belt, and the crowd beat him sorely as he heard his lieutenant exclaim, "Oh, you brutes!"
The next thing which Duke heard the fierce mob to say was, "Let's kill the ---and have him over the cliff."
Now the cliff at that spot is 100 feet high.
Four men then were preparing to carry out this command--two were at his legs and two at his hands--when Duke indignantly declared, "If Jem was here, he wouldn't let you do it."
It reads almost like fiction to have this dramatic halt in the murder scene.
For just as Duke was about to be hurled headlong over the side, a man came forward and pressed the blackguards back on hearing these words.
For a time it was all that the new-comer could do to restrain the brutes from hitting the poor fellow, while the men who still had hold of his limbs swore that they would have Duke over the cliff.
But after being dealt a severe blow on the forehead, they put him down on to the ground and left him bleeding.
One of the gang, seeing this, observed complacently, "He bleeds well, but breathes short.
It will soon be over with him."
And with that they left him.
[Illustration: "Let's ... have him over the cliff."]
The man who had come forward so miraculously and so dramatically to save Duke's life was James Cowland, and the reason he had so acted was out of gratitude to Duke, who had taken his part in a certain incident twelve months ago.
And this is the sole redeeming feature in a glut of brutality.
It must have required no small amount of pluck and energy for Cowland to have done even so much amid the wild fanaticism which was raging, and smuggler and ruffian though he was, it is only fair to emphasize and praise his action for risking his own life to save that of a man by whom he had already benefited.
But Cowland did nothing more for his friend than that, and after the crowd had indulged themselves on the two men they went off to their homes.
Duke then, suffering and bleeding, weak and stunned, crawled to the place where he had been first attacked--a little higher up the cliff--and there he saw Knight's petticoat trousers, but there was no sign of his officer himself.
After that he gradually made his way down to the beach, and at the foot of the cliff he came upon Knight lying on his back immediately below where the struggle with the smugglers had taken place.
Duke sat down by his side, and the officer, opening his eyes, recognised his man and asked, "Is that you?"
But that was all he said.
Duke then went to tell the coastguards and Lieutenant Stocker on the beach, who fetched the dying man, put him into Lipscomb's boat, and promptly rowed him to his home at Lulworth, where he died the next day.
It is difficult to write calmly of such an occurrence as this: it is impossible that in such circumstances one can extend the slightest sympathy with a race of men who probably had a hard struggle for existence, especially when the fishing or the harvests were bad.
The most one can do is to attribute such unreasoning and unwarranted cruelty to the ignorance and the coarseness which had been bred in undisciplined lives.
Out of that seething, vicious mob there was only one man who had a scrap of humanity, and even he could not prevent his fellows from one of the worst crimes in the long roll of smugglers' delinquencies.
The days of smugglers were, of course, coincident with the period of the stage-coach.
In the year 1833 there was a man named Thomas Allen, who was master and part-owner of a coasting vessel named the _Good Intent_, which used to trade between Dover and London.
In February of that year Thomas Becker, who happened to be the guard of the night coaches running between Dover and London, came with a man named Tomsett to Allen, and suggested that the latter should join them in a smuggling transaction, telling him that they knew how to put a good deal of money into his pocket.
At first Allen hesitated and declined, but the proposal was again renewed a few days later, when Allen again declined, as it was too risky a business.
But at length, as "trade was very bad," both he and a man named Sutton, one of his crew, agreed to come into the scheme.
What happened was as follows:-The _Good Intent_ left Dover on February 23, went as far as the Downs about two miles from the coast, and under cover of darkness took on board from a French vessel, which was there waiting by appointment, about forty bales of silk.
In order to be ready to deal with these, the _Good Intent_ had been provided with sufficient empty crates and boxes.
The silks were put into these, they were addressed to some persons in Birmingham, and, after being landed at one of the London quays as if they had come from Dover, they were sent across to the Paddington Canal, and duly arrived at their destination.
Allen's share of that transaction amounted to about £80.
He had done so well that he repeated the same practice in April and May; but in June some tea which he brought in was seized, and although he was not prosecuted yet it gave him a fright.
But after being entreated by the two tempters, he repeated his first incident, took forty more bales on board, and arrived at the Port of London.
But the Custom House officials had got wind of this, and when the _Good Intent_ arrived she was searched.
In this case the goods had not been put into crates, but were concealed in the ballast, the idea being not to land them in London but to bring them back under the ballast to Dover.
[Illustration: "Under cover of darkness took on board ... forty bales of silk."]
The first remark the Customs officer made was, "There is a great deal more ballast here than is necessary for such a ship," and promptly began moving the same.
Of course the goods were discovered, and of course Allen pretended he knew nothing about the forty bales being there concealed.
They were seized and condemned.
Becker got to hear of this disaster and that a warrant was out for his own arrest, so he quickly hopped across to Calais.
An officer was sent both to Deal and to Dover to find Tomsett, but found him not, so he crossed over to Calais, and among the first people whom he saw on Calais pier were Tomsett and Becker walking about together.
The officer had no wish to be seen by Becker, but the latter saw him, and came up and asked him how he was and what he was doing there.
The officer made the best excuse he could, and stated that he had got on board the steam-packet and been brought off by mistake.
"Oh, I am here in consequence of that rascal Allen having peached against us," volunteered Becker, and then went on to say that he was as innocent as the child unborn.
However, the judge, at a later date, thought otherwise, and imposed a penalty of £4750, though the full penalty really amounted to the enormous sum of £71,000.
CHAPTER XX FORCE AND CUNNING A smuggling vessel was usually provided with what was called a tub-rail--that is to say, a rail which ran round the vessel just below the gunwale on the inside.
When a vessel was about to arrive at her destination to sink her tubs, the proceeding was as follows.
The tubs were all made fast to a long warp, and this warp with its tubs was placed outside the vessel's bulwarks, running all round the ship from the stern to the bows and back again the other side.
This warp was kept fastened to the tub-rail by five or seven lines called stop-ropes.
Consequently all the smugglers had to do was to cut these stop-ropes, and the tubs and warp would drop into the water, the stone weights immediately sinking the casks.
Bearing this in mind, let us see the Revenue cutter _Tartar_, on the night between the 3rd and 4th of April 1839, cruising off Kimeridge, between St. Alban's Head and Weymouth, and a little to the east of where Lieutenant Knight was murdered, as we saw in the last chapter.
About 1.40 A.M.
Lieutenant George Davies, R.N., the _Tartar's_ commander, was below sleeping with his clothes and boots on, when he heard the officer of the watch call for him.
Instantly he went on deck and saw a smuggling vessel.
She was then about thirty yards away and within a mile of the shore.
Her name was afterwards found to be the French sloop _Diane_.
It was rather a warm, thick night, such as one sometimes gets in April when the weather has begun to get finer.
By the time that the cruiser's commander had come up on deck, both the cutter and the _Diane_ were hove-to, and the vessels were close alongside.
When first sighted by the boatswain the smuggler was standing out from the land.
The _Tartar's_ boat was now launched into the water, and the bo'sun and two men pulled off in her and boarded the _Diane_, and then came back to fetch Lieutenant Davies.
The instant the latter boarded the _Diane_, he saw one of the latter's crew throwing something overboard.
He stooped down to pick something up, when Davies rushed forward and caught him round the body as something fell into the water, and a tub-hoop, new, wet, and green, was taken from him.
Davies called to his bo'sun to bring a lantern, so that he might identify the seized man and then proceed to search the vessel.
A tub-rail and stop-rope were found on board, and, on going below, the hold was found to be strewn with chips of tub-hoops and pieces of stones for sinking.
The upper deck was similarly strewn, while by the hatchway were found sinker-slings.
These sinkers in actual employment were accustomed to be suspended and hitched round the warp at about every sixth tub.
The _Diane's_ master was asked where his boat was since none was found aboard, but there was no satisfactory answer.
Tub-boards for fixing on deck so as to prevent the tubs from rolling overboard were also found, so altogether there was sufficient reason for seizing the vessel, which was now done.
She was taken into Weymouth and her crew brought before a magistrate.
And in that port the tub-boat was also found, for the smugglers had doubtless sent most of their cargo ashore in her whilst the _Diane_ was cruising about between there and St. Alban's Head.
It was significant that only three men were found on board, whereas smuggling vessels of this size (about twenty to thirty tons) usually carried eight or nine, the explanation being that the others had been sent out with the tub-boat.
But the rest of the cargo had evidently been hurriedly thrown overboard when the _Tartar_ appeared, and because these casks were thrown over so quickly, fifty-nine of them had come to the surface and were subsequently recovered.
But besides these, 154 casks were also found on one sling at the bottom of the sea close to where the _Diane_ had been arrested, for at the time when this occurrence had taken place the _Tartar's_ men had been careful at once to take cross bearings and so fix their position.
One of the most interesting of these smuggling events was that which occurred in the Medway.
About eight o'clock on the evening of March 27, 1839, a smack called the _Mary_ came running into the river from outside.
At this time it was blowing very hard from the N.E., and the tide was ebbing, so that of course wind would be against tide and a certain amount of sea on.
But it was noticed by the coastguard at Garrison Point, which commands the entrance to this river, that the _Mary_ had got far too much sail up--whole mainsail as well as gaff-topsail.
Considering it was a fair wind and there was a good deal of it, there was far more canvas than was necessary, even allowing for the tide.
It was a rule that all vessels entering the Medway should bring-to off Garrison Point, and allow themselves to be boarded and searched, if required by certain signals.
In order to compel the _Mary_ so to do, the coastguard at this point fired a shot and rowed off to meet her.
But the smack held on.
She was steering straight for the Isle of Grain, and showed no intention of starboarding her helm so as to get on a proper course up the Medway.
Another shot was fired, and yet she held on.
Now there were some of her Majesty's ships lying near the Grain, which is on the starboard hand as you pass up the river, viz.
the _Dædalus_ and the _Alfred_.
These vessels were of course swung with the tide, and between the _Dædalus_ and the Isle of Grain the smack manoeuvred.
[Illustration: "Another shot was fired."]
A third shot now came whizzing by from the boat that was rowing hard against the tide, and the smack came round between the _Alfred_ and _Dædalus_.
The coastguard then boarded the _Mary_, and the master said he was from Brightlingsea.
He pretended that he thought the firing was not from the coastguard, but from a ship at the Little Nore, which is the channel that runs up to Garrison Point from the Nore Lightship.
This was curious, for the _Mary_ had been in the habit of going up the Medway, and hitherto had always hove-to off Garrison Point for the coastguard to come aboard.
Her skipper excused his action by stating that he was frightened of heaving-to as he might have carried away his mast and gone ashore, if he had hauled up and gybed.
But it was pointed out that it was a foolish and unsafe course for the _Mary_ to steer between the _Dædalus_ and the Grain Island, especially as it was a dark night without any moon, and blowing very hard.
But on going aboard, the coastguard was not surprised to detect a strong smell of gin, as if spirits had quite recently been removed from the smack.
And after making a search there was nothing found on board except that she was in a great state of confusion.
None the less it was deemed advisable to place a couple of officers on board her to accompany her up to Rochester.
This was on the Friday night, and she arrived at Rochester the same day.
On the Sunday it occurred to the officers to search for the spirits which they were sure the _Mary_ had on board, so they proceeded to that spot by the _Dædalus_ where the _Mary_ had luffed round and met the coastguard boat.
After sweeping for half-an-hour they found 115 tubs slung together to a rope in the usual manner.
At each end of the rope was an anchor, and between these anchors was a number of tubs, and in between each pair of tubs were stones.
So the _Mary_ had gone into that little bight in order that she might throw her tubs overboard, which would be sunk by the stones, and the two anchors would prevent them from being drifted away by the tide.
The warp, it was thought, had been in the first instance fastened to the tub-rail in the manner we have already described, and at the third gun the stop-ropes were cut, and the whole cargo went with a splash into the water, and the vessel sailed over the tubs as they sank to the muddy bottom.
[Illustration: Methods employed by Smugglers for Anchoring tubs thrown Overboard.]
The usual way to get these tubs up was of course by means of grapnels, or, as they were called, "creepers."
But the spot chosen by the _Mary_ was quite close to the moorings of the _Dædalus_, so that method would only have fouled the warship's cables.
Therefore the following ingenious device was used.
A large heavy rope was taken, and at each end was attached a boat.
The rope swept along the river-bed as the boats rowed in the same direction stretching out the rope.
Before long the bight of this rope found the obstructing tubs, stones, warp, and anchor, and that having occurred, the two boats rowed close together, and a heavy iron ring was dropped over the two ends of the rope, and thus sank and gripped the rope at the point where it met with the obstruction.
All that now remained, therefore, was to pull this double rope till the obstruction came up from the bottom of the water.
And in this manner the articles which the _Mary_ had cast overboard were recovered.
She was obviously a smuggler, as besides this discovery she was found to be fitted with concealments, and fourteen tholes were found on board "muffled" with canvas and spun yarn, so as to be able to row silently.
Her skipper, William Evans, was duly prosecuted and found guilty; and it was during the course of this trial that the interesting dialogue occurred between counsel and the coastguard as to whether the first warning gun fired was always shotted or not.
As we have already discussed this point, we need not let it detain us now.
The year 1849 was interesting, as it witnessed the seizing of one of the earliest steamcraft on a charge of smuggling.
Very late in the day of May 15 the steam-tug _Royal Charter_, employed in towing vessels in and out of Portsmouth harbour, had been taken to Spithead without the permission of her owner, and information was given to the coastguard.
About midnight she was first discovered steaming towards the port with a small boat attached to her stern, being then about half a mile from the harbour.
Chase was then made and the vessel hailed and ordered to heave-to.
She replied that she would round-to directly, but in fact she held on and steamed at full speed, notwithstanding that several shots were fired at her.
As she entered Portsmouth harbour she was pursued by the Customs boat, who asked them to shut off steam and be examined.
Of course full speed in those days meant nothing very wonderful, and it was not long before she was boarded.
She had a crew of three, and there were ten men in the boat towing astern, most of whom were found to have been previously convicted of smuggling.
It seems strange to find a steamboat pursuing the old tactics of the sailing smacks, but in her wake there were found 150 half-ankers within about 300 yards of her and where she had passed.
The vessel and boat were seized, and the men taken before the magistrates and convicted.
But the following is an instance of steam being employed against smugglers.
One Sunday towards the end of October 1849, about nine o'clock in the morning, the local receiver of duties informed the tide surveyor at St. Heliers, Jersey, that there was a cutter which (from information received) he was convinced was loaded with brandy.
This cutter was in one of the bays to the N.W.
of the island.
But as the wind was then blowing from the W.N.W.
and a very heavy surf was rolling in, the consent of the harbour-master was obtained to use the steam-tug _Polka_ to go round in search of her, the understanding being that she was to be paid for if a seizure were made.
The wind and sea were so boisterous that the Revenue boat could not have been used.
Steamer and officers therefore proceeded round the coast till they reached Plemont Bay, about twenty miles from St. Helier, and there they found a small cutter lying at anchor close under the cliff, but with no one on board.
The steamer lowered a boat and found the cutter to be the _Lion_ of Jersey, five tons, with four hogsheads and seven quarter casks of brandy.
The officers then weighed anchor, and by sailing and towing got her round to St. Helier harbour, where she was dismantled, and the brandy and her materials lodged at the Custom House.
This little craft had come from Dielette in France, and as Plemont Bay was a very secluded locality, she would have run her goods there with perfect success, had she not been discovered while her crew were on shore, whither they had probably gone for the purpose of making arrangements for getting the cargo landed.
But by the middle of the nineteenth century so thoroughly had the authorities gripped the smuggling evil that these men were actually sometimes afraid to take advantage of what fortune literally handed out to them.
The schooner _Walter_ of Falmouth was bound on a voyage from Liverpool to Chichester with a cargo of guano on May 30, 1850.
Her crew consisted of Stephen Sawle, master, Benjamin Bowden, mate, Samuel Banister, seaman, and George Andrews, boy.
On this day she was off Lundy Island, when Andrews espied a couple of casks floating ahead of the schooner and called to the master and mate, who were below at tea.
They immediately came up on deck, and the master looked at the kegs through his glass, saying that he thought they were provisions.
The three men then got out the ship's boat, rowed after the casks and slung them into the boat, and brought them on board.
In doing so the mate happened to spill one of them, which contained brandy.
This gave the skipper something of a fright, and he directed the mate and seaman to throw the casks overboard.
They both told him they thought he was a great fool if he did so.
He gave the same orders a second time and then went below, but after he had remained there for some time, he said to his crew, "If you will all swear that you will not tell anybody, I will risk it."
They all solemnly promised, the master swearing the mate, the seaman, and the boy on the ship's Bible that they would not tell the owner or any living creature.
Presently the mate and Banister removed the hatches and handed up about two tiers of guano, sent the casks of brandy below and placed bags on their top.
After the master had been below a couple of hours, he asked whether the casks were out of sight.
The mate and Banister replied that they were, whereupon the master took a candle, examined the hold, and afterwards the sleeping-berths, but he could not see anything of the brandy.
He then went to the boy and said, "Mind you don't let Mr. Coplin [the owner] know anything about this business, for the world."
The vessel arrived at Falmouth on Sunday morning, the 2nd of June, and brought up off the Market Strand.
At six in the morning the boy went ashore and returned about midnight.
The mate was on board and addressed him thus, "You knew very well what was going on and ought to have been on board before this."
For at that time both the master and Banister were ashore.
On Monday the boy went down to the hold and saw the brandy was gone, and the same night about half-an-hour before midnight the mate and Banister brought four gallons of the brandy to where the boy was lodging, as his share.
The youngster complained that it was very little, to which Banister replied that one of the casks had leaked amongst the cargo of guano or he would have had more.
Ostensibly the schooner had put into Falmouth for repairs.
Later on the Custom House officers got to hear of it, but it was then the month of July, and the schooner had since sailed and proceeded to Liverpool.
On the 1st of October of this same year a highly ingenious device was discovered through a hitch, which unfortunately ruined the smugglers' chances.
In its broad conception it was but a modification of an idea which we have already explained.
In its application, however, it was unique and original.
At half-past six on this morning a fore-and-aft-rigged vessel was observed to be sailing into Chichester harbour.
When first discovered, she was about a mile from Hayling Island.
She was boarded, as smuggled goods were supposed to have been taken by her from a raft at sea.
Manned by a master and a crew of two, all English, she was well known in that neighbourhood.
She was registered at Portsmouth as the _Rival_.
Her cargo was found to consist of a few oysters and thirteen tubs of spirits, but these were attached to the stern in a most ingenious manner.
By her stern-post was an iron pipe, and through this pipe ran a chain, one end of which was secured at the top, close to the tiller, the other end running right down into the water below the ship.
Attached to the chain in the water were thirteen tubs wrapped in canvas.
The theory was this.
As the vessel sailed along, the chain would be hauled as tight as it would go, so that the casks were kept under the vessel's stern and below water.
Now, having arrived in Chichester harbour, the helmsman had suddenly let go the chain, but the latter had unhappily jammed in the pipe, and the tubs were thus dragged with a large scope of chain.
The coastguard in coming alongside used his boat-hook underneath, and thus caught hold of the chain and tubs.
The vessel was now soon laid ashore, and when her bottom was examined, the whole device was discovered.
It had only quite recently been added, but the crew were notorious smugglers, so they got themselves into trouble in spite of their ingenuity.
[Illustration: The _Rival's_ Ingenious Device (see text).]
And now let us bring this list of smuggling adventures to an end with the activities of a very ubiquitous French sloop named the _Georges_, which came into prominent notice in the year 1850.
Her port of departure was Cherbourg, and she was wont to run her goods across to the south coast of England with the greatest impudence.
In piecing together this narrative of her adventures, it has been no easy task to follow her movements, for she appeared and disappeared, then was seen somewhere else perhaps a hundred miles away in a very short time.
It appears that on April 19 the _Georges_, whose master's name was Gosselin, cleared from Cherbourg, and two days later was sighted by the commander of the Revenue cutter _Cameleon_ off Bembridge Ledge, about one o'clock in the afternoon, about eight or nine miles E.S.E.
After she had come up she was boarded by the _Cameleon_, and was found to have one passenger, whom the _Cameleon's_ commander described as an Englishman "of a most suspicious appearance."
But after being searched she was found perfectly "clean" and free from any appearance of tubs or smell of spirits.
The Revenue cutter's commander therefore formed the opinion that the _Georges_ was fitted with some concealments somewhere.
In order to discover these, it would be essential for the craft to be hauled ashore.
He therefore did not detain her, but, as she was bound for Portsmouth, put an officer and a couple of men aboard her till she should arrive at that port.
One thing which had aroused suspicions was the finding on board of exceptionally large fend-offs.
These were just the kind which were used by smuggling ships accustomed to be met at sea by smaller craft, into which the casks were transferred and then rowed ashore.
And what was more suspicious still was the fact that these fend-offs were found wet; so they had most probably been used recently in a seaway when some tub-boats had been alongside the _Georges_.
Somehow or other, when she arrived at Portsmouth, although the matter was duly reported, it was not thought necessary to haul her ashore, but she was carefully examined afloat.
The English passenger found aboard gave the name of Mitchell, but he was suspected of being Robinson, a notorious Bognor smuggler.
And it was now further believed that the _Georges_ had sunk her "crop" of tubs somewhere near the Owers (just south of Selsey Bill), as on the morning of the day when the _Cameleon_ sighted her a vessel answering her description was seen in that vicinity.
On that occasion, then, the _Georges_ could not be detained, and we next hear of her on May 3, when again she set forth from Cherbourg.
She had no doubt taken on board a fine cargo, for she had a burthen of thirty-one tons, and this she managed in some mysterious manner to land in England.
There can be no doubt that she did succeed in hoodwinking the Revenue service for a time, but it is probable that she employed largely the method of sinking the tubs, which were afterwards recovered in the manner already familiar to the reader.
At any rate, Lieutenant Owen, R.N., writing on May 9 from the Ryde coastguard station to Captain Langtry, R.N., his inspecting commander, reported that this _Georges_ had arrived off Ryde pier that morning at seven o'clock.
She had five Frenchmen on board besides Gosselin.
It was found that her tub-boat was a new one, and when she arrived this was on deck, but it had since been hoisted out, and Gosselin, having been brought ashore, crossed by the Ryde steamer to Portsmouth at 9 A.M. What business he transacted in Portsmouth cannot be stated definitely, but it is no foolish guess to suggest that he went to inform his friends at what spot in the neighbourhood of the Isle of Wight he had deposited the casks of spirits a few hours previously.
However, Gosselin did not waste much time ashore, for he had returned, got up anchor and sails, and was off Bembridge Ledge by five in the afternoon, at which time the _Georges_ was sighted by Captain Hughes, commanding the Revenue cutter _Petrel_.
The _Georges_ was boarded and searched, and there was a strong smell of brandy noticed, and it was clear that her tub-boat had been recently used.
Somewhere--somehow--she had recently got rid of her "crop," but where and when could not be ascertained.
The _Georges'_ master protested that he was very anxious to get back to Cherbourg as quickly as possible; and as there was nothing definite found on board this foreign craft, Captain Hughes decided to release her.
That was on May 9, then.
But exactly a week later this same _Georges_ came running into Torbay.
On arrival here she was found to have no tub-boat, although in her inventory she was said to have a boat 21 feet long and 9 feet broad.
Some of her crew were also absent, which looked still further suspicious.
Still more, she was found to have battens secured along her bulwarks for the purpose of lashing tubs thereto.
This made it quite certain that she was employed in the smuggling industry, and yet again there was no definite reason for arresting this foreign ship.
We pass over the rest of May and June till we come to the last day of July.
On that date the lieutenant in charge of the coastguard at Lyme (West Bay) reported that he had received information from Lieutenant Davies of the Beer station that a landing of contraband goods was likely to be attempted on the Branscombe station, which is just to the west of Beer Head.
It was probable that this would take place on either the 1st or 2nd of August, and at night.
Orders were therefore given that a vigilant look-out should be kept in this neighbourhood.
Nothing occurred on the first of these dates, but about twenty minutes past eleven on the night of August 2 reports and flashes of pistols were heard and seen on the Sidmouth station as far as Beer Head.
These were observed by Lieutenant Smith and his crew, who were in hiding; but, unfortunately, just as one of the coastguards was moving from his hiding-place he was discovered by a friend of the smugglers, who instantly blazed off a fire on the highest point of the cliff.
However, Lieutenant Smith did not waste much time, and quickly had a boat launched.
They pulled along the shore for a distance of a mile and a half from the beach, and continued so to do until 2.30 A.M., but no vessel or boat could be seen anywhere.
But as he believed a landing was taking place not far away, he sent information east and west along the coast.
As a matter of fact a landing did occur not far away, but it was not discovered.
An excise officer, however, when driving along the Lyme road, actually fell in with two carts of tubs escorted by fifteen men.
This was somewhere about midnight.
He then turned off the road and proceeded to Sidmouth as fast as he could, in order to get assistance, as he was unarmed.
From there the chief officer accompanied him, having previously left instructions for the coastguard crew to scour the country the following morning.
But the excise and chief officer after minutely searching the cross-roads found nothing, and lost track of the carts and fifteen men.
[Illustration: "Taken completely by surprise."]
That time there had been no capture, and the smugglers had got clean away.
But the following night Lieutenant Smith went afloat with his men soon after dark, and about half-past ten observed a signal blazed off just as on the previous evening.
Knowing that this was a warning that the smuggling vessel should not approach the shore, Smith pulled straight out to sea, hoping, with luck, to fall in with the smuggling craft.
Happily, before long he discovered her in the darkness.
She appeared to be cutter-rigged, and he promptly gave chase.
At a distance of only two miles from the shore he got up to her, for the night was so dark that the cutter did not see the boat until it got right alongside, whereupon the smugglers suddenly slipped a number of heavy articles from her gunwale.
Taken completely by surprise, and very confused by the sudden arrival of the coastguard's boat, Lieutenant Smith was able to get on board their ship and arrest her.
It was now about 11.15 P.M.
But, having noticed these heavy splashes in the water, the lieutenant was smart enough instantly to mark the place with a buoy, and then was able to devote his attention entirely to his capture.
He soon found that this was the _Georges_ of Cherbourg.
She was manned by three Frenchmen, and there were still hanging from the gunwale on either quarter a number of heavy stones slung together, such as were employed for sinking the tubs.
There can be no doubt that the _Georges'_ intention had been to come near enough to the shore to send her tubs to the beach in her tub-boat, as she had almost certainly done the night before.
But hearing the coastguard galley approaching, and being nervous of what they could not see, the tubs were being cast into the sea to prevent seizure.
Although no tubs were found _on board_, yet it was significant that the tub-boat was not on board, having evidently been already sent ashore with a number of casks.
There was a small 12-feet dinghy suspended in the rigging, but she was obviously not the boat which the _Georges_ was accustomed to use for running goods.
Lieutenant Smith for a time stood off and on the shore, and then ran along the coast until it was day, hoping to fall in with the tub-boat.
Just as he had captured the _Georges_ another coastguard boat, this time from the Beer station, came alongside, and so the officer sent this little craft away with four hands to search diligently up and down the coast, and to inform the coastguards that the tub-boat had escaped.
When it was light, Smith took the _Georges_ into Lyme Cobb, and her crew and master were arrested.
She had evidently changed her skipper since the time when she was seen off the Hampshire shore, for the name of her present master was Clement Armel.
They were landed, taken before the magistrates, and remanded.
But subsequently they were tried, and sentenced to six months' hard labour each in Dorchester gaol, but after serving two months of this were released by order of the Treasury.
On the 5th of August the boats from Lieutenant Smith's station at Branscombe went out to the spot where the _Georges_ had been captured and the mark-buoy with a grapnel at the end of it had been thrown.
There they crept for a time and found nothing.
But it had been heavy weather, and probably the tubs had gone adrift without sinkers to them.
At any rate no landing was reported along the shore, so it was doubtful if the tub-boat had managed to get to land.
As to the _Georges_ herself, she was found to be almost a new vessel.
She was described as a handsome craft, "and very much the appearance of a yacht, and carries a white burgee at her masthead with a red cross in it, similar to vessels belonging to the Yacht Club."
The reference to the "Yacht Club" signifies the Royal Yacht Squadron, which was originally called the Royal Yacht Club.
In those days the number of yachts was very few compared with the fleets afloat to-day.
Some of the Royal Yacht Club's cutters were faster than any smuggler or Revenue craft, and it was quite a good idea for a smuggler built with yacht-like lines to fly the club's flag if he was anxious to deceive the cruisers and coastguards by day.
Some years before this incident there was found on board a smuggling lugger named the _Maria_, which was captured by the Revenue cruiser _Prince of Wales_ about the year 1830, a broad red pendant marked with a crown over the letters "R.Y.C.," and an anchor similar to those used by the Royal Yacht Club.
One of the _Maria's_ crew admitted that they had it on board because they thought it might have been serviceable to their plans.
The point is not without interest, and, as far as I know, has never before been raised.
But to conclude our narrative of the _Georges_.
As it was pointed out that she was such a fine vessel, and that Lyme Cobb (as many a seafaring man to-day knows full well) was very unsafe in a gale of wind, it was suggested that she should be removed to Weymouth "by part of one of the cutters' crews that occasionally call in here."
So on the 7th of September in that year she was fetched away to Weymouth by Lieutenant Sicklemore, R.N.
She and her boat were valued at £240, but she was found to be of such a beautiful model that she was neither destroyed nor sold, but taken into the Revenue service as a cutter to prevent the trade in which she had been so actively employed.
And so we could continue with these smuggling yarns; but the extent of our limits has been reached, so we must draw to a close.
If the smuggling epoch was marred by acts of brutality, if its ships still needed to have those improvements in design and equipment which have to-day reached such a high mark of distinction, if its men were men not altogether admirable characters, at any rate their seamanship and their daring, their ingenuity and their exploits, cannot but incite us to the keenest interest in an exceptional kind of contest.
APPENDICES APPENDIX I SLOOPS OR CUTTERS The reputed difference between a sloop and cutter in the eighteenth century is well illustrated by the following, which is taken from the Excise Trials, vol.
xxx., 1st July 1795 to 17th December 1795, p. 95.
In Attorney-General _v._ Julyan and others there was an action to condemn the vessel _Mary_ of Fowey, brought under the provisions of sec.
4, c. 47, 24 Geo.
III., as amended by sec.
6, c. 50, 34 Geo.
III.
There were several counts, including one with regard to the vessel being fitted with "arms for resistance," but the case turned on the question whether she was cutter-rigged or sloop-rigged.
Counsel for the prosecution defined a cutter as "a thing constructed for swift sailing, which, with a view to effect that purpose, is to sink prodigiously at her stern, and her head to be very much out of water ... built so that she should measure a great deal more than she would contain."
Such a definition, however satisfactory it may have been to the legal mind, was one that must have vastly amused any seafaring man.
The judge, quoting expert evidence, explained the difference between a cutter and a sloop as follows:--A standing or running bowsprit is common to either a sloop or a cutter, and a traveller, he said, was an invariable portion of a cutter's rig, so also was a jib-tack.
The jib-sheet, he ruled, differed however; that of a cutter was twice as large as that of a sloop and was differently set.
It had no stay.
A sloop's jib-sheet was set with a fixed stay.
Furthermore, in a cutter the tack of the jib was hooked to a traveller, and there was a large thimble fastened to a block which came across the head of the sail.
There were two blocks at the mast-head, one on each side.
"A rope passes through the three blocks by which it is drawn up to the halliards."
The jib of a cutter "lets down and draws in a very short time."
A cutter usually had channels and mortice-holes to fix legs to prevent oversetting.
APPENDIX II LIST OF CRUISERS EMPLOYED IN THE CUSTOMS SERVICE FOR THE YEAR 1784 -----------------+---------+------------+---------------------------------+ Name.
|Number of|Where | | |Crew.
|Stationed.
| Remarks.
| -----------------+---------+------------+---------------------------------+ _Lively_ and } | 14 | London | These vessels were the property | _Vigilant_ } | | | of the Crown.
The _Lively_ | | | | cruised in the winter | | | | half-year, but in the summer | | | | her crew did duty on board | | | | the _Vigilant_.
| _Defence_ | 16 |Gravesend | On the Establishment.
| _Success_ | 23 |Rochester | " " | _Otter_ | 13 |Rochester | Moored in Standgate Creek to | | | | guard the Quarantine.
| _Active_ | 18 |Eaversham | On the Establishment.
| _Sprightly_ | 30 |Sandwich | Employed by Contract from May | | | | 27, 1784.
| _Greyhound_ | 17 |Sandwich | Employed by Contract from | | | | January 27, 1784.
| _Scourge_ | 30 |Deal | Employed by Contract from | | | | January 27, 1784.
| _Nimble_ | 30 |Deal | Employed by Contract from | | | | April 23, 1784.
| _Tartar_ | 31 |Dover | On the Establishment.
| _Assistance_ | 28 |Dover | Employed by Contract.
| _Alert_ | 16 |Dover | Employed by Contract from | | | | April 22, 1784.
| _Stag_ | 24 |Rye | On the Establishment.
| _Hound_ | 30 & 24 |Rye | Contract.
Crew reduced to 24 | | | | on October 9, 1784.
| _Surprise_ | 28 |Newhaven | Contract.
Crew reduced to 24 | | | | on October 9, 1784.
| _Enterprise_ | 18 |Shoreham | Establishment in 1784, but | | | | afterwards on Contract.
| _Falcon_ | 18 & 28 |Chichester | Establishment.
| _Roebuck_ | 21 |Portsmouth | " | _Antelope_ | 11 |Portsmouth | " | _Rose_ | 30 |Southampton | " | _Speedwell_ | 31 |{ Weymouth |{ She was on Contract at | | |{ Cowes |{ Weymouth but was removed to | | | |{ Cowes on June 10, 1784.
| _Swan_ | 23 | Cowes | Contract from March 6, 1784 | _Laurel_ | 20 | Poole | " " " | _Diligence_ | 32 |{ Poole |} Contract.
Removed from Poole | | |{ Weymouth |} to Weymouth, March 2, 1784.
| _Alarm_ | 26 | Exeter | Contract.
Removed from Poole | | | | to Weymouth, March 2, 1784.
| _Spider_ | 28 | Dartmouth | Contract.
Removed from Poole | | | | to Weymouth, March 2, 1784.
| _Ranger_ | 21 | Plymouth | Establishment.
| _Wasp_ | 20 | Plymouth | Contract.
| _Squirrel_ | 20 | Looe | " | _Hawke_ |18 & 26 | Falmouth | " | _Lark_ | 20 | Falmouth | " | _Lurcher_ | 30 | Penryn | " | _Tamer_ | 25 | Scilly | " | _Brilliant_ | 30 | St. Ives | " | _Dolphin_ | 26 | St. Ives | " | _Brisk_ | 19 | Milford | " | _Repulse_ | 33 | Colchester | Establishment.
| _Argus_ | 24 | Harwich | " | _Bee_ | 16 | Harwich | Contract.
| _Hunter_ | 25 | Yarmouth.
| Establishment.
| _Experiment_ | 18 | Boston | " | _Swallow_ | 24 | Hull | " | _Mermaid_ | 24 | Newcastle | " | _Eagle_ | 24 | Newcastle | " | -----------------+---------+------------+---------------------------------+ APPENDIX III LIST OF CRUISERS EMPLOYED IN THE CUSTOMS SERVICE FOR THE YEAR 1797 (_up to June 27_) -------------------+------------------------------+---------+------+------+ Vessel.
| Commander.
| Tonnage.| Guns.| Men.
| -------------------+------------------------------+---------+------+------+ _Vigilant_ Yacht |{ Richard Dozell |{ 53 | 6 | 13 | _Vigilant_ Cutter |{ |{ 82 | 8 |10adl.| | | | | | | | | | | _Diligence_ | William Dobbin | 152 | 14 | 32 | | | | | | _Swallow_ | Thomas Amos | 153 | 10 | 32 | _Lively_ | Du Bois Smith | 113 | 12 | 30 | _Defence_ | Geo.
Farr (Acting) | 76 | 6 | 18 | _Ant_ | Thomas Morris | 58 | 4 | 15 | _Fly_ | Thomas Gibbs | 52 | 4 | 15 | _Success_ | William Broadbank | 74 | 6 | 24 | _Otter_ | John Matthews | 68 | -| 13 | _Active_ | Thomas Lesser | 75 | 8 | 18 | | | | | | | | | | | _Swift_ | J. Westbeech (Tide Surveyor) | 52 | -| 8 | _Nimble_ | William Clothier (Acting) | 41 | 2 | 15 | _Tartar_ | B.J.
Worthington | 100 | 10 | 23 | _Stag_ | John Haddock | 153 | 14 | 32 | | | | | | -------------------+------------------------------+---------+------+------+ -------------------+---------------------------------------+ Vessel.
| Extent of Cruising Station.
| -------------------+---------------------------------------+ _Vigilant_ Yacht | To attend the Honourable Board.
| _Vigilant_ Cutter | In the winter season the cutter with | | ten additional hands cruised on the | | coasts of Essex, Ken, and Sussex | _Diligence_ | Milford to Solway Firth, or as the | | Board should direct.
| _Swallow_ | As the Board should direct.
| _Lively_ | " " " | _Defence_ | Gravesend to Dungeness.
| _Ant_ | Gravesend to the Nore.
| _Fly_ | " " " | _Success_ | Rochester to North Sand Head.
| _Otter_ | Rochester to the Buoy of the Woolpack.| _Active_ | Mouth of Medway to N. Foreland, | | round the Longsand and up the | | Swin to Leigh.
| _Swift_ | Downs to the Longsand.
| _Nimble_ | Between the Forelands.
| _Tartar_ | The Gore to Beachy Head.
| _Stag_ | Dover to Brighton, but extended on | | special circumstances.
| -------------------+---------------------------------------+ -------------------+------------------------------+---------+------+------+ Vessel.
| Commander.
| Tonnage.| Guns.| Men.
| -------------------+------------------------------+---------+------+------+ _Hound_ | J.R. Hawkins | 111 | 12 | 30 | _Falcon_ | Charles Newland | 131 | 12 | 33 | _Roebuck_ | John Stiles | 104 | 12 | 27 | _Antelope_ | John Case | 97 | 10 | 26 | | | | | | _Rose_ | William Yeates | 114 | 12 | 32 | _Swan_ | |[Building at this date]| _Greyhound_ | Richard Wilkinson | 200 | 16 | 43 | _Alarm_ | Andrew Dealey | 130 | 12 | 36 | _Ranger_ | Nathaniel Cane | 80 | 8 | 25 | _Busy_ | Alexr.
Fraser (mate) | 46 | -| 11 | _Hinde_ | Gabriel Bray | 160 | 12 | 41 | _Dolphin_ | Richard Johns (Junr.)
| 139 | 14 | 32 | | | | | | _Racer_ | James Wood (mate) | 40 | -| 9 | _Speedwell_ | John Hopkins |[Building at this date]| | | | | | _Endeavour_ | Thomas Peregrine | 34 | -| 11 | _Repulse_ | G.G.H.
Munnings | 143 | 14 | 43 | _Argus_ | John Saunders | 135 | 14 | 32 | _Hunter_ | Thomas Ritches | 143 | 14 | 32 | _Bee_ | A. Somerscalls (mate) | 28 | -| 9 | | | | | | _Eagle_ | George Whitehead |[Building at this date]| _Mermaid_ | John Carr | 112 | 10 | 30 | _Viper_ | John Hudson (mate) | 28 | -| 9 | | | | | | -------------------+------------------------------+---------+------+------+ -------------------+---------------------------------------+ Vessel.
| Extent of Cruising Station.
| -------------------+---------------------------------------+ _Hound_ | N. Foreland to Isle of Wight.
| _Falcon_ | Beachy Head to Isle of Wight.
| _Roebuck_ | Round the Isle of Wight.
| _Antelope_ | Round the Isle of Wight, and from | | Needles to Swanage.
| _Rose_ | From Lool to Lyme.
| _Swan_ | Beachy Head to Lyme.
| _Greyhound_ | Beachy Head to the Start.
| _Alarm_ | Between Portland and the Start.
| _Ranger_ | Land's End to Cape Cornwall.
| _Busy_ | Plymouth Sound and Lawsand Bay.
| _Hinde_ | Portland to St. Ives and Scilly.
| _Dolphin_ | St. Ives to Padstow, round Scilly; | | Land's End to Helford.
| _Racer_ | Chepstow to Ilfracombe.
| _Speedwell_ | Holyhead, Bristol Channel, and to | | the Land's End.
| _Endeavour_ | The whole port of Milford.
| _Repulse_ | North Yarmouth to Portsmouth.
| _Argus_ | Buoy of the Middle[25] to Lowestoft.
| _Hunter_ | Harwich to Cromer.
| _Bee_ | Humber, York, and Lincoln, and to | | guard Quarantine.
| _Eagle_ | Tynemouth to Yarmouth.
| _Mermaid_ | Berwick to the Spurn.
| _Viper_ | Isle of Anglesea to St. Bee's Head | | occasionally.
| -------------------+---------------------------------------+ [25] _i.e._ doubtless the channel better known as Swin Middle, leading into the estuary of the Thames.
APPENDIX IV LIST OF REVENUE CRUISERS BUILT BETWEEN JULY 18, 1822 AND OCTOBER 1, 1838 ----------------------------+---------------+-----+-----------------+ | | | | Name of Cruiser.
| When Built.
|Ton| Builders.
| | |nage.| | ----------------------------+---------------+-----+-----------------+ | | | | _Fly_ (late _New Charter_) | July 18, 1822 | 44 | Thos.
White | _Lion_ | " " | 82 | Th.
Inman | _Arrow_ (late _Seaflower_) | " " | 43 | Ransom & Ridley | _Cameleon_ (lost) | " " | 85 | Wm.
Hedgcock | _Dolphin_ | " " | 68 | J.B. Good | _Ranger_ | " " | 71 | Chas.
Golder | _Tartar_ | " " | 82 | Ransom & Ridley | _Repulse_ | " " | 82 | W. Good & Son | _Nimble_ | " " | 65 | Rd.
Graves | _Sprightly_ | " " | 63 | Chas.
Miller | _Sealark_ | Oct. 10, 1823 | 42 | Th.
White | _Scout_ | Aug. 15, " | 84 | Th.
White | _Fox_ | Oct. 10, " | 85 | Th.
White | _Endeavour_ | July 16, " | 45 | N. Harvey | _Adder_ (sold) | Oct. 10, " | 73 | T. White | _Vigilant_ | Feb. 10, 1824 | 99 | T. White | _Kite_ | Mar.
21, 1825 | 164 | Ransom & Ridley | _Hound_ (lost) | " " | 169 | T. White | _Experiment_ |April 16, 1825 | 43 | T. White | ----------------------------+---------------+-----+-----------------+ ----------------------------+----------+-----------------+-----------------+ | | Draft.
|Rate of sailing | Name of Cruiser.
| Where |--------+--------|per hour in knots| | Built.
|Forward.| Aft.
|and fathoms.
| ----------------------------+----------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ | |ft.
ins.|ft.
ins.| knots | fathoms| _Fly_ (late _New Charter_) |Cowes | 5 � 6 | 7 � 4 | -| -| _Lion_ |Lymington | -| -| -| -| _Arrow_ (late _Seaflower_) |Hastings | 4 � 6 | 9 � 3 | 9 | -| _Cameleon_ (lost) |Dover | -| -| -| -| _Dolphin_ |Bridport | 5 � 3 | 9 � 0 | 10 | -| _Ranger_ |Folkestone| 4 � 6 | 9 � 6 | 8 | -| _Tartar_ |Hastings | 5 � 2 | 10 � 2 | 8 | 4 | _Repulse_ |Ealing | -| -| -| -| _Nimble_ |Sandgate | 5 � 0 | 10 � 0 | 10 | -| _Sprightly_ |Cowes | 5 � 6 | 8 � 6 | 7 | 4 | _Sealark_ |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Scout_ |Cowes | 5 � 11 | 8 � 4 | 8 | 4 | _Fox_ |Cowes | 6 � 6 | 10 � 0 | 10 | -| _Endeavour_ |Rye | 5 � 6 | 9 � 6 | -| -| _Adder_ (sold) |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Vigilant_ |Cowes | 6 � 8 | 9 � 4 | 9 | 4 | _Kite_ |Hastings | 6 � 8 | 12 � 10| 11 | -| _Hound_ (lost) |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Experiment_ |Cowes | 5 � 0 | 7 � 4 | -| -| ----------------------------+----------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ ----------------------------+---------------+-----+-----------------+ | | | | Name of Cruiser.
| When Built.
|Ton| Builders.
| | |nage.| | ----------------------------+---------------+-----+-----------------+ | | | | _Racer_ | Aug. 10, 1825 | 53 | Ransom & Ridley | _Viper_ (late _Mermaid_) | " 23, " | 43 | T. White | _Stag_ | Feb. 20, 1827 | 130 | T. White | _Diligence_ (lost) | " 4, 1828 | 171 | Ransom & Ridley | _Bee_ | Aug. 18, " | 69 | Ransom & Ridley | _Stork_ | Jan. 5, 1830 | 160 | Ransom & Ridley | _Liverpool_ (now | July 1, " | 28 | T. White | _Speedwell_) | | | | _Victoria_ | Aug. 31, 1831 | 22 | Ransom & Ridley | _Chance_ |April 2, 1832 | 58 | T. White | _Squirrel_ | Jun 21, " | 36 | T. White | _Amphitrite_ | July 4, " | 30 | Th.
Inman | _Victoria_ |April 2, " | 114 | Th.
Inman | _King George_ | Aug. 3, " | 36 | Ransom & Ridley | _Wickham_ |April 2, " | 150 | T. White | _Adelaide_ | " " | 143 | Ransom & Ridley | _Dolphin_ | " " | 84 | Ransom & Ridley | _Liverpool_ (tender to | Aug. 10 " | 36 | T. White | _Kite_) | | | | _Hornet_ | July 6, " | 143 | Ransom & Ridley | _Prince George_ | Nov. 3, " | 70 | Ransom & Ridley | _Providence_ | Dec. 10, " | 20 | N. & E. Edwards | _Margaret_ | " " | 22 | T. Inman | _Asp_ |April 22, 1833 | 32 | T. White | _Lady of the Lake_ | " 25, " | 22 | T. Inman | _Hind_ | May 25, " | 41 | Ransom & Ridley | _Caroline_ | Jan. 31, 1834 | 36 | Ransom & Ridley | _Frances_ | Feb. 3, " | 40 | T. White | ----------------------------+---------------+-----+-----------------+ ----------------------------+----------+-----------------+-----------------+ | | Draft.
|Rate of sailing | Name of Cruiser.
| Where |--------+--------|per hour in knots| | Built.
|Forward.| Aft.
|and fathoms.
| ----------------------------+----------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ | |ft.
ins.|ft.
ins.| knots | fathoms| _Racer_ |Hastings | 4 � 4 | 9 � 8 | 8 | 4 | _Viper_ (late _Mermaid_) |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Stag_ |Cowes | 6 � 9 | 10 � 9 | 10 | -| _Diligence_ (lost) |Hastings | 6 � 9 | 12 � 4 | 12 | -| _Bee_ |Hastings | 6 � 0 | 10 � 0 | -| -| _Stork_ |Hastings | 7 � 4 | 12 � 6 | 11 | 6 | _Liverpool_ (now |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Speedwell_) | | | | | | _Victoria_ |Hastings | -| -| -| -| _Chance_ |Cowes | 6 � 6 | 9 � 6 |9½ to 10| -| _Squirrel_ |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Amphitrite_ |Lymington | -| -| -| -| _Victoria_ |Lymington | 6 � 6 | 11 � 0 | 11 | -| _King George_ |Hastings | -| -| -| -| _Wickham_ |Cowes | 7 � 3 | 11 � 3 | 11 | 4 | _Adelaide_ |Hastings | 7 � 1½ | 12 � 2½| 10 | 6 | _Dolphin_ |Hastings | 7 � 0 | 10 � 3 | 9 | 6 | _Liverpool_ (tender to |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Kite_) | | | | | | _Hornet_ |Hastings | 7 � 0 | 12 � 0 |7.6 to 8| -| _Prince George_ |Hastings | -| -| -| -| _Providence_ |Scilly | -| -| -| -| _Margaret_ |Lymington | 5 � 2 | 8 � 4 | 9 | -| _Asp_ |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Lady of the Lake_ |Lymington | -| -| -| -| _Hind_ |Hastings | -| -| -| -| _Caroline_ |Hastings | -| -| -| -| _Frances_ |Cowes | 4 � 6 | 7 � 8 | 8 | 4 | ----------------------------+----------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ ----------------------------+---------------+-----+-----------------+ | | | | Name of Cruiser.
| When Built.
|Ton| Builders.
| | |nage.| | ----------------------------+---------------+-----+-----------------+ | | | | _Royal George_ | Mar.
27, " | 149 | T. Inman | _Maria_ |Sept.
10, " | 36 | T. Inman | _Vulcan_ (steamer) | Oct. 30, " | 325 | T. White | _Hamilton_ | Jan. 11, 1835 | 59 | T. White | _Cameleon_ | Feb. 21, " | 89 | T. Inman | _Kingstown_ | May 4, " | 21 | T. Inman | _Bat_ | Nov. 20, " | 37 | T. White | _Tiger_ | Mar.
8, 1836 | 18 | T. Inman | _Onyx_ |Sept.
1, " | 36 | T. White | _Flying Fish_ | " " | 41 | T. White | _Gertrude_ | Oct. 26, 1836 | 37 | T. White | _Royal Charlotte_ | " 27, " | 130 | T. White | _Active_ | " 29, " | 101 | T. Inman | _Vixen_ | Feb. 11, 1837 | 56 | T. White | _Ferret_ | Mar.
18, " | 39 | T. Inman | _Desmond_ | June 10, " | 68 | T. Inman | _Harpy_ | Oct. 10, " | 145 | T. White | _Asp_ | Feb. 20, 1838 | 46 | T. Inman | _Rose_ | " " | 53 | T. Inman | _Adder_ | " " | 53 | T. White | _Neptune_ | June 19, 1838 | 42 | T. White | _Kingstown_ | Oct. 1, " | 35 | Pinney & Adams | ----------------------------+---------------+-----+-----------------+ ----------------------------+----------+-----------------+-----------------+ | | Draft.
|Rate of sailing | Name of Cruiser.
| Where |--------+--------|per hour in knots| | Built.
|Forward.| Aft.
|and fathoms.
| ----------------------------+----------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ | |ft.
ins.|ft.
ins.| knots | fathoms| _Royal George_ |Lymington | 6 � 8 | 11 � 3 | 11 | 2 | _Maria_ |Lymington | -| -| -| -| _Vulcan_ (steamer) |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Hamilton_ |Cowes | 5 � 6 | 9 � 6 | 9 | 4 | _Cameleon_ |Lymington | 6 � 6 | 10 � 6 | 10 | -| _Kingstown_ |Lymington | -| -| -| -| _Bat_ |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Tiger_ |Lymington | -| -| -| -| _Onyx_ |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Flying Fish_ |Cowes | 5 � 3 | 8 � 3 | 8 | 4 | _Gertrude_ |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Royal Charlotte_ |Cowes | 6 � 5 | 10 � 9 | 10 | 6 | _Active_ |Lymington | 6 � 2 | 11 � 1 | 10 | 6 | _Vixen_ |Cowes | 5 � 3 | 8 � 4 | 10 | -| _Ferret_ |Lymington | -| -| -| -| _Desmond_ |Lymington | 4 � 9 | 8 � 6 | 9 | -| _Harpy_ |Cowes | 6 � 7 | 11 � 3 | 11 | -| _Asp_ |Lymington | -| -| -| -| _Rose_ |Lymington | 5 � 6 | 9 � 3 | 10 | -| _Adder_ |Cowes | 5 � 2 | 8 � 3 | [Never Tried] | _Neptune_ |Cowes | -| -| -| -| _Kingstown_ |Poole | 6 � 4 | 9 � 4 | -| -| ----------------------------+----------+--------+--------+--------+--------+ _N.B._--There is no information to show how the rate of sailing was assessed.
We know not (a) whether the vessel was sailing on a wind or off; whether close-hauled or with the wind abeam; (b) whether the distance was taken from a measured mile reckoned between two fixed objects ashore; (c) what sail was set; whether reefed or not; (d) whether the speed was estimated by means of the old-fashioned log.
It is probable that the last mentioned was the method employed, but in any one of these cases the rate given can only be approximate unless we know the force and angle of the wind at each trial trip.
The non-nautical reader may be reminded in considering the rates given above that a knot is equivalent to 1000 fathoms or, more exactly, 6086 English feet.
APPENDIX V SPECIFICATION FOR BUILDING A CUTTER FOR THE REVENUE SERVICE OF THIRTY-FIVE TONS (_As built in the year 1838_) LENGTH.--From Stem to Sternpost, 44 feet.
Keel for tonnage, 41 feet.
BREADTH.--Extreme from outside the Plank, 14 feet 5 inches.
DEPTH.--From the upper-part of the Main Hatch-Beam to the Ceiling alongside the Keelson, 7 feet 8 inches.
KEEL.--The Keel to be of good sound Elm, in not more than two pieces, with Hook and Butt Scarphs 6 feet long, sided 6-1/2 inches.
Depth aft 12 inches, forward 14 inches, with a false Keel.
STEM.--To be of sound English Oak, clear of Sap and all other defects, sided 5-1/2 inches, and to be sufficiently thick at the head to admit of a hole for the Main Stay.
STERN POST.--To be of sound English Oak, clear of Sap and all other defects, sided 5-1/2 inches.
DEAD WOOD.--The Dead Wood both forward and aft to be of Oak, clear of Sap and all defects, except the two lower pieces which may be Elm, and secured by a Knee well bolted through the Sternpost, and Dead Wood aft, and Stem and Dead Wood forward.
FLOORS AND FUTTOCKS.--To be sided 5-1/2 and not more than 6 inches apart.
The lower Futtocks sided 5-1/2 inches, second Futtocks 5, third Futtocks 5, and Toptimbers 4-1/2, Stantions 4 inches.
The heels of the lower Futtocks to meet on the Keel, all the Timber to be well grown and seasoned, clear of Sap and other defects;--of English Oak.
KEELSON.--The Keelson to run well forward and aft, of sound Oak, clear of Sap, sided 7 inches and moulded 9 inches Midships.
The ends moulded 7 inches and sided 6 inches.
To be bolted through the floors and Keel with 3/4 inch Copper Bolts well clenched on a ring, under the Keel.
STANTIONS.--Stantions sided 4 inches at the Gunwale and 3-1/2 inches at the Head, and so spaced as to form 4 ports, each side 20 inches in the clear, and the port lids hung with composition hooks and hinges to roughtree rail and one Stantion between each port, or more if necessary.
COUNTER-TIMBERS.--To be sided from 4-1/2 to 4 inches and the Transoms well kneed.
BREAST-HOOKS.--To have 3 Breast-Hooks, one under the Bowsprit sided 4 inches, the others sided 4-1/2 inches, all of the best English Oak, with arms not less than 3 feet long, clear of Sap and other defects; the two lower ones to be bolted with Copper Bolts.
The Throat Bolt to be 3/4 inch diameter, to go through the stem and clenched, and three in each arm of 5/8, all well clenched on a ring.
BEAMS.--The Beams to be good sound Oak, clear of all defects, to round up 5-1/2 inches.
The Beam before and the Beam abaft the Mast to be sided 6 inches, and moulded 6 inches, and not more than 4 feet apart, and to have two Wood lodging Knees to each, also one Iron hanging Knee to each; the remainder of the Beams to be sided 5 inches, and moulded 5 inches, and regularly spaced, and not more than three feet from Centre to Centre, with two 1 inch dowels in each end, instead of dovetailing into the shelf-piece, with a 5/8 inch bolt through each dowel, and an inch and quarter hole bored in the end of all the Beams 10 inches in, and another from the under side to meet it, then seared with a hot Iron to admit Air.
CARLINGS AND LEDGERS.--To have 2 fore and aft Carlings between each Beam 4 inches by 3-1/2, and a Ledge 3-1/2 by 3 inches between the Beams where required.
The Mast Carlings to be good English Oak, 4 inches thick, and 10 inches broad.
WALES AND BOTTOM PLANK.--The Wales to be of English well-seasoned Oak, 3 inches thick, clear of all defects, with one strake of 2-1/2 inches thick next under the Wales, and one bilge strake of 2-1/2 inch each side.
The remainder of the Bottom to be full 2 inches thick when worked, all of sound English Oak, except the Garboard and one next to it which may be of Elm; Plank to work 16 feet long with 6 feet shifts, and two strakes between each Butt: the first strake above the Wales to be 2 inches thick, the remainder 2 inches, paint strake 2 inches.
SPIRKETTING.--The Spirketting to be 2 inches thick.
WATERWAYS.--The Waterways to be of English Oak, 3 inches thick, clear of Sap and strakes, and not less than 6 inches broad in any part.
PLANSHEER.--The Plansheer of good English Oak, full 2 inches thick when worked, and to form the lower Port Sills.
SHELF PIECES.--The Shelf Pieces to be fitted to the Timbers instead of working it over the Clamp, as heretofore, to be of good sound English Oak, 6 inches broad, 3-1/2 inches thick, and bolted with 5/8 inch bolts, two feet apart, well clenched.
CLAMPS.--The Clamps to be of good sound Oak, 8 inches broad and 2 inches thick, fitted up to the under side of the Shelf Pieces.
CEILING.--To have two strakes of 2 inch Oak on the Floor and lower Futtock Heads, both sides, and the Ceiling to be of 1-1/4 inch Oak, all English, as high as one foot above the lower Deck; the remainder as high as the clamp, to be of Red Pine, clear of Sap and other defects, 3/4 inch thick.
CHANNELS.--The Main Channels to be of the best English Oak, of sufficient breadth, to convey the rigging clear of the Weather Cloth Rail, and 3-1/2 inches thick with 4 substantial Chainplates with Iron bound Dead-eyes complete, on each side.
The two lower bolts in each plate to be 1 inch in diameter.
No Bolt in the Chainplate through the Channel as usual.
The Chainplates to be let their thickness into the edge of the Channel, and an Iron plate 3 inches broad, and 3/8 inch thick, secured over all by Small Bolts 4-1/2 inches long.
PORTS.--To have 4 Ports on each side properly spaced, and the Port Lids hung with Copper Hooks and Hinges.
BULWARK.--The Bulwark to be of Baltic Red Pine 1 inch thick, to be worked in narrow strakes about 5 inches broad.
The edges grooved and tongued together, and not lined as usual, except from forward to bow port.
ROUGHTREE RAIL.--To be of good clean, straight grained Oak 4-1/2 inches broad, and 2-1/4 deep, to be fitted with a sufficient number of Iron Stantions 2-6/8 inches long, with Oak Rail 2 inches square for Weather Cloths.
The Roughtree Rail to be 2 feet high from Deck.
DECK.--The Upper Deck to be of the best Baltic Red Pine, full 2 inches thick when worked, clear of Sap, strakes, &c., and not more than 5 inches broad each plank.
The plank under, and between the Bitts Knees, to be English Oak 2-1/2 inches thick, the whole to be fastened with Copper Nails of sufficient length.
BITTS.--The Bowsprit Bitts to run down to the Ceiling, with a Bolt in the Keel of each, and so placed that the Bowsprit may be run aft clear of the Mast Larboard Side.
Size of the Bitts at the head fore and aft 7 inches, thwartships 6 inches, and to be the same size at lower part of Deck, with a regular taper to heel.
The Windlass Bitts to be sided 7 inches, and left broad and high enough above the Deck to admit of a Patent Pinion Cog, and Multiplying Wheels to be fitted to Windlass, with Crank, Handles, &c. To have good and sufficient Knees to all the Bitts.
The Bowsprit Bitt Knees sided 6 inches, Windlass Bitt Knees sided 5 inches.
WINDLASS.--The Barrel of the Windlass to be of good sound English Oak, clear of all defects, diameter in the middle 10 inches, and fitted with Patent Iron Palls, with two hoops on each end, and seasoned Elm Whelps 2-1/2 inches thick, hollowed in the middle for Chain Cable 14 inches long, taking care that it leads far from the Hawse Holes, to have 6 Iron Plates let into the Angles of the Whelps.
The Iron Spindle to be 2 inches Diameter, and to let into the Barrel of the Windlass 12 inches, and to be fitted with Pinion, Cog, and Multiplying Wheels and Crank Handles, to have two Windlass ends not more than a foot long each; care must be taken not to cut the Handspike holes where the Chain Cable works.
SCUPPERS.--To have 2 oval Lead Scuppers, each side, 3 by 1-3/4 inch in the clear.
EYE PLATES.--To have two stout Iron Eye Plates, both sides forward for Bowsprit, Shrouds, &c. with two Bolts in each, and three Plates both sides for Runners and Tackles aft, the Eyes to reach up to the top of Roughtree Rail, and to have a good strong Iron Hanging Knee each side to the Beams abreast the Runners.
HATCHWAYS.--The Main Hatchway to be 4 feet broad and 3 feet fore and aft in the clear.
The Combins 3 inches thick and 11 inches broad, let down on Carlings 3 inches thick and 4-1/2 inches broad.
SKYLIGHTS.--To be fitted with two Skylights with Plate Glass and Copper Guard, Commanders to be 3 feet long and 2 feet broad; Mates Skylight 2 feet square, with Plate Glass, Copper Bars 3/8 diameter.
ILLUMINATORS.--To have 10 oblong 4 inch Illuminators let into the Deck where most required, and a 5 inch Patent one over the Water Closet.
WINCH.--To have a Patent Winch round the Mast, and the Mast to be wedged in the partners.
PUMPS.--To be fitted with two Metal Bilge Pumps 3-1/2 inch chamber and everything complete; also one Metal Pump amidships with 6 inch chamber, and two sets of Brass Boxes, and everything requisite; also a Wash Deck Pump fitted aft.
RUDDER.--To have a good and sufficient Rudder with two sets of Metal Pintles and Braces, and one Iron Pintle and Brace at the head of the Sternpost above the Deck, and to be fitted with two good Tillers.
COMPANION.--To be fitted with a Companion and Bittacle complete.
HAWSEPIPES.--To have two stout cast Iron Hawsepipes for Chain Cable 4 inches in the clear, also two Cast Iron Pipes in the Deck with Bell Mouth, to conduct the Chain Cable below.
LOWER DECK.--The Lower Deck Beams to be regularly spaced and not more than 4 feet apart, the Deck to be 1-1/4 inches thick, of good Red Pine, the Midships part 3 feet broad, to be fastened to the Beams, also some of the side plank, the remainder made into Hatches, the edges bolted together with 1/2 inch Iron, the Deck and Cabin Floor abaft, Main Hatch to be 1 inch thick, and made into Hatches where required.
MAGAZINE.--To have a Magazine abaft, properly fitted and lined on the inside with 5 lb.
Lead, and Double Doors with Copper Hinges and Lock to the outside Door.
BREAD ROOM.--To have Bread Rooms and Flour Bins lined with Tin as usual.
GALLEY.--The Galley under the Fire Hearth to be coppered with 32 oz.
Sheet Copper 5 feet square, and the under part of the Upper Deck, Beams, &c.; over the Boilers 4 feet square, to be leaded with 6 lb.
Lead.
LOCKERS AND BINS.--To be fitted with Store Bins and Lockers from the Bows to the Cabin Bulkheads between Decks.
BULKHEADS.--To have Bulkheads between Decks for Commander's Cabin, State Room, and all other Bulkheads, as is customary for a Revenue Cruiser of the 3rd class, with all Drawers, Cupboards, Bed-places, Tables, Wash-stands, &c. complete.
The Cabin Bulkheads to be framed in Panels, all Hinges to be Brass with Brass Pins.
BULKHEADS, HOLD.--To have Bulkheads in the Hold, for Coals, Stores, Casks, Chain Cables, &c., and an opening of one inch left between each Plank to give air, except the Coal-hole which must be close.
LADDERS.--To have a Main Hatch, Fore Hatch, and Cabin Ladder complete.
CLEATS.--To be fitted complete, with all Cleats, Cavels, Snatch Cleats with Shieves, Brass coated Belaying Cleats, and Racks with Belaying Pins, &c., and an Iron Crutch on Taffrail for the Boom.
FASTENINGS.--The whole of the Plank to be fastened with good well seasoned Treenails, and one 1/2 inch Copper Bolt in every Butt from the Keel up to the Wales, to go through and clench on a Ring on the Ceiling, and the Treenails drove through the Ceiling, wedged on the inside and caulked outside.
RING AND EYE BOLTS.--To be fitted with all necessary Ring and Eye Bolts, as customary for a Revenue Cruiser.
LEGS.--To have 2 substantial Oak Legs properly fitted.
PAINT.--The whole of the Wood Work inside and out to have three coats of the best Paint, well put on.
HULL.--The Hull to be completed in every respect as a Revenue Cruiser of the 3rd Class, and all Materials found by the Contractor, except Copper Sheathing for the Bottom and Water-Closets, with all Shipwrights', Caulkers', Joiners', Blacksmiths', Copper-smiths', Braziers', Glaziers', Plumbers' and Painters' work.
CATHEAD.--To have an Iron Cathead with two Shieves strong enough to cat the Anchor, and fitted both sides.
COCK.--To have a Stop Cock fitted forward under the Lower Deck, to let in Water occasionally.
WATER-CLOSET.--To have a Patent Water-Closet of Danton's fitted below, and a Round-house on Deck, aft Starboard side complete, with a Pantry for meat, the Larboard side to correspond with the Round-house, and a Poop Deck between both, nailed with Copper Nails; also a seat of ease on the Larboard side forward for the Crew, with Lead Pipe to water edge; the whole of the Locks throughout to be Brass and Brass Works.
AIR OPENINGS.--An inch opening to be left all fore and aft under the Clamp both sides, also in the Ceiling between the Lower Deck Beams, and another in the upper part of the Bins, and one inch auger hole bored between the Timbers in the run aft and forward where lists cannot be left out, also a hole of one inch in all the Timbers, fore and aft, to admit air, and those holes seared with a hot iron; all Chocks for securing the frame Timbers together are to be split out before the bottom Plank is worked.
The Cutter to remain in frame for one Month before closed in, then when the outside Plank is worked and all the Sap taken off the Timbers, and before the Ceiling is worked, to give the Timbers a good coat of Stockholm Tar.
Should there be any omission or want of more full statement in this Specification, the Contractor is to understand that the Hull of the said Vessel is to be fitted and completed fit for Sea in every respect as is usual for a Revenue Vessel of her Class, the Board finding the Copper Sheathing and Water-Closet.
DEFECTS TO BE AMENDED.--Any defects discovered in the Timbers or Plank, &c., by the Officer or Overseer appointed by the Honourable Board of Customs to survey and inspect the same, or insufficient workmanship performed to the said Cutter during her building, the said defect or deficiency both in the one and in the other, shall upon notice thereof to the Contractor be forthwith amended, and the said Overseer shall not at any time have any molestation or obstruction therein.
_Note._--For a 150-ton Revenue Cutter the following dimensions were employed:-Length.--(Stem to Sternpost) 72 feet.
Keel for Tonnage, 68 feet.
Breadth.--(Extreme) 22 feet 10 inches.
Depth.--10 feet 3 inches.
Beams to be 7 inches.
Deck to be 2 inches thick.
Four Oak Legs to be supplied APPENDIX VI DIMENSIONS OF SPARS OF REVENUE CUTTERS The following list shows the length and thickness of mast, boom, bowsprit, gaff, topmast, and spread-yard [_i.e._ the yard on which the square-sail was set] as used in the Revenue Cutters of different sizes from 150 to 40 tons.
The dimensions given below were those in vogue in the year 1838.
--------------+----------+----------+----------+----------+----------+ Spar.
| 150 Tons.| 130 Tons.| 100 Tons.| 90 Tons.| 80 Tons.| --------------+----------+----------+----------+----------+----------+ | ft. ins.
| ft. ins.
| ft. ins.
| ft. ins.
| ft. ins.
| Mast | 75 � 20 | 72 � 18 | 68 � 17 | 65 � 16½ | 63 � 15¾ | Boom | 61 � 13¼ | 59 � 13 | 54 � 12 | 51 � 11½ | 49 � 10¾ | Bowsprit | 55 � 16¾ | 53 � 15½ | 49 � 14 | 47 � 13¼ | 44 � 12½ | Gaff | 45 � 8¾ | 40 � 8½ | 38 � 7¾ | 33 � 7½ | 32 � 7¼ | Topmast | 52 � 9¾ | 48 � 8½ | 45 � 7¾ | 42 � 7½ | 40 � 7¼ | Spread-Yard | 58 � 9¼ | 56 � 8½ | 48 � 8¼ | 47 � 7¾ | 46 � 7½ | --------------+----------+----------+----------+----------+----------+ --------------+----------+----------+----------+----------+ Spar.
| 70 Tons.
| 60 Tons.
| 50 Tons.
| 40 Tons.| --------------+----------+----------+----------+----------+ | ft. ins.
| ft. ins.
| ft. ins.
| ft. ins.
| Mast | 60 � 15 | 56 � 14 | 55 � 13½ | 50 � 12 | Boom | 47 � 10½ | 45 � 10 | 43 � 8¾ | 42 � 8½ | Bowsprit | 43 � 12 | 38 � 11¼ | 37 � 10¾ | 32 � 10 | Gaff | 31 � 7 | 28 � 6¾ | 30 � 6½ | 26 � 6 | Topmast | 39 � 7 | 35 � 6¾ | 35 � 6½ | 30 � 6 | Spread-Yard | 44 � 7 | 42 � 6¾ | 38 � 6¼ | 32 � 6 | --------------+----------+----------+----------+----------+ APPENDIX VII LIST OF THE CRUISERS IN THE REVENUE COASTGUARD OF THE UNITED KINGDOM IN THE YEAR 1844 -----------------------+----------+----------------------+----------+ Name of Cruiser | Number | Name of Cruiser | Number | | of Crew.
| | of Crew.
| -----------------------+----------+----------------------+----------+ _Shamrock_ | 45 | _Badger_ | 16 | _Kite_ | 34 | _Skylark_ | 16 | _Swift_ | 34 | _Petrel_ | 16 | _Prince of Wales_ | 34 | _Racer_ | 15 | _Wickham_ | 33 | _Hamilton_ | 23 | _Greyhound_ | 33 | _Chance_ | 16 | _Prince Albert_ | 33 | _Harriett_ | 14 | _Royal George_ | 33 | _Rose_ | 14 | _Mermaid_ | 33 | _Adder_ | 14 | _Adelaide_ | 30 | _Rob Roy_ | 14 | _Wellington_ | 33 | _Eliza_ | 13 | _Harpy_ | 30 | _Jane_ | 13 | _Royal Charlotte_ | 29 | _Experiment_ | 10 | _Stag_ | 29 | _Albatross_ | 13 | _Defence_ | 29 | _Asp_ | 10 | _Eagle_ | 29 | _Frances_ | 10 | _Lapwing_ | 29 | _Arrow_ | 10 | _Sylvia_ | 29 | _Viper_ | 10 | _Victoria_ | 27 | _Neptune_ | 10 | _Lively_ | 23 | _Sealark_ | 10 | _Vigilant_ | 23 | _Hind_ | 10 | _Active_ | 23 | _Liverpool_ | 10 | _Cameleon_ | 21 | _Maria_ | 12 | _Fox_ | 21 | _Sylph_ | 8 | _Dolphin_ | 21 | _Gertrude_ | 8 | _Scout_ | 21 | _Governor_ | 8 | _Tartar_ | 21 | _Nelson_ | 7 | _Hawke_ | 21 | _Princess Royal_ | 7 | _Ranger_ | 20 | _Ann_ | 7 | _Nimble_ | 17 | _Fairy_ | 7 | _Desmond_ | 17 | _Ferret_ | 7 | _Sprightly_ | 17 | _Lady of the Lake_ | 5 | _Lion_ | 16 | _Vulcan_ (steamer) | 31 | -----------------------+----------+----------------------+----------+ _Note_.--The size of the above varied from 25 tons to 164 tons.
But the ss.
_Vulcan_ was of 325 tons.
APPENDIX VIII No better instance of the strained relationship existing between the Royal Navy and the Revenue Service could be found than the following.
It will be seen that the animosity had begun at any rate before the end of the seventeenth century and was very far from dead in the nineteenth.
The first incident centres round Captain John Rutter, commander of "one of the smacks or sloops in the service of the Customs about the Isle of Wight."
He stated that on April 24, 1699, about eight o'clock in the evening, he went on board to search the ship _Portland_ at Spithead, the latter having arrived from France with a cargo of wine.
At the same time there put off the long boat from Admiral Hopson's _Resolution_ demanding four hogsheads and four tierces, which (said Rutter) "I denied, but however they took it out by force and carried it on board."
Rutter then went on to the _Resolution_ and there found the wine lying on deck.
The Admiral sent for him aft, and said that he would see the wine forthcoming, for he would write to the Commissioners of Customs.
Some time afterwards Rutter was ashore at Portsmouth in company with Captain Foulks, who was one of the officers stationed on land.
The latter informed Rutter that he was a rogue for having informed against the Admiral.
Foulks drew his sword, and, had he not been prevented, would have murdered Rutter.
Apparently Admiral Hopson never forgave Rutter.
For, some months later, Rutter was riding off Portsmouth "with my Pendent and Colours flying, rejoicing for the happy arrival of His Maty."
Hopson was being rowed ashore, and when near "my yacht ordered my pendent to be taken down.
I being absent, my men would not do it without my order, whereon he sent his boat on board and one of his men took it down.
I coming on board to goe upon my duty ordered it to be hoysted again and imediately he sent his boat with one of his Lieutenants to take it down again with a verball order which I refused to lett him do, but by strength overpowered me and my company and took it down by force, and beat us to ye degree yat I know not whether it may not hazard some men's lives, which I acknowledge I did not wear it in contempt, and if he had sent another time I would readily have obeyed his Order.
Now I humbly conceive that it was merely out of malice as I can prove by his own mouth."
Arising out of this incident, a letter was sent from the Admiralty to the Portsmouth Custom House and signed by "J.
Burchett."
The latter opined that it was not a fault for the Custom House smacks to wear a pendant, but pointed out that the Proclamation of 1699 obliged the Custom House smacks to wear such a pendant as was distinct from the King's "as well as their Jacks and Ensigns."
Furthermore he suggested that it had always been customary to strike such pendant when in sight of an Admiral's flag, especially if demanded.
The second incident occurred on February 4, 1806.
The commanding officer of H.M. Armed vessel _Sentinel_ was lying in Shields harbour.
He sent word to a man named Stephen Mitchell, who caused the watch of the Revenue cutter _Eagle_ to hoist the _Eagle's_ pendant half-mast.
Mitchell naturally replied that he dared not do so without his captain's orders.
Mitchell, therefore, sent to his captain, George Whitehead, but before the latter's arrival the pendant was hauled down and carried on board the _Sentinel_ with threats that Whitehead should be prosecuted for wearing a pendant.
Whitehead accordingly wrote to the Collector and Controller of the Customs at Newcastle to lodge a complaint.
The latter, in turn, wrote to Lieut.
W. Chester, R.N., commanding this _Sentinel_ gun-brig asking for an explanation.
The naval officer replied by referring them to Articles 6 and 7 of the Admiralty Instructions regarding ships or vessels in the service of any public office, by which it was ordered that they should wear the same Ensign and Jack as ships having Letters of Marque, except that in the body of the Jack or Ensign there should be likewise described the seal of the office they belonged to.
All vessels employed in the service of any public office were forbidden to wear pendants contrary to what was allowed, and officers of ships-of-war were permitted to seize any illegal colours.
Chester contended that the _Eagle_ was hailed and requested to lower her colours half-mast, as an officer of the Navy was being interred at South Shields, and all the other vessels in the harbour "had their colours half staff down" except the _Eagle_.
Because the latter refused, Chester requested her mate to come on board the _Sentinel_, as the former wished to explain why the colours should be lowered.
An officer was thereupon sent on board the _Eagle_ to haul them down.
Chester demanded an apology for the disrespect to the deceased officer.
And one could easily quote other similar instances between H.M.S.
_Princess_ and the Revenue cutter _Diligence_: and H.M. gun-brig _Teazer_ and the Revenue cruiser _Hardwicke_.
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. Edinburgh & London * * * * * Typographical errors corrected in text: Page 94: seizurss replaced by seizures.
Page 99: "waved us to keep of" replaced with "waved us to keep off"
THE LIGHT OF SCARTHEY A Romance by EGERTON CASTLE Author of "The Pride of Jennico," "Young April," etc.
"Take whichsoever way thou wilt--the ways are all alike; But do thou only come--I bade my threshold wait thy coming.
From out my window one can see the graves, and on my life The graves keep watch."
_Luteplayer's Song._ New York Frederick A. Stokes Company MCM Copyright, 1899, by Frederick A. Stokes Company.
All rights reserved.
Fourth Edition.
I Dedicate THIS BOOK TO THE MEMORY OF FREDERICK ANDREWS LARKING OF THE ROCKS, EAST MALLING, KENT THAT, SO LONG AS ANYTHING OF MINE SHALL ENDURE, THERE MAY ENDURE ALSO A RECORD OF OUR FRIENDSHIP AND OF MY SORROW PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION.
_Among the works of every writer of Fiction there are generally one or two that owe their being to some_ haunting _thought, long communed with--a thought which has at last found a living shape in some story of deed and passion._ _I say one or two advisedly: for the span of man's active life is short and such haunting fancies are, of their essence, solitary.
As a matter of fact, indeed, the majority of a novelist's creations belong to another class, must of necessity (if he be a prolific creator) find their conception in more sudden impulses.
The great family of the "children of his brain" must be born of inspirations ever new, and in alluring freshness go forth into the world surrounded by the atmosphere of their author's present mood, decked in the colours of his latest imaginings, strengthened by his latest passional impressions and philosophical conclusions._ _In the latter category the lack of long intimate acquaintance between the author and the friends or foes he depicts, is amply compensated for by the enthusiasm appertaining to new discoveries, as each character reveals itself, often in quite unforeseen manner, and the consequences of each event shape themselves inevitably and sometimes indeed almost against his will._ _Although dissimilar in their genesis, both kinds of stories can, in the telling, be equally life-like and equally alluring to the reader.
But what of the writer?
Among his literary family is there not one nearer his heart than all the rest--his_ dream-child?
_It may be the stoutest of the breed or it may be the weakling; it may be the first-born, it often is the Benjamin.
Fathers in the flesh know this secret tenderness.
Many a child and many a book is brooded over with a special love even before its birth.--Loved thus, for no grace or merit of its own, this book is my dream-child._ * * * * * _Here, by the way, I should like to say my word in honour of _Fiction_--"fiction" contradistinguished from what is popularly termed "serious" writing._ _If, in a story, the characters and the events are truly convincing; if the former are appealingly human and the latter are so carefully devised and described as never to evoke the idea of improbability, then it can make no difference in the_ intellectual pleasure _of the reader whether what he is made to realise so vividly is a record of fact or of mere fancy.
Facts we read of are of necessity past: what is past, what is beyond the immediate ken of our senses, can only be realised in imagination; and the picture we are able to make of it for ourselves depends altogether on the sympathetic skill of the recorder.
Is not Diana Vernon, born and bred in Scott's imagination, to the full as living now before us as Rob Roy Macgregor whose existence was so undeniably tangible to the men of his days?
Do we not see, in our mind's eye, and know as clearly the lovable "girt John Ridd" of_ Lorna Doone _the romance as his contemporaries, Mr. Samuel Pepys of the hard and uncompromising_ Diary _or King James of_ English Annals?
_Pictures, alike of the plainest facts or of the veriest imaginings, are but pictures: it matters very little therefore whether the man or the woman we read of but never can see in the flesh has really lived or not, if what we do read raises an emotion in our hearts.
To the novelist, every character, each in his own degree, is almost as living as a personal acquaintance; every event is as clear as a personal experience.
And if this be true of the story written_ à la grâce de la plume, _where both events and characters unfold themselves like the buds of some unknown plant, how much more strongly is it the case of the story that has so long been mused over that one day it had to be told!
Then the marking events of the actors' lives, their adventures, whether of sorrow or of joy, their sayings and doings, noble or bright or mistaken, recorded in the book, are but a tithe of the adventures, sayings and doings with which the writer seems to be familiar.
He might write or talk about them, in praise or vindictiveness as he loves or dreads them, for many a longer day--but he has one main theme to make clear to his hearers and must respect the modern canons of the Story-telling Art.
Among the many things therefore he could tell, an he would, he selects that only which will unravel a particular thread of fate in the tangle of endless consequences; which will render plausible the growth of passions on which, in a continuous life-drama, is based one particular episode._ _Of such a kind is the story of Adrian Landale._ _The haunting thought round which the tale of the sorely tempest-tossed dreamer is gathered is one which, I think, must at one time or other have occurred to many a man as he neared the maturity of middle-life:--What form of turmoil would come into his heart if, when still in the strength of his age but after long years of hopeless separation, he were again brought face to face with the woman who had been the one passion of his life, the first and only love of his youth?
And what if she were still then exactly as he had last seen her--she, untouched by years even as she had so long lived in his thoughts: he, with his soul scarred and seamed by many encounters bravely sustained in the Battle of Life?_ _The problem thus propounded is not solvable, even in fiction, unless it be by "fantastic" treatment.
But perhaps the more so on this account did it haunt me.
And out of the travail of my mind around it, out of the changing shadows of restless speculation, gradually emerged, clear and alive, the being of Adrian Landale and his two loves._ _Here then was a man, whose mind, moulded by nature for grace and contemplation, was cast by fate amid all the turmoils of_ Romance _and action.
Here was one of those whose warm heart and idealising enthusiasm must wreathe the beauty of love into all the beauties of the world; whose ideals are spent on one adored object; who, having lost it, seems to have lost the very sense of love; to whom love never could return, save by some miracle.
But fortune, that had been so cruelly hard on him, one day in her blind way brings back to his door the miraculous restitution--and there leaves him to struggle along the new path of his fate!
It is there also that I take up the thread of the speculation, and watch through its vicissitudes the working of the problem raised by such a strange circumstance._ _The surroundings in a story of this kind are, of the nature of things, all those of_ Romance.
_And by_ Romance, _I would point out, is not necessarily meant in tale-telling, a chain of events fraught with greater improbability than those of so-called real life.
(Indeed where is now the writer who will for a moment admit, even tacitly, that his records are not of reality?)
It simply betokens, a specialisation of the wider genus_ Novel; _a narrative of strong action and moving incident, in addition to the necessary analysis of character; a story in which the uncertain violence of the outside world turns the course of the actors' lives from the more obvious channels.
It connotes also, as a rule, more poignant emotions--emotions born of strife or peril, even of horror; it tells of the shock of arms in life, rather than of the mere diplomacy of life._ _Above all_ Romance _depends upon picturesque and varied setting; upon the scenery of the drama, so to speak.
On the other hand it is not essentially (though this has sometimes been advanced) a narrative of mere adventures as contrasted to the observation and dissection of character and manners we find in the true "novel."
Rather be it said that it is one in which the hidden soul is made patent under the touchstone of blood-stirring incidents, of hairbreadth risks, of recklessness or fierceness.
There are soaring passions, secrets of the innermost heart, that can only be set free in desperate situations--and those situations are not found in the tenor in every-day, well-ordered life: they belong to Romance._ _Spirit-fathers have this advantage that they can bring forth their dream-children in what age and place they list: it is no times of now-a-days, no ordinary scenery, that would have suited such adventures as befell Adrian Landale, or Captain Jack, or "Murthering Moll the Second.
"_ _Romantic enough is the scene, which, in a manner, framed the display of a most human drama; and fraught it is, even to this day, in the eyes of any but the least imaginative, with potentialities for strange happenings.
[A] It is that great bight of Morecambe; that vast of brown and white shallows, deserted, silent, mysterious, and treacherous with its dreaded shifting sands; fringed in the inland distance by the Cumbrian hills, blue and misty; bordered outwards by the Irish sea, cold and grey.
And in a corner of that waste, the islet, small and green and secure, with its ancient Peel, ruinous even as the noble abbey of which it was once the dependant stronghold; with its still sturdy keep, and the beacon, whose light-keeper was once a Dreamer of Beautiful Things._ [Footnote A: _Those who like to associate fiction with definite places may be interested to know that the prototype of Scarthey is the_ Piel of Foudrey, _on the North Lancashire coast, near the edge of Morecambe Bay, and that Pulwick was suggested by Furness Abbey.
Barrow-in-Furness was then but a straggling village.
A floating light, facing the mouth of the Wyre, now fulfils the duties devolving on the beacon of Scarthey at the time of this story._] _And romantic the times, if by that word is implied a freer scope than can be found in modern years for elemental passions, for fighting and loving in despite of every-day conventions; for enterprise, risks, temptations unknown in the atmosphere of humdrum peace and order.
They are the early days of the century, days when easy and rapid means of communication had not yet destroyed all the glamour of distance, when a county like Lancashire was as a far-off country, with a spirit, a language, customs and ideas unknown to the Metropolis; days when, if there were no lifeboat crews, there could still be found rather experienced "wreckers," and when the keeping of a beacon, to light a dangerous piece of sea, was still within the province of a public-spirited landlord.
They are the days when the spread of education had not even yet begun (for weal or for woe) its levelling work; days of cruel monopolies and inane prohibitions, and ferocious penal laws, inept in the working, baleful in the result; days of keel-hauling and flogging; when the "free-trader" still swung, tarred and in chains, on conspicuous points of the coast--even as the highwayman rattled at the cross-road--for the encouragement of the brotherhood; when it was naturally considered more logical (since hang you must for almost any misdeed) to hang for a sheep than a lamb, and human life on the whole was held rather cheap in consequence.
They are the days when in Liverpool the privateers were daily fitting out or bringing in the "prizes," and when, in Lord Street Offices, distant cargoes of "living ebony" were put to auction by steady, intensely respectable, Church-going merchants.
But especially they are the days of war and the fortunes of war; days of pressgangs, to kidnap unwilling rulers of the waves; of hulks and prisons filled to overflowing, even in a mere commercial port like Liverpool, with French prisoners of war._ _A long course of relentless hostilities, lasting the span of a full-grown generation, had cultivated the predatory instinct of all men with the temperament of action, and seemed to justify it.
Venturesome, hot-spirited youths, with their way to make in the world (who in a former age might have been reduced to "the road") took up privateering on a systematic scale.
In such an atmosphere there could not fail to return a belief in the good old_ border rule, _"the simple plan: that they should take who have the power, and they should keep who can."
And it must be remembered that an island country's border is the enemy's coast!
On that ethical understanding many privateer owners built up large fortunes, still enjoyed by descendants who in these days would look upon high-sea looting of non-combatants with definite horror._ _The years of the great French war, however, fostered a species of nautical enterprise more venturesome even than privateering, raiding, blockade-running and all the ordinary forms of smuggling that are usual when two coast lines are at enmity.
I mean that smuggling of gold specie and bullion which incidentally was destined to affect the course of Sir Adrian's life so powerfully._ * * * * * _As Captain Jack's last venture may, at this distance of time, appear a little improbable, it is well to state here some little-known facts concerning the now rather incomprehensible pursuit of gold smuggling--a romantic subject if ever there was one._ _The existence at one time of this form of "free-trade" is all but forgotten.
Indeed very little was ever heard of it in the world, except among parties directly interested, even at the time when it played an important part in the machinery of governments.
Its rise during the years of Napoleonic tyranny on the continent of Europe, and its continuance during the factitious calm of the First Restoration in France, were due to circumstances that never existed before and are little likely to occur again._ _The accumulation of a fund of_ gold _coin, reserved against sudden contingency, was one of Bonaparte's imperial ideas.
In a modified and more modern form, this notion of a "war-chest," untouched and unproductive in peace-time, is still adhered to by the Germans: they have kept to heart many of their former conqueror's lessons, lessons forgotten by the French themselves--and the enormous treasure of gold bags guarded at Spandau is a matter of common knowledge.
Napoleon, however, in his triumphant days never, and for obvious reasons, lacked money.
It was less an actual treasure that he required and valued so highly for political and military purposes, than an ever ready reserve of wealth easily portable, of paramount value at all times; "concentrated," so to speak.
And nothing could come nearer to that description than rolls of English guineas.
Indeed the vast numbers of these coins which fitfully appeared in circulation throughout Europe justified the many weird legends concerning the power of "British Gold"_--l'or Anglais!
_There is every reason to believe that, in days when the national currency consisted chiefly of lumbering silver_ écus, _the Bourbon government also appreciated to the full the value of a_ private _gold reserve.
At any rate it was at the time of the first Restoration that the golden guinea of England found in France its highest premium._ _Without going into the vexed and dreary question of single or double standard, it will suffice to say that during the early years of the century now about to close, gold coin was leaving England at a rate which not only appeared phenomenal but was held to be injurious to the community._ _As a matter of fact most of it was finding its way to France, whilst Great Britain was flooded with silver.
It was then made illegal to export gold coin or bullion.
The prohibition was stringently, indeed at one time, ruthlessly, enforced.
In this manner the new and highly profitable traffic in English guineas entered the province of the "free-trader"; the difference introduced in his practice being merely one of degree.
Whereas, in the case of prohibited imports, the chief task lay in running the illicit goods and distributing them, in the case of guinea-smuggling its arduousness was further increased by the danger of collecting the gold inland and clearing from home harbours._ _Very little, as I said, has ever been heard of this singular trade, and for obvious reasons.
In the first place it obtained only for a comparatively small number of years, the latter part of the Great War: the last of it belonging to the period of the_ Hundred Days.
_And in the second it was, at all times, of necessity confined to a very small number of free-trading skippers.
Of adventurous men, in stirring days, there were of course a multitude.
But few, naturally, were the men to whose honour the custody of so much ready wealth could safely be intrusted.
"That is where," as Captain Jack says sometimes in this book, "the 'likes of me' come in.
"_ _The exchange was enormously profitable.
As much as thirty-two shillings in silver value could, at one time, be obtained on the other side of the water for an English guinea.
But the shipper and broker, in an illegal venture where contract could not be enforced, had to be a man whose simple word was warranty--and indeed, in the case of large consignments, this blind trust had to be extended to almost every man of his crew.
What a romance could be written upon this theme alone!_ _In the story of Adrian Landale, however, it plays but a subsidiary part.
Brave, joyous-hearted Captain Jack and his bold venture for a fortune appear only in the drama to turn its previous course to unforeseen channels; just as in most of our lives, the sudden intrusion of a new strong personality--transient though it may be, a tempest or a meteor--changes their seemingly inevitable trend to altogether new issues._ * * * * * _It was urged by my English publishers that, in_ "The Light of Scarthey," _I relate two distinct love-stories and two distinct phases of one man's life; and that it were wiser (by which word I presume was meant more profitable) to distribute the tale between two books, one to be a sequel to the other.
Happily I would not be persuaded to cut a fully composed canvas in two for the sake of the frames.
"It is the fate of sequels," as Stevenson said in his dedication of _Catriona_, "to disappoint those who have waited for them."
Besides, life is essentially continuous.--It may not be inept to state a truism of this kind in a world of novels where the climax of life, if not indeed its very conclusion, is held to be reached on the day of marriage!
There is often, of course, more than one true passion of love in a man's life; and even if the second does not really kill the memory of the first, their course (should they be worth the telling) may well be told separately.
But if, in the story of a man's love for two women, the past and the present are so closely interwoven as were the reality and the "might-have-been" in the mind of Adrian Landale, any separation of the two phases, youth and maturity, would surely have stultified the whole scheme of the story._ _I have also been taken to task by some critics for having, the tale once opened at a given time and place, harked back to other days and other scenes: an inartistic and confusing method, I was told.
I am still of contrary opinion.
There are certain stories which_ belong, _by their very essence, to certain places.
All ancient buildings have, if we only knew them, their human dramas: this is the very soul of the hidden but irresistible attraction they retain for us even when deserted and dismantled as now the Peel of Scarthey.
For the sake of harmonious proportions, and in order to give it its proper atmosphere, it was imperative that in this drama--wherever the intermediate scenes might be placed, whether on the banks of the Vilaine, on the open sea, or in Lancaster Castle--the Prologue should be witnessed on the green islet in the wilderness of sands, even as the Crisis and the Closing Scene of rest and tenderness._ _E.
C., 49, Sloane Gardens, London, S. W. October 1899._ TABLE OF CONTENTS PART I SIR ADRIAN LANDALE, LIGHT-KEEPER OF SCARTHEY CHAP.
PAGE I.
The Peel of Scarthey 1 II.
The Light-Keeper 6 III.
Day Dreams: A Philosopher's Fate 16 IV.
Day Dreams: A Fair Emissary 32 V. The Awakening 43 VI.
The Wheel of Time 53 VII.
Forebodings of Gladness 63 VIII.
The Path of Wasted Years 70 IX.
A Genealogical Epistle 85 PART II "MURTHERING MOLL THE SECOND" X.
The Threshold of Womanhood 97 XI.
A Masterful Old Maid 113 XII.
A Record and a Presentment 122 XIII.
The Distant Light 136 XIV.
The Tower of Liverpool: Master and Man 144 XV.
Under the Light 156 XVI.
The Recluse and the Squire 174 PART III "CAPTAIN JACK," THE GOLD SMUGGLER XVII.
Gold Smuggler and the Philosopher 191 XVIII.
"Love Gilds the Scene and Woman Guides the Plot" 211 XIX.
A Junior's Opinion 224 XX.
The Quick and the Dead 244 XXI.
The Dawn of an Eventful Day 252 XXII.
The Day: Morning 262 XXIII.
The Day: Noon 276 XXIV.
The Night 294 XXV.
The Fight for the Open 309 XXVI.
The Three Colours 323 XXVII.
Under the Light Again: The Lady and the Cargo 335 XXVIII.
The End of the Thread 349 XXIX.
The Light Goes Out 364 XXX.
Husband and Wife 375 XXXI.
In Lancaster Castle 382 XXXII.
The One He Loved and the One Who Loved Him 393 XXXIII.
Launched on the Great Wave 406 XXXIV.
The Gibbet on the Sands 413 XXXV.
The Light Rekindled 430 PART I SIR ADRIAN LANDALE, LIGHT-KEEPER OF SCARTHEY _We all were sea-swallowed, though some cast again; And by that destiny to perform an act, Whereof what's past is Prologue._ THE TEMPEST THE LIGHT OF SCARTHEY CHAPTER I THE PEEL OF SCARTHEY He makes a solitude and calls it peace.
BYRON.
Alone in the south and seaward corner of the great bight on the Lancastrian coast--mournfully alone some say, gloriously alone to my thinking--rises in singular unexpected fashion the islet of Scarthey; a green oasis secure on its white rocky seat amidst the breezy wilderness of sands and waters.
There is, in truth, more sand than water at most times round Scarthey.
For miles northward the wet strand stretches its silent expanse, tawny at first, then merging into silver grey as in the dim distance it meets the shallow advance of briny ripple.
Wet sand, brown and dull, with here and there a brighter trail as of some undecided river seeking an aimless way, spreads westward, deep inland, until stopped in a jagged line by bluffs that spring up abruptly in successions of white rocky steps and green terraces.
Turn you seaward, at low tide there lies sand again and shingle (albeit but a narrow beach, for here a depth of water sinks rapidly) laved with relentless obstinacy by long, furling, growling rollers that are grey at their sluggish base and emerald-lighted at their curvetting crest.
Sand yet again to the south, towards the nearer coast line, for a mile or perhaps less, dotted, along an irregular path, with grey rocks that look as though the advance guard of a giant army had attempted to ford its insecure footing, had sunk into its treacherous shifting pits, and left their blanching skull-tops half emerging to record the disaster.
On the land side of the bight, far away beyond the grandly desolate, silent, yellow tract, a misty blue fringe on the horizon heralds the presence of the North Country; whilst beyond the nearer beach a sprinkling of greenly ensconced homesteads cluster round some peaceful and paternal looking church tower.
Near the salty shore a fishing village scatters its greystone cabins along the first terrace of the bluffs.
Outwards, ever changing in colour and temper roll and fret the grey waters of the Irish Sea, turbulent at times, but generally lenient enough to the brown-sailed ketches that break the regular sweep of the western horizon as they toil at the perpetual harvest of the deep.
Thus stands Scarthey.
Although appearing as an island on the charts, at low tides it becomes accessible dry-foot from the land by a narrow causeway along the line of the white shallow reefs, which connect the main pile to the rocky steps and terraces of the coast.
But woe betide man or beast that diverges many feet from the one secure path!
The sands of the great bay have already but too well earned their sinister reputation.
During the greater part of the day, however, Scarthey justifies its name--Skardor Scarth-ey, the Knoll Island in the language of the old Scandinavian masters of the land.
In fair weather, or in foul, whether rising out of sunny sands when the ebbing waters have retired, or assailed on all sides by ramping breakers, Scarthey in its isolation, with its well-preserved ruins and its turret, from which for the last hundred years a light has been burning to warn the seafarer, has a comfortable look of security and privacy.
The low thick wall which in warlike times encompassed the bailey (now surrounding and sheltering a wide paddock and neat kitchen gardens) almost disappears under a growth of stunted, but sturdy trees; dwarf alders and squat firs that shake their white-backed leaves, and swing their needle clusters, merrily if the breeze is mild, obstinately if the gale is rousing and seem to proclaim: "Here are we, well and secure.
Ruffle and toss, and lash, O winds, the faithless waters, _we_ shall ever cling to this hospitable footing, the only kindly soil amid this dreariness; here you once wafted our seed; here shall we live and perpetuate our life."
On the sea front of the bailey walls rise, sheer from the steep rock, the main body and the keep of the Peel.
They are ruinous and shorn of their whilom great height, humbled more by the wilful destruction of man than by the decay of time.
But although from a distance the castle on the green island seems utterly dismantled, it is not, even now, all ruin.
And, at the time when Sir Adrian Landale, of Pulwick, eighth baronet, adopted it as his residence, it was far from being such.
True, the greater portion of that mediæval building, half monastic, half military, exposed even then to the searching winds many bare and roofless chambers; broken vaults filled with driven sands; more than one spiral stair with hanging steps leading into space.
But the massive square keep had been substantially restored.
Although roofless its upper platform was as firm as when it was first built; and in a corner, solidly ensconced, rose the more modern turret that sheltered the honest warning light.
The wide chambers of the two remaining floors, which in old warlike days were maintained bare and free, and lighted only by narrow watching loopholes on all sides, had been, for purposes of peaceful tenanncy, divided into sundry small apartments.
New windows had been pierced into the enormous thickness of stone and cement; the bare coldness of walls was also hidden under more home-like panellings.
Close-fitting casements and solid doors insured peace within; the wind in stormy hours might moan or rage outside this rocky pile, might hiss and shriek and tear its wings among the jagged ruins, bellow and thunder in and out of opened vaults, but it might not rattle a window of the modern castellan's quarters or shake a latch of his chamber door.
There, for reasons understood then only by himself, had Sir Adrian elected, about the "year seven" of this century and in the prime of his age, to transplant his lares and penates.
The while, this Adrian Landale's ancestral home stood, in its placid and double pride of ancient and settled wealth, only some few miles away as the bee flies, in the midst of its noble park, slightly retired from the coast-line; and from its upper casements could be descried by day the little green patch of Scarthey and the jagged outline of its ruins on the yellow or glimmering face of the great bay, and by night the light of its turret.
And there he was still living, in some kind of happiness, in the "year fourteen," when, out of the eternal store of events, began to shape themselves the latter episodes of a life in which storm and peace followed each other as abruptly as in the very atmosphere that he then breathed.
For some eight years he had nested on that rock with no other companions but a dog, a very ancient housekeeper who cooked and washed for "t' young mester" as she obstinately persisted in calling the man whom she had once nursed upon her knee, and a singular sturdy foreign man (René L'Apôtre in the language of his own land, but known as Renny Potter to the land of his adoption); which latter was more than suspected of having escaped from the Liverpool Tower, at that time the lawful place of custody of French war prisoners.
His own voluntary captivity, however, had nothing really dismal for Adrian Landale.
And the inhabited portions of Scarthey ruins had certainly nothing prison-like about them, nothing even that recalled the wilful contrition of a hermitage.
On the second floor of the tower (the first being allotted to the use, official and private, of the small household), clear of the surrounding walls and dismantled battlements, the rooms were laid out much as they might have been up at Pulwick Priory itself, yonder within the verdant grounds on the distant rise.
His sleeping quarters plainly, though by no means ascetically furnished, opened into a large chamber, where the philosophic light-keeper spent the best part of his days.
Here were broad and deep windows, one to the south with a wide view of the bay and the nearer coast, the other to the west where the open sea displayed her changeable moods.
On three sides of this room, the high walls, from the white stone floor to the time-blackened beams that bore the ceiling, almost disappeared under the irregular rows of many thousand of volumes.
Two wooden arm-chairs, bespeaking little aversion to an occasional guest, flanked the hearth.
The hearth is the chief refuge of the lone thinker; this was a cosy recess, deep cut in the mediæval stone and mortar; within which, on chilly days, a generous heap of sea-cast timber and dried turf shot forth dancing blue flames over a mound of white ash and glowing cinders; but which, in warmer times, when the casements were unlatched to let in with spring or summer breeze the cries of circling sea-fowls and the distant plash of billows, offered shelter to such green plants as the briny air would favour.
At the far end of the room rose in systematical clusters the pipes of a small organ, built against the walls where it bevelled off a corner.
And in the middle of the otherwise bare apartment stood a broad and heavy table, giving support to a miscellaneous array of books, open or closed, sundry philosophical instruments, and papers in orderly disorder; some still in their virginal freshness, most, however, bearing marks of notemaking in various stages.
Here, in short, was the study and general keeping-room of the master of Scarthey, and here, for the greater part, daily sat Sir Adrian Landale, placidly reading, writing, or thinking at his table; or at his organ, lost in soaring melody; or yet, by the fireside, in his wooden arm-chair musing over the events of that strange world of thought he had made his own; whilst the aging black retriever with muzzle stretched between his paws slept his light, lazy sleep, ever and anon opening an eye of inquiry upon his master when the latter spoke aloud his thoughts (as solitary men are wont to do), and then with a deep, comfortable sigh, resuming dog-life dreams.
CHAPTER II THE LIGHT-KEEPER He who sits by the fire doth dream, Doth dream that his heart is warm.
But when he awakes his heart is afraid for the bitter cold.
_Luteplayer's Song._ The year 1814 was eventful in the annals of the political world.
Little, however, of the world's din reached the little northern island; and what there came of it was not willingly hearkened to.
There was too much of wars past and present, too many rumours of wars future about it, for the ear of the recluse.
Late in the autumn of that red-letter year which brought a short respite of peace to war-ridden Europe--a fine, but rather tumultuous day round Scarthey--the light-keeper, having completed the morning's menial task in the light-turret (during a temporary absence of his factotum) sat, according to custom, at his long table, reading.
With head resting on his right hand whilst the left held a page ready to turn, he solaced himself, pending the appearance of the mid-day meal, with a few hundred lines of a favourite work--the didactic poems, I believe, of a certain Doctor Erasmus Darwin, on the analogies of the outer world.
There was quite as little of the ascetic in Adrian Landale's physical man as of the hermitage in his chosen abode.
With the exception of the hair, which he wore long and free, and of which the fair brown had begun to fade to silver-grey, the master of Scarthey was still the living presentment of the portrait which, even at that moment, presided among the assembly of canvas Landales in the gallery of Pulwick Priory.
Eight years had passed over the model since the likeness had been fixed.
But in their present repose, the features clear cut and pronounced, the kindly thoughtful eyes looked, if anything, younger than their counterfeit; indeed, almost incongruously young under the flow of fading hair.
Clean shaven, with hands of refinement, still fastidious, his long years of solitude notwithstanding, as to general neatness of attire, he might at any moment of the day have walked up the great stair of honour at Pulwick without by his appearance eliciting other remarks than that his clothes, in cut and colour, belonged to fashions now some years lapsed.
The high clock on the mantelshelf hummed and gurgled, and with much deliberation struck one.
Only an instant later, lagging footsteps ascended the wooden, echoing stairs without, and the door was pushed open by the attendant, an old dame.
She was very dingy as to garb, very wrinkled and feeble as to face, yet with a conscious achievement of respectability, both in appearance and manner, befitting her post as housekeeper to the "young master."
The young master, be it stated at once, was at that time fast approaching the end of his second score years.
"Margery," said Adrian, rising to take the heavy tray from the knotted, trembling hands; "you know that I will not allow you to carry those heavy things upstairs yourself."
He raised his voice to sing-song pitch near the withered old ear.
"I have already told you that when Renny is not at home, I can take my food in your kitchen."
Margery paused, after her wont, to wait till the sounds had filtered as far as her intellect, then proceeded to give a few angry headshakes.
"Eh!
Eh!
It would become Sir Adrian Landale o' Pulwick--Barrownite--to have 's meat i' the kitchen--it would that.
Nay, nay, Mester Adrian, I'm none so old but I can do my day's work yet.
Ah!
an' it 'ud be well if that gomerl, Renny Potter, 'ud do his'n.
See here, now, Mester Adrian, nowt but a pint of wine left; and it the last," pointing her withered finger, erratically as the palsy shook it, at a cut-glass decanter where a modicum of port wine sparkled richly under the facets.
"And he not back yet, whatever mischief's agate wi' him, though he kens yo like your meat at one."
And then circumstances obliged her to add: "He is landing now, but it's ower late i' the day."
"So--there, Margery," sang the "Squire," giving his old nurse affectionate little taps on the back.
"Never fash yourself; tides cannot always fit in with dinner-hours, you know.
And as for poor Renny, I believe after all you are as fond of him, at the bottom of your heart, as I am.
Now what good fare have you got for me to-day?"
bending from his great height to inspect the refection, "Ah--hum, excellent."
The old woman, after another pause for comprehension, retired battling with dignity against the obvious pleasure caused by her master's affectionate familiarity, and the latter sat down at a small table in front of the south window.
Through this deep, port-hole-like aperture he could, whilst disposing of his simple meal, watch the arrival of the yawl which did ferrying duty between Scarthey and the mainland.
The sturdy little craft, heavily laden with packages, was being hauled up to its usual place of safety high on the shingle bank, under cover of a remnant of walling which in the days of the castle's strength had been a secure landing-place for the garrison's boats, but which now was almost filled by the cast-up sands and stone of the beach.
This was done under the superintendence of René, man of all work, and with the mechanical intermediary of rollers and capstan, by a small white horse shackled to a lever, and patiently grinding his steady rounds on the sand.
His preliminary task achieved, the man, after a few friendly smacks, set the beast free to trot back to his loose pasture: proceeding himself to unship his cargo.
Through the narrow frame of his window, the master, with eyes of approval, could see the servant dexterously load himself with a well-balanced pile of parcels, disappearing to return after intervals empty-handed, within the field of view, and select another burden, now heavier now more bulky.
In due course René came up and reported himself in person, and as he stopped on the threshold the dark doorway framed a not unstriking presentment; a young-looking man for his years (he was a trifle junior to his master), short and sturdy in build, on whose very broad shoulders sat a phenomenally fair head--the hair short, crisp, and curly, in colour like faded tow--and who, in smilingly respectful silence, gazed into the room out of small, light-blue eyes, brimful of alertness and intelligence, waiting to be addressed.
"Renny," said Adrian Landale, returning the glance with one of comfortable friendliness, "you will have to make your peace with Margery; she considers that you neglect me shamefully.
Why, you are actually twenty minutes late after three days' journeying, and perils by land and sea!"
The Frenchman answered the pleasantry by a broader smile and a scrape.
"And, your honour," he said, "if what is now arriving on us had come half an hour sooner, I should have rested planted there" (with a jerk of the flaxen head towards the mainland), "turning my thumbs, till to-morrow, at the least.
We shall have a grain, number one, soon."
He spoke English fluently, though with the guttural accent of Brittany, and an unconquerable tendency to translate his own jargon almost word for word.
In their daily intercourse master and man had come for many years past to eschew French almost entirely; René had let it be understood that he considered his proficiency in the vernacular quite undeniable, and with characteristic readiness Sir Adrian had fallen in with the little vanity.
In former days the dependant's form of address had been _Monseigneur_ (considering, and shrewdly so, an English landowner to stand in that relation to a simple individual like himself); in later days "Monseigneur" having demurred at the appellation, "My lord," in his own tongue, the devoted servant had discovered "Your honour" as a happy substitute, and adhered to this discovery with satisfaction.
"Oh, we are going to have a squall, say you," interpreted the master, rising to inspect the weather-glass, which in truth had fallen deep with much suddenness.
"More than a squall, I think; this looks like a hurricane coming.
But since you are safe home, all's well; we are secure and sound here, and the fishing fleet are drawing in, I see," peering through the seaward window.
"And now," continued Adrian, laying down his napkin, and brushing away a few crumbs from the folds of a faultless silk stock, "what have you for me there--and what news?"
"News, your honour!
Oh, for that I have news this time," said Mr. Renny Potter, with an emphatic nod, "but if your honour will permit, I shall say them last.
I have brought the clothes and the linen, the wine, the brandy, and the books.
Brandy and wine, your honour, I heard, out of the last prize brought into Liverpool, and a Nantes ship it was, too"--this in a pathetically philosophical tone.
Then after a pause: "Also provisions and bulbs for the devil's pot, as Margery will call it.
But there is no saying, your honour eats more when I have brought him back onions, eschalot, and _ail_; now do I lie, your honour?
May I?"
added the speaker, and forthwith took his answer from his master's smile; "may I respectfully see what the old one has kitchened for you when I was not there?"
And Adrian Landale with some amusement watched the Frenchman rise from the package he was then uncording to examine the platters on the table and loudly sniff his disdain.
"Ah, ah, boiled escallops again.
Perfectly--boiled cabbage seasoned with salt.
Not a taste in the whole affair.
Prison food--oh, yes, old woman!
Why, we nourished ourselves better in the Tower, when we could have meat at all.
Ah, your honour," sighed the man returning to his talk; "you others, English, are big and strong, but you waste great things in small enjoyment!"
"Oho, Renny," said the light-keeper squire, as he leant against the fireplace leisurely filling a long clay pipe, "this is one of your epigrams; I must make a note of it anon; but let me see now what you really have in those parcels of books--for books they are, are they not?
so carefully and neatly packed."
"Books," assented the man, undoing the final fold of paper.
"Mr. Young in the High Street of Liverpool had the packets ready.
He says you must have them all; and all printed this year.
What so many people can want to say, I for my count cannot comprehend.
Three more parcels on the stairs, your honour.
Mr. Young says you must have them.
But it took two porters to carry them to the Preston diligence."
Not without eagerness did the recluse of Scarthey bend over and finger the unequal rows of volumes arrayed on the table, and with a smile of expectation examine the labels.
"The Corsair" and "Lara" he read aloud, lifting a small tome more daintily printed than the rest.
"Lord Byron.
What's this?
Jane Austen, a novel.
'Roderick, last of the Goths.'
Dear, dear," his smile fading into blankness; "tiresome man, I never gave him orders for any such things."
René, battling with his second parcel, shrugged his shoulders.
"The librarian," he explained, "said that all the world read these books, and your honour must have them."
"Well, well," continued the hermit, "what else?
'Jeremy Bentham,' a new work; Ricardo, another book on economy; Southey the Laureate, 'Life of Nelson.'
Really, Mr. Young might have known that naval deeds have no joy for me, hardly more than for you, Renny," smiling grimly on his servant.
"'Edinburgh Review,' a London magazine for the last six months; 'Rees's Cyclopædia,' vols.
24-27; Wordsworth, 'The Recluse.'
Ah, old Willie Wordsworth!
Now I am anxious to see what he has to say on such a topic."
"Dear Willie Wordsworth," mused Sir Adrian, sitting down to turn over the pages of the 'Excursion,' "how widely have our lives drifted apart since those college days of ours, when we both believed in the coming millennium and the noble future of mankind--noble mankind!"
He read a few lines and became absorbed, whilst René noiselessly busied himself in and out of the chamber.
Presently he got up, book in hand, slowly walked to the north window, and passively gazed at the misty distance where rose the blue outline of the lake hills.
"So my old friend, almost forgotten," he murmured, "that is where you indite such worthy lines.
It were enough to tempt me out into men's world again to think that there would be many readers and lovers abroad of these words of yours.
So, that is what five and twenty years have done for you--what would you say to what they have done for me...?"
It was a long retrospect.
Sir Adrian was deeply immersed in thought when he became aware that his servant had come to a standstill, as if waiting for a return of attention.
And in answer to the mute appeal he turned his head once more in René's direction.
"Your honour, everything is in its place," began the latter, with a fitting sense of his own method.
"I have now to report that I saw your man of business in Lancaster, and he has attended to the matter of the brothers Shearman's boat that was lost.
I saw the young men themselves this morning.
They are as grateful to Sir Adrian as people in this country can express."
This last with a certain superiority.
Sir Adrian received the announcement of the working of one of his usual bounties with a quiet smile of gratification.
"They also told me to say that they would bring the firewood and the turf to-morrow.
But they won't be able to do that because we shall have dirty weather.
Then they told me that when your honour wants fish they begged your honour to run up a white flag over the lantern--they thought that a beautiful idea--and they would bring some as soon as possible.
I took on myself to assure them that I could catch what fish your honour requires; and the prawns, too ... but that is what they asked me to say."
"Well, well, and so you can," said the master, amused by the show of sub-acute jealousy.
"What else?"
"The books of the man of business and the banker are on the table.
I have also brought gazettes from Liverpool."
Here the fellow's countenance brimmed with the sense of his news' importance.
"I know your honour cares little for them.
But this time I think you will read them.
Peace, your honour, it is the peace!
It is all explained in these journals--the 'Liverpool Mercury.'"
Renny lifted the folded sheets from the table and handed them with contained glee.
"There has been peace these six months, and we never knew it.
I read about it the whole way back from the town.
The Emperor is shut up on an island--but not so willingly as your Honour, ah, no!--and there is an end of citizen Bonaparte.
Peace, France and England no longer fighting, it is hard to believe--and our old kings are coming back, and everything to be again as in the old days."
Sir Adrian took the papers, not without eagerness, and glanced over the narrative of events, already months old, with all the surprise of one who, having wilfully shut himself out from the affairs of the world, ignored the series of disasters that had brought about the tyrant's downfall.
"As you say, my friend, it is almost incredible," he said, at length.
Then thoughtfully: "And now you will be wanting to return home?"
said he.
René, who had been scanning his master's face with high expectation, felt his heart leap as he thought he perceived a hidden tone of regret in the question.
He drew himself up to his short height, and with a very decided voice made answer straightway: "I shall go away from your honour the day when your honour dismisses me.
If your honour decides to live on this rock till my hour, or his, strikes--on this rock with him I remain.
I am not conceited, I hope, but what, pray, will become of your honour here without me?"
There was force in this last remark, simply as it was pronounced.
Through the mist of interlacing thoughts suggested by the word Peace!
(the end of the Revolution, that distant event which, nevertheless, had had such sweeping influence over the course of his whole life), it brought a faint smile to Sir Adrian's lips.
He took two steps forward and laid his hand familiarly on the man's broad shoulder, and, in a musing way, he said at intervals: "Yes, yes, indeed, good Renny, what would become of me?--what would have become of me?--how long ago it seems!--without you?
And yet it might have been as well if two skeletons, closely locked in embrace, blanched by the grinding of the waters and the greed of the crabs, now reposed somewhere deep in the sands of that Vilaine estuary....
This score of years, she has had rest from the nightmare that men have made of life on God's beautiful earth.
I have been through more of it, my good Renny."
René's brain was never equal to coping with his master's periodic fits of pessimism, though he well knew their first and ever-present cause.
In a troubled way he looked about the room, so peaceful, so retired and studious; and Sir Adrian understood.
"Yes, yes, you are right; I have cut off the old life," he made answer to the unspoken expostulation, "and that I can live in my own small world without foregoing all my duties, I owe to you, my good friend; but startling news like this brings back the past very livingly, dead though it be--dead."
René hesitated; he was pondering over the advisability of disburdening himself of yet another strange item of information he had in reserve; but, as his master, rousing himself with an effort as if to dismiss some haunting thought, turned round again to the table, he decided that the moment was not propitious.
"So you have seen to all these things," said Sir Adrian wearily.
"Good; I will look over them."
He touched the neat pile of books and papers, listlessly, as he spoke, yet, instead of sitting down, remained as he was, with eyes that had grown wondering, staring out across the sea.
"Look," he said presently, in a low voice, and René noticed a rare flush of colour rise to the thin cheeks.
"Look--is not this day just like--one we both remember well...?
Listen, the wind is coming up as it did then.
And look at yonder sky!"
And taking the man by the arm, he advanced slowly with him towards the window.
In the west the heavens on the horizon had grown threateningly dark; but under the awe-inspiring slate-coloured canopy of clouds there opened a broad archway filled with primrose light--the luminous arch, well known to seafarers, through which charge the furious southwestern squalls.
The rushing of the storm was already visible in the distance over the grey waters, which having been swayed for days by a steady Aquilon were now lashed in flank by the sudden change of wind.
The two men looked out for a while in silence at the spectacle of the coming storm.
In the servant's mind ran various trivial thoughts bearing on the present--what a lucky matter it was that he should have returned in time; only just in time it was; from the angry look of the outer world the island would now, for many a day be besieged by seas impassable to such small craft as alone could reach the reef.
Had he tarried but to the next tide (and how sorely he had been tempted to remain an hour more in the gatekeeper's lodge within sight and hearing of buxom Moggie, Margery's grand-daughter), had he missed the tide, for days, maybe for weeks, would the master have had to watch and tend, alone, the beacon fire.
But here he was, and all was well; and he had still the marvellous news to tell.
Should he tell them now?
No, the master was in one of his trances--lost far away in the past no doubt, that past that terminated on such a day as this.
And Sir Adrian, with eyes fixed on the widening arch of yellow light, was looking inwards on the far-away distance of time.
Men, who have been snatched back to life from death in the deep, recall how, before seeming to yield the ghost, the picture of their whole existence passed in vivid light before the eye of their mind.
Swift beyond the power of understanding are such revelations; in one flash the events of a good or an evil life leap before the seeing soul--moment of anguish intolerable or of sublime peace!
On such a boisterous day as this, some nineteen years before, by the sandy mouth of the river Vilaine, on the confines of Brittany and Vendée had Adrian Landale been drowned; under such a sky, and under the buffets of such an angry wind had he been recalled to life, and in the interval, he had seen the same pictures which now, coursing back many years in a few seconds, passed before his inward vision.
CHAPTER III DAY DREAMS: A PHILOSOPHER'S FATE Le beau temps de ma jeunesse ... quand j'étais si malheureux.
The borderland between adolescence and manhood, in the life of men of refined aspirations and enthusiastic mettle, is oftener than not an unconsciously miserable period--one which more mature years recall as hollow, deceiving, bitterly unprofitable.
Yet there is always that about the memories of those far-off young days, their lofty dreams long since scattered, their virgin delights long since lost in the drudgery of earthly experience, which ever and anon seizes the heart unawares and fills it with that infinite weakness: that mourning for the dead and gone past, which yet is not regret.
In the high days of the Revolutionary movement across the water, Adrian Landale was a dreamy student living in one of those venerable Colleges on the Cam, the very atmosphere of which would seem sufficient to glorify the merits of past ages and past institutions.
Amidst such peaceful surroundings this eldest scion of an ancient, north-country race--which had produced many a hardy fighter, though never yet a thinker nor even a scholar--amid a society as prejudiced and narrow-minded as all privileged communities are bound to become, had nevertheless drifted resistlessly towards that unfathomable sea whither a love for the abstract beautiful, a yearning for super-earthly harmony and justice, must inevitably waft a young intelligence.
As the academical years glided over him, he accumulated much classical lore, withal read much latter-day philosophy and developed a fine youthful, theoretical love for the new humanitarianism.
He dipped æsthetically into science, wherein he found a dim kind of help towards a more recondite appreciation of the beauties of nature.
His was not a mind to delight in profound knowledge, but rather in "intellectual cream."
He solaced himself with essays that would have been voted brilliant had they dealt with things less extravagant than Universal Harmony and Fraternal Happiness; with verses that all admitted to be highly polished and melodious, but something too mystical in meaning for the understanding of an every-day world; with music, whereof he was conceded an interpreter of no mean order.
In fact the worship of his soul might have been said to be the Beautiful in the abstract--the Beautiful in all its manifestations which include Justice, Harmony, Truth, and Kindliness--the one indispensable element of his physical happiness, the Beautiful in the concrete.
This is saying that Adrian Landale, for all his array of definite accomplishments, which might have been a never-failing source of interest in an easy existence, was fitted in a singularly unfortunate manner for the life into which one sudden turn of fortune's wheel unexpectedly launched him.
During the short halcyon days of his opening independence, however, he was able to make himself the centre of such a world as he would have loved to live in.
He was not, of course, generally popular, either at college or at home; nor yet in town, except among that small set in whose midst he inevitably found his way wherever he went; his inferiors in social status perhaps, these chosen friends of his; but their lofty enthusiasms were both appreciative of and congenial to his own.
Most of them, indeed, came in after-life to add their names to England's roll of intellectual fame, partly because they had that in them which Adrian loathed as unlovely--the instinct and will of strife, partly; it must be added, because they remained free in their circumstances to follow the lead of their nature.
Which freedom was not allotted to him.
* * * * * On one magnificent frosty afternoon, early in the year 1794, the London coach deposited Adrian Landale in front of the best hostelry in Lancaster, after more than a year's separation from his family.
This separation was not due to estrangement, but rather to the instigation of his own sire, Sir Thomas--a gentleman of the "fine old school"--who, exasperated by the, to him, incomprehensible and insupportable turn of mind developed by his heir (whom he loved well enough, notwithstanding, in his own way), had hoped, in good utilitarian fashion, that a prolonged period of contact with the world, lubricated by a plentiful supply of money, might shake his "big sawney of a son" out of his sickly-sentimental views; that it would show him that _gentlemen's_ society--and, "by gad, ladies' too"--was not a thing to be shunned for the sake of "wild-haired poets, dirty firebrands, and such cattle."
The downright old baronet was even prepared, in an unformed sort of way, to see his successor that was to be return to the paternal hearth the richer for a few gentlemanly vices, provided he left his nonsense behind him.
As the great lumbering vehicle, upon the box seat of which sat the young traveller, lost in dreamy speculation according to his wont, drew clattering to a halt, he failed at first to notice the central figure in the midst of the usual expectant crowd of inn guests and inn retainers, called forward by the triumphant trumpeting which heralds the approach of the mail.
There, however, stood the Squire of Pulwick, "Sir Tummus" himself, in portly and jovial importance.
The father's eyes, bright and piercing under his bushy white brows, had already detected his boy from a distance; and they twinkled as he took note, with all the pride of an author in his work, of the symmetry of limb and shoulders set forth by the youth's faultless attire--and the dress of men in the old years of the century was indeed calculated to display a figure to advantage--of the lightness and grace of his frame as he dismounted from his perch; in short of the increased manliness of his looks and bearing.
But a transient frown soon came to overshade Sir Thomas's ruddy content as he descried the deep flush (an old weakness) which mantled the young cheeks under the spur of unexpected recognition.
And when, later, the pair emerged from the inn after an hour's conversation over a bottle of burnt sherry--conversation which, upon the father's side, had borne, in truth, much the character of cross-examination--to mount the phaeton with which a pair of high-mettled bays were impatiently waiting the return homewards, there was a very definite look of mutual dissatisfaction to be read upon their countenances.
Whiling away the time in fitful constrained talk, parcelled out by long silences, they drove again through the gorgeous, frost-speckled scenery of rocky lands until the sheen of the great bay suddenly peered between two distant scars, proclaiming the approach to the Pulwick estate.
The father then broke a long spell of muteness, and thus to his son, in his ringing country tones, as if pursuing aloud the tenor of his thoughts: "Hark'ee, Master Adrian," said he, "that you are now a man of parts, as they say, I can quite see.
You seem to have read a powerful lot of things that do not come our way up here.
But let us understand each other.
I cannot make head or tail of these far-fetched new-fangle notions you, somehow or other, have fallen in love with--your James Fox, your Wilberforce, your Adam Smith, they may be very fine fellows, but to my humble thinking they're but a pack of traitors to king and country, when all is said and done.
All this does not suit an English gentleman.
You think differently; or perhaps you do not care whether it does or not.
I admit I can't hold forth as you do; nor string a lot of fine words together.
I am only an old nincompoop compared to a clever young spark like you.
But I request you to keep off these topics in the company I like to see round my table.
They don't like Jacobins, you know, no more do I!"
"Nor do I," said Adrian fervently.
"Nor do you?
Don't you, sir, don't you?
Why, then what the devil have you been driving at?"
"I am afraid, sir, you do not understand my views."
"Well, never mind; I don't like 'em, that's short, and if you bring them out before your cousin, little Madame Savenaye, you will come off second best, my lad, great man as you are, and so I warn you!"
In tones as unconcerned as he could render them the young man sought to turn the intercourse to less personal topics, by inquiring further anent this unknown cousin whose very name was strange to him.
Sir Thomas, easily placable if easily roused, started willingly enough on a congenial topic.
And thus Adrian conceived his first impression of that romantic being whose deeds have remained legendary in the French west country, and who was destined to exercise so strong an influence upon his own life.
"Who is she?"
quoth the old gentleman, with evident zest.
"Ay.
All this is news to you, of course.
Well: she _was_ Cécile de Kermelégan.
You know your mother's sister Mary Donoghue (murthering Moll, they called her on account of her killing eyes) married a M. de Kermelégan, a gentleman of Brittany.
Madame de Savenaye is her daughter (first cousin of yours), that means that she has good old English blood in her veins and Irish to boot.
She speaks English as well as you or I, her mother's teaching of course, but she is French all the same; and, by gad, of the sort which would reconcile even an Englishman with the breed!"
Sir Thomas's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm; his son examined him with grave wonder.
"The very sight of her, my boy, is enough to make a man's heart warm.
Wait till you see her and she begins to talk of what the red-caps are doing over there--those friends of yours, who are putting in practice all your fine theories!
And, bookworm as you are, I'll warrant she'll warm your sluggish blood for you.
Ha!
she's a rare little lady.
She married last year the Count of Savenaye."
Adrian assumed a look of polite interest.
"Emigré, I presume?"
he said, quietly.
"Emigré?
No, sir.
He is even now fighting the republican rapscallions, d--n them, and thrashing them, too, yonder in his country.
She stuck by his side; ay, like a good plucked one she did, until it became palpable that, if there was to be a son and heir to the name, she had better go and attend to its coming somewhere else, in peace.
Ho, ho, ho!
Well, England was the safest place, of course, and, for her, the natural one.
She came and offered herself to us on the plea of relationship.
I was rather taken aback at first, I own; but, gad, boy, when I saw the woman, after hearing what she had had to go through to reach us at all, I sang another song.
Well, she is a fine creature--finer than ever now that the progeny has been satisfactorily hatched; a brace of girls instead of the son and heir, after all!
Two of them; no less.
Ho, ho, ho!
And she was furious, the pretty dear!
However, you'll soon see for yourself.
You will see a woman, sir, who has loaded and fired cannon with her own hands, when the last man to serve it had been shot.
Ay, and more than that, my lad--she's brained a hulking sans-culotte that was about to pin her servant to the floor.
The lad has told me so himself, and I daresay he can tell you more if you care to practise your French with master René L'Apôtre, that's the fellow!
A woman who sticks to her lord and master in mud and powder-smoke until there is precious little time to spare, when she makes straight for a strange land, in a fishing-smack, with no other protector than a peasant; and now, with an imp of a black-eyed infant to her breast (Sally Mearson's got the other; you remember Sally, your own nurse's daughter?
), looks like a chit of seventeen.
That's what you'll see, sir.
And when she sails downstairs for dinner, dressed up, powdered and high-heeled, she might be a princess, a queen who has never felt a crumpled roseleaf in her life.
Gad!
I'm getting poetical, I declare."
In this strain did the Squire, guiding his horses with strong, dexterous hand, expatiate to his son; the crisp air rushing past them, making their faces glow with the tingling blood until, burning the ground, they dashed up the avenue that leads to the white mansion of Pulwick, and halted amidst a cloud of steam before its Palladian portico.
What happened to Adrian the moment after happens, as a rule, only once in a man's lifetime.
Through the opening portals the guest, whose condensed biography the Squire had been imparting to his son (all unconsciously eliciting thereby more repulsion than admiration in the breast of that fastidious young misogynist), appeared herself to welcome the return of her host.
Adrian, as he retired a pace to let his father ascend the steps, first caught a glimpse of a miraculously small and arched foot, clad in pink silk, and, looking suddenly up, met fully the flash of great dark eyes, set in a small white face, more brilliant in their immense blackness than even the glinting icicles pendant over the lintel that now shot back the sun's sinking glory.
The spell was of the kind that the reason of man can never sanction, and yet that have been ever and will be while man is.
This youth, virgin of heart, dreamy of head who had drifted to his twentieth year, all unscathed by passion or desire, because he had never met aught in flesh and blood answering to his unconscious ideal, was struck to the depth of his soul by the presence of one, as unlike this same ideal as any living creature could be; struck with fantastic suddenness, and in that all-encompassing manner which seizes the innermost fibres of the being.
It was a pang of pain, but a revelation of glory.
He stood for some moments, with paling cheeks and hotly-beating heart, gazing back into the wondrous eyes.
She, yielding her cheek carelessly to the Squire's hearty kiss, examined the new-comer curiously the while: "Why--how now, tut, tut, what's this?"
thundered the father, who, following the direction of her eyes, wheeled round suddenly to discover his son's strange bearing, "Have you lost all the manners as well as the notions of a gentleman, these last two years?
Speak to Madame de Savenaye, sir!--Cécile, this is my son; pray forgive him, my dear; the fellow's shyness before ladies is inconceivable.
It makes a perfect fool of him, as you see."
But Madame de Savenaye's finer wits had already perceived something different from the ordinary display of English shyness in the young man, whose eyes remained fixed on her face with an intentness that savoured in no way, of awkwardness.
She now broke the spell with a broader smile and a word of greeting.
"You are surprised," said she in tripping words, tinged with a distinct foreign intonation, "to see a strange face here, Mr. Adrian--or, shall I say cousin?
for that is the style I should adopt in my Brittany.
Yes, you see in me a poor foreign cousin, fleeing for protection to your noble country.
How do you do, my cousin?"
She extended a slender, white hand, one rosy nail of which, bending low, Adrian gravely kissed.
"_Mais, comment donc!_" exclaimed the lady, "my dear uncle did you chide your son just now?
Why, but these are Versailles manners--so gallant, so courtly!"
And she gave the boy's fingers, as they lingered under hers, first a discreet little pressure, and then a swift flip aside.
"Ah!
how cold you are!"
she exclaimed; and then, laughing, added sweetly: "Cold hands, warm heart, of course."
And with rapping heels she turned into the great hall and into the drawing-room whither the two men--the father all chuckles, and the son still struck with wonder--followed her.
She was standing by the hearth holding each foot alternately to the great logs flaming on the tiles, ever and anon looking over her shoulder at Adrian, who had advanced closer, without self-consciousness, but still in silence.
"Now, cousin," she remarked gaily, "there is room for you here, big as you are, to warm yourself.
You must be cold.
I know already all about your family, and I must know all about you, too!
I am very curious, I find them all such good, kind, handsome people here, and I am told to expect in you something quite different from any of them.
Now, where does the difference come in?
You are as tall as your father, but in face--no, I believe it is your pretty sisters you are like in face."
Here the Squire interrupted with his loud laugh, and, clapping his hand on his stalwart son's head: "You have just hit it, Cécile, it's here the difference lies.
Adrian, I really believe, is a little mistake of Dame Nature; his brain was meant for a girl and was tacked on to that big body by accident, ho, ho, ho!
He is quite lady-like in his accomplishments--loves music, and plays, by gad, better than our organist.
Writes poetry, too.
I found some devilish queer things on his writing-table once, which were not _all_ Latin verses, though he would fain I thought so.
And as for deportment, Madame Cécile, why there is more propriety, in that hobbedehoy, at least, more blushing in him, than in all the bread-and-butter misses in the county!"
Adrian said nothing; but, when not turned towards the ground, his gaze still sought the Countess, who now returned the look with a ripening smile open to any interpretation.
"Surely," she remarked, glancing then at the elder for an instant with some archness, "surely you English gentlemen, who have so much propriety, would not rather ... there was young Mr. Bradbury, we heard talked of yesterday, whom every farmer with a red-cheeked lass of his own--" "No, no!"
hastily interrupted the baronet, with a blush himself, while Adrian's cheek in spite of the recent indictment preserved its smooth pallor--in truth, the boy, lost in his first love-dream, had not understood the allusion.
"No, I don't want a Landale to be a blackguard, you know, but--" And the father, unable to split this ethical hair, to logical satisfaction, stopped and entered another channel of grumbling vituperation, whilst the Countess, very much amused by her private thoughts, gave a little rippling laugh, and resumed her indulgent contemplation of the accused.
"What a pity, now, school-boy Rupert is not the eldest; there would be a country gentleman for you!
Whereas, this successor that is to be of mine is a man of books and a philosopher.
Forsooth, a first-class bookworm; by gad, I believe the first of our race!
And he might make a name for himself, I've been told, among that lot, though the pack o' nonsense he treats us to at times cannot, I'm thinking, really go down even among those college fuzzle-heads.
But I am confounded if that chap will ever be of any use as a landlord whenever he steps into my shoes.
He hates a gun, and takes more pleasure--what was it he said last time he was here?--oh, yes, more pleasure in watching a bird dart in the blue than bringing it down, be it never so neat a shot.
Ho, ho!
did ye ever hear such a thing?
And though he can sit a horse--I will say that for him (I should like to see a Landale that could not!)
--I have seen this big boy of mine positively sicken, ay!
and scandalise the hunt by riding away from the death.
Moreover, I believe that, when I am gone, he will always let off any poaching scoundrel on the plea that the vermin only take for their necessity what we preserve for sport."
The little foreign lady, smiling no longer, eyed her big cousin with wondering looks.
"Strange, indeed," she remarked, "that a man should fail to appreciate the boon of man's existence, the strength and freedom to dominate, to be up and doing, to _live_ in fact.
How I should long to be a man myself, if I ever allowed myself to long for anything; but I am a woman, as you see," she added, rising to the full height of her exquisite figure, "and must submit to woman's lot--and that is just now to the point, for I must leave you to go and see to the wants of that _mioche_ of mine which I hear whining upstairs.
But I do not believe my uncle's account of you is a complete picture after all, cousin Adrian.
I shall get it out of you anon, catechise you in my own way, and, if needs be, convert you to a proper sense of the glorious privileges of your sex."
And she ran out of the room.
"Well, my lad," said Sir Thomas, that evening, when the ladies had left the two men to their decanter, "I thought my Frenchwoman would wake you up, but, by George, I hardly expected she would knock you all of a heap so quick.
Hey!
you're winged, Adrian, winged, or this is not port."
"I cannot say, sir," answered Adrian, musing.
The old man caught up the unsatisfactory reply in an exasperated burlesque of mimicry: "I cannot say, sir--you cannot say?
Pooh, pooh, there is no shame in being in love with her.
We all are more or less; pass the bottle.
As for you, since you clapped eyes on her you have been like a man in the moon, not a word to throw to a dog, no eyes, no ears but for your own thoughts, so long as madam is not there.
Enter madam, you're alive again, by George, and pretty lively, too!
Gad, I never thought I'd ever see _you_ do the lady's man, all in your own queer way, of course; but, hang it all, she seems to like it, the little minx!
Ay, and if she has plenty of smiles for the old man she's ready to give her earnest to you--I saw her, I saw her.
But don't you forget she's married, sir, very much married, too.
She don't forget it either, I can tell you, though you may think she does.
Now, what sort of game is she making of you?
What were you talking about in the picture gallery for an hour before dinner, eh?"
"To say the truth," answered the son, simply, "it was about myself almost the whole time."
"And she flattered you finely, I'll be bound, of course," said his elder, with a knowing look.
"Oh, these women, these women!"
"On the contrary, sir, she thinks even less of me than you do.
That woman has the soul of a savage; we have not one thought in common."
The father burst into a loud laugh.
"A pretty savage to look at, anyhow; a well-polished one in the bargain, ho, ho, ho!
Well, well, I must make up my mind, I suppose, that my eldest son is a lunatic in love with a savage."
Adrian remained silent for a while, toying with his glass, his young brow contracted under a painful frown.
At length, checking a sigh, he answered with deliberation: "Since it is so palpable to others, I suppose it must be love, as you say.
I had thought hitherto that love of which people talk so much was a feeling of sweetness.
What I feel in this lady's presence is much more kin to anguish; for all that, as you have noticed, I appear to live only when she is nigh."
The father looked at his son and gaped.
The latter went on, after another pause: "I suppose it is so, and may as well own it to myself and to you, though nothing can come of it, good or bad.
She is married, and she is your guest; and even if any thought concerning me could enter her heart, the merest show of love on my part would be an insult to her and treason to you.
But trust me, I shall now be on my guard, since my behaviour has already appeared strange."
"Tut, tut," said the Baronet, turning to his wine in some dudgeon, his rubicund face clouding as he looked with disfavour at this strange heir of his, who could not even fall in love like the rest of his race.
"What are you talking about?
Come, get out of that and see what the little lady's about, and let me hear no more of this.
She'll not compromise herself with a zany like you, anyhow, that I'll warrant."
But Adrian with all the earnestness of his nature and his very young fears was strenuously resolved to watch himself narrowly in his intercourse with his too fascinating relative; little recking how infinitesimal is the power of a man's free-will upon the conduct of his life.
The next morning found the little Countess in the highest spirits.
Particularly good news had arrived from her land with the early courier.
True, the news were more than ten days old, but she had that insuperable buoyancy of hopefulness which attends active and healthy natures.
The Breton peasants (she explained to the company round the breakfast table), headed by their lords (among whom was her own _Seigneur et Maître_) had again crushed the swarms of ragged brigands that called themselves soldiers.
From all accounts there was no hope for the latter, their atrocities had been such that the whole land, from Normandy to Guyenne, was now in arms against them.
And in Paris, the hot pit whence had issued the storm of foulness that blasted the fair kingdom of France after laying low the hallowed heads of a good king and a beautiful queen, in Paris, leaders and led were now chopping each other's heads off, _à qui mieux mieux_.
"Those thinkers, those lofty patriots, _hein, beau cousin_, for whom, it seems, you have an admiration," commented the lady, interrupting her account to sip her cup of cream and chocolate, with a little finger daintily cocked, and shoot a mocking shaft at the young philosopher from the depth of her black eyes.
"Like demented wolves they are destroying each other--Pray the God of Justice," quoted she from her husband's letter, "that it may only last; in a few months, then, there will be none of them left, and the people, relieved from this rule of blood, will all clamour for the true order of things, and the poor country may again know peace and happiness.
Meanwhile, all has yet to be won, by much devotion and self-sacrifice in the cause of God and King; and afterwards will come the reward!...
"And the revenge," added Madame de Savenaye, with a little, fierce laugh, folding the sanguine budget of news.
"Oh!
they must leave us a few for revenge!
How we shall make the hounds smart when the King returns to his own!
And then for pleasures and for life again.
And we may yet meet at the mansion of Savenaye, in Paris," she went on gaily, "my good uncle and fair cousins, for the King cannot fail to recall his faithful supporter.
And there will be feasts and balls.
And there, maybe, we shall be able to repay in part some of your kindness and hospitality.
And you, cousin Adrian, you will have to take me through pavanne and gavotte and minuet; and I shall be proud of my northern cavalier.
What!
not know how one dances the gavotte?
_Fi donc!_ what ignorance!
I shall have to teach you.
Your hand, monsieur," slipping the missive from the seat of war into her fair bosom.
"La!
not that way; with a _grace_, if you please," making a profound curtsey.
"Ah, still that cold hand; your great English heart must be a very furnace.
Come, point your right foot--so.
And look round at your partner with--what shall I say--_admiration sérieuse_!"
That she saw admiration, serious enough in all conscience in Adrian's eyes, there was little doubt.
With sombre heart he failed not to mark every point of this all-human grace, but to him goddess-like beauty, the triumph and glory of youth.
The coy, dainty poise of the adorable foot--pointed _so_--and treading the ground with the softness of a kitten at play; the maddening curve of her waist, which a sacque, depending from an exquisite nape, partly concealed, only to enhance its lithe suppleness; the divinely young throat and bust; and above all the dazzling black rays from eyes alternately mocking, fierce or caressing.
Well might his hand be cold with all his young untried blood, biting at his heart, singing in his head.
Why did God place such creatures on His earth to take all savour from aught else under the sun?
"Fair cousin, fair cousin, though I said serious admiration, I did not mean you to look as if you were taking me to a funeral.
You are supposed to be enjoying yourself, you know!"
The youth struggled with a ghastly smile; and the father laughed outright.
But Madame de Savenaye checked herself into gravity once more.
"Alas!
_Nous n'en sommes pas encore là_," she said, and relinquished her adorer's hand.
"We have still to fight for it.... Oh!
that I were free to be up and doing!"
The impatient exclamation was wrung out of her, apparently, by the appearance of two nurses, each bearing an infant in long, white robes for the mother's inspection; a preliminary to the daily outing.
The elder of these matrons was Adrian's own old nurse who, much occupied with her new duties of attendant to Madame de Savenaye and one of her babies, now beheld her foster-son again for the first time since his return.
"Eh--but you've grown a gradely mon, Mester Adrian!"
she cried, in her long-drawn Lancastrian, dandling her bundle energetically from side to side in the excess of her admiration, and added with a laugh of tender delight: "Eh, but you're my own lad still, as how 'tis!"
when, blushing, the young man crossed the room and stooped to kiss her, glancing shyly the while at the white bundle in her arms.
"Well, and how are the little ones?"
quoth Madame de Savenaye, swinging her dainty person up to the group and halting by beaming Sally--the second nurse, who proudly held forth her charge--merely to lay a finger lightly on the infant's little cheek.
"Ah, my good Sally, your child does you credit!--Now Margery, when you have done embracing that fine young man, perhaps you will give me my child, _hein_?"
Both the nurses blushed; Margery at the soft impeachment as she delivered over the minute burden; her daughter in honest indignation at the insulting want of interest shown for her foster-babe.
"No, I was not made to play with puppets like you, mademoiselle," said the comtesse, addressing herself to the unconscious little being as she took it in her arms, but belying her words by the grace and instinctive maternal expertness with which she handled and soothed the infant.
"Yes, you can go, Sarah--_au revoir_, Mademoiselle Madeleine.
Fie the little wretch, what faces she pulls!
And you, Margery, you need not wait either; I shall keep this creature for a while.
Poor little one!"
sang the mother, walking up and down, and patting the small back with her jewelled hand as she held the wee thing against her shoulder, "indeed I shall have soon to leave you----" "What's this--what's this?"
exclaimed the master of the house with sudden sharpness.
He had been surveying the scene from the hearthrug, chuckling in benevolent amusement at little Madam's ways.
Yes, it was her intention to return to her place by the side of her lord, she explained, halting in her walk to face him gravely; she had come to that resolution.
No doubt her uncle would take the children under his care until better times--those good times that were so fast approaching.
Buxom Sally could manage them both--and to spare, too!
Adrian felt his heart contract at the unexpected announcement; a look of dismay overspread Sir Thomas's face.
"Why--what?
what nonsense, child!"
cried he again in rueful tones.
"_You_, return to that place now ... what good do you think you could do--eh?"
But here recollecting himself, he hesitated and started upon a more plausible line of expostulation.
"Pooh, pooh!
You can't leave the little ones, your husband does not ask you to come back and leave them, does he?
In any case," with assumed authority, "I shall not let you go."
She looked up with a smile.
"Would _you_ allow your friends to continue fighting alone for all you love, because you happened to be in safe and pleasant circumstances yourself?"
she asked.
Then she added ingenuously: "I have heard you say of one that was strong of will and staunch to his purpose, that he was a regular Briton.
I thought that flattering: I am a Briton, of Brittany, you know, myself, uncle: would you have _me_ be a worthless Briton?
As to what a woman can do there--ah, you have no idea what it means for all these poor peasants of ours to see their lords remain among them, sharing their hardship in defence of their cause.
Concerning the children," kissing the one she held and gazing into its face with wistful look, "they can better afford to do without me than my husband and our men.
A strong woman to tend them till we come back, is all that is wanted, since a good relative is willing to give them shelter.
René cannot be long in returning now, with the last news.
Indeed, M. de Savenaye says that he will only keep him a few days longer, and, according to the tidings he brings must I fix the date for my departure."
Sir Thomas, with an inarticulate growl, relapsed into silence; and she resumed her walk with bent head, lost in thought, up and down the great room, out of the pale winter sunshine into the shadow, and back again, to the tune of "Malbrook s'en va t'en guerre," which she hummed beneath her breath, while the baby's foolish little head, in its white cap from which protruded one tiny straight wisp of brown hair, with its beady, unseeing black eyes and its round mouth dribbling peacefully, bobbed over her shoulder as she went.
Adrian stood in silence too, following her with his eyes, while the picture, so sweet to see, so strange to one who knew all that was brewing in the young mother's head and heart, stamped itself upon his brain.
At the door, at length, she halted a moment, and looked at them both.
"Yes, my friends," she said, and her eyes shot flame; "I must go soon."
The baby bobbed its head against her cheek as if in affirmative; then the great door closed upon the pair.
CHAPTER IV DAY DREAMS: A FAIR EMISSARY Many guests had been convened to the hospitable board of Pulwick upon the evening which followed Adrian's return home; and as, besides the fact that the fame of the French lady had spread enthusiasm in most of the male breasts of the district and anxious curiosity in gentler bosoms, there was a natural neighbourly desire to criticise the young heir of the house after his year's absence, the county had responded in a body to the invitation.
It was a goodly company therefore that was assembled in the great withdrawing rooms, when the Countess herself came tripping down the shallow oaken stairs, and found Adrian waiting for her in the hall.
He glanced up as she descended towards him to cover her with an ardent look and feast his eyes despairingly on her beauty; and she halted a moment to return his gaze with a light but meaning air of chiding.
"Cousin!"
she said, "you have very singular manners for one supposed to be so shy with ladies.
Do you know that if my husband were here to notice them you might be taken to task?"
Adrian ran up the steps to meet her.
The man in him was growing apace with the growth of a man's passion, and by the boldness of his answer belying all his recent wise resolutions, he now astonished himself even more than her.
"You are going back to him," he said, with halting voice.
"All is well--for him; perhaps for you.
For us, who remain behind there is nothing left but the bitterness of regret--and envy."
Then in silence they descended together.
As they were crossing the hall there entered suddenly to them, stumbling as he went, René, the young Breton retainer, whom the lord of Savenaye had appointed as squire to his lady upon her travels, and who, since her establishment at Pulwick, had been sent to carry news and money back to Brittany.
No sooner had the boy--for such he was, though in intelligence and blind devotion beyond his years--passed into the light, than on his haggard countenance was read news of disastrous import.
Recent tears had blurred his sunburnt cheek, and the hand that tore the hat from his head at the unexpected sight of his mistress, partly in instinctive humility, partly, it seemed, to conceal some papers he held against his breast, twitched with nervous anguish.
"René!"
cried the Countess, eagerly, in French.
"What hast thou brought?
Sweet Jesu!
Bad news--bad news?
Give!"
For an instant the courier looked around like a hunted animal seeking a retreat, and then up at her in dumb pleading; but she stamped her foot and held him to the spot by the imperiousness of her eye.
"Give, I tell thee," she repeated; and, striking the hat away, snatched the papers from his hand.
"Dost thou think I cannot bear ill news--My husband?"
She drew nearer to a candelabra, and the little white hands impatiently broke the seals and shook the sheets asunder.
Sir Thomas, attracted by his favourite's raised tones and uneasy at her non-appearance, opened the drawing-room door and came forward anxiously, whilst his assembled guests, among whom a sense that something of importance was passing had rapidly spread, now gathered curiously about the open doorway.
The Countess read on, unnoticing, with compressed lips and knitted brows--those brows that looked so black on the fair skin, under the powdered hair.
"My husband!
ah, I knew it, my André ... the common fate of the loyal!"
A sigh lifted the fair young bosom, but she showed no other sign of weakness.
Indeed those who watched this unexpected scene were struck by the contrast between the bearing of this young, almost girlish creature, who, holding the written sheets with firm hands to the light, read their terrible contents with dry eyes, and that of the man who had sunk, kneeling, at her feet, all undone, to have had the bringing of the news.
The silence was profound, save for the crackling of the pages as she turned them over, and an occasional long-drawn sob from the messenger.
When she came to the end the young widow--for such she was now--remained some moments absorbed in thought, absently refolding the letter into its original neatness.
Then her eyes fell on René's prostrate figure and she stooped to lay a kind hand for an instant on his shoulder.
"Bear up, my good René," she said.
At her voice and touch he dragged his limbs together and stood humbly before her.
"We must be brave," she went on; "your master's task is done--ours, yours and mine, is not."
He lifted his bloodshot eyes to her with the gaze of a faithful dog in distress, scraped an uncouth bow and abruptly turned away, brushing the tears from his cheek with his sleeve, and hurrying, to relieve his choking grief in solitude.
She stood a while, again absorbed in her own reflection, and of those who would have rushed to speak gentle words to her, and uphold her with tender hands, had she wept or swooned, there was none who dared approach this grief that gave no sign.
In a short time, however, she seemed to recollect herself and awaken to the consciousness of the many watching eyes.
"Good uncle," she said, going up to the old man and kissing his cheek, after sweeping the assembled company with dark, thoughtful gaze.
"Here are news that I should have expected sooner--but that I would not entertain the thought.
It has come upon us at last, the fate of the others ... André has paid his debt to the king, like many hundreds of true people before--though none better.
He has now his reward.
I glory in his noble death," she said with a gleam of exaltation in her eyes, then added after a pause, between clenched teeth, almost in a whisper: "And my sister too--she too is with him--but I will tell you of it later; they are at rest now."
Jovial Sir Thomas, greatly discomposed and fairly at a loss how to deal with the stricken woman, who was so unlike any womankind he had ever yet come across, patted her hand in silence, placed it within his arm and quietly led her into the drawing-room, rolling, as he did so, uneasy eyes upon his guests.
But she followed the current of her thoughts as her little feet kept pace beside him.
"That is bad--but worse--the worst of all, the cause of God and king is again crushed; everything to begin afresh.
But, for the present, we"--here she looked round the room, and her eyes rested an instant upon a group of young men, who were surveying her from a corner with mingled admiration and awe--"we, that is René and I, have work to do in this country before we return.
For you will keep us a little longer?"
she added with an attempt at a smile.
"Will I keep you a little longer?"
exclaimed the squire hotly, "will I ever let you go, now!"
She shook her head at him, with something of her natural archness.
Then, turning to make a grave curtsey to the circle of ladies around her: "I and my misfortune," she said, "have kept your company and your dinner waiting, I hardly know how long.
No doubt, in their kindness they will forgive me."
And accepting again her uncle's arm which, delighted at the solution of the present difficulty, and nodding to Adrian to start the other guests, he hastened to offer her, she preceded the rest into the dining-hall with her usual alert bearing.
The behaviour of the Countess of Savenaye, had affected the various spectators in various ways.
The male sex, to a man, extolled her fortitude; the ladies, however, condemned such unfeminine strength of mind, while the more charitable prophesied that she would pay dearly for this unnatural repression.
And the whispered remark of one of the prettier and younger damsels, that the loss of a husband did not seem to crush her, at any rate, met, on the whole, with covert approval.
As for Adrian, who shall describe the tumult of his soul--the regret, the hungering over her in her sorrow, the wild unbidden hopes and his shame of them?
Careful of what his burning eyes might reveal, he hardly dared raise them from the ground; and yet to keep them long from her face was an utter impossibility.
The whispered comments of the young men behind him, their admiration, and astonishment drove him to desperation.
And the high-nosed dowager, whom it was his privilege to escort to his father's table, arose from it convinced that Sir Thomas's heir had lost in his travels the few poor wits he ever possessed.
The dinner that evening was without doubt the most dismal meal the neighbourhood had ever sat down to at the hospitable board of Pulwick, past funeral refections not excepted.
The host, quite taken up with his little foreign relative, had words only for her; and these, indeed, consisted merely in fruitless attempts to induce her to partake largely of every course--removes, relieves, side-dishes, joints, as their separate turn came round.
Long spells of silence fell upon him meantime, which he emphasised by lugubriously clearing his throat.
Except for the pretty courtesy with which she would answer him, she remained lost in her own thoughts--ever and anon consulting the letter which lay beside her to fall again, it seemed, into a deeper muse; but never a tear glinted between her black lashes.
More than once Adrian from his distant end of the table, met her eyes, fixed on him for a moment, and the look, so full of mysterious meanings made his heart beat in anguish, expecting he knew not what.
Among the rest of the assembly, part deference to a calamity so stoutly borne, part amazement at such strange ways, part discomfort at their positions as feasters in the midst of mourning, had reduced conversation to the merest pretence.
The ladies were glad enough when the time came for them to withdraw; nor did most of the men view with reluctance a moment which would send the decanters gliding freely over the mahogany, and relieve them from this unwonted restraint.
Madame de Savenaye had, however, other interests in store for these latter.
She rose with the rest of the ladies, but halted at the door, and laying her hand upon her uncle's arm, said an earnest word in his ear, in obedience to which he bundled out his daughters, as they hung back politely, closed the door upon the last skirt, and reconducted the Countess to the head of the table, scratching his chin in some perplexity, but ready to humour her slightest whim.
She stood at her former place and looked for a moment in silence from one to another of the faces turned with different expressions of astonishment and anticipation towards her--ruddy faces most of them, young, or old, handsome or homely, the honest English stamp upon each; and distinct from them all, Adrian's pallid, thoughtful features and his ardent eyes.
Upon him her gaze rested the longest.
Then with a little wave of her hand she prayed them to be seated, and waited to begin her say until the wine had passed round.
"Gentlemen," then quoth she, "with my good uncle's permission I shall read you the letter which I have this night received, so that English gentlemen may learn how those who are faithful to their God and their King are being dealt with in my country.
This letter is from Monsieur de Puisaye, one of the most active partisans of the Royal cause, a connection of the ancient house of Savenaye.
And he begins by telling me of the unexpected reverses sustained by our men so close upon their successes at Chateau-Gonthier, successes that had raised our loyal hopes so high.
'The most crushing defeat,' he writes, 'has taken place near the town of Savenaye itself, on your own estate, and your historic house is now, alas!
in ruins.... During the last obstinate fight your husband had been wounded, but after performing prodigies of valour--such as, it was hoped or trusted, the king should in time hear of--he escaped from the hands of his enemies.
For many weeks with a few hundred followers he held the fields in the Marais, but he was at last hemmed in and captured by one of the monster Thureau's _Colonnes Infernales_, those hellish legions with an account of whose deeds,' so says this gallant gentleman our friend, 'I will not defile my pen, but whose boasts are like those of Attila the Hun, and who in their malice have invented obscene tortures worthy of Iroquois savages for all who fall into their clutches, be they men, women, or children....
But, by Heaven's mercy, dear Madame,' says M. de Puisaye to me, 'your noble husband was too weak to afford sport to those demons, and so he has escaped torment.
He was hanged with all speed indeed, for fear he might die first of his toils and his wounds, and so defeat them at the last.'"
A rustling murmur of horror and indignation went round the table; but the little woman faced the audience proudly.
"He died," she said, "as beseems a brave man.
But this is not all.
I had a sister, she was very fair--like me some people said, in looks--she used to be the merry one at home in the days of peace," she gave a little smile, far more piteous than tears would be--"She chose to remain among her people when they were fighting, to help the wounded, the sick."
Here Madame de Savenaye paused a moment and put down the letter from which she had been reading; for the first time since she had begun to speak she grew pale; knitting her black brows and with downcast eyes she went on: "Monsieur de Puisaye says he asks my pardon humbly on his knees for writing such tidings to me, bereaved as I am of all I hold dear, but 'it is meet,' he says, 'that the civilised world should know the deeds these followers of _liberty_ and _enlightenment_ have wrought upon gallant men and highborn ladies,' and I hold that he says well."
She flashed once more her black gaze round upon the men, who with heads all turned towards her and forgetting their wine, hung upon her words.
"It is right that I should know, and you too!
It is meet that such deeds should be made known to the world: my sister was taken by these men, but less fortunate than my husband she had life enough left for torture--she too is dead now; M. de Puisaye adds: Thank God!
And that is all that I can say too--Thank God!"
There was a dead silence in the room as she ceased speaking, broken at last, here and there, along the table by exclamations and groans and a deep execration from Sir Thomas, which was echoed deep-mouthed by his guests.
Adrian himself, the pacific, the philosopher, with both arms, stretched out on the table, clenched his hands, and set his teeth and gazed into space with murderous looks.
Then the clear young voice went on again: "You, who have honoured mothers and wives of your own, and have young sweethearts, or sisters or daughters--you English gentlemen who love to see justice, how long will you allow such things to be done while you have arms to strike?
We are not beaten yet; there are French hearts still left that will be up and doing so long as they have a drop of blood to shed.
Our gallant Bretons and Vendéens are uniting once more, our émigrés are collecting, but we want aid, brave English friends, we want arms, money, soldiers.
My task lies to my hand; the sacred legacy of my dead I have accepted; is there any of you here who will help the widow to maintain the fight?"
She had risen to her feet; the blood glowed on her cheek as she concluded her appeal; a thousand stars danced in her eyes.
Old men and young they leapt up, with a roar; pressing round her, pouring forth acclamations, asseverations and oaths--Would they help her?
By God--they would die for her--Never had the old rafters of Pulwick rung to such enthusiasm.
And when with proud smiles and crimsoned face she withdraws at last from so much ardour, the door has scarcely fallen behind her before Sir Thomas proposes her health in a bellow, that trembles upon tears: "Gentlemen, this lady's courage is such as might put most men's strength to shame.
Here is, gentlemen, to Madame de Savenaye!"
And she, halting on the stairs for a moment, to still her high-beating heart, before she lay her babe against it, hears the toast honoured with three times three.
* * * * * When the Lancastrian ladies had succeeded at length in collecting and carrying off such among the hiccupping husbands, and maudlin sons, who were able to move, Sir Thomas re-entering the hall, after speeding the last departing chariot, and prudently leaning upon his tall son--for though he had a seasoned head the night's potations had been deep and fiery--was startled well-nigh into soberness, at the sight of his niece waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.
"Why, Cis, my love, we thought you had been in bed this long while!
why--where have you been then since you ran away from the dining-room?
By George!"
chuckling, "the fellows were mad to get another glimpse of you!"
His bloodshot eye hung over her fondly.
There was not a trace of fatigue upon that delicate, pretty face.
"I wanted to think--I have much to think on now.
I have had to read and ponder upon my instructions here,"--tapping her teeth with the letter, she still carried, "Good uncle, I would speak with you--yes, even now," quick to notice Adrian's slight frown of disapproval (poor fellow, he was sober enough at any rate!
), "there is no time like the present.
I have my work to do, and I shall not rest to-night, till I have planned it in my head."
Surely the brilliancy of those eyes was feverish; the little hands she laid upon them to draw them into the dim-lit library were hot as fire.
"Why, yes, my pretty," quoth the good uncle, stifling a portentous yawn, and striving to look wondrous wise, "Adrian, she wants to consult me, sir, hic!"
He fell into an arm-chair as he spoke, and she sank on her knees beside him, the firelight playing upon her eager face, while Adrian, in the shadow, watched.
"Do you think," she asked of the old man, eagerly, "that these gentlemen, who spoke so kindly to me a few hours ago, will be as much in earnest in the morning?"
"Why d--n them!
if they go back on their word, I'll call them out!"
thundered Sir Thomas, in a great rage all of a sudden.
She surveyed him inquiringly, and shot a swift keen glance from the placid, bulky figure in the chair, to Adrian pale and erect, behind it, then rose to her feet and stood a few paces off, as it were pondering.
"What is now required of me--I have been thinking it well over," she said at last, "can hardly be achieved by a woman alone.
And yet, with proper help and support, I think I could do more than any man by himself.
There is that in a woman's entreaties which will win, when a man may fail.
But I must have a knight at my side; a protector, at the same time as a faithful servant.
These are not the times to stand on conventional scruples.
Do you think, among these gentlemen, any could be found with sufficient enthusiasm, for the Royal cause, here represented by me, to attend, and support me through all the fatigues, the endless errands, the interviews--ay, also the rebuffs, the ridicule at times, perhaps the danger of the conjuration, which must be set on foot in this country--to do all that, without hope of other reward than the consciousness of helping a good cause, and--and the gratitude of one, who may have nothing else to give?"
She stopped with a little nervous laugh: "No, it is absurd!
no man, on reflection would enter into such a service unless it were for his own country."
As the last words fell from her lips, she suddenly turned to Adrian and met his earnest gaze.
"Or for his kindred," said the young man, coming up to her with grave simplicity, "if his kindred required it."
A gleam of satisfaction passed across her face.
The father, who had caught her meaning--sharp enough, as some men can be in their cups--nodded his head with great vigour.
"Yes, why should you think first of strangers," he grumbled, "when you have your own blood, to stand by you--blood is thicker than water, ain't it?
Am I too old, or is he too young, to wait on you--hey, madam?"
She extended her hand, allowing it to linger in Adrian's grasp, whilst she laid the other tenderly on the old man's shoulder.
"My good uncle!
my kind cousin!
Have I the choice already between two such cavaliers?
I am fortunate indeed in my misfortune.
In other circumstances to decide would be difficult between two men, each so good; but," she added, after a moment's hesitation, and looking at Adrian in a manner that made the young man's heart beat thickly, "in this case it is obvious I must have some one whom I need not fear to direct."
"Ay, ay," muttered the baronet, "I'd go with you, my darling, to the world's end; but there's that young philosopher of mine breaking his heart for you.
And when all's said and done, it's the young fellow that'll be the most use to you, I reckon.
Ay, you've chosen already, I'll be bound.
The gouty old man had best stop at home.
Ho, ho, ho!
You've the luck, Adrian; more luck than you deserve."
"It is I who have more luck than I deserve," answered Madame de Savenaye, smiling upon her young knight as, taking heart of grace, he stooped to seal the treaty upon her hand.
"To say the truth, I had hoped for this, yet hardly dared to allow myself to count upon it.
And really, uncle, you give your own son to my cause?--and you, cousin, you are willing to work for me?
I am indeed strengthened at the outset of my undertaking.
I shall pray that you may never have cause to regret your chivalrous goodness."
She dropped Adrian's hand with a faint pressure, and moved sighing towards the door.
"Do you wonder that I have no tears, cousin?"
she said, a little wistfully; "they must gather in my heart till I have time to sit down and shed them."
Thus it was that a letter penned by this unknown M. de Puisaye from some hidden fastness in the Bocage of Brittany came to divert the course of Adrian Landale's existence into a channel where neither he, nor any of those who knew him, would ever have dreamed to see it drift.
CHAPTER V THE AWAKENING Oh, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee?
LONGFELLOW.
Sir Adrian Landale, in his sea-girt fastness, still absorbed in dreams of bygone days, loosed his grasp of faithful René's shoulder and fell to pacing the chamber with sombre mien; while René, to whom these fits of abstraction in his master were not unfamiliar, but yet to his superstitious peasant soul, eerie and awe-inspiring visitations, slipped unnoticed from his presence.
The light-keeper sate down by his lonely hearth and buried his gaze in the glowing wood-embers, over which, with each fitful thundering rush of wind round the chimney, fluttered little eddies of silvery ash.
So, that long strife was over, which had wrought such havoc to the world, had shaped so dismally the course of his own life!
The monster of selfish ambition, the tyrannic, insatiable conqueror whose very existence had so long made peaceable pursuits unprofitable to mankind, the final outcome of that Revolution that, at the starting point, had boded so nobly for human welfare--he was at last laid low, and all the misery of the protracted struggle now belonged to the annals of the past.
It was all over--but the waste!
The waste of life and happiness, far and wide away among innocent and uninterested beings, the waste remained.
And, looking back on it, the most bitter portion of his own wrecked life was the short time he had yet thought happy; three months, spent as knight-errant.
How far they seemed, far as irrevocable youth, those days when, in the wake of that love-compelling emissary, he moved from intrigue to intrigue among the émigrés in London, and their English sympathisers, to bustling yet secret activity in seafaring parts!
The mechanical instrument directed by the ingenious mind of Cécile de Savenaye; the discreet minister who, for all his young years, secured the help of some important political sympathiser one day, scoured the country for arms and clothing, powder and _assignats_ another; who treated with smuggling captains and chartered vessels that were to run the gauntlet on the Norman and Breton coast, and supply the means of war to struggling and undaunted loyalists.
All this relentless work, little suited, on the whole, to an Englishman, and in a cause the rights of which he himself had, up to then, refused to admit, was then repaid a hundredfold by a look of gratitude, of pleasure even, a few sweet moments of his lady's company, before being sent hence again upon some fresh enterprise.
Ah, how he loved her!
He, the youth on the threshold of manhood, who had never known passion before, how he loved this young widowed mother who used him as a man to deal for her with men, yet so loftily treated him as a boy when she dealt with him herself.
And if he loved her in the earlier period of his thraldom, when scarce would he see her one hour in the twenty-four, to what all-encompassing fervour did the bootless passion rise when, the day of departure having dawned and sunk, he found himself on board the privateer, sailing away with her towards unknown warlike ventures, her knight to protect her, her servant to obey!
On all these things mused the recluse of Scarthey, sinking deeper and deeper into the past: the spell of haunting recollection closing on him as he sat by his hearthside, whilst the increasing fury of the gale toiled and troubled outside fighting the impassable walls of his tower.
Could it have been possible that she--the only woman that had ever existed for him, the love for whom had so distorted his mind from its natural sympathies, had killed in him the spring of youth and the savour of life--never really learnt to love him in return till the last?
And yet there was a woman's soul in that delicious woman's body--it showed itself at least once, though until that supreme moment of union and parting, it seemed as if a man's mind alone governed it, becoming sterner, more unbendable, as hardships and difficulties multiplied.
In the melancholy phantasm passing before his mind's eye, of a period of unprecedented bloodshed and savagery, when on the one side Chouans, Vendéens, and such guerillas of which Madame de Savenaye was the moving spirit, and on the other the _colonnes infernales_ of the revolutionary leaders, vied with each other in ferocity and cunning, she stood ever foremost, ever the central point of thought, with a vividness that almost a score of years had failed to dim.
When the mood was upon him, he could unfold the roll of that story buried now in the lonely graves of the many, or in the fickle memories of the few, but upon his soul printed in letters of fire and blood--to endure for ever.
Round this goddess of his young and only love clustered the sole impressions of the outer world that had ever stirred his heart: the grandeur of the ocean, of the storm, the glory of sunrise over a dishevelled sea, the ineffable melancholy of twilight rising from an unknown strand; then the solemn coldness of moonlight watches, the scent of the burnt land under the fierce sun, when all nature was hushed save the dreamy buzz of insect-life: the green coolness of underwood or forest, the unutterable harmony of the sighing breeze, and the song of wild birds during the long patient ambushes of partisan war; the taste of bread in hunger, of the stream in the fever of thirst, of approaching sleep in exhaustion--and, mixed with these, the acrid emotions of fight and carnage, anguish of suspense, savage exultation of victory--all the doings of a life which he, bred to intellectual pleasures and high moral ideas, would have deemed a nightmare, but which, lived as it was in the atmosphere of his longing and devotion, yet held for him a strange and pungent joy: a cup of cruel memories, yet one to be lingered over luxuriously till the savour of each cherished drop of bitterness be gathered to the uttermost.
Now, in the brightness of the embers, between the fitful flames of crumbling wood, spreads before his eyes the dreary strand near Quiberon, immense in the gathering darkness of a boisterous evening.
Well hidden under the stone table of a Druidical men-hir glows a small camp-fire sedulously kept alive by René for the service of The Lady.
She, wrapped up in a coarse peasant-cloak, pensively gazes into the cheerless smoke and holds her worn and muddy boots to the smouldering wood in the vain hope of warmth.
And Adrian stands silently behind her, brooding on many things--on the vicissitudes of that desultory war which has left them not a roof whereunder they can lay their heads, during which the little English contingent has melted from them one by one; on the critical action of the morrow when the republican columns, now hastening to oppose the landing of the great royalist expedition to Quiberon (that supreme effort upon which all their hopes centre) must be surprised and cut off at whatever cost; on the mighty doings to follow, which are to complete the result of the recent sea fight off Ushant and crown their devoted toil with victory at last.... And through his thoughts he watches the pretty foot, in its hideous disguise of patched, worn, ill-fitting leather, and he sees it as on the first day of their meeting, in its gleaming slipper and dainty silken stocking.
Now and then an owl-cry, repeated from point to point, tells of unremitting guard, but for which, in the vast silence, none could suspect that a thousand men and more are lying stretched upon the plain all around them, fireless, well-nigh without food, yet patiently waiting for the morrow when their chiefs shall lead them to death; nor that, in a closer circle, within call, are some fifty _gars_, remnant of the indomitable "Savenaye band," and tacitly sworn bodyguard to The Lady who came back from ease and safety over seas to share their peril.
No sound besides, but the wind as it whistles and moans over the heath--and the two are together in the mist which comes closing in upon them as if to shroud them from all the rest, for even René has crept away, to sleep perhaps.
She turns at last towards him, her small face in the dying light of this sullen evening, how wan and weather-beaten!
"Pensive, as usual, cousin?"
she says in English, and extends her hand, browned and scratched, that was once so exquisite, and she smiles, the smile of a dauntless soul from a weary body.
Poor little hands, poor little feet, so cold, so battered, so ill-used!
He, who would have warmed them in his bosom, given his heart for them to tread upon, breaks down now, for the first time; and falling on his knees covers the cold fingers with kisses, and then lays his lips against those pitiful torn boots.
But she spurns him from her--even from her feet: "Shame on you!"
she says angrily; and adds, more gently, yet with some contempt: "_Enfant, va!_--is this the time for such follies?"
And, suddenly recalled to honour and grim actuality, he realises with dismay his breach of trust--he, who in their earlier days in London had called out that sprightly little émigré merely for the vulgar flippancy (aimed in compliment, too, at the grave aide-de-camp), "that the fate of the late Count weighed somewhat lightly upon Madame de Savenaye;" he, who had struck that too literary countryman of his own across the face--ay, and shot him in the shoulder, all in the secret early dawn of the day they left England--for daring to remark within his hearing: "By George, the handsome Frenchwoman and her cousin may be a little less than kin, but they are a little more than kind."
But yet, as the rage of love contending in his heart with self-reproach, he rises to his feet in shame, she gives him her hand once more, and in a different voice: "Courage, cousin," says she, "perhaps some day we may both have our reward.
But will not my knight continue to fight for my bidding, even without hope of such?"
Pondering on this enigmatic sentence he leaves her to her rest.
* * * * * When next he finds himself by her side the anticipated action has begun; and it is to be the last day that those beautiful burning eyes shall see the glory of the rising sun.
The Chouans are fighting like demons, extended in long skirmishing lines, picking out the cluster of gunners, making right deadly use of their English powder; imperceptibly but unflinchingly closing their scattered groups until the signal comes and with ringing cries: "_Notre Dame d'Auray!_" and "_Vive le roi!_" they charge, undismayed by odds, the serried ranks of the Republicans.
She, from the top of the druidical stone, watches the progress of the day.
Her red, parted mouth twitches as she follows the efforts of the men.
Behind her, the _gars_ of Savenaye, grasping with angry clutch, some a new musket, others an ancient straightened scythe, gaze fiercely on the scene from under their broad felts.
Now and then a flight of republican bullets hum about their ears, and they look anxiously to Their Lady, but that fearless head never bends.
Then the moment arrives, and with a fervent, "God be with you, brave people," she hurls, by a stirring gesture, the last reserve on to the fight.
And now he finds himself in the midst of the furious medley, striking mechanically, his soul away behind on that stone, with her.
Presently, as the frenzy waxes wilder, he is conscious that victory is not with them, but that they are pressed back and encompassed, and that for each blue coat cast down amidst the yells and oaths, two more seem to come out of the rain and smoke; whilst the bare feet and wooden shoes and the long hair of his peasants are seen in ever-lessening ranks.
And, in time, they find themselves thrown back to the men-hir; she is there, still calm but ghastly white, a pistol in each hand.
Around her, through the wet smoke, rise and fall with sickening thuds the clubbed muskets of three or four men, and then one by one these sink to the ground too.
With a wailing groan like a man in a nightmare, he sees the inevitable end and rushes to place his body before hers.
A bullet shatters his sword-blade; now none are left around them but the begrimed and sinister faces of their enemies.
As they stand prisoners, and unheeding the hideous clamour, he, with despair thinking of her inevitable fate at the hands of such victors, and scarcely daring to look at her, suddenly sees _that_ in her eyes which fills his soul to overflowing.
"All is lost," she whispers, "and I shall never repay you for all you have done, cousin!"
The words are uttered falteringly, almost plaintively.
"We are not long now for this world, friend," she adds more firmly.
"Give me your forgiveness."
How often has Adrian heard this dead voice during the strange vicissitudes of these long, long years!
And, hearing it whisper in the vivid world of his brain, how often has he not passionately longed that he also had been able to yield his poor spark of life on the last day of her existence.
For the usual fate of Chouan prisoners swiftly overtakes the surviving leaders of the Savenaye "band of brigands," as that doughty knot of loyalists was termed by their arch-enemy, Thureau.
A long journey towards the nearest town, in an open cart, under the pitiless rain, amidst a crowd of evil-smelling, blaspheming, wounded republicans, who, when a more cruel jolt than usual awakens their wounds, curse the woman in words that should have drawn avenging bolts from heaven.
She sits silent, lofty, tearless; but her eyes, when they are not lost in the grey distance, ever wistfully seek his face.
The day is drawing to a close; they reach their goal, a miserable, grey, draggled town at the mouth of the Vilaine, and are roughly brought before the arbiter of their lives--Thureau himself, the monstrous excrescence of the times, who, like Marat and Carrier, sees nothing in the new freedom but a free opening for the lowest instincts of ferocity.
And before this monstrous beast, bedizened in his general's frippery, in a reeking tavern-room, stand the noble lady of Savenaye and the young heir of Pulwick.
The ruffian's voice rings with laughter as he gazes on the silent youthful pair.
"Aha, what have we here; a couple of drowned rats?
or have we trapped you at last, the ci-devant Savenaye and her _godam_ from England?
I ought really to send you as a present to the Convention, but I am too soft-hearted, you see, my pigeons; and so, to save time and make sure, we will marry you to-day."
One of the officers whispers some words in his ear, which Thureau, suddenly growing purple with rage, denies with a foul oath and an emphatic thump of his huge fist on the table.
"Hoche has forbidden it, has he?
Hoche does not command here.
Hoche has not had to hunt down the brigands these last two years.
Dead the beast, dead the venom, I say.
And here is the order," scribbling hurriedly on a page torn from a pocket-book.
"It shall not be said that I have had the bitch of Savenaye in my hands and trusted her on the road again.
Hoche has forbidden it!
Call the cantineer and hop: the marriage and quick--the soup waits."
Unable to understand the hidden meaning of the order, Adrian looks at his lady askance, to find that, with eyes closed upon the sight of the grinning faces, she is whispering prayers and fervently crossing herself.
When she turns to him again her face is almost serene.
"They are going to drown us together; that is their republican marriage of aristocrats," she says in soft English.
"I had feared worse.
Thank heaven there is no time now for worse.
We shall be firm to the last, shall we not, cousin?"
There is a pathetic smile on her worn weather-stained face, as the cantineer and a corporal enter with ropes and proceed to pinion the prisoners.
But, as they are marched away once more under the slanting rain, are forced into a worn-out boat and lashed face to face, her fortitude melts apace.
"There, my turtle-doves," sneers the truculent corporal, "another kindness of the general.
The Nantes way is back to back, but he thought it would amuse you to see each other's grimaces."
On the strand resounds the muffled roll of wet drums, announcing the execution of national justice; with one blow of an axe the craft is scuttled; a push from a gaff sends it spinning on the swift swollen waters into the estuary.
Adrian's lips are on her forehead, but she lifts her face; her eyes now are haggard.
"Adrian," she sobs, "you have forgiven me?
I have your death on my soul!
Oh, Adrian, ...
I could have loved you!"
Helpless and palsied by the merciless ropes, she tries passionately to reach her little mouth to his.
A stream of fire rushes through his brain--maddening frenzy of regret, furious clinging to escaping life!--Their lips have met, but the sinking craft is full, and, with a sudden lurch, falls beneath the eddies.... A last roll of the drums, and the pinioned bodies of these lovers of a few seconds are silently swirling under the waters of the Vilaine.
And now the end of this poor life has come--with heart-breaking sorrow of mind and struggle of body, overpowering horror at the writhings of torture in the limbs lashed against his--and vainly he strives to force his last breath into her hard-clenched mouth.
Such was the end of Adrian Landale, aged twenty--the end that should have been--The pity that it was not permitted!
After the pangs of unwelcome death, the misery of unwelcome return to life.
Oh, René, René, too faithful follower; thou and the other true men who, heedless of danger, hanging on the flanks of the victorious enemy, never ceased to watch your lady from afar.
You would have saved her, could courage and faithfulness and cunning have availed!
But, since she was dead, René, would thou hadst left us to drift on to the endless sea!
How often have I cursed thee, good friend, who staked thy life in the angry bore to snatch two spent bodies from its merciless tossing.
It was not to be endured, said you, that the remains of the Lady of Savenaye should drift away unheeded, to be devoured by the beasts of the sea!
They now repose in sacred ground, and I live on!
Oh, hadst thou but reached us a minute later!--ah, God, or a minute earlier!
Rarely had Sir Adrian's haunting visions of the past assumed such lurid reality.
Rising in torment from the hearth to pace unceasingly the length and breadth of the restful, studious room, so closely secure from the outer turmoil of heaven and earth, he is once more back in the unknown sea-cave, in front of the angry breakers.
Slowly, agonisingly, he is recalled to life through wheeling spaces of pain and confusion, only that his bruised and smarting eyes may see the actual proof of his own desolateness--a small, stark figure wrapped in coarse sailcloth, which now two or three ragged, long-haired men are silently lifting between them.
He wonders, at first, vaguely, why the tears course down those wild, dark faces; and then, as vainly he struggles to speak, and is gently held down by some unknown hand, the little white bundle is gone, and he knows that _there_ was the pitiful relict of his love--that he will never see her again!
* * * * * Sir Adrian halted in front of his seaward window, staring at the driven rain, which bounded and plashed and spread in minute torrents down the glass, obscuring the already darkening vision of furious sea and sky.
The dog, that for some moments had shown an anxious restlessness in singular concert with his master's, now rose at last to sniff beneath the door.
No sound penetrated the roar of the blast; but the old retriever's uneasiness, his sharp, warning bark at length recalled Sir Adrian's wandering thoughts to the present.
And, walking up to the door, he opened it.
Oh, God!
Had the sea given up its dead?
Sir Adrian staggered back, fell on his knees and clapped his hands together with an agonised cry: "Cécile...!"
CHAPTER VI THE WHEEL OF TIME And to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him.
BYRON.
Upon the threshold she stood, looking in upon him with dark, luminous eyes; round the small wet face tangles of raven hair fell limp and streaming; dark raiments clung to her form, diapered with sand and sea-foam, sodden with the moisture that dripped from them to the floor; under the hem of her skirt one foot peered forth, shoeless in its mud-stained stocking.
Sir Adrian stared up at her, his brain whirling with a frenzy of joy, gripped in its soaring ecstasy by terror of the incomprehensible.
On the wings of the storm and the wind had she come to him, his love--across the awful barriers that divide life and death?
Had his longings and the clamour of his desolate soul reached her, after all these years, in the far-beyond, and was her sweet ghost here to bid him cease from them and let her lie at rest?
Or, yet, had she come to call him from the weary world that their souls might meet and be one at last?...
Then let her but lay her lips against his, as once in the bitterness of death, that his sorely-tried heart may break with the exquisite pang and he, too, may die upon their kiss.
Swift such thoughts were tossing in the turmoil of his mind when the vision smiled ... a young, rosy, living smile; and then reason, memory, the wonder of her coming, the haunting of her grave went from him; possessed by one single rapturous certainty he started up and gathered the wet form into his strong arms--yet gently as if he feared to crush the vision into void--and showered kisses on the wet face.
Not death--but life!
A beating heart beneath his; a lithe young form under his hand, warm lips to his kisses, ... Merciful Heaven!
Were, then, these twenty years all an evil, fevered dream, and was he awake at length?
She turned her face from him after a moment and put her hand against his breast to push him from her; and as she did so the wonder in the lovely, familiar eyes turned to merriment, and the lips parted into laughter.
The sound of the girlish laughter broke the spell.
Sir Adrian stepped back, and passed his hand across his forehead with a dazed look.
And still she laughed on.
"Why, cousin Landale," she said, at length between the peals; "I came to throw myself upon your kindness for shelter from the storm, but--I had not anticipated such a reception."
The voice, clear and sweet, with just a tinge of outlandish intonation, struck Adrian to the heart.
"I have not heard," he faltered, "that voice for twenty years...!"
Then, coming up to her, he took her hands; and, drawing her towards the firelight, scanned her features with eager, hungering eyes.
"Do not think me mad, child," he said at last; "tell me who you are--what has brought you here?
Ah, God, at such a moment!
Who is it," he pursued, as if to himself, whilst still she smiled mockingly and answered not; "who is it, then, since Cécile de Savenaye is dead--and I am not dreaming--nor in fever?
No vision either--this is flesh and blood."
"Yes, indeed," mocked the girl with another burst of merriment; "flesh and blood, please, and very living!
Why, cousin Landale, you that knew Cécile de Savenaye so well have you forgotten two babes that were born at your own house of Pulwick?
I believe, 'tis true, I have somewhat altered since you saw me last."
And again the old room echoed to the unwonted sound of a girl's laughter.
Now was the hallucination clearing; but the reality evoked a new and almost as poignant tenderness.
Cécile--phantom of a life-time's love, reborn in the flesh, young as on the last day of her earthly existence, coming back into his life again, even the same as she had left it!
A second wonder, almost as sweet as the first!
He clung to it as one clings to the presence of a dream, and, joy unspeakable, the dream did not melt away, but remained, smiling, beautiful, unchanged.
"Cécile's daughter ..." he murmured: "Cécile's self again; but she was not so tall, I think," and drew trembling, reverent hands from her head to her straight young shoulders.
And then he started, crying in a changed voice: "How wet and cold you are!
Come closer to the fire--sit you into this chair, here, in the warmth."
He piled up the hearth with faggots till the flames roared again.
She dropped into the proffered chair with a little shiver; now that he recalled her to it, she was wet and cold too.
He surveyed her with gathering concern.
"My child," he began, and hesitated, continuing, after a short pause of musing--for the thought struck him as strange--"I may call you so, I suppose; I that am nearly old enough to be your father; my mind was so unhinged by your sudden appearance, by the wonderful resemblance, that I have neglected all my duties as host.
You will suffer from this--what shall we do to comfort you?
Here, Jem, good dog!
Call René!"
The old retriever who, concluding that the visitor was welcome, had returned to his doze, here gathered his stiff limbs together, hobbled out through the doorway to give two or three yelping barks at some point on the stairs, and then crawl back to his cosy corner by the hearth.
The girl laughed again.
It was all odd, new, exciting.
Adrian looked down at her.
Cécile, too, had had a merry heart, even through peril and misfortune.
And now there were hasty steps upon the stairs, creaking above the outer tumult of sea and wind; and, in accordance with the long-established custom of summoning him, René appeared upon the threshold, holding a pair of candles.
At the sight of the figure sitting by the fire he halted, as if rooted to the ground, and threw up his hands, each still clutching its candle.
"Mademoiselle...!"
he ejaculated.
"Mademoiselle here!"
Then, rapidly recovering his quick wits, he deposited his burden of light upon the table, advanced towards the lady, made an uncouth but profound bow, and turned to his master.
"And this, your honour," he remarked, oracularly, and in his usual manner of literal adaptation, "was also part of the news I had for your honour from my last journey; but, my faith, I did not know how to take myself to it, as your honour was so much occupied with old times this evening.
But I had seen Mademoiselle at the castle, as Mademoiselle can tell you herself.
And if your honour," he added, with a look of astonishment, "will have the goodness to say how it is possible that Mademoiselle managed to arrive here on our isle, in this weather of all the devils--reverence speaking, and I humbly beg the pardon of Mademoiselle for using such words--when it was with pain I could land myself, and that before the storm--I should be grateful to your honour.
For I avow I cannot comprehend it at all.
Ah, your honour!"
continued René, with an altered tone, "'tis a strange thing, this!"
The looks of master and man crossed suddenly, and in the frank blue eyes of the Breton peasant, Sir Adrian read a reflex of his own thoughts.
"Yes," he said, more in answer to the look than to the exclamation, "yes, it is a strange thing, friend."
"And his Honour cannot read the riddle any more than you yourself, René," quoth Mademoiselle de Savenaye, composedly from her corner; "and, as for me, I can give no explanations until I am a little warmer."
"Why, truly," exclaimed Sir Adrian, striking his forehead, "we are a very pair of dolts!
Hurry, Renny, hurry, call up Margery, and bid her bring some hot drink--tea, broth, or what she has--and blankets.
Stay!
first fetch my furred cloak; quick, René, every moment is precious!"
With all the agitation of a rarely excited man Sir Adrian threw more wood on the fire, hunted for a cushion to place beneath her feet, and then, seizing the cloak from René's hands, he helped her to rise, and wrapped its ample folds round her as carefully as if she were too precious almost to be touched.
Thus enveloped she sank back in the great arm-chair with a cosy, deliberate, kitten-like movement, and stretched out her feet to the blaze, laying the little shoeless one upon Jem's grey muzzle.
Adrian knelt beside her, and began gently to chafe it with both hands.
And, as he knelt, silence fell between them, and the storm howled out yonder; he heard her give a little sigh--that sigh which would escape from Cécile's weariness in moments of rest, which had once been so familiar and so pathetic a sound in his ear.
And once more the power of the past came over him; again he was upon the heath near Quiberon, and Cécile was sitting by him and seeking warmth by the secret fire.
"Oh, my darling," he murmured, "your poor little feet were so cold; and yet you would not let me gather them to my breast."
And, stooping slowly, he kissed the pretty foot in its torn, stained stocking with a passion he had not yet shown.
The girl looked on with an odd little smile.
It was a novel experience, to inspire--even vicariously--such feelings as these; and there was something not unpleasant in the sense of the power which had brought this strange handsome man prostrate before her--a maidenly tremor, too, in the sensation of those burning lips upon her feet.
He raised his eyes suddenly, with the old expectation of a rebuff; and then, at the sight of the youthful, curious face above him, betook himself to sighing too; and, laying the little foot back tenderly upon the cushion, he rose.
From between the huge fur collar which all but covered her head, the black eyes followed him as alertly as a bird's; intercepting the soft melancholy of his gaze, she smiled at him, mischievous, confident, and uncommunicative, and snuggled deeper into the fur.
Leaning against the high mantel-board, he remained silent, brooding over her; the clock ticked off solemnly the fleeting moments of the wonderful hour; and ever and anon the dog drew a long breath of comfort and stretched out his gaunt limbs more luxuriously to the heat.
After a while Sir Adrian spoke.
"He who has hospitality to dispense," said he, smiling down at her mutinous grace, "should never ask whence or how the guest came to his hearth ... and yet--" She made a slight movement of laziness, but volunteered nothing; and he continued, his look becoming more wistful as he spoke: "Your having reached this rock, during such weather, is startling enough; it is God's providence that there should live those in these ruins who are able to give you succour.
But that you should come in to me at the moment you did--" He halted before the bold inquisitive brightness of her eyes.
"Some day perhaps you will let me explain," he went on, embarrassed.
"Indeed I must have seemed the most absolute madman, to you.
But he who thinks he sees one returned from death in angry waters, may be pardoned some display of emotion."
The girl sat up briskly and shook herself as if in protest against the sadness of his smile and look.
"I rise indeed from a watery grave," she said lightly, "or at least from what should have been my grave, had I had my deserts for my foolishness; as it has turned out I do not regret it now; though I did, about midway."
The red lips parted and the little teeth gleamed.
"I have found such kindness and welcome."
She caressed the dog who, lazily, tried to lick her hand.
"It is all such an adventure; so much more amusing than Pulwick; so much more interesting than ever I fancied it might be!"
"Pulwick; you come from Pulwick?"
said Sir Adrian musing; "true, René has said it but just now.
Yet, it is of a piece with the strangeness of it all."
"Yes," said Mademoiselle de Savenaye, once more collecting her cloak, which her hurried movement had thrown off her shoulder.
"Madelon and I are now at Pulwick--I am Molly, cousin, please to remember--or rather I am here, very warm now, and comfortable, and she is somewhere along the shore--perhaps--she and John, as wet as drowned rats.
Well, well, I had best tell you the tale from the beginning, or else we never shall be out of the labyrinth.--We started from Pulwick, for a ride by the shore, Madelon and I.
When we were on the strand it came on to rain.
There was smoke out of your chimney.
I proposed a canter as far as the ruins, for shelter.
I knew very well Madelon would not follow; but I threw poor Lucifer--you know Lucifer, Mr. Landale has reserved him for me; of course you know Lucifer, I believe he belongs to you!
Well, I threw him along the causeway.
John, he's the groom you know, and Madelon, shrieked after me.
But it was beautiful--this magnificent tearing gallop in the rain--I was not going to stop.--But when we were half way, Lucifer and I, I saw suddenly that the foam seemed to cover the sand in front of me.
Then I pulled up quick and turned round to look behind me.
There was already a frightful wind, and the sand and the rain blinded me almost, but there was no mistake--the sea was running between the shore and me.
Oh!
my God!
but I was frightened then; I beat poor Lucifer until my whip broke, and he started away with a will.
But when his feet began to splash the water he too became frightened and stopped.
I did not know what to do; I pulled out my broach to spur him with the pin, but, at the first prick I gave him, he reared, and swerved and I fell right on my face in the froth.
I got up and began to run through the water; then I came to some stones and I knew I was saved, though the water was up to my knees and rushing by like a torrent.
When I had clambered up the beach I thought again of poor Lucifer.
I looked about and saw him a little way off.
He was shaking and tossing his dear black head, and neighing, though I really did not hear him, for the wind was in my ears; his body was stock still, I could not see his legs.... And gradually he sank lower, and lower, and lower, and at last the water passed over his head.
Oh!
it was horrible, horrible!"
The girl shuddered and her bright face clouded.
After a moment she resumed: "It was only then I thought of the moving sands they spoke of the other day at Pulwick--and that was why Madelon and that poltroon groom would not follow me!
Yet perhaps they were wise, after all, for the thought of being buried alive made me turn weak all of a sudden.
My knees shook and I had to sit down, although I knew I had passed through the danger.
But I was so sorry for poor Lucifer!
I thought if I had come down and led him, poor fellow, he might have come with me.
Death is so awful, so hideous; he was so full of life and carried me so bravely, only a few minutes before!
Is it not a shame that there should be such a thing as death?"
she cried, rebelliously, and looked up at the man above her, whose face had grown white at the thought of the danger she had barely escaped.
"I waited," she resumed at length, "till I thought he must be quite dead, there below, and came up to the ruins, and looked for an entrance.
I knocked at some doors and called, but the wind was so loud, no one heard.
And then, at last, there was one door I could open, so I entered and came up the stairs and startled you, as you know.
And that is how I came here and how Lucifer is drowned."
As she finished her tale at last, she looked up at her companion.
But Sir Adrian, who had followed her with ever-deepening earnestness of mien, remained silent; noticing which she added quickly and with a certain tinge of defiance: "And now, no doubt, you are not quite so pleased as you seemed at first with the apparition which has caused you the loss of one of your best horses!"
"Why child," cried Sir Adrian, "so that you be safe you might have left all Pulwick at the bottom of the sands for me!"
And René who entered the room at that moment, heading the advance of Dame Margery with the posset, here caught the extraordinary sound of a laugh on his master's lips, and stepped back to chuckle to himself and rub his hands.
"Who would have believed that!"
he muttered, "and I who was afraid to tell his honour!
Oh, yes, there are better times coming.
Now in with you, Mother Margery, see for yourself who is there."
Holding in both hands a fragrant, steaming bowl, the old crone made her slow entrance upon the scene, peering with dim eyes, and dropping tremulous curtseys every two or three steps.
"Renny towd me as you wanted summat hot for a lady," she began cautiously; and then having approached near for recognition at last, burst forth into a long-drawn cry!
"Eh, you never says!
Eh, dear o' me," and was fain to relinquish the bowl to her fellow-servant who narrowly watching, dived forward just in time to catch it from her, that she might clasp her aged hands together once and again with ever-renewed gestures of astonishment.
"An' it were truth then, an' I that towd Renny to give over his nonsense--I didn't believe it, I welly couldn't.
Eh, Mester Adrian, but she's like the poor lady that's dead and gone, the spit an' image she is--e-eh, she is!"
Molly de Savenaye laughed aloud, stretched out her hand for the bowl, and began with dainty caution to sip its scalding contents.
"Ah, my dear Margery," said the master, "we little thought what a guest the sea would cast up at our doors to-night!
and now we must do our best for her; when she's finished your comforting mixture I shall give her into your charge.
You ought to put her to bed--it will not be the first time."
"Ah!
it will not, and a troublesome child she was," replied Margery, after the usual pause for the assimilation of his remark, turning to the speaker from her palsied yet critical survey of her whilom nursling.
"And I'll see to her, never fear, I'll fettle up a room for her at once--blankets is airing already, an' sheets, an' Renny he's seen to the fire, so that as soon as Miss, here, is ready, I am."
Upon which, dropping a last curtsey with an assumed dignity which would have befitted a mistress of the robes, she took her departure, leaving Adrian smiling with amusement at her specious manner of announcing that his own bedroom--the only one available for the purpose in the ruins--was being duly converted into a lady's bower.
"It grieves me to think," mused he after a pause, while René still bursting with ungratified curiosity, hung about the further end of the room, "of the terrible anxiety they must be in about you at Pulwick, and of our absolute inability to convey to them the good news of your safety."
The girl gave a little laugh, with her lips over the cup, and shrugged her shoulders but said nothing.
"My God, yes," quoth René cheerfully from his corner.
"Notre Dame d'Auray has watched over Mademoiselle to-day.
She would not permit the daughter to die like the mother.
And now we have got her ladyship we shall keep her too.
This, if your honour remembers his sailor's knowledge, looks like a three-days' gale."
"You are right, I fancy," said Sir Adrian, going over to him and looking out of the window.
"Mademoiselle de Savenaye will have to take up her abode in our lighthouse for a longer time than she bargained.
I do not remember hearing the breakers thunder in our cave so loud for many years.
I trust," continued the light-keeper, coming down to his fair guest again, "that you may be able to endure such rough hospitality as ours must needs be!"
"It has been much more pleasant and I feel far more welcome already than at Pulwick," remarked Mademoiselle, between two deliberate sips, and in no way discomposed, it seemed, at the prospect held out to her.
"How?"
cried Sir Adrian with a start, while the unwonted flush mounted to his forehead, "you, not welcome at Pulwick!
Have they not welcomed a child of Cécile de Savenaye at Pulwick?...
Thank God, then, for the accident that has sent you to me!"
The girl looked at him with an inquisitive smile in her eyes; there was something on her lips which she restrained.
Surrendering her cup, she remarked demurely: "Yes, it was a lucky accident, was it not, that there was some one to offer shelter to the outcast from the sea?
It is like a tale of old.
It is delightful.
Delightful, too, not to be drowned, safe and sound ... and welcome in this curious old place."
She had risen and, as the cloak fell from her steaming garments, again she shivered.
"But you are right," she said, "I must go to bed, and get these damp garments off.
And so, my Lord of Scarthey, I will retire to my apartments; my Lady in Waiting I see yonder is ready for me."
With a quaint mixture of playfulness and gravity, she extended her hand, and Adrian stooped and kissed it--as he had kissed fair Cécile de Savenaye's rosy finger-tip upon the porch of Pulwick, twenty years before.
CHAPTER VII FOREBODINGS OF GLADNESS Molly de Savenaye in her improvised bedroom, wet as she was, could hardly betake herself to disrobing, so amused was she in surveying the fresh and romantic oddity of her surroundings, with their mixture of barbarous rudeness and almost womanish refinement.
Old Margery's fumbling hands were not nimble either, and it was long since she had acted as attendant upon one of her own sex.
And so the matter progressed but slowly; but the speed of Margery's tongue was apparently not affected by its length of service.
It wagged ceaselessly; the girl between her own moods of curious speculation vouchsafing an amused, half-contemptuous ear.
Presently, however, as the nurse's reminiscences wandered from the less interesting topic of her own vicissitudes, the children she had reared or buried, and the marvellous ailments she had endured, to an account of those days when she had served the French Madam and her babes, Molly, slowly peeling a clinging sleeve from her arm, turned a more eager and attentive face to her.
"Ah," quoth Margery, appraising her with blear eyes, "it's a queer thing how ye favour your mother, miss.
She had just they beautiful shoulders and arms, as firm an' as white; but you're taller, I think, and may be so, to speak, a stouter make altogether.
Eh, dear, you were always a fine child and the poor lady set a deal of store on you, she did.
She took you with her and left your sister with my Sally, when she was trapesing up to London and back with Mester Adrian, ay, and me with ye.
And many the day that I wished myself safe at Pulwick!
And I mind the day she took leave of you, I do that, well."
Here Dame Margery paused and shook her head solemnly, then pursued in another key: "See now, miss, dear, just step out of they wet things, will ye now, and let me put this hot sheet round ye?"
"But I want to hear about myself," said Molly, gratefully wrapping the hot linen round her young beauty, and beginning to rub her black locks energetically.
"Where was it my mother parted from me?"
"Why, I'll tell you, miss.
When Madam--we allus used to call her Madam, ye know--was goin' her ways to the ship as was to take her to France, I took you after her mysel' down to the shore that she might have the very last of ye.
Eh, I mind it as if it were yesterday.
Mester Adrian was to go with her--Sir Adrian, I should say, but he was but Mester Adrian then--an' a two three more o' th' gentry as was all fur havin' a share o' th' fightin'.
Sir Thomas himsel' was theer--I like as if I could see him now, poor owd gentleman, talkin' an' laughin' very hard an' jov'al, an' wipin' 's e'en when he thought nobody noticed.
Eh, dear, yes!
I could ha' cried mysel' to see th' bonny young lady goin' off fro' her bairns.
An' to think she niver came back to them no more.
Well, well!
An' Mester Adrian too--such a fine well-set-up young gentleman as he were--and _he_ niver comed back for ten year an' when he did, he was that warsened--" she stopped, shook her head and groaned.
"Well, but how about me, nurse," observed Molly, "what about _me_?"
"Miss, please it was this way.
Madam was wantin' a last look at her bairn--eh, she did, poor thing!
You was allus her favoryite, ye know, miss--our Sally was wet-nurse to Miss Maddyline, but Madam had you hersel'.
Well, miss, I'd brought you well lapped up i' my shawl an' William Shearman--that was Thomas Shearman's son, feyther to William an' Tom as lives over yonder at Pulwick village--well, William was standin' in 's great sea-boots ready to carry her through th' surf into the boat; an' Mester Adrian--Sir Adrian, I mean--stood it might be here, miss, an' there was Renny, an' yon were th' t'other gentry.
Well, Madam stopped an' took you out o' my arms, an' hugged you to her breast--an' then she geet agate o' kissin' you--your head an' your little 'ands.
An' you was jumpin' an' crowin' in her arms--the wind had blown your cap off, an' your little downy black hair was standing back.
(Just let me get at your hair now, miss, please--Eh!
it's cruel full of sand, my word, it is.)"
"It's 'ard, when all's said an' done, to part wi' th' babe ye've suckled, an' Madam, though there was niver nought nesh about 'er same as there is about most women, an' specially ladies--she 'ad th' mother's 'eart, she 'ad, miss, an when th' time coom for her to leave th' little un, I could see, as it were, welly burstin'.
There we stood wi' th' wind blowin' our clothes an' our 'air, an' the waves roarin', an' one bigger nor th' t'others ran up till th' foam reached Madam's little feet, but she niver took no notice.
Then all of a sudden she gets th' notion that she'd like to take you with 'er, an' she turns an' tells Mester Adrian so.
'She shall come with me,' she says, quite sharp an' determined, an' makes a sign to William Shearman to carry 'em both over.
'No, no,' says Mester Adrian, 'quite impossible,' says he, as wise as if he'd been an owd man i' stead o' nobbut a lad, ye might say.
'It would be madness both for you an' th' child.
Now,' he says, very quiet an' gentle, 'if I might advise, I should say stay here with the child.'
Eh, I couldn't tell ye all he said, an' then Sir Tummas coom bustlin' up, 'Do, now, my dear; think of it,' he says, pattin' her o' th' hand.
'Stay with us,' he says, 'ye'll be welcome as th' flowers in May!'
An' there was Renny wi' 's 'at off, an' th' tears pourin' down his face, beggin' an' prayin' Madam to stop--at least, I reckoned that was what he were sayin' for it was all in 's own outlandish gibberish.
The poor lady!
she'd look from one to th' t'other an' a body a' must think she'd give in--an' then she'd unbethink hersel' again.
An' Sir Thomas, he'd say, 'Do now, my dear,' an' then when she'd look at him that pitiful, he'd out wi' 's red 'andkercher an' frown over at Mester Adrian, an', says he, 'I wonder ye can ax her!'
Well, all of a sudden off went th' big gun in th' ship--that was to let 'em know, miss, do ye see--an' up went Madam's head, an' then th' wind fetched th' salt spray to her face, an' a kind o' change came over her.
She looked at the child, then across at the ship--an' then she fair tossed ye back to me.
Big William catched her up in his arms just same as another bairn, an' carried her to the boat."
"Yes," said Molly, gazing into the burning logs with brilliant eyes, but speaking low, as if to herself, so that her attendant's deaf ears failed to catch the meaning of the words.
"Ah, that was life indeed!
Happy mother to have seen such life--though she did die young."
"As ye say, miss," answered Margery, making a guess at the most likely comment from a daughter's lips, "it was cruel hard--it was that.
'Come, make haste!'
cries the other young gentlemen: my word, they were in a hurry lest Madam happen to change her mind.
I could welly have laughed to see their faces when Mester Adrian were trying to persuade her to stop at Pulwick, and let the men go alone.
'T wern't for that they reckoned to go all that road to France, ye may think, miss.
Well, miss, in a few minutes they was all out i' the boat wi' th' waves tossin' 'em--an' I stood watchin' with you i' my arms, cryin' and kickin' out wi' your little legs, an' hittin' of me wi' your little 'ands, same as if ye knowed summat o' what was agate, poor lamb, an' was angry wi' me for keepin' ye.
Then in a little while the big, white sails o' th' ship went swellin' out an' soon it was gone.
An' that was th' last we saw o' Madam.
A two-three year arter you an' Miss Maddyline was fetched away, to France, as I've been towd.
I doubt you didn't so much as think there was such a place as Pulwick, though many a one there minds how they dandled and played wi' you when you was a wee bairn, miss."
"Well, I am very glad to be back in England, anyhow," said Molly, nimbly slipping into bed.
"Oh, Margery, what delicious warm sheets, and how good it is to be in bed alive, dry, and warm, after all!"
A new atmosphere pervaded Scarthey that night.
The peaceful monotony of years, since the master of Pulwick had migrated to his "ruins," was broken at last, and happily.
A warm colour seemed to have crept upon the hitherto dun and dull surroundings and brightened all the prospects.
At any rate René, over his busy work in the lantern, whistled and hummed snatches of song with unwonted blithesomeness, and, after lighting the steady watch-light and securing all his paraphernalia with extra care, dallied some time longer than usual on the outer platform, striving to snatch through the driven wraith a glance of the distant lights of Pulwick.
For there, in the long distance, ensconced among the woods, stood a certain gate-lodge of greystone, much covered with ivy, which sheltered, among other inmates, the gatekeeper's blue-eyed, ripe and ruddy daughter--Dame Margery's pet grandchild.
The idea of ever leaving the master--even for the sake of the happiness to be found over yonder--was not one to be entertained by René.
But what if dreams of a return to the life of the world should arise after to-day in the recluse's mind?
Ah, the master's eyes had been filled with light!...
and had he not actually laughed?
René peered again through the wind, but nothing could be seen of the world abroad, save grey, tumbling waters foaming at the foot of the islet; fretful waters coalescing all around with the driven, misty air.
A desolate view enough, had there been room for melancholy thoughts in his heart.
Blithely did he descend the steep wooden stairs from the roaring, weather-beaten platform, to the more secure inhabited keep; and, humming a satisfied tune, he entered upon Margery in her flaming kitchen, to find the old lady intent on sorting out a heap of feminine garments and spreading them before the fire.
René took up a little shoe, sand-soiled and limp, and reverentially rubbed it on his sleeve.
"Well, mother," he said, cheerfully, "it is a long while since you had to do with such pretty things.
My faith, these are droll doings, ah--and good, too!
You will see, Mother Margery, there will be good out of all this."
But Margery invariably saw fit, on principle, to doubt all the opinions of her rival.
Eh, she didn't hold so much wi' wenches hersel', an' Mester Adrian, she reckoned, hadn't come to live here all by himsel' to have visitors breaking in on him that gate!
"There be visitors _and_ visitors, mother--I tell you, I who speak to you, that his honour is happy."
Margery, with a mysterious air, smoothed out a long silk stocking and gave an additional impetus to the tremor Nature had already bestowed upon her aged head.
Well, it wasn't for her to say.
She hoped and prayed there was nowt bad a coomin' on the family again; but sich likenesses as that of Miss to her mother was not lucky, to her minding; it was not.
Nowt good had come to Mester Adrian from the French Madam.
Ah, Mester Adrian had been happy like with her too, and she had taken him away from his home, an' his people, an' sent him back wi'out 's soul in the end.
"And now her daughter has come to give it him back," retorted René, as he fell to, with a zest, on the savoury mess he had concocted for his own supper.
"Eh, well, I hope nowt bad's i' the road," said Margery with senile iteration.
"They do say no good ever comes o' saving bodies from drowning; not that one 'ud wish the poor Miss to have gone into the sands--an' she the babby I weaned too!"
René interrupted her with a hearty laugh.
"Yes, every one knows it carries misfortune to save people from the drowning, but there, you see, her ladyship, she saved herself--so that ought to bring good fortune.
Good-night, Mother Margery, take good care of the lady.... Ah, how I wish I had the care of her!"
he added simply, and, seizing his lantern, proceeded to ascend once more to his post aloft.
He paused once on his way, in the loud sighing stairs, struck with a fresh aspect of the day's singular events--a quaint thought, born of his native religious faith: The Lady, the dear Mistress had just reached Heaven, no doubt, and had straightway sent them the young one to console and comfort them.
Eh bien!
they had had their time of Purgatory too, and now they might be happy.
Pleasant therefore were René's musings, up in the light watcher's bunk, underneath the lantern, as, smoking a pipe of rest, he listened complacently to the hissing storm around him.
And in the master's sleeping chamber beneath him, now so curiously turned into a feminine sanctum, pleasant thoughts too, if less formed, and less concerned with the future, lulled its dainty occupant to rest.
Luxuriously stretched between the warm lavender-scented sheets, watching from her pillow the leaping fire on the hearth, Miss Molly wondered lazily at her own luck; at the many possible results of the day's escapade; wondered amusedly whether any poignant sorrow--except, indeed poor Madeleine's tears--for her supposed demise, really darkened the supper party at Pulwick this evening; wondered agreeably how the Lord of the Ruined Castle would meet her on the morrow, after his singular reception of her this day; how long she would remain in these romantic surroundings and whether she would like them as well at the end of the visitation.
And as the blast howled with increasing rage, and the cold night drew closer on, and the great guns in the sea-cave boomed more angrily with the risen tide, she dimly began to dwell upon the thought of poor Lucifer being sucked deeper into his cold rapacious grave, whilst she was held in the warm embrace of a man whose eyes were masterful and yet gentle, whose arm was strong, whose kisses were tender.
And in the delight of the contrast, Mademoiselle de Savenaye fell into the profound slumber of the young and vigorous.
CHAPTER VIII THE PATH OF WASTED YEARS And I only think of the woman that weeps; But I forget, always forget, the smiling child.
_Luteplayer's Song._ That night, even when sheer fatigue had subdued the currents of blood and thought that surged in his head, Sir Adrian was too restless to avail himself of the emergency couch providently prepared by René in a corner.
But, ceasing his fretful pacing to and fro, he sat down in the arm-chair by the hearth where she had sat--the waif of the sea--wrapped round him the cloak that had enfolded the young body, hugging himself in the salt moisture the fur still retained, to spend the long hours in half-waking, firelight dreams.
And every burst of tempest rage, every lash of rain at the window, every thud of hurricane breaking itself on impassable ramparts, and shriek of baffled winds searching the roofless halls around, found a strangely glad echo in his brain--made a sort of burden to his thoughts: Heap up the waters round this happy island, most welcome winds--heap them up high and boiling, and retain her long captive in these lonely ruins!
And ever the image in his mind's eye was, as before, Cécile--Cécile who had come back to him, for all sober reason knew it was but the child.
The child----!
Why had he never thought of the children these weary years?
They, all that remained of Cécile, were living and might have been sought.
Strange that he had not remembered him of the children!
Twenty years since he had last set eyes upon the little living creature in her mother's arms.
And the picture that the memory evoked was, after all, Cécile again, only Cécile--not the queer little black-eyed puppet, even then associated with sea-foam and salty breeze.
Twenty years during which she was growing and waxing in beauty, and unawares, maturing towards this wonderful meeting--and he had never given a thought to her existence.
In what sheltered ways had this fair duplicate of his love been growing from a child to womanhood during that space of life, so long to look back upon--or so short and transient, according to the mood of the thinker?
And, lazily, in his happier and tender present mood he tried to measure once again the cycles of past discontent, this time in terms of the girl's own lifetime.
It is bitter in misery to recall past misery--almost as bitter, for all Dante's cry, as to dwell on past happiness.
But, be the past really dead, and a new and better life begun, the scanning back of a sombre existence done with for ever, may bring with it a kind of secret complacency.
Truly, mused Sir Adrian, for one who ever cherished ideal aspirations, for the student, the "man of books" (as his father had been banteringly wont to term him), worshipper of the muses, intellectual Epicurean, and would-be optimist philosopher, it must be admitted he had strangely dealt, and been dealt with, since he first beheld that face, now returned to light his solitude!
Ah, God bless the child!
Pulwick at least nursed it warmly, whilst unhappy Adrian, ragged and degraded into a mere fighting beast, roamed through the Marais with Chouan bands, hunted down by the merciless revolutionists, like vermin; falling, as months of that existence passed over him, from his high estate to the level of vermin indeed; outlawed, predatory, cunning, slinking, filthy--trapped at last, the fit end of vermin!
Scarcely better the long months of confinement in the hulks of Rochelle.
How often he had regretted it, then, not to have been one of the chosen few who, the day after capture, stood in front of six levelled muskets, and were sped to rest in some unknown charnel!
Then!--not now.
No, it was worth having lived to this hour, to know of that fair face, in living sleep upon his pillow, under the safeguard of his roof.
Good it was, that he had escaped at last, though with the blood of one of his jailors red upon his hands; the blood of a perhaps innocent man, upon his soul.
It was the only time he had taken a life other than in fair fight, and the thought of it had been wont to fill him with a sort of nausea; but to-night, he found he could face it, not only without remorse, but without regret.
He was glad he had listened to René's insidious whispers--René, who could not endure the captivity to which his master might, in time, have fallen a passive, hopeless slave, and yet who would have faced a thousand years of it rather than escape alone--the faithful heart!
Yes, it was good, and he was glad of it, or time would not have come when she (stay, how old was the child then?--almost three years, and still sheltered and cherished by the house of Landale)--when she would return, and gladden his eyes with a living sight of Cécile, while René watched in his tower above; ay, and old Margery herself lay once more near the child she had nursed.
Marvellous turn of the wheel of fate!
But, who had come for the children, and where had they been taken?
To their motherland, perhaps; even it might have been before he himself had left it; or yet to Ireland, where still dwelt kinsfolk of their blood?
Probably it was at the breaking up of the family, caused by the death of Sir Thomas, that these poor little birds had been removed from the nest, that had held them so safe and close.
That was in '97, in the yellow autumn of which year Adrian Landale, then French fisherman, parted from his brother René L'Apôtre upon the sea off Belle Isle; parted one grizzly dawn after embracing, as brothers should.
Oh, the stealthy cold of that blank, cheerless daybreak, how it crept into the marrow of his bones, and chilled the little energy and spirits he had left!
For a whole year they had fruitlessly sought some English vessel, to convey this English gentleman back to his native land.
He could remember how, at the moment of separation, from the one friend who had loved both him and her, his heart sank within him--remember how he clambered from aboard the poor little smack, up the forbidding sides of the English brig; how René's broken words had bidden God bless him, and restore him safely home (home!
); remember how swiftly the crafts had moved apart, the mist, the greyness and desolateness; the lapping of the waters, the hoarse cries of the seamen, all so full of heart-piercing associations to him, and the last vision of René's simple face, with tears pouring down it, and his open mouth spasmodically trying to give out a hearty cheer, despite the sobs that came heaving up to it.
How little the simple fellow dreamed of what bitterness the future was yet holding for his brother and master, to end in these reunions at last!
The vessel which had taken Adrian Landale on board, in answer to the frantic signals of the fishing-smack, that had sailed from Belle Isle obviously to meet her, proved to be a privateer, bound for the West Indies, but cruising somewhat out of her way, in the hope of outgoing prizes from Nantes.
The captain, who had been led to expect something of importance from the smack's behaviour, in high dudgeon at finding that so much bustle and waste of time was only to burden him with a mere castaway seeking a passage home--one who, albeit a countryman, was too ragged and disreputable in looks to be trusted in his assurances of reward--granted him indeed the hospitality of his ship, but on the condition of his becoming a hand in the company during the forthcoming expedition.
There was a rough measure of equity in the arrangement, and Adrian accepted it.
The only alternative, moreover, would have been a jump overboard.
And so began a hard spell of life, but a few shades removed from his existence among the Chouan guerillas; a predatory cruise lasting over a year, during which the only changes rung in the gamut of its purpose were the swooping down, as a vulture might, upon unprotected ships; flying with superior speed from obviously stronger crafts; engaging, with hawk-like bravery, everything afloat that displayed inimical colours, if it offered an equal chance of fight.
And this for more than a year, until the privateer, much battered, but safe, despite her vicissitudes made Halifax for refitting.
Here, at the first suitable port she had touched, Adrian claimed and obtained his release from obligations which made his life almost unendurable.
Then ensued a period of the most absolute penury; unpopular with most of his messmates for his melancholy taciturnity, despised by the more brutal as one who had as little stomach for a carouse as for a bloody fight, he left the ship without receiving, or even thinking of his share of prize-money.
And he had to support existence with such mean mechanical employment as came in his way, till an opportunity was offered of engaging himself as seaman, again from sheer necessity, on a homeward-bound merchantman--an opportunity which he seized, if not eagerly, for there was no eagerness left in him, yet under the pressure of purpose.
Next the long, slowly plodding, toilsome, seemingly eternal course across the ocean.
But even a convoy, restricted to the speed of its slowest member, if it escape capture or natural destruction, must meet the opposite shore at length, and the last year of the century had lapsed in the even race of time when, after many dreary weeks, on the first of January 1801, the long low lines of sandhills on the Lancastrian coast loomed in sight.
The escort drew away, swiftly southwards, as if in joyful relief from the tedious task, leaving the convoy to enter the Mersey, safe and sound.
That evening Adrian, the rough-looking and taciturn sailor, set foot, for a short while, on his native land, after six years of an exile which had made of him at five and twenty a prematurely aged and hopelessly disillusioned man.
And Sir Adrian, as he mused, wrapped in the honoured fur cloak, with eyes half closed, by his sympathetic fire, recalled how little of joy this return had had for him.
It was the goal he had striven to reach, and he had reached it, that was all; nay, he recalled how, when at hand, he had almost dreaded the actual arrival home, dreaded, with the infinite heart-sickness of sorrow, the emotions of the family welcome to one restored from such perils by flood and field--if not indeed already mourned for and forgotten--little wotting how far that return to Pulwick, that seemed near and certain, was still away in the dim future of life.
Yet, but for the fit of hypochondriacal humour which had fallen black upon him that day of deliverance and made him yearn, with an intensity increasing every moment, to separate himself from his repugnant associates and haste the moment of solitude and silence, he might have been rescued, then and for ever, from the quagmire in which perverse circumstances had enslaved him.
"Look'ee here, matey," said one of his fellow-workers to him, in a transient fit of good-fellowship which the prospect of approaching sprees had engendered in him even towards one whom all on board had felt vaguely to be of a different order, and disliked accordingly, "you don't seem to like a jolly merchantman--but, maybe, you wouldn't take more kindly to a man-o'-war.
Do you see that there ship?--a frigate she is; and, whenever there's a King's ship in the Mersey that means that it's more wholesome for the likes of us to lie low.
You take a hint, matey, and don't be about Liverpool to-night, or until she's gone.
Now, I know a crib that's pretty safe, Birkenhead way; Mother Redcap's, we call it--no one's ever been nabbed at Mother Redcap's, and if you'll come along o' me--why then if you won't, go your way and be damned to you for a----" This was the parting of Adrian Landale from his fellow-workers.
The idea of spending even one night more in that atmosphere of rum and filth, in the intimate hearing of blasphemous and obscene language, was too repulsive to be entertained, and he had turned away from the offer with a gesture of horror.
With half a dozen others, in whose souls the attractions of the town at night proved stronger than the fear of the press party, he disembarked on the Lancashire side, and separating from his companions, for ever, as he thought, ascended the miserable lanes leading from the river to the upper town.
His purpose was to sleep in one of the more decent hotels, to call the next day for help at the banking-house with which the Landales had dealt for ages past, and thence to take coach for Pulwick.
But he had planned without taking reck of his circumstances.
No hotel of repute would entertain this weather-beaten common sailor in the meanest of work-stained clothes.
After failing at various places even to obtain a hearing, being threatened with forcible ejectment, derisively referred to suitable cribs in Love Lane or Tower Street, he gave up the attempt; and, in his usual dejection of spirit, intensified by unavowed and unreasonable anger, wandered through the dark streets, brooding.
Thus aimlessly wandering, the remembrance of his young Utopian imaginings came back to him to mock him.
Dreams of universal brotherhood, of equality, of harmony.
He had already seen the apostles of equality and brotherhood at work--on the banks of the Vilaine.
And realising how he himself, now reduced to the lowest level in the social scale, hunted with insult from every haunt above that level, yet loathed and abhorred the very thought of associating again with his recent brothers in degradation, he laughed a laugh of bitter self-contempt.
But the night was piercing cold; and, in time, the question arose whether the stench and closeness of a riverside eating-house would not be more endurable than the cutting wind, the sleet, and the sharper pangs of hunger.
His roaming had brought him once more to that quarter of the town "best suited to the likes of him," according to the innkeeper's opinion, and he found himself actually seeking a house of entertainment in the slimy, ill-lighted narrow street, when, from out the dimness, running towards him, with bare feet paddling in the sludge, came a slatternly girl, with unkempt wisps of red hair hanging over her face under the tartan shawl.
"Run, run, Jack," she cried, hoarsely, as she passed by breathless, "t' gang's comin' up...." A sudden loathly fear seized Adrian by the heart.
He too, took to his heels by the side of the slut with all the swiftness his tired frame could muster.
"I'm going to warn my Jo," she gasped, as, jostling each other, they darted through a maze of nameless alleys.
And then as, spent with running, they emerged at last into a broader street, it was to find themselves in the very midst of another party of man-of-war's men, whose brass belt-buckles glinted under the flickering light of the oil-lamp swinging across the way.
Adrian stopped dead short and looked at the girl in mute reproach.
"May God strike me dead," she screamed, clapping her hands together, "if I knew the bloody thieves were there!
Oh, my bonny lad, I meant to save ye!"
And as her words rang in the air two sailors had Adrian by the collar and a facetious bluejacket seized her round the waist with hideous bantering.
A very young officer, wrapped up in a cloak, stood a few paces apart calmly looking on.
To him Adrian called out in fierce, yet anguished, expostulation: "I am a free and independent subject, sir, an English gentleman.
I demand that you order your men to release me.
For heaven's sake," he added, pleadingly, "give me but a moment's private hearing!"
A loud guffaw rang through the group.
In truth, if appearances make the gentleman, Adrian was then but a sorry specimen.
The officer smiled--the insufferable smile of a conceited boy raised to authority.
"I can have no possible doubt of your gentility, sir," he said, with mocking politeness, and measuring, under the glimmering light, first the prisoner, from head to foot, and then the girl who, scratching and blaspheming, vainly tried to make her escape; "but, sir, as a free-born English gentleman, it will be your duty to help his Majesty to fight his French enemies.
Take the English gentleman along, my lads!"
A roar of approbation at the officer's facetiousness ran through the party.
"An' his mother's milk not dry upon his lips," cried the girl, with a crow of derisive fury, planting as she spoke a sounding smack on a broad tanned face bent towards her.
The little officer grew pink.
"Come, my men, do your duty," he thundered, in his deepest bass.
A rage such as he never had felt in his life suddenly filled Adrian's whole being.
He was a bigger man than any of the party, and the rough life that fate had imposed on him, had fostered a strength of limb beyond the common.
A thrust of his knee prostrated one of his captors, a blow in the eye from his elbow staggered the other; the next instant he had snatched away the cutlass which a third was drawing, and with it he cleared, for a moment, a space around him.
But as he would have bounded into freedom, a felling blow descended on his head from behind, a sheet of flame spread before his eyes, and behind this blaze disappeared the last that Adrian Landale was to see of England for another spell of years.
When he came back to his senses he was once more on board ship--a slave, legally kidnapped; degraded by full and proper warrant from his legitimate status for no crime that could even be invented against him; a slave to be retained for work or war at his master's pleasure, liable like a slave to be flogged to death for daring to assert his light of independence.
* * * * * The memory of that night's doing and of the odious bondage to which it was a prelude, rarely failed to stir the gall of resentment in Sir Adrian; men of peaceable instincts are perhaps the most prone to the feeling of indignation.
But, to-night, a change had come over the spirit of his dreams; he could think of that past simply as the past--the period of time which would have had to be spent until the advent of the wonder-working present: these decrees of Fate had had a purpose.
Had the past, by one jot, been different, the events of this admirable day might never have been.
The glowing edifice on the hearth collapsed with a darting of sudden flame and a rolling of red cinders.
Sir Adrian rose to rebuild his fire for the night; and, being once roused, was tempted by the ruddiness of the wine, glinting under the quiet rays of the lamp, to advance to the table and partake of his forgotten supper.
The calm atmosphere, the warmth and quiet of the room, in which he broke his bread and sipped his wine, whilst old Jem stretched by the hearth gazed at him with yellow up-turned eyes full of lazy inquiry concerning this departure from the usual nightly regularity; the serene placidity of the scene indoors as contrasting with the angry voices of elements without, answered to the peace--the strange peace--that filled the man's soul, even in the midst of such uncongenial memories as now rose up before him in vivid concatenation.
She was then five years old.
Where was she, when he began that seemingly endless cruise with the frigate _Porcupine_?
He tried to fancy a Cécile five years old--a chubby, curly-headed mite, nursing dolls and teasing kittens, whilst he was bullied and browbeaten by coarse petty officers, shunned and hated by his messmates, and flogged at length by a tyrannizing captain for obduracy--but he could only see a Cécile in the spring of womanhood, nestling in the arm-chair yonder by the fire and looking up at him from the folds of a fur cloak.
She was seven years old when he was flogged.
Ah, God!
those had been days!
And yet, in the lofty soul of him he had counted it no disgrace; and he had been flogged again, ay, and a third time for that obstinate head that would not bend, that obstinate tongue that would persist in demanding restitution of liberty.
The life on board the privateer had been a matter of bargain; he had bartered also labour and obedience with the merchantman for the passage home, but the king had no right to compel the service of a free man!
She was but twelve years old when he was finally released from thraldom--it had only lasted four years after all; yet what a cycle for one of his temper!
Four years with scarce a moment of solitude--for no shore-leave was ever allowed to one who openly repudiated any service contract: four years of a life, where the sole prospect of change was in these engagements, orgies of carnage, so eagerly anticipated by officers and men alike, including himself, though for a reason little suspected by his companions.
But even the historic sea-fights of the _Porcupine_, so far as they affected Adrian Landale, formed in themselves a chain of monotony.
It was ever the same hurling of shot from ship to ship, the same fierce exchange of cutlass-throws and pike-pushes between men who had never seen each other before; the same yelling and execrations, sights, sounds, and smells ever the same in horror; the same cheers when the enemy's colours were lowered, followed by the same transient depression; the cleansing of decks from stains of powder and mire of human blood, the casting overboard of human bodies that had done their life's work, broken waste and other rubbish.
For weeks Adrian after would taste blood, smell blood, dream blood, till it seemed in his nausea that all the waters of the wide clean seas could never wash the taint from him again.
And before the first horrid impressions had time to fade, the next occasion would have come round again: it was not the fate of Adrian Landale that either steel or shot, or splintered timber or falling tackles should put an end to his dreary life, welcome as such an end would have been to him then.
Then ... but not now.
Remembering now his unaccountable escape from the destruction which had swept from his side many another whose eagerness for the fray had certes not sprung, like his own, from a desire to court destruction, he shuddered.
And there arose in his mind the trite old adage: "Man proposeth..." God had disposed otherwise.
It was not destined that Adrian Landale should be shot on the high seas any more than he should be drowned in the rolling mud of the Vilaine--he was reserved for this day as a set-off to all the bitterness that had been meted out to him; he was to see the image of his dead love rise from the sea once more.
And, meanwhile, his very despair and sullenness had been turned to his good.
It would not be said, if history should take count of the fact, that while the Lord of Pulwick had served four years before the mast, he had ever disgraced his name by cowardice....
Whether such reasonings were in accordance even with the most optimistic philosophy, Sir Adrian himself at other times might have doubted.
But he was tender in thought this stormy night, with the grateful relaxation that a happy break brings in the midst of long-drawn melancholy.
Everything had been working towards this end--that he should be the light-keeper of Scarthey on the day when out of the raging waters Cécile would rise and knock and ask for succour at his chamber.
Cécile!
pshaw!--raving again.
Well, the child!
Where was she on the day of the last engagement of that pugnacious _Porcupine_, in the year 1805, when England was freed from her long incubus of invasion?
She was then twelve.
It had seemed if nothing short of a wholesale disaster could terminate that incongruous existence of his.
The last action of the frigate was a fruitless struggle against fearful odds.
After a prolonged fight with an enemy as dauntless as herself, with two-thirds of her ship's company laid low, and commanded at length by the youngest lieutenant, she was tackled as the sun went low over the scene of a drawn battle, by a fresh sail errant; and, had it not been for a timely dismasting on board the new-comer, would have been captured or finally sunk then and there.
But that fate was only held in reserve for her.
Bleeding and disabled, she had drawn away under cover of night from her two hard-hit adversaries, to encounter a squall that further dismantled her, and, in such forlorn conditions, was met and finally conquered by the French privateer _Espoir de Brest_, that pounced upon her in her agony as the vulture upon his prey.
Among the remainder of the once formidable crew, now seized and battened down under French hatches, was of course Adrian Landale--he bore a charmed life.
And for a short while the only change probable in his prospects was a return to French prisons, until such time as it pleased Heaven to restore peace between the two nations.
But the fortune of war, especially at sea, is fickle and fitful.
The daring brig, lettre de marque, _L'Espoir de Brest_, soon after her unwonted haul of English prisoners, was overtaken herself by one of her own species, the _St.
Nicholas_ of Liverpool, from whose swiftness nothing over the sea, that had not wings, could hope to escape if she chose to give the chase.
Again did Adrian, from the darkness among his fellow-captives, hear the familiar roar and crash of cannon fight, the hustling and the thud of leaping feet, the screams and oaths of battle, and, finally, the triumphant shouts of English throats, and he knew that the Frenchman was boarded.
A last ringing British cheer told of the Frenchman's surrender, and when he and his comrades were once more free to breathe a draught of living air, after the deathly atmosphere under hatches, Adrian learned that the victor was not a man-of-war, but a free-lance, and conceived again a faint hope that deliverance might be at hand.
It was soon after this action, last of the fights that Adrian the peace-lover had to pass through, and as the two swift vessels, now sailing in consort, and under the same colours cleaved the waters, bound for the Mersey, that a singular little drama took place on board the _Espoir de Brest_.
Among the younger officers of the English privateer, who were left in charge of the prize, was a lad upon whom Adrian's jaded eyes rested with a feeling of mournful sympathy, so handsome was he, and so young; so full of hope and spirits and joy of life, of all, in fact, of which he himself had been left coldly bare.
Moreover, the ring of the merry voice, the glint of the clear eye awakened in his memory some fitful chord, the key of which he vainly sought to trace.
One day, as the trim young lieutenant stood looking across the waters, with his brave eager gaze that seemed to have absorbed some of the blue-green shimmer of the element he loved, all unnoting the haggard sailor at his elbow, a sudden flourish of the spy-glass which he, with an eager movement, swung up to bear on some distant speck, sent his watch and seals flying out of his fob upon the deck at Adrian's feet.
Adrian picked them up, and as he waited to restore them to their owner, who tarried some time intent on his distant peering, he had time to notice the coat and crest engraved upon one of the massive trinkets hanging from their black ribbons.
When at last the officer lowered his telescope, Adrian came forward and saluted him with a slight bow, all unconsciously as unlike the average Jack Tar's scrape to his superior as can be well imagined: "Am I not," he asked, "addressing in you, sir, one of the Cochranes of the Shaws?"
The question and the tone from a common sailor were, of course, enough to astonish the young man.
But there must be more than this, as Adrian surmised, to cause him to blush, wax angry, and stammer like a very school-boy found at fault.
Speaking with much sharpness: "My name is Smith, my man," cried he, seizing his belongings, "and you--just carry on with that coiling!"
"And my name, sir, is Adrian Landale, of Pulwick Priory.
I would like a moment's talk with you, if you will spare me the time.
The Cochranes of the Shaws have been friends of our family for generations."
A guffaw burst from a group of Adrian's mates working hard by, at this recurrence of what had become with them a standing joke; but the officer, who had turned on his heels, veered round immediately, and stood eyeing the speaker in profound astonishment.
"Great God, is it possible!
Did you say you were a Landale of Pulwick?
How the devil came you here then, and thus?"
"Press-gang," was Adrian's laconic answer.
The lad gave a prolonged whistle, and was lost for a moment in cogitation.
"If you are really Mr. Landale," he began, adding hastily, as if to cover an implied admission--"of course I have heard the name: it is well known in Lancashire--you had better see the skipper.
It must have been some damnable mistake that has caused a man of your standing to be pressed."
The speaker ended with almost a deferential air and the smile that had already warmed Adrian's heart.
At the door of the Captain's quarters he said, with the suspicion of a twinkle in his eye: "A curious error it was you made, I assure you my name is Smith--Jack Smith, of Liverpool."
"An excusable error," quoth Adrian, smiling back, "for one of your seals bear unmistakably the arms of Cochrane of the Shaws, doubtless some heirloom, some inter-marriage."
"No, sir, hang it!"
retorted Mr. Jack Smith of Liverpool, his boyish face flushing again, and as he spoke he disengaged the trinket from its neighbours, and jerked it pettishly overboard, "I know nothing of your Shaws or your Cochranes."
And then he rapped loudly at the cabin-door, as if anxious to avoid further discussion or comment on the subject.
The result of the interview which followed--interview during which Adrian in a few words overcame the skipper's scepticism, and was bidden with all the curiosity men feel at sea for any novelty, to relate, over a bottle of wine, the chain of his adventures--was his passing from the forecastle to the officers' quarters, as an honoured guest on board the _St.
Nicholas_, during the rest of her cruise.
Thinking back now upon the last few weeks of his sea-going life, Sir Adrian realised with something of wonder that he had always dwelt on them without dislike.
They were gilded in his memory by the rays of his new friendship.
And yet that this young Jack Smith (to keep for him the nondescript name he had for unknown reasons chosen to assume) should be the first man to awaken in the misanthropic Adrian the charm of human intercourse, was singular indeed; one who followed from choice the odious trade of legally chartered corsair, who was ever ready to barter the chance of life and limb against what fortune might bring in his path, to sacrifice human life to secure his own end of enrichment.
Well, the springs of friendship are to be no more discerned than those of love; there was none of high or low degree, with the exception of René, whose appearance at any time was so welcome to the recluse upon his rock, as that of the privateersman.
And so, turning to his friend in to-night's softened mood, Sir Adrian thought gratefully that to him it was that he owed deliverance from the slavery of the King's service, that it was Jack Smith who had made it possible for Adrian Landale to live to this great day and await its coming in peace.
The old clock struck two; and Jem shivered on the rug as the light-keeper rose at length from the table and sank in his arm-chair once more.
Visions of the past had been ever his companions; now for the first time came visions of the future to commingle with them.
As if caught up in the tide of his visitor's bright young life, it seemed as though he were passing at length out of the valley of the shadow of death.
* * * * * René, coming with noiseless bare feet, in the angry yellow dawn of the second day of the storm, to keep an eye on his master's comfort, found him sleeping in his chair with a new look of rest upon his face and a smile upon his lips.
CHAPTER IX A GENEALOGICAL EPISTLE ... and braided thereupon All the devices blazoned on the shield, In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, A border fantasy of branch and flower.
_Idylls of the King._ Pulwick Priory, the ancestral home of the Cumbrian Landales, a dignified if not overpoweringly lordly mansion, rises almost on the ridge of the green slope which connects the high land with the sandy strand of Morecambe; overlooking to the west the great brown breezy bight, whilst on all other sides it is sheltered by its wooded park.
When the air is clear, from the east window of Scarthey keep, the tall garden front of greystone is visible, in the extreme distance, against the darker screen of foliage; whitely glinting if the sun is high; golden or rosy at the end of day.
As its name implies, Pulwick Priory stands on the site of an extinct religious house; its oldest walls, in fact, were built from the spoils of once sacred masonry.
It is a house of solid if not regular proportions, full of unexpected quaintness; showing a medley of distinct styles, in and out; it has a wide portico in the best approved neo-classic taste, leading to romantic oaken stairs; here wide cheerful rooms and airy corridors, there sombre vaulted basements and mysterious unforeseen nooks.
On the whole, however, it is a harmonious pile of buildings, though gathering its character from many different centuries, for it has been mellowed by time, under a hard climate.
And it was, in the days of the pride of the Landales, a most meet dwelling-place for that ancient race, insomuch as the history of so many of their ancestors was written successively upon stone and mortar, brick and tile, as well as upon carved oak, canvas-decked walls, and emblazoned windows.
* * * * * Exactly one week before the disaster, which was supposed to have befallen Mademoiselle Molly de Savenaye on Scarthey sands, the acting Lord of Pulwick, if one may so term Mr. Rupert Landale, had received a letter, the first reading of which caused him a vivid annoyance, followed by profound reflection.
A slightly-built, dark-visaged man, this younger brother of Sir Adrian, and vicarious master of his house and lands; like to the recluse in his exquisite neatness of attire, somewhat like also in the mould of his features, which were, however, more notably handsome than Sir Adrian's; but most unlike him, in an emphasised artificiality of manner, in a restless and wary eye, and in the curious twist of a thin lip which seemed to give hidden sarcastic meaning even to the most ordinary remark.
As now he sat by his desk, his straight brows drawn over his amber-coloured eyes, perusing the closely written sheets of this troublesome missive, there entered to him the long plaintive figure of his maiden sister, who had held house for him, under his own minute directions, ever since the death in premature child-birth of his young year-wed wife.
Miss Landale, the eldest of the family, had had a disappointment in her youth, as a result of which she now played the ungrateful _rôle_ of old maid of the family.
She suffered from chronic toothache, as well as from repressed romantic aspirations, and was the _âme damnée_ of Rupert.
One of the most melancholy of human beings, she was tersely characterised by the village folk as a "_wummicky_ poor thing."
At the sight of Mr. Landale's weighted brow she propped up her own long sallow face, upon its aching side, with a trembling hand, and, full of agonised prescience, ventured to ask if anything had happened.
"Sit down," said her brother, with a sort of snarl--He possessed an extremely irritable temper under his cool sarcastic exterior, a temper which his peculiar anomalous circumstances, whilst they combined to excite it, forced him to conceal rigidly from most, and it was a relief to him to let it out occasionally upon Sophia's meek, ringleted head.
Sophia collapsed with hasty obedience into a chair, and then Mr. Landale handed to her the thin fluttering sheets, voluminously crossed and re-crossed with fine Italian handwriting: "From Tanty," ejaculated Miss Sophia, "Oh my dear Rupert!"
"Read it," said Rupert peremptorily.
"Read it aloud."
And throwing himself back upon his chair, he shaded his mouth with one flexible thin hand, and prepared himself to listen.
"CAMDEN PLACE, BATH, October 29th," read the maiden lady in those plaintive tones, which seemed to send out all speech upon the breath of a sigh.
"MY DEAR RUPERT,--You will doubtless be astonished, but your invariably affectionate Behaviour towards myself inclines me to believe that you will also be _pleased_ to hear, from these few lines, that very shortly after their receipt--if indeed not before--you may expect to see me arrive at Pulwick Priory."
Miss Landale put down the letter, and gazed at her brother through vacant mists of astonishment.
"Why, I thought Tanty said she would not put foot in Pulwick again till Adrian returned home."
Rupert measured the innocent elderly countenance with a dark look.
He had sundry excellent reasons, other than mere family affection, for remaining on good terms with his rich Irish aunt, but he had likewise reasons, these less obvious, for wishing to pay his devoirs to her anywhere but under the roof of which he was nominal master.
"She has found it convenient to change her mind," he said, with his twisting lip.
"Constancy in your sex, my dear, is merely a matter of convenience--or opportunity."
"Oh Rupert!"
moaned Sophia, clasping the locket which contained her dead lover's hair with a gesture with which all who knew her were very familiar.
Mr. Landale never could resist a thrust at the faithful foolish bosom always ready to bleed under his stabs, yet never resenting them.
Inexplicable vagary of the feminine heart!
Miss Sophia worshipped before the shrine of her younger brother, to the absolute exclusion of any sentiment for the elder, whose generosity and kindness to her were yet as great as was Rupert's tyranny.
"Go on," said the latter, alternately smiling at his nails and biting them, "Tanty O'Donoghue observes that I shall be surprised to hear that she will arrive very shortly after this letter, if not before it.
Poor old Tanty, there can be no mistake about her nationality.
Have the kindness to read straight on, Sophia.
I don't want to hear any more of your interesting comments.
And don't stop till you have finished, no matter how amazed you are."
Again he composed himself to listen, while his sister plunged at the letter, and, after several false starts, found her place and proceeded: "Since, owing to his most _unfortunate_ peculiarity of Temperament and consequent strange choice of abode, I cannot apply to my nephew Adrian, _à qui de droit_ (as Head of the House) I must needs address myself to you, my dear Rupert, to request hospitality for myself and the two young Ladies now under my Charge."
The letter wavered in Miss Sophia's hand and an exclamation hung upon her lip, but a sudden movement of Rupert's exquisite crossed legs recalled her to her task.
"These young ladies are _Mesdemoiselles de Savenaye_, and the daughters of Madame la Comtesse de Savenaye, who was my sister Mary's child.
She and I, and Alice your mother, were sister co-heiresses as you know, and therefore these young ladies are _my_ grand-nieces and your _own_ cousins once removed.
Of Cécile de Savenaye, her _strange_ adventures and ultimate _sad_ Fate in which your own brother was implicated, you cannot but have heard, but you may probably have forgotten even to the _very existence_ of these charming young women, who were nevertheless born at Pulwick, and whom you must at some time or other have beheld as infants during your _excellent_ and _lamented_ father's lifetime.
They are, as you are doubtless also unaware--for I have remarked a _growing_ Tendency in the younger generations to neglect the study of Genealogy, even as it affects their own Families--as well born on the father's side as upon the maternal.
M. de Savenaye bore _argent à la fasce-canton d'hermine_, with an _augmentation of the fleurs de lis d'or_, _cleft in twain_ for his ancestor's _memorable_ deed at the siege of Dinan."
"There is Tante O'Donoghue fully displayed, _haut volante_ as she might say herself," here interrupted Mr. Landale with a laugh.
"Always the same, evidently.
The first thing I remember about her is her lecturing me on genealogy and heraldry, when I wanted to go fishing, till, school-boy rampant as I was, I heartily wished her impaled and debruised on her own Donoghue herse proper.
For God's sake, Sophia, do not expect me to explain!
Go on."
"He was entitled to eighteen quarters, and related to such as Coucy and Armagnac and Tavannes," proceeded Miss Sophia, controlling her bewilderment as best she might, "also to Gwynne of Llanadoc in this kingdom--Honours to which Mesdemoiselles de Savenaye, being sole heiresses both of Kermelégan and Savenaye, not to speak of their own mother's share of O'Donoghue, which now-a-days is of greater substance--are personally entitled.
"If I am the _sole_ Relative they have left in these Realms, Adrian and you are the next.
I have had the charge of my two young Kinswomen during the last six months, that is since they left the Couvent des Dames Anglaises in Jersey.
"Now, I think it is time that your Branch of the Family should incur the share of the _responsibility_ your relationship to them entails.
"If Adrian were _as_ and _where_ he should be, I feel sure he would embrace this opportunity of doing his duty as the Head of the House without the smallest hesitation, and I have no doubt that he would offer the _hospitality_ of Pulwick Priory and his _Protection_ to these amiable young persons for as long as they _remain unmarried_.
"From you, my dear Nephew, who have undertaken under these melancholy family circumstances to fill your Brother's place, I do not, however, _expect_ so much; all I ask is that you and my niece Sophia be kind enough to _shelter_ and _entertain_ your cousins for the space of two months, while I remain at Bath for the benefit of my Health.
"At my age (for it is of no use, nephew, for us to deny our years when any Peerage guide must reveal them pretty closely to the curious), and I am this month passing sixty-nine, at my _age_ the charge of two high-spirited young Females, in whom conventional education has failed to subdue Aspirations for worldly happiness whilst it has left them somewhat inexperienced in the Conventions of Society, I find a _little trying_.
It does not harmonise with the retired, peaceful existence to which I am accustomed (and at my time of life, I think, entitled), in which it is my humble endeavour to wean myself from this earth which is so full of Emptiness and to prepare myself for that other and _better_ Home into which we must all resign ourselves to enter.
And happy, indeed, my dear Rupert, such of us as will be found worthy; for come to it we all must, and the longer we live, the sooner we may expect to do so.
"The necessity of producing them in Society, is, however, rendered a matter of greater responsibility by the fact of the _handsome_ Fortunes which these young creatures possess already, not to speak of their expectations."
Rupert, who had been listening to his aunt's letter, through the intermediary of Miss Sophia's depressing sing-song, with an abstracted air, here lifted up his head, and commanded the reader to repeat this last passage.
She did so, and paused, awaiting his further pleasure, while he threw his handsome head back upon his chair, and closed his eyes as if lost in calculations.
At length he waved his hand, and Miss Sophia proceeded after the usual floundering: "A neighbour of mine at Bunratty, Mrs. Hambledon of Brianstown, a _lively_ widow (herself one of the Macnamaras of the Reeks, and thus a distant connection of the Ballinasloe branch of O'Donoghues), and whom I had reason to believe I could trust--but I will not anticipate--took a prodigious fancy to Miss Molly and proposed, towards the beginning of the Autumn, carrying her away to Dublin.
At the same time the wet summer, producing in me an acute recurrence of that Affection from which, as you know, I suffer, and about which you _never fail_ to make such kind Enquiries at Christmas and Easter, compelled me to call in Mr. O'Mally, the apothecary, who has been my very _obliging_ medical adviser for so many years, and who strenuously advocated an immediate course of waters at Bath.
In short, my dear Nephew, thus the matter was settled, your cousin Molly departed _radiant_ with _good_ spirits, and _good_ looks for a spell of gayety in Dublin, while your cousin Madeleine, prepared (with _equal_ content) to accompany her old aunt to Bath.
It being arranged with Mrs. Hambledon that she should herself conduct Molly to us later on.
"We have been here about three weeks.
Though persuaded by good Mr. O'Mally that the waters would benefit my old bones, I was actuated, I must confess, by another motive in seeking this Fashionable Resort.
In such a place as this, thronged as it is by all the Rank and Family of England, one can at least know _who is who_, and I was not without hopes that my nieces, with their faces, their name, and their fortunes, would have the opportunity of contracting suitable Alliances, and thus relieve me of a charge for which I am, I fear, little fitted.
"But, alas!
my dear Rupert, I was most woefully mistaken.
Bath is _distinctly not_ the place for two beautiful and unsophisticated Heiresses, and I am certainly neither possessed of the Spirits, nor of the Health to guard them from fortune-hunters and _needy nameless_ Adventurers.
While it is my desire to impress upon you, and my niece Sophia, that the conduct of these young ladies has been _quite_ beyond reproach, I will not conceal from you that the attentions of a certain person, of the name of _Smith_, known here, and a favorite in the circles of frivolity and fashion as _Captain Jack_, have already made Madeleine _conspicuous_, and although the dear girl conducts herself with the utmost propriety, there is an air of _Romance_ and _mystery_ about the Young Man, not to speak of his unmistakable good looks, which have determined me to remove her from his vicinity before her Affections be _irreparably_ engaged.
As for Molly, who is a thorough O'Donoghue and the image of her grandmother, that celebrated Murthering Moll (herself the toast of Bath in our young days), whose elopement with the Marquis de Kermelégan, after he had killed an English rival in a duel, was once a nine-days' wonder in this very town, and of whom you must have heard, Mrs. Hambledon restored her to my care only three days ago, and she has already twenty Beaux to her String, though favouring _nobody_, I am bound to say, but her own amusement.
Yesterday she departed under Mrs. Hambledon's chaperonage, in the Company of a dozen of the highest in rank here, on an expedition to Clifton; the while my demure Madeleine spends the day at the house of her dear friend Lady Maria Harewood, whither, I only learnt upon her return at ten o'clock under his escort, _Captain Jack_--in my days that sort of _captain_ would have been strongly suspected, of having a shade too much of the _Heath_ or the _London Road_ about him--had likewise been convened.
It was long after midnight when, with a great _tow-row_, a coach full of very merry company (amongst whom the widow Hambledon struck me as over-merry, perhaps) landed my other Miss _sur le perron_.
"This has decided me.
We shall decamp _sans tambou ni trompette_.
To-morrow, without allowing discussion from the girls (in which I should probably be worsted), we pack ourselves into my travelling coach, and find our Way to you.
But, until we are fairly on the Road, I shall not even let these ladies know _whither_ we are bound.
"With your kind permission, then, I shall remain a few days at Pulwick, to recruit from the _fatigues_ of such a long Journey, before leaving your fair cousins in your charge, and in that of the gentle Sophia (whom I trust to entertain them with something besides her usual melancholy), till the time comes for me to bring them back with me to Bunratty.
"Unless, therefore, you should hear to the contrary, you will know that on Tuesday your three _unprotected_ female relatives will be hoping to see your travelling carriage arrive to fetch them at the Crown in Lancaster.
"Your Affectionate Aunt, "ROSE O'DONOGHUE."
As Miss Landale sighed forth the concluding words, she dropped the little folio on her lap, and looked at her brother with a world of apprehension in her faded eyes.
"Oh, Rupert, what shall we do?"
"Do," said Mr. Landale, quickly turning on her, out of his absorption, "you will kindly see that suitable rooms are prepared for your aunt and cousins, and you will endeavour, if you please, to show these ladies a cheerful countenance, as your aunt requests."
"The oak and the chintz rooms, I suppose," Sophia timidly suggested.
"Tanty used to say she liked the aspect, and I daresay the young ladies will find it pleasant to look out on the garden."
"Ay," returned Rupert, absently.
He had risen from his seat, and fallen to pacing the room.
Presently a short laugh broke from him.
"Tolerably cool, I must say," he remarked, "tolerably cool.
It seems to be a tradition with that Savenaye family, when in difficulties, to go to Pulwick."
Miss Landale looked up with relief.
Perhaps Rupert would think better of it, and make up his mind to elude receiving the unwelcome visitors after all.
But his next speech dashed her budding hopes.
"Ay, as in the days of their mother before them, when she came here to lay her eggs, like a cuckoo in another bird's nest--I wish they had been addled, I do indeed--we may expect to have the whole place turned topsy-turvy, I suppose.
It is a pretty assortment, _faith_ (as Tanty says herself); an old papist, and two young ones, fresh from a convent school--and of these, one a hoyden, and the other lovesick!
Faugh!
Sophia you will have to keep your eyes open when the old lady is gone.
I'll have no unseemly pranks in this house."
"Oh, Rupert," with a moan of maidenly horror, and conscious incompetence.
"Stop that," cried the brother, with a contained intensity of exasperation, at which the poor lady jumped and trembled as if she had been struck.
"All your whining won't improve matters.
Now listen to me," sitting down beside her, and speaking slowly and impressively, "you are to make our relatives feel welcome, do you understand?
Everything is to be of the best.
Get out the embroidered sheets, and see that there are flowers in the rooms.
Tell the cook to keep back that haunch of venison, the girls won't like it, but the old lady knows a good thing when she gets it--let there be lots of sweet things for the young ones too.
I shall be giving some silver out this afternoon.
I leave it to you to see that it is properly cleaned.
What are you mumbling about to yourself?
Write it down if you can't remember, and now go, go--I am busy."
PART II "MURTHERING MOLL THE SECOND" _Then did the blood awaken in the veins Of the young maiden wandering in the fields._ LUTEPLAYER'S SONG.
CHAPTER X THE THRESHOLD OF WOMANHOOD Onward floweth the water, onward through meadows broad, "How happy," the meadows say, "art thou to be rippling onward."
"And my heart is beating, beating beneath my girdle here;" "O Heart," the girdle saith, "how happy art thou that thou beatest."
_Luteplayer's Song._ DUBLIN, _October 15th, 1814_.--This day do I, Molly de Savenaye, begin my diary.
Madeleine writes to me from Bath that she has purchased a very fine book, in which she intends to set forth each evening all that has happened her since the morning; she advises me to do so too.
She says that since _real life_ has begun for us; life, of which every succeeding day is not, as in the convent, the repetition of the previous day, but brings some new discovery, pleasure, or pain, we ought to write down and preserve their remembrance.
It will be so interesting for us to read when a new life once more begins for us, and we are _married_.
Besides it is the _fashion_, and all the young ladies she knows do it.
And she has, she says, already plenty to write down.
Now I _should_ like to know what about.
When ought one to start such a record?
Surely not on a day like this.
"Why _demme_" (as Mrs. Hambledon's nephew says), "_what the deyvil_ have I got to say?"
_Item:_ I went out shopping this morning with Mrs. Hambledon, and, bearing Madeleine's advice in mind, purchased at Kelly's, in Sackville Street, an album book, bound in green morocco, with clasp and lock, which Mr. Kelly protests is quite secure.
_Item:_ We met Captain Segrave of the Royal Dragoons (who was so attentive to me at Lady Rigtoun's rout, two days ago).
He looked very well on his charger, but how conceited!
When he saw me, he rolled his eyes and grew quite red; and then he stuck his spurs into his horse, that we might admire how he could sit it; which he did, indeed, to perfection.
Mrs. Hambledon looked vastly knowing, and I laughed.
If ever I try to fancy myself married to such a man I cannot help laughing.
This, however, is not diary.--_Item:_ We returned home because it began to rain, and to pass the time, here am I at my book.
But is _this_ the sort of thing that will be of interest to read hereafter?
I have begun too late; I should have written in those days when I saw the dull walls of our convent prison for the last time.
It seems so far back now (though, by the calendar it is hardly six months), that I cannot quite recall how it felt to live in prison.
And yet it was not unhappy, and there was no horror in the thought we both had sometimes then, that we should pass and end our lives in the cage.
It did not strike us as hard.
It seemed, indeed, in the nature of things.
But the bare thought of returning to that existence now, to resume the placid daily task, to fold up again like a plant that has once expanded to sun and breeze, to have never a change of scene, of impression, to look forward to nothing but _submission_, sleep, and _death_; oh, it makes me turn cold all over!
And yet there are women who, of their own will, give up the _freedom of the world_ to enter a convent _after_ they have tasted life!
Oh, I would rather be the poorest, the ugliest peasant hag, toiling for daily bread, than one of these cold cloistered souls, so that the free air of heaven, be it with the winds or the rain, might beat upon me, so that I might live and love _as I like_, do right _as I like_; ay, and do wrong _if_ I liked, with the free will which is my _own_.
We were told that the outer world, with all its sorrows and trials, and dangers--how I remember the Reverend Mother's words and face, and how they impressed me then, and how I should laugh at them, _now!_--that the world was but a valley of tears.
We were warned that all that awaited us, if we left the fold, was _misery_; that the joys of this world were _bitter_ to the taste, its pleasures _hollow_, and its griefs _lasting_.
We believed it.
And yet, when the choice was actually ours to make, we chose all we had been taught to dread and despise.
Why?
I wonder.
For the same reason as Eve ate the apple, I suppose.
I would, if I had been Eve.
I almost wish I could go back now, for a day, to the cool white rooms, to see the nuns flitting about like black and white ghosts, with only a jingle of beads to warn one of their coming, see the blue sky through the great bare windows, and the shadows of the trees lengthening on the cold flagged floors, hear the bells going ding-dong, ding-dong, and the murmur of the sea in the distance, and the drone of the school, and the drone of the chapel, to go back, and feel once more the dull sort of content, the calmness, the rest!
But no, no!
I should be trembling all the while lest the blessed doors leading back to that _horrible_ world should never open to me again.
The sorrows and trials of the world!
I suppose the Reverend Mother really meant it; and if I had gone on living there till my face was wrinkled like hers, poor woman, I might have thought so too, in the end, and talked the same nonsense.
Was it really I that endured such a life for seventeen years?
O God!
I wonder that the sight of the swallows coming and going, the sound of the free waves, did not drive me mad.
Twist as I will my memory, I cannot recall _that_ Molly of six months ago, whose hours and days passed and dropped all alike, all lifeless, just like the slow tac, tac, tac of our great horloge in the Refectory, and were to go on as slow and as alike, for ever and ever, till she was old, dried, wrinkled, and then died.
The real Molly de Savenaye's life began on the April morning when that dear old turbaned fairy godmother of ours carried us, poor little Cinderellas, away in her coach.
Well do I remember my birthday.
I have read since in one of those musty books of Bunratty, that _moths_ and _butterflies_ come to life by shaking themselves out, one fine day, from a dull-looking, shapeless, ugly thing they call a _grub_, in which they have been buried for a long time.
They unfold their wings and fly out in the sunshine, and flit from flower to flower, and they look beautiful and happy--the world, the wicked world, is open to them.
There were pictures in the book; the ugly grub below, dreary and brown, and the lovely _butterfly_ in all its colours above.
I showed them to Madeleine, and said: "Look, Madeleine, as we were, and as we are."
And she said: "Yes, those brown gowns they made us wear were ugly; but I should not like to put on anything so bright as red and yellow.
Would you?"
That is the worst of Madeleine; she never realises in the least what I mean.
And she _does_ love her clothes; that is the difference between her and me, she loves fine things because they are fine and dainty and all that--I like them because they make _me_ fine.
And yet, how she did weep when she left the convent.
Madeleine would have made a good nun after all; she does so hate anything ugly or coarse.
She grows quite white if she hears people fighting; if there is a "row" or a "shindy," as they say here.
Whereas Tanty and I think it all the fun in the world, and would enjoy joining in the fray ourselves, I believe, if we dared.
I know _I_ should; it sets my blood tingling.
But Madeleine is a real princess, a sort of Ermine; and yet she enjoys her new life, too, the beauty of it, the refinement, being waited upon and delicately fed and clothed.
But although she has ceased to weep for the convent, if it had not been for me she would be there still.
The only thing, I believe, that could make me weep now would be to find one fine morning that this had only been a dream, and that I was once more _the grub_!
To find that I could not open my window and look into the wide, wide world over to the long, green hills in the distance, and know that I could wander or gallop up to them, as I did at Bunratty, and see for myself _what lies beyond_--surely that was a taste of heaven that day when Tanty Rose first allowed me to mount her old pony, and I flew over the turf with the wind whistling in my ears--to find that I could not go out when I pleased and hear new voices and see new faces, and men and women who _live each their own life_, and not the _same_ life as mine.
When I think of what I am now, and what I might have remained, I breathe deep and feel like singing; I stretch my arms out and feel like flying.
Our aunt told us she thought Bunratty would be dull for us, and so it was in comparison with this place.
Perhaps _this_ is dull in comparison with what _may_ come.
For good Tanty, as she likes us to call her, is intent on doing great things for us.
"Je vous marierai," she tells us in her funny old French, "Je vous marierai bien, mes filles, si vous êtes sages," and she winks both eyes.
_Marriage!_ _That_, it is quite evident, is the goal of every properly constituted young female; and every respectable person who has the care of said young female is consequently bent upon her reaching that goal.
So marriage is _another_ good thing to look forward to.
And _love_, that love all the verses, all the books one reads are so full of; _that_ will come to us.
They say that _love is life_.
Well, all I want is to live.
But with a grey past such as we have had, the present is good enough to ponder upon.
We now can lie abed if we have sweet dreams and pursue them waking, and be lazy, yet not be troubled with the self-indulgence as with an enormity; or we can rise and breathe the sunshine at our own time.
We can be frivolous, and yet meet with smiles in response, dress our hair and persons, and be pleased with ourselves, and with being admired or envied, yet not be told horrid things about death and corruption and skeletons.
And, above all--oh, above _all_, we can think of the future as different from the past, as _changing_, be it even for the worse; as unknown and fascinating, not as a repetition, until death, of the same dreary round.
In Mrs. Hambledon's parlour here are huge glasses at either end; whenever you look into them you see a never-ending chain of rooms with yourself standing in the middle, vanishing in the distance, every one the same, with the same person in the middle, only a little smaller, a little more insignificant, a little darker, till it all becomes _nothing_.
It always reminds me of life's prospects in the convent.
I dislike that room.
When I told Mrs. Hambledon the reason why, she laughed, and promised me that, with my looks and disposition, my life would be eventful enough.
I have every mind that it shall.
* * * * * _October 18th._--Yesterday, I woke up in an amazing state of happiness, though for no particular reason that I can think of.
It could not be simply because we were to go out for a visit to the country and see new people and places, for I have already learned to find that most new people are cut out on the same pattern as those one already knows.
It must have been rather because I awoke under the impression of one of my lovely dreams--such dreams as I have only had since I left my _grub_ state; dreams of space, air, long, long views of beautiful scenery, always changing, always wider, such as swallows flying between sky and earth might see, under an exquisite and brilliant light, till for very joy I wake up, my cheeks covered with tears.
This time, I was sitting on the prow of some vessel with lofty white sails, and it was cutting through the water, blue as the sky, with wreaths of snow-like foam, towards some unknown shores, ever faster and faster, and I was singing to some one next to me on the prow--some one I did not know, but who felt with me--singing a song so perfect, so sweet (though it had no human words) that I thought _it explained all_: the blue of the heaven, the freshness of the breeze, the fragrance of the earth, and why we were so eagerly pressing onwards.
I thought the melody was such that when once heard it could never be forgotten.
When I woke it still rang in my ears, but now I can no more recall it.
How is it we never know such delight in waking hours?
Is that some of the joy we are to feel in Heaven, the music we are to hear?
And yet it can be heard in this life if one only knew where to go and listen.
And this life is beautiful which lies in front of us, though they would speak of it as a sorrowful span not to be reckoned.
It is good to be young and think of the life still to come.
Every moment is precious for its enjoyment, and yet sometimes I find that one only knows of a pleasure when it is just gone.
One ought to try and be more awake at each hour to the happiness it may bring.
I shall try, and you, my diary, shall help me.
This is really _no_ diary-keeping.
It is not a bit like those one reads in books.
It ought to tell of other people and the events of each day.
But other people are really very uninteresting; as for events, well, so far, they are uninteresting too; it is only what they cause to spring up in our hearts that is worth thinking upon; and that is so difficult to put in words that mostly I spend my time merely pondering and not writing.
Last night Mrs. Hambledon took me to the _play_.
It was for the first time in my life, and I was full of curiosity.
It was a long drama, pretty enough and sometimes very exciting.
But I could see that though the actress was very handsome and mostly so unhappy as to draw tears from the spectators, there were people, especially some gentlemen, who were more interested in looking at the box where I sat with Mrs. Hambledon.
Indeed, I could not pretend, when I found myself before my glass that night, that I was not amazingly prettier than that Mrs. Colebrook, about whose beauty the whole town goes mad.
When I recalled the hero's ravings about his Matilda's eyes and cheeks, and her foot and her sylph-like waist, and her raven hair, I wondered what _that_ young man would say of me if he were my lover and I his persecuted mistress.
The Matilda was a pleasing person enough; but if I take her point by point, it would be absurd to speak of her charms in the same breath with mine.
Oh, my dear Molly, how beautiful I thought you last night!
How happy I should be, were I a dashing young lover and eyes like _yours_ smiled on me.
I never before thought myself prettier than Madeleine, but now I do.
Lovers, love, mistress, bride; they talked of nothing else in the play.
And it was all ecstasy in their words, and nothing but _misery_ in fact (just as the Reverend Mother would have had it).
The young man who played the hero was a very fine fellow; and yet when I conceive _him_ making love to me as he did last night to Mrs. Colebrook, the notion seems really _too_ ludicrous!
What sort of man then is it I would allow to love me?
I do not mind the thought of lovers sighing and burning for me (as some do now indeed, or pretend to) I like to feel that I can crush them with a frown and revive them with a smile; I like to see them fighting for my favour.
But to give a man the right to love me, the right to my smiles, the _right to me_!
Indeed, I have yet seen _none_ who could make me bear the thought.
And yet I think that I could love, and I know that the man that I am to love must be living somewhere till fate brings him to me.
He does not think of me.
He does not know of me.
And neither of us, I suppose, will taste life as life is till the day when we meet.
CAMDEN PLACE, BATH, _November 1st_.--Bath at last, which, must please poor Mrs. Hambledon exceedingly, for she certainly did _not_ enjoy the transit.
I cannot conceive how people can allow themselves to be so utterly distraught by illness.
I feel I can never have any respect for her again; she moaned and lamented in such cowardly fashion, was so peevish all the time on board the vessel, and looked so very begrimed and untidy and _plain_ when she was carried out on Bristol quay.
The captain called it _dirty_ weather, but I thought it _lovely_, and I don't think I ever enjoyed myself more--except when Captain Segrave's Black Douglas ran away with me in Phoenix Park.
It was beautiful to see our brave boat plough the sea and quiver with anger, as if it were a living thing, when it was checked by some great green wave, then gather itself again under the wind and dash on to the fight, until it conquered.
And when we came into the river and the sun shone once more it glided on swiftly, though looking just a little tired for a while until its decks and sails were dry and clean again, and I thought it was just like a bird that has shaken and plumed itself.
I was sorry to leave it.
The captain and the mate and the sailors, who had wrapped me up in their great, stiff tarpaulin coats and placed me in a safe corner where I could sit out and look, were also sorry that I should go.
But it was good to be with Madeleine again and Tanty Donoghue, who always has such a kind smile on her old wrinkled face when she looks at me.
Madeleine was astonished when I told her I had loved the storm at sea and when I mimicked poor Mrs. Hambledon.
She says she also thought she was dying, so ill was she on her crossing, and that she was quite a week before she got over the impression.
It seems odd to think that we are sisters, and twin sisters too; in so many things she is different from me.
She has changed in manner since I left her.
She seems so absorbed in some great thought that all her words and smiles have little meaning in them.
I told her I had tried to keep my diary, but had not done much work, and when I asked to see hers (for a model) Madeleine blushed, and said I should see it this day year.
_Madeleine is in love_; that is the only way I can account for that blush.
I fear she is a sly puss, but there is such a bustle around us, and so much to do and see, I have no time to make her confess.
So I said I would keep mine from her for that period also.
It seems a long span to look ahead.
What a number of things will happen before this day year!
BATH, _November 3rd_.--Bath is delightful!
I have only been here two days, and already I am what Tanty, in her old-fashioned way, calls _the belle_.
Already there are a dozen sparks who declare that my eyes have _shot death_ to them.
This afternoon comes my Lord of Manningham, nicknamed _King of Bath_, to "drink a dish of tea," as he has it, with his "dear old friend Miss O'Donoghue."
Tanty has been here three weeks, and he has only just discovered her existence, and remembered their tender friendship.
Of course, I know very well what has really brought him.
He is Lord Dereham's grandfather on the mother's side, and Lord Dereham, who is the son of the Duke of Wells, is "the catch," as Mrs. Hambledon vows, of the fashionable world this year.
And Lord Dereham has seen me twice, and _is in love with me_.
But as Lord Dereham is more like a little white rat than a man, and swears more than he converses--which would be very shocking if it were not for his lisp, which makes it very funny--needless to say, my diary dear, your Molly is not in love with him--He has no chance.
And so Lord Manningham comes to tea, and Tanty orders me to remain and see her "old friend" instead of going to ride with the widow Hambledon.
The widow Hambledon and I are everywhere together, and she knows all the most entertaining people in Bath, whereas Madeleine, whom I have hardly seen at all except at night, when I am so dead tired that I go to sleep as soon as my head touches the pillow (I vow Tanty's manner of speech is catching), Miss Madeleine keeps to her own select circle, and turns up her haughty little nose at _my_ friends.
So now Madeleine is punished, for Tanty and I have had the honour of receiving the _King of Bath_, and I have been vouchsafed the stamp of his august approval.
"My dear Miss O'Donoghue," he cried, as I curtsied, "do my senses deceive me, or do I not once more behold _Murthering Moll_?"
"I thought you could not fail to notice the likeness; my niece is, indeed, a complete O'Donoghue," says Tanty, amazingly pleased.
"Likeness, ma'am," cried the old wretch, bowing again, and scattering his snuff all over the place, while I sweep him another splendid curtsey, "likeness, ma'am, why this is no feeble copy, no humble imitation, 'tis _Murdering Moll herself_, and glad I am to see her again."
And then he catches me under the chin, and peers into my face with his dim, wicked old eyes.
"And so you are Murdering Moll's daughter," says he, chuckling to himself.
"Ay, she and I were very good friends, my pretty child, very good friends, and that not so long ago, either.
Ay, _Mater pulchra, filia pulchrior_."
"But I happen to be her grand-daughter, please my lord," said I, and then I ran to fetch him a chair (for I was dreadfully afraid he was going to kiss me).
But though no one has ever accused me of speaking too modestly to be heard, my lord had a sudden fit of deafness, and I saw Tanty give me a little frown, while the old thing--he must be much older than Tanty even--tottered into a chair, and went on mumbling.
"I was only a boy in those days, my dear, only a boy, as your good aunt will tell you.
I can remember how the bells rang the three beautiful Irish sisters into Bath, and I and the other dandies stood to watch them drive by.
The bells rang in the _belles_ in those days, my dear, he, he, he!
only we used to call them 'toasts' then, and your mother was the most beautiful of 'the three Graces'--we christened them 'the three Graces'--and by gad she led us all a pretty dance!"
"Ah, my lord," says Tanty, and I could see her old eyes gleam though her tone was so pious, "I fear we were three wild Irish girls indeed!"
Lord Manningham was too busy ogling me to attend to her.
"Your mother was just such another as you, and she had just such a pair of dimples," said he.
"You mean my grandmother," shouted I in his ear, just for fun, though Tanty looked as if she were on pins and needles.
But he only pinched my cheek again and went on: "Before she had been here a fortnight all the bucks in the town were at her feet.
And so was I, so was I.
Only, by gad, I was too young, you know, as Miss O'Donoghue here will tell you.
But she liked me; she used to call me her 'little manny.'
I declare I might have married her, only there were family reasons, and I was such a lad, you know.
And then Jack Waterpark, some of us thought she would have had _him_ in the end--being an Irishman, and a rich man, and a marquis to boot--he gave her the name of _Murthering Moll_, because of her killing eyes, young lady--he!
he!
he!--and there was Ned Cuffe ready to hang himself for her, and Jim Denham, and old Beau Vernon, ay, and a score of others.
And then one night at the Assembly Rooms, after the dancing was over and we gay fellows were all together, up gets Waterpark, he was a little tipsy, my dear, and by gad I can hear him speak now, with that brogue of his.
'Boys,' he says, 'it's no use your trying for her any more, for by God _I've won her_.'
And out of his breast-pocket he pulls a little knot of blue ribbon.
Your mother, my dear, had worn a very fine gown that evening, with little knots of blue ribbon all over the bodice of it.
The words were not out of his mouth when Ned Cuffe starts to his feet as white as a sheet: 'It's a damned lie,' he cries, and out of his pocket _he_ pulls another little knot.
'She gave it to me with her own hands,' he cried and glares round at us all.
And then Vernon bursts out laughing and flourishes a third little bow in our eyes, and I had one too, I need not tell you, and so had all the rest, all save a French fellow--I forget his name--and it was he she had danced with the most of all.
Ah, Miss O'Donoghue, how the little jade's eyes sparkle!
I warrant you have never told her the story for fear she would want to copy her mother in other ways besides looks--Hey?
Well, my pretty, give me your little hand, and then I shall go on--pretty little hand, um--um--um!"
and then he kissed my hand, the horrid, snuffy thing!
but I allowed it, for I did so want to hear how it all ended.
"And then, and then," I said.
"And then, my dear, this French fellow, your papa he must have been--so I suppose I must not abuse him, and he was a very fine young man after all, and a man of honour as well--he stood and cursed us all."
"'You English fools,' he said, 'you braggards--cowards.'
And he seized a glass of wine from the table and with a sweep he dashed it at us and ended by flinging the empty glass in Lord Waterpark's face.
It was the neatest thing you ever saw, for we all got a drop except Waterpark, and he got the glass.
'I challenge you all,' said the Frenchman, 'I'll fight you one by one, and I shall have her into the bargain.'
And so he did, my dear, he fought us all, one after the other; there were five of us; he was a devil with the sword, but Ned Cuffe ran him through for all that--and he was a month getting over it, but as soon as he could crawl again he vowed himself ready for Waterpark, and weak as he was he ran poor Waterpark through the lungs.
Some said Jack spitted himself on his sword--but dead he was anyhow, and monsieur your father--what was his name?
Kerme-something--was off with your mother before the rest of us were well out of bed."
"Fie, fie, my lord," said Tanty, "you should not recall old stories in this manner!"
"Gad, ma'am, I warrant this young lady is quite ready to provide you with a few new ones," chuckled my lord; and as there was no more to be extracted from him but foolish old jokes and dreadful smiles, I contrived to free my "pretty little hand," and sit down demurely by Tanty's side like the modest retiring young female I should be.
But my blood was dancing in my veins--the blood of Murthering Moll--doddering old idiot as he is, Lord Manningham is right for once, I mean to take quite as much out of life as she did.
That indeed is worth being young and beautiful for!
We know nothing of our family, save that both father and mother were killed in Vendée.
Tanty never will tell us anything about them (except their coats of arms), and I am afraid even to start the subject, for she always branches off upon heraldry and then we are in for hours of it.
But after Lord Manningham was gone I asked her when and how my grandmother died.
"She died when your mother was born, my dear," said Tanty, "she was not as old as you are now, and your grandfather never smiled again, or so they said."
That sobered me a little.
Yet she lived her life so well, while she did live, that I who have wasted twenty precious years can find in my heart rather to envy than to pity my beautiful grandmother.
* * * * * _November 5th._--It is _three o'clock in the morning_, but I do not feel at all inclined to go to bed.
Madeleine is sleeping, poor pretty pale Madeleine!
with the tears hardly dry upon her cheeks and I can hear her sighing in her sleep.
I was right, she is in love, and the gentleman she loves is not approved of by Tanty and the upshot of it all is we are to leave dear Bath, delightful Bath, to-morrow--to-day rather--for some unknown penitential region which our stern relative as yet declines to name.
I am longing to hear more about it; but Tanty, who, though she talks so much, can keep her own counsel better than any woman I know, will not give me any further information beyond the facts that the delinquent who has dared to aspire to my sister is a person of _the name of Smith_, and that it would not do at all.
I have not the heart to wake Madeleine to make her tell me more, though I really ought to pinch her well for being so secretive--besides, my head is so full of my own day that I want to get it all written down, and I shall never have done so unless I begin at the beginning.
Yesterday, then, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon Lord Dereham's coach and four came clattering up to our door to call for me.
Mrs. Hambledon was already installed and Lady Soames and a dozen other of the _fashionables_ of Bath.
My little Lord Marquis had kept the box seat for me, at which the other ladies, even my dear friend and chaperon, looked rather green.
The weather was glorious, and off we went with a flourish of trumpets and whips, and I knew I should enjoy myself monstrously.
And so I did.
But it was the drive back that was the _best_ of all.
We never started till near nine o'clock, and Lord Dereham insisted on my sitting beside him again--at which all the ladies looked daggers _at me_ and all the gentlemen daggers _at him_.
And then we sang songs and tore along uphill and down dale, under the beautiful moonlight, through the still air, till all at once we found we had lost our way.
We had to drive on till we came to an inn and we could make inquiries.
There the gentlemen opened another hamper of wine, and when we set off again I promise you they were all pretty _lively_ (and most of the ladies too, for the matter of that).
As for me, who never drank anything but milk or water till six months ago, I have not learnt to like wine yet, so, though I sipped out of the glass to keep the fun going, I contrived to dispose of the contents, quietly over the side of the coach, when no one was looking.
It was a drive to remember.
We came to a big hill, and as we were going down it at a smart pace the coach began to sway, then the ladies began to screech, and even the men looked so scared that I laughed outright.
Lord Dereham was perfectly tipsy and he did not know the road a bit, but he drove in beautiful style and was extraordinarily amusing; as soon as the coach took to swaying, instead of slackening speed as they all begged him, he _lashed_ the horses into a tearing gallop, looking over his shoulder at the rest and cursing them with the greatest energy, grinning with rage, and looking more like a little white rat than _ever_.
"Give me the whip," said I, "and I shall whip the team while you drive."
"_Cuth me_," cried he, "if you are not worth the whole coach-load a dozen times over."
On we went; the coach rocked, the horses galloped, and I knew at any moment the whole thing might upset, and I flourished my whip and lashed at the steaming flanks and I never felt what it was to really enjoy myself before.
Presently, although we were tearing along so fast, the coach steadied itself and went as straight as an arrow; and this, it seems, it would never have done had not Lord Dereham kept up the pace.
And all the rest of the drive his lordship wanted to kiss me.
I was not a bit frightened, though he was drunk, but every time he grew too forward I just flicked at the horses with the whip, and I think he saw that I would have cracked him across the face quite as readily if he dared to presume.
No doubt a dozen times during the day I could have secured a coronet for myself, not to speak of future 'strawberry leaves,' as my aunt says, if I had cared to; but who could think of loving a man like _that_?
He can manage four horses, and he has shot two men in a duel, and he can drink three bottles of wine at a sitting, and when one tries to find something more to say for him, lo!
that is all!
When we at length arrived at Camden Place, for I vowed they must leave me home the first, there was the rarest sport.
My lord's grooms must set to blow the horns, for they were as drunk as their master, while one of the gentlemen played upon the knocker till the whole crescent was aroused.
Then the doors opened suddenly, _and Tanty appears_ on the threshold, holding a candle.
Her turban was quite crooked, with the birds of Paradise over one eye, and I never saw her old nose look so hooked.
All the gentlemen set up a shout, and Sir Thomas Wrexham began to crow like a cock for no reason on earth that I can think of.
The servants were holding up lanterns, but the moon was nigh as bright as day.
Tanty just looked round upon them one after another, and in spite of her crooked turban I think they all grew frightened.
Then she caught hold of me, and just whisked me behind her.
Next she spied out Mrs. Hambledon, who had been asleep inside the coach, and now tumbled forth, yawning and gaping.
"And so, madam," cries Tanty to her, not very loud, but in a voice that made even me tremble; "so, madam, this is how you fulfil the confidence I placed in you.
A pretty chaperon you are to have the charge of a young lady; though, indeed, considering your years, madam, I might have been justified in trusting you."
Mrs. Hambledon, cut short in the middle of a loud yawn by this attack, was a sight to see.
"Hoighty-toighty, ma'am!"
she cried, indignantly, as soon as she could get her voice; "here's a fine to-do.
It is my fault, of course, that Lord Dereham should mistake the road.
And my fault too, no doubt, that your miss should make an exhibition of herself riding on the box with the gentlemen at this hour of night, when I implored her to come inside with me, were it only for the sake of common female propriety."
"Common female indeed!"
echoed Tanty, with a snort; "the poor child knew better."
"Cuth the old cats!
they'll have each other'th eyeth out," here cried my lord marquis, interposing his little tipsy person between them.
He had scrambled down the box after me, and was listening with an air of profound wisdom that made me feel fit to die laughing.
"Don't you mind her, old lady," he went on, addressing Tanty; "Mith Molly ith quite able to take care of herself--damme if she'th not."
Aunt Donoghue turned upon him majestically.
"And then that is more than can be said for you, my poor young man," she exclaimed; and I vow he looked as sobered as if she had flung a bucket of cold water over him.
Upon this she retired and shut the door, and marched me upstairs before her without a word.
Before my room door she stopped.
"Mrs. Dempsey has already packed your sister's trunks," she said, in a very dry way; "and she will begin to pack yours early--I was going to say to-morrow--but you keep such hours, my dear--it will be _to-day_."
I stared at her as if she had gone mad.
"You and your sister," she went on, "have got beyond me.
I have taken my resolution and given my orders, and there is not the least use making a scene."
And then it came out about Madeleine.
At first I thought I would go into a great passion and refuse to obey, but after a minute or two I saw it was, as she said, no use.
Tanty was as cool as a cucumber.
Then I thought perhaps I might mollify her if I could cry, but I couldn't pump up a tear; I never can; and at last when I went into my room and saw poor Madeleine, who has cried herself to sleep, evidently, I understood that there was nothing for us but to do as we were told.
And now I can hear Tanty fussing about her room still--she has been writing, too--cra, cra, cra--this last hour.
I wonder who to?
After all there is some fun in being taken off mysteriously we don't know where.
I should like to go and kiss her, but she thinks I am abed.
CHAPTER XI A MASTERFUL OLD MAID No contrary advice having reached Pulwick since Miss O'Donoghue's _letter of invoice_, as Mr. Landale facetiously described it, he drove over to Lancaster on the day appointed to meet the party.
And thus it came to pass that through the irresistible management of Miss O'Donoghue, who put into the promotion of her scheme all the energy belonging to her branch of the family, together with the long habit of authority of the _Tante à héritage_, the daughters of Cécile de Savenaye returned to that first home of theirs, of which they had forgotten even the name.
Mr. Landale had not set eyes on his valuable relative for many years, but her greeting, at the first renewal of intercourse which took place in the principal parlour of the Lancaster Inn, was as easily detached in manner as though they had just met again after a trifling absence and she was bringing her charges to his house in accordance with a mutual agreement.
"My dear Rupert," cried she, "I am glad to see you again.
I need not ask you how you are, you look so extremely sleek and prosperous.
Adrian's wide acres are succulent, hey?
I should have known you anywhere; though to be sure, you are hardly large enough for the breed, you have the true Landale stamp on you, the unmistakable Landale style of feature.
_Semper eadem._ In that sense, at least, one can apply your ancient and once worthy motto to you; and you know, nephew, since you have conveniently changed your faith, both to God and king, this sentiment strikes one as a sarcasm amidst the achievements of Landale, you backsliders!
Ah, we O'Donoghues have better maintained our device, _sans changier_."
Rupert, to whom the well-known volubility of his aunt was most particularly disagreeable, but who had nevertheless saluted the stalwart old lady's cheek with much affection, here bent his supple back with a sort of mocking gallantry.
"You maintain your _device_, permit me to say, my dear aunt, as ostentatiously in your person as we renegade Landales ourselves."
"Pooh, pooh!
I am too old a bird to be caught by such chaff, nephew; it is pearls before....
I mean it is too late in the day, my dear.
Keep it for the young things.
And indeed I see the sheep's eyes you have been casting in their direction.
Come nearer, young ladies, and make your cousin's acquaintance," beckoning to her nieces, who, arrayed in warm travelling pelisses and beaver bonnets of fashionable appearance, stood in the background near the fireplace.
"They are very like, are they not?"
she continued.
"Twins always are; as like as two peas.
And yet these are as different as day and night when you come to know them.
Madeleine is the eldest; that is she in the beaver fur; Molly prefers bear.
Without their bonnets you will distinguish them by their complexion.
Molly has raven hair (she is the truest O'Donoghue), whilst Madeleine is fair, _blonde_, like her Breton father."
The sisters greeted their new-found guardian, each in her own way.
And, in spite of the disguising bonnets and their surprising similarity of voice, height, and build, the difference was more marked than that of beaver and bear.
Madeleine acknowledged her kinsman's greeting with a dainty curtsey and little half-shy smile, marked by that air of distinction and breeding which was her peculiar characteristic.
Molly, however, who thought she had reasonable cause for feeling generally exasperated, and who did not see in Mr. Rupert Landale, despite his good looks and his good manner, a very promising substitute for her Bath admirers (nor in the prospect of Pulwick a profitable exchange for Bath), came forward with her bolder grace to flounce him a saucy "reverence," measuring him the while with a certain air of mockery which his thin-skinned susceptibility was quick to seize.
He looked back at her down the long tunnel of her bonnet, appraising the bloom and beauty within with cold and curious gaze, and then he turned to Madeleine and made to her his courteous speech of welcome.
This was sufficient for Miss Molly, who, for six months already accustomed to compel admiration at first sight from all specimens of the male sex that came across her path, instantly vowed a deadly hatred to her cousin, and followed the party into the Landale family coach--Rupert preceding, with a lady on each arm--in a temper as black as her own locks.
It fell to her lot to sit beside the objectionable relative on the back seat, while, by the right of her minute's seniority, Madeleine sat beside Tanty in the front.
The projecting wings of her headgear effectively prevented her from watching his demeanour, unless, indeed, she had turned to him, which was, of course, out of the question; but certain fugitive conscious blushes upon the young face in front of her, certain castings down of long lashes and timid upward glances, made Molly shrewdly conjecture that Mr. Landale, through all the apparent devotion with which he listened to Tanty's continuous flow of observations, was able to bestow a certain amount of attention upon her pretty neighbour.
Tanty herself conducted the conversation with her usual high hand, feigning utter oblivion of the thundercloud on Molly's countenance; and, if somewhat rambling in her discourse, nevertheless contriving to plant her points where she chose.
Thus the long drive wore to its end.
The sun was golden upon Pulwick when the carriage at length drew up before the portico.
Miss Sophia received them in the hall, in a state of painful flutter and timidity.
She had a constitutional terror of her aunt's sharp eyes, and, though she examined her young cousins wistfully, Madeleine's unconscious air of dignity repelled her as much as Molly's deliberate pertness.
Rupert conducted his aunt upstairs, and down the long echoing corridor towards her apartment.
"Ha, my old quarters," quoth Tanty, disengaging herself briskly from her escort to enter the room and look round approvingly, "and very comfortable they are.
And my two nieces are next door, I see, as gay as chintz can make them.
Thank you, nephew, I shall keep you no longer.
We shall dine shortly, I feel sure.
Well, well, I do not pretend I am not quite ready to do justice to your excellent fare--beyond doubt, it will be excellent!
Go to your room, girls, your baggage is coming up, you see; I shall send Dempsey to assist you presently.
No, not you, Sophia, I was speaking to the young ones.
I should like to have a little chat with you, my dear, if you have no objection."
One door closed upon Rupert as he smiled and bowed himself out, the other upon Molly hustling her sister before her.
Tanty in the highest good humour, having accomplished her desire, and successfully "established a lodgment" (to use a military term not inappropriate to such a martial spirit) for her troublesome nieces in the stronghold of Pulwick, once more surveyed her surroundings: the dim old walls, the great four-post bed, consecrated, of course, by tradition to the memory of some royal slumberer, the damask hangings, and the uncomfortable chairs, with the utmost favour, ending up with a humorous examination of the elongated figure hesitating on the hearthrug.
"Be seated, Sophia.
I am glad to stretch my old limbs after that terrible drive.
So here we are together again.
What are you sighing for?
Upon my soul, you are the same as ever, I see, the same tombstone on your chest, and blowing yourself out with sighs, just as you used.
That will never give you a figure, my poor girl; it is no wonder you are but skin and bones.
Ah, can't you let the poor fellow rest in his grave Sophia?
it is flying in the face of Providence, I call it, to go on perpetually stirring up his ashes like that.
I hope you mean to try and be a little more cheerful with those poor girls.
But, there, I believe you are never so happy as when you are miserable.
And it's a poor creature you would be at any time," added the old lady to herself, after a second thoughtful investigation of Miss Landale's countenance, which had assumed an expression of mulishness in addition to an increase of dolefulness during this homily.
Here, to Miss Landale's great relief, the dying sunset, wavering into crimson and purple, from its first glory of liquid gold, attracted her aunt's attention, and Miss O'Donoghue went over to the window.
Beneath her spread the quaint garden, with its clipped box edges, and beyond the now leafless belt of trees, upon the glimmer of the bay, the outline of Scarthey, a dark silhouette rose fantastically against the vivid sky.
Even as she gazed, there leapt upon its fairy turret a minute point of white.
The jovial old countenance changed and darkened.
"And Adrian is still at his fool's game over there, I suppose," she said irately turning upon Sophia.
"When have you seen him last?
How often does he come here?
I gather Master Rupert is nothing if not the master.
Why don't you answer me, Sophia?"
* * * * * The dinner was as well cooked and served a meal as any under Rupert's rule, which is saying a good deal, and if the young ladies failed to appreciate the "floating island," the "golden nests," and "silver web," so thoughtfully provided for them, Tanty did ample justice to the venison.
Indeed the cloud which had been visible upon her countenance at the beginning of dinner, and which according to that downright habit of mind, which rendered her so terrible or so delightful a companion, she made no attempt to conceal, began to lift towards the first remove, and altogether vanished over her final glass of port.
After dinner she peremptorily ordered her grand-nieces into the retirement of their bedchambers, unblushingly alleging their exhausted condition in front of the perfect bloom of their beautiful young vigour.
She then, over a cup of tea, luxuriously stretching her thin frame in the best arm-chair the drawing-room could afford, gave Rupert a brief code of directions as to the special attentions and care she desired to be bestowed upon her wards, during their residence at Pulwick, descanting generously upon their various perfections, gliding dexterously over her reasons for wishing to be rid of them herself, and concluding with the hint--either pregnant or barren of meaning as he chose to take it--that if he made their stay pleasant to them, she would not forget the service.
Then, as Mr. Landale began, with apparent guilelessness, to put a few little telling questions to her anent the episodes which had made Bath undesirable as a residence for these young paragons, the old lady suddenly became overwhelmed with fatigue and sleepiness, and professed herself ready to be conducted to her bower immediately.
* * * * * Meanwhile, despite the _moue de circonstance_ which Molly thought it incumbent on her to assume, neither she nor Madeleine regretted their compulsory withdrawal from the social circle downstairs.
Madeleine had her own thoughts to follow up, and that these were both engrossing and pleasant was easily evident; and Molly, bursting with a sense of injury arising from many causes, desired a special explanation with her sister, which the presence in and out upon them of Tanty's woman had prevented her from indulging in before dinner.
"So here we are at last," cried she, indignantly, after she had walked round and severely inspected her quarters, pausing to "pull a lip" of extreme disfavour at the handsome portrait of Mr. Landale that hung between the windows, "we are, Madeleine, at last, kidnapped, imprisoned, successfully disposed of, in fact."
"Yes, here we are at last," echoed Madeleine, abstractedly, warming her slender ankles by the fire.
"Have you made out yet what particular kind of new frenzy it was that seized chère Tante?"
asked Miss Molly, with great emphasis, as she sat down at her toilet-table.
"You are the cause of it all, my dear, and so you ought to know.
It is all very well for Tanty to pretend that I have brought it on myself by not coming home till three o'clock (as if that was _my_ fault).
She cannot blink the fact that her Dempsey creature had orders to pack my boxes before bedtime.
Your Smith must be a desperately dangerous individual.
Well," she continued, looking round over her shoulder, "why don't you say something, you lackadaisical thing?"
But Madeleine answered nought and continued gazing, while only the little smile, tilting the corners of her lips, betrayed that she had heard the petulant speech.
The smile put the finishing touch to Molly's righteous anger.
Brandishing a hairbrush threateningly, she marched over to her sister and looked down upon the slender figure, in its clinging white dress, with blazing eyes.
"Look here," she cried, "there must be an end of this.
I can put up with your slyness no longer.
How _dare_ you have secrets from me, miss?--your own twin sister!
You and I, who used never to have a thought we did not share.
How dare you have a lover, and not tell me all about him?
What was the meaning of your weeping like a fountain all the way from Bath to Shrewsbury, and then, without rhyme or reason apparently, smiling to yourself all the way from there to Lancaster.
You have had a letter, don't attempt to deny it, it is of no use.... Oh, it is base of you, it is indeed!
And to think that it is all through you that I am forced into this exile, through your _airs penchés_, and your sighing and dreaming, and your mysterous _Smith_.... To think that to-night, this very night, is the ball of the season, and we are going to bed!
Oh, and to-morrow and to-morrow, and to-morrow, with nothing but a knave and a fool to keep us company--for I don't think much of your female cousin, Madeleine, and, as for your male cousin, I perfectly detest him--and all the tabbies of the country-side for diversion, with perhaps a country buck on high days and holidays for a relish!
Pah!"
Molly had almost talked her ill-humour away.
Her energetic nature could throw off most unpleasant emotions easily enough so long as it might have an outlet for them; she now laid down the threatening brush, and, kneeling beside her, flung both her arms round Madeleine's shoulders.
"Ma petite Madeleine," she coaxed, in the mother tongue, "tell thy little sister thy secrets."
A faint flush crept to Madeleine's usually creamy cheeks, a light into her eyes.
She turned impulsively to the face near hers, then, as if bethinking herself, pursed her lips together and shook her head slightly.
"Do you remember, ma chèrie," she said, at last, "that French tale Mrs. Hambledon lent us in which it is said _'Qui fuit l'amour, l'amour suit.
'_" "Well?"
asked Molly, eagerly, her lips parted as if to drink in the expected confidence.
"Well," replied the other, "well, perhaps things may not be so bad after all.
Perhaps," rising from her seat, and looking at her sister with a little gentle malice, while she, too, began to disrobe her fairer beauty for the night, "some of your many lovers may come after you from Bath!
Oh, Molly!"
with a little scream, for Molly, with eyes flashing once more, had sprung up from her knees to inflict a vicious pinch upon the equivocator's arm.
"Yes, miss, you shall be pinched till you confess."
Then flouting her with a sudden change of mood, "I am sure I don't want to know your wonderful secret,"--seizing her comb and passing it crackling through her hair with quite unnecessary energy--"Mademoiselle la Cachotière.
Anyhow, it cannot be very interesting.... _Mrs.
Smith!_ Fancy caring for a man called Smith!
If you smile again like that, Madeleine, I shall beat you."
The two sisters looked at each other for a second as if hesitating on the brink of anger, and then both laughed.
"Never mind, I shall pay you out yet," quoth Molly, tugging at her black mane.
"So our lovers are to come after us, is _that_ it?
Do you know, Madeleine," she went on, calming down, "I almost regret now that I would not listen to young Lord Dereham, simpleton though he be.
He looked such a dreadful little fright that I only laughed at him....
I should have laughed at him all my life.
But it would perhaps have been better than this dependence on Tanty, with her sudden whims and scampers and whisking of us away into the wilderness.
Then I should have had my own way always.
Now it's too late.
Tanty told me yesterday that she sees he is a dissolute young man, and that his dukedom is only a Charles II.
creation, and 'We know what that means,' she added, and shook her head.
I am sure I had not a notion, but I shook my head too, and said, 'Of course, that made it impossible.'
I was really afraid she would want me to marry him.
She was dreadfully pleased and said I was a true O'Donoghue.
Oh, dear!
I don't know _anything_ about love.
I can't imagine being in love; but one thing is certain, I could never, never, never allow a horrid little rat like Lord Dereham to make love to me, to kiss me, nor, indeed, any man--oh, horror!
How you are blushing, my dear!
Come here into the light.
It would be good for your soul, indeed it would, to confess!"
But Madeleine, burying her hot cheeks in her sister's neck and clasping her with gentle caresses, was not to be drawn from her reticence.
Molly pushed her off at last, and gave a hard little good-night kiss like a bird-peck.
"Very well; but you might as well have confessed, for I shall find out in the long run.
And who knows, perhaps you may be sorry one day that you did not tell me of your own accord."
CHAPTER XII A RECORD AND A PRESENTMENT.
The gallery of family portraits at Pulwick is one of the most remarkable features of that ancient house.
It was a custom firmly established at the Priory--ever since the first heralds' visitation in Lancashire, when some mooted point of claims to certain quarterings had been cleared in an unexpected way by the testimony of a well-authenticated ancestral portrait--for each successive representative to add to the collection.
One of the first cares of every Landale, therefore, on succeeding to the title was to be painted, with his proper armorial and otherwise distinguishing honours jealously delineated, and thus hung in the place of honour over the high mantelshelf of the gallery--displacing on the occasion his own immediate and revered predecessor.
The chain was consequently unbroken from the Elizabethan descendants of the first acquirers of ecclesiastical property at Pulwick, down to the present Light-keeper of Scarthey.
But whilst the late Sir Thomas appeared in all the majesty of deputy-lieutenant, colonel of Militia, magistrate, and sundry other honourable offices, in his due place on the right of the present baronet, the latter figured in a character so strange and so incongruous that it seemed as if one day the dignified array of Landales--old, young, middle-aged, but fine gentlemen, all of them--must turn their backs upon their degenerate kinsman.
Over the chimney-piece, in the huge carved-oak frame (now already two centuries old), a common sailor, in the striped loose trousers, the blue jacket with red piping of a man-of-war's man, with pigtail and coarse open shirt--stood boldly forth as the representative of the present owner of Pulwick.
Proud of their long line of progenitors, it was a not unusual thing for the Landales to entertain their guests at breakfast in a certain sunny bow-window in the portrait gallery rather than in the breakfast parlour proper, which in winter, unmistakably harboured more damp than was pleasant.
It was, therefore, with no surprise that Miss Landale received an early order from her brother to have a fire lighted in the apartment sacred to the family honours, and the matutinal repast served there in due course.
Whether Mr. Landale was actuated by a regard for the rheumatism of his worthy relative, or merely a natural family pride, or by some other and less simple motive, he saw no necessity for informing his docile housewife on the matter.
As Sophia was accustomed to no such condescension on his part even in circumstances more extraordinary, she merely bundled out of bed unquestioningly in the darkness and cold of the morning to see his orders executed in the proper manner; which, indeed, to her credit was so successfully accomplished that Tanty and her charges, when they made their entry upon the scene, could not fail to be impressed with the comfortable aspect of the majestic old room.
Mr. Landale examined his two young uninvited guests with new keenness in the morning light.
Molly was demure enough, though there was a lurking gleam in her dark eye which suggested rather armed truce than accepted peace.
As for Madeleine, though to be serene was an actual necessity of her delicate nature, there was more than resignation in the blushing radiance of her look and smile.
"Portraits of their mother," said Rupert, bringing his critical survey to a close, and stepping forward with a nice action of the legs to present his arm to his aunt.
"Portraits of their mother both of them--I trust to that miniature which used to grace our collection in the drawing-room rather than to the treacherous memory of a school-boy for the impression--but portraits by different masters and in different moods."
There was something patronising in the tone from so young a man, which Molly resented on the spot.
"Oh, we should be as like as two peas, only that we are as different as day and night, as Tanty says," she retorted, tossing her white chin at her host, while Miss O'Donoghue laughed aloud at her favourite's sauciness.
"And after all," said Rupert, as he bestowed his venerable relative on her chair, with an ineffable air of politeness, contradicted, though only for an instant, by the look which he shot at Molly from the light hazel eyes, "Tanty is not so far wrong--the only difference between night and day is the difference between the _brunette_ and the _blonde_," with a little bow to each of the sisters, "an Irish bull, if one comes to analyse it, is but the expression of the too rapid working of quick wits."
"Faith, nephew," said Tanty, sitting down in high good humour to the innumerable good things in which her Epicurean old soul delighted, "that is about as true a thing as ever you said.
Our Irish tongues are apt to get behind a thing before it is there, and they call that making a bull."
Rupert's sense of humour was as keen as most of his other faculties, and at the unconscious humour of this sally his laugh rang out frankly, while Molly and Madeleine giggled in their plates, and Miss O'Donoghue chuckled quietly to herself in the intervals of eating and drinking, content to have been witty, without troubling to discover how.
Sophia alone remained unmoved by mirth; indeed, as she raised her drooping head, amazed at the clamour, an unwary tear trickled down her long nose into her tea.
She was given to revelling in anniversaries of dead and gone joys or sorrows; the one as melancholy to her to look back upon as the other; and upon this November day, now very many years ago, had the ardent, consumptive rector first hinted at his love.
"And now," said Miss O'Donoghue, who, having disposed of the most serious part of the breakfast, pushed away her plate with one hand while she stirred her second cup of well-creamed tea lazily with the other, "Now, Rupert, will you tell me the arrangements you propose to make to enable me to see your good brother?"
Rupert had anticipated being attacked upon this subject, and had fully prepared himself to defend the peculiar position it was his interest to maintain.
To encourage a meeting between his brother and the old lady (to whom the present position of affairs was a grievous offence) did not, certainly, enter into his plan of action; but Tanty had put the question in an unexpected and slightly awkward shape, and for a second or two he hesitated before replying.
"I fear," said he then, gliding into the subject with his usual easy fluency, "that you will be disappointed if you have been reckoning upon an interview with Adrian, my dear aunt.
The hermit will not be drawn from his shell on any pretext."
"What," cried Tanty, while her withered cheek flushed, "do you mean to tell me that my nephew, Sir Adrian Landale, will decline to come a few hundred yards to see his old aunt--his mother's own sister--who has come three hundred miles, at seventy years of age, to see him in his own house--_in his own house_?"
repeated the irate old lady, rattling the spoon with much emphasis against her cup.
"If you _mean_ this, Rupert, it is an insult to me which I shall never forget--_never_."
She rose from her seat as she concluded, shaking with the tremulous anger of age.
"For God's sake, Tanty," cried Rupert, throwing into his voice all the generous warmth he was capable of simulating, "do not hold me responsible for Adrian in this matter.
His strange vagaries are not of my suggesting, heaven knows."
"Well, nephew," said Miss O'Donoghue, loftily, "if you will kindly send the letter I am about to write to your brother, by a safe messenger, immediately, I shall believe that it is _your_ wish to treat me with proper respect, whatever may be Adrian's subsequent behaviour."
Mr. Landale's countenance assumed an expression of very genuine distress; this was just the one proof of dutiful attachment that he was loth to bestow upon his cherished aunt.
"I see how it is," he exclaimed earnestly, coming up to the old lady, and laying his hand gently upon her arm, "you entirely misunderstand the situation.
I am not a free agent in this matter.
I cannot do what you ask; I am bound by pledge.
Adrian is, undoubtedly, more than--peculiar on certain points, and, really, I dare not, if I would, thwart him."
"Oh!"
cried Tanty, shooting off the ejaculation as from a pop-gun.
Then, shaking herself free of Rupert's touch, she sat down abruptly in her chair again, and began fanning herself with her handkerchief.
Not even in her interchange of amenities with Mrs. Hambledon, had Molly seen her display so much indignation.
"You want me to believe he is mad, I suppose?"
she snapped, at last.
"Dear me!
No, no, no!"
responded the other, in his airy way.
"I did not mean to go so far as that; but--well, there are very painful matters, and hitherto I have avoided all discussion upon them, even with Sophia.
My affection for Adrian----" "Fiddlesticks!"
interrupted Tanty.
"You meant something, I suppose; either the man's mad, or he is not.
And I, for one, don't believe a word of it.
The worst sign about him, that I can see, is the blind confidence the poor fellow seems to put in you."
Here Molly, who had been listening to the discussion "with all her ears"--anything connected with the mysterious personality of the absent head of the house was beginning to have a special fascination for her--gave an irrepressible little note of laughter.
Rupert looked up at her quickly, and their eyes met.
"Hold your tongue, Miss," cried Miss O'Donoghue, sharply; aware that she had gone too far in her last remark, and glad to relieve her oppression in another direction, "how dare you laugh?
Sophia, this is a terrible thing your brother wants me to believe--may I ask what _your_ opinion is?
Though I'll not deny I don't think that will be worth much."
Sophia glanced helplessly at Rupert, but he was far too carefully possessed of himself to affect to perceive her embarrassment.
"Come, come," cried Miss O'Donoghue, whose eyes nothing escaped, "you need not look at Rupert, you can answer for yourself, I suppose--you are not absolutely a drivelling idiot--_all_ the Landales are not ripening for lunatic asylums--collect your wits, Sophia, I know you have not got any, but you have _enough_ to be able to give a plain answer to a plain question, I suppose.
Do you think your brother mad, child?"
"God forbid," murmured Sophia, at the very extremity of those wits of which Miss O'Donoghue had so poor an opinion.
"Oh, no, dear aunt, not _mad_, of course, not in the least _mad_."
Then, gathering from a restless movement of Rupert's that she was not upon the right tack she faltered, floundered wildly, and finally drew forth the inevitable pocket-handkerchief, to add feelingly if irrelevantly from its folds, "And indeed if I thought such a calamity had really fallen upon us--and of course there _are_ symptoms, no doubt there are symptoms...." "What are his symptoms--has he tried to murder any of you, hey?"
"Oh, my dear aunt!
No, indeed, dear Adrian is gentleness itself."
"Does he bite?
Does he gibber?
Oh, away with you, Sophia!
I am sure I cannot wonder at the poor fellow wanting to live on a rock, between you and Rupert.
I am sure the periwinkles and the gulls must be pleasant company compared to you.
That alone would show, I should think, that he knows right well what he is about.
Mad indeed!
There never was any madness among the O'Donoghues except your poor uncle Michael, who got a box on the ear from a windmill--and _he_ wasn't an O'Donoghue at all!
You will be kind enough, nephew, to have delivered to Sir Adrian, no later than to-day, the letter which I shall this moment indite to him."
"Perhaps," said Rupert, "if you will only favour me with your attention for a few minutes first, aunt, and allow me to narrate to you the circumstances of my brother's return here, and of his subsequent self-exile, you will see fit to change your opinion, both as regards him and myself."
A self-controlled nature will in the long run, rightly or wrongly, always assume the ascendency over an excitable one.
The moderateness of Rupert's words, the coolness of his manner, here brought Tanty rapidly down from her pinnacle of passion.
Certainly, she said, she was not only ready, but anxious to hear all that Rupert could have to say for himself; and, smoothing down her black satin apron with a shaking hand, the old lady prepared to listen with as much judicial dignity as her flustered state allowed her to assume.
Rupert drew his chair opposite to hers and leant his elbow on the table, and fixed his bright, hard eyes upon her.
"You remember, of course," he began after a moment's pause, "how at the time of my poor father's death, Adrian was reported to have lost his life in the Vendée war--though without authoritative confirmation--at the same time as the fair and unhappy Countesse de Savenaye, to whose fortune he had so chivalrously devoted himself."
Tanty bowed her head in solemn assent; but Molly, watching with the most acute attention, felt her face blaze at the indefinable shade of mockery she thought to catch upon the speaker's curling lip.
"It was," continued he, "the constant strain, the long months of watching in vain for tidings, that told upon my father, rather than the actual grief of loss.
When he died, the responsibilities of the headship of the house devolved naturally upon me, the only male representative left, seemingly, to undertake them.
The months went by; to the most sanguine the belief in Adrian's death became inevitable.
Our hopes died slowly, but they died at last; we mourned for him," here Rupert cast down his eyes till the thick black lashes which were one of his beauties swept his cheek; his tone was perfect in its simple gravity.
"At length, urged thereto by all the family, if I remember rightly by yourself as well, dear aunt, I assumed the title as well as the position which seemed mine by right.
I was very young at the time, but I do not think that either then, or during the ten years that followed, I unworthily filled my brother's place."
There was a proud ring of sincerity in the last words, and the old lady knew that they were true; that during the years of his absolute power as well as of his present more restricted mastership, Rupert's management of the estate was unimpeachable.
"Certainly not, my dear Rupert," she said in softer tones than she had hitherto used to him, "no one would dream of suggesting such a thing--pray go on."
"And so," pursued the nephew, with a short laugh, relapsing into that light tone of banter which was his most natural mode of expression; "when, one fine day, a hired coach clattered up Sir Rupert Landale's avenue and deposited upon his porch a tattered mariner who announced himself, in melancholy tones that would have befitted the ghost no doubt many took him for, as the rightful Sir Adrian, erroneously supposed defunct, I confess that it required a little persuasion to make me recognise my long-lost brother--and yet there could be no doubt of it.
The missing heir had come to his own again; the dead had come back to life.
Well, we killed the fatted calf, and all the rest of it--but I need not inflict upon you the narrative of our rejoicing."
"Faith, no," said Tanty, drily, "I can see it with half an eye."
"You know, too, I believe, the series of extraordinary adventures, or misadventures, which had kept him roaming on the high seas while we at home set up tablets to his memory and 'wore our blacks' as people here call it, and cultivated a chastened resignation.
There was a good deal of correspondence going on at the time between Pulwick and Bunratty, if I remember aright, and you heard all about Adrian's divers attempts to land in England, about his fight with the King's men, his crack on the head and final impressment.
At least you heard as much as we could gather ourselves.
Adrian is not what one would call a garrulous person at the best of times.
It was really with the greatest difficulty that we managed to extract enough out of him to piece together a coherent tale."
"Well, well," quoth Tanty, with impatience, "you are glib enough for two anyhow, my dear!
All this does not tell me how Adrian came to live on a lighthouse, and why you put him down as a lunatic."
"Not as a lunatic," corrected Rupert, gently, "merely as slightly eccentric on certain points.
Though, indeed, if you had seen him during those first months after his return, I think even you with your optimistic spirit would have feared, as we did, that he was falling into melancholia.
Thank heaven he is better now.
But, dear me, what we went through!
I declare I expected every morning to be informed that Sir Adrian's corpse had been found hanging from his bedpost or discovered in a jelly at the bottom of the bluffs.
And, indeed, when at length he disappeared for three days, after he had been last observed mooning along the coast, there was a terrible panic lest he should have sought a congenial and soothing end in the embraces of the quicksands....
It turned out, however, that he had merely strolled over to Scarthey--where, as you know, my father established a beacon and installed a keeper to warn boats off our shoals--and, finding the place to his liking, had remained there, regardless of our feelings."
"Tut, tut!"
said Tanty; but whether in reproof of Rupert's flippant language or of her elder nephew's erratic behaviour, it would have been difficult to determine.
"Of course," went on Rupert, smoothly, "I had resolved, after a decent period, to remove my lares and penates from a house where I was no longer master and to establish myself, with my small patrimony (I believe I ought to call it _matrimony_, as we younger children benefit by our O'Donoghue mother) in an independent establishment.
But when I first broached the subject, Adrian was so vastly distressed, expressed himself so well satisfied with my management of the estate and begged me so earnestly to consider Pulwick as my home, vowing that he himself would never marry, and that all he looked forward to in life was to see me wedded and with future heirs to the name springing around me, that it would have been actual unkindness to resist.
Moreover, as you can imagine, Adrian is not exactly a man of business, and his spasmodic interferences in the control of the property being already then of a very injudicious nature, I confess that, having nursed it myself for eleven years with some success, I dreaded to think what it would become under his auspices.
And so I agreed to remain.
But the position increased in difficulty.
Adrian's moroseness seemed to grow upon him; he showed an exaggerated horror of company; either flying from visitors as from the pest, and shutting himself up in his own apartments, or (on the few disastrous occasions when my persuasions induced him to show himself to some old family friends) entertaining them with such unusual sentiments concerning social laws, the magistracy, the government, his Majesty the King himself, that the most extraordinary reports about him soon spread over the whole county.
This was about the time--as you may remember--of my own marriage."
Here an alteration crept into Mr. Landale's voice, and Molly looked at him curiously, while Miss Sophia gave vent to an audible sniff.
"To be sure," said Tanty, hastily.
Comfortably egotistic old ladies have an instinctive dislike to painful topics.
And that Rupert's sorrow for his young wife had been, if self-centred and reserved, of an intense and prolonged nature was known to all the family.
The widower himself had no intention of dilating upon it.
His wife's name he never mentioned, and no one could guess, heavily as the blow was known to have fallen upon him, the seething bitterness that her loss had left in his soul, nor imagine how different a man he might have been if that one strong affection of his life had been spared to soften it.
"Adrian fled from the wedding festivities, as you may remember, for you were our honoured guest at the time, and greatly displeased at his absence," he resumed, after a few seconds of darkling reflection.
"None of us knew where he had flown to, for he did not evidently consider his owl's nest sufficiently remote; but we had his fraternal blessing to sustain us.
And after that he continued to make periodical disappearances to his retreat, stopping away each time longer and longer.
One fine day he sent workmen to the island with directions to repair certain rooms in the keep, and he began to transfer thereto furniture, his books and his organ.
A dilapidated little French prisoner next appeared on the scene (whom my brother had extracted from the Tower of Liverpool, which was then crammed with such gentry), and finally we were informed that, with this worthy companion, Sir Adrian Landale was determined to take up his abode altogether at Scarthey, undertaking the duties of the recently defunct light-keeper.
So off he went, and there he is still.
He has extracted from us a solemn promise that his privacy is to be absolutely respected, and that no communications, or, above all, visits are to be made to him.
Occasionally, when we least expect it, he descends upon us from his tower, upsets all my accounts, makes the most absurd concessions to the tenants, rides round the estate with his eyes on the ground and disappears again.
_Et voilà_, my dear aunt, how we stand."
"Well, nephew," said Miss O'Donoghue, "I am much obliged to you, I am sure, for putting me _au courant_ of the family affairs.
It is all very sad--very sad and very deplorable; but----" But Mr. Landale was quite aware that Tanty was not yet convinced to the desired extent.
He therefore here interrupted her to play his last card--that ace he had up his sleeve, in careful preparation for this trial of skill with his keen-witted relative, and to the suitable production of which he had been all along leading.
Rising from his chair with slow, deliberate movement, he proceeded, as if following his own train of thought, without noticing that Miss O'Donoghue was intent on speech herself: "You have not seen him, I believe, since he was quite a lad.
You would have some difficulty in recognising him, though he bears, like the rest of us, what you call the unmistakable Landale stamp.
His portrait is here, by the way--duly installed in its correct position.
That," with a laugh, "was one of his freaks.
It was his duty to keep up the family traditions, he said--and there you will approve of him, no doubt; but hardly, perhaps, of the manner in which he has had that laudable intention carried out.
My own portrait was, of course, deposed (like the original)," added Mr. Landale, with something of a sneer; "and now hangs meekly in some bedroom or other--in that, if I mistake not, at present hallowed by my fair cousins' presence.
Well, it is good for the soul of man to be humbled, as we are taught to believe from our earliest years!"
Tanty was fumbling for her eye-glasses.
She was glad to hear that Adrian had remembered some of his obligations (she observed, sententiously, as she hauled herself stiffly out of her chair to approach the chimney-piece); it was certainly a sign that he was more mindful of his duties as head of the house than one would expect from a person hardly responsible, such as Rupert had represented him to be, and ...
Here, the glasses being adjusted and focussed upon the portrait, Miss O'Donoghue halted abruptly with a dropping jaw.
"There is a curious inscription underneath the escutcheon," said Mr. Landale composedly, "which latter, by the way, you may notice is the only one in the line which has no room for an impaled coat (Adrian's way of indicating not only that he is single, but means to remain such); Adrian composed it himself and indeed attached a marked importance to it.
Let me read it for you, dear Tanty, the picture hangs a little high and those curveting letters are hard to decipher.
It runs thus: _Sir Adrian William Hugh Landale, Lord of Pulwick and Scarthey in the County Palatine of Lancaster, eighth Baronet, born March 12th, 1775.
Succeeded to the title and estate on the 10th February 1799, whilst abroad.
Iniquitously pressed into the King's service on the day of his return home, January 2nd, 1801.
Twice flogged for alleged insubordination, and only released at last by the help of a friend after five years of slavery.
Died_ [Here a space for the date.]
It is a record with a vengeance, is it not?
Notice my brother's determination to die unmarried and to retire, once for all, from all or any of the possible honours connected with his position!"
They had all clustered in front of the picture; even Madeleine roused from her sweet day-dreams to some show of curiosity; Miss Landale's bosom, heaving with such sighs as to make the tombstone rise and fall like a ship upon a stormy sea; Molly with an eagerness she did not attempt to hide; and Miss O'Donoghue still speechless with horror and indignation.
Mr. Landale had gauged his aunt's temperament correctly enough.
To one whose ruling passion was pride of family, this mockery of a consecrated family custom, this heirloom destined to carry down a record of degradation into future generations, was an insult to the name only to be explained to her first indignation by deliberate malice--or insanity.
And from the breezy background of blue sky and sea, contrasting as strangely with the dark solemnity of the other portraits as did the figure itself in its incongruous sailor dress, the face of the eighth baronet looked down in melancholy gravity upon the group gathered in judgment upon him.
"Disgraceful!
Positively disgraceful!"
at length cried the last representative of the O'Donoghues of Bunratty, in scandalised tones.
"My dear Rupert, you should have a curtain put up, that this exhibition of folly--of madness, I hardly know what to call it--be not exposed to every casual visitor.
Dear me, dear me, that I should live to see any of my kin deliberately throw discredit on his family, if indeed the poor fellow is responsible!
Rupert, my good soul, can you ascribe any reason for this terrible state of affairs ... that blow on the head?"
"In part perhaps," said Mr. Landale.
"And yet there have been other causes at work.
If I could have a private word in your ear," glancing meaningly over his shoulder at the two young girls who were both listening, though with very different expressions of interest and favour, "I could give you my opinion more fully."
"Go away now, my dear creatures," hereupon said Miss O'Donoghue, promptly addressing her nieces.
"It is a fine morning, and you will lose your roses if you don't get the air.
I don't care if it has begun to rain, miss!
Go and have a game of battledore and shuttlecock then.
Young people _must_ have exercise.
Well, my dear Rupert, well!"
--when Molly, with a pettish "battledore and shuttlecock indeed!"
had taken her sister by the arm and left the room.
"Well, my dear aunt, the fact is, I believe my unhappy brother has never recovered from--from his passion for Cécile de Savenaye, that early love affair, so suddenly and tragically terminated--well, it seems to have turned his brain!"
"Pooh, pooh!
why that was twenty years ago.
Don't tell me it is in a man to be so constant."
"In no _sane_ man perhaps; but then, you know, Tanty, that is just the point....
Remember the circumstances.
He loved her madly; he followed her, lived near her for months and she was drowned before his eyes, I believe.
I never heard, of course, any details of that strange period of his life, but we can imagine."
This was a difficult, vague, subject to deal with, and Mr. Landale wisely passed on.
"Moreover, his behaviour when in this house on his return at first has left me no doubt.
I watched him closely.
He was for ever haunting those rooms which she had inhabited.
When he found her miniature in the drawing-room he went first as white as death, then he took it in his hand and stood gazing at it (I am not exaggerating) for a whole hour without moving; and, finally, he carried it off, and I know he used to talk to it in his room.
And now, even if I had not given my poor brother my word of honour never to disturb his chosen solitude, I should have felt it a heavy responsibility to promote a meeting which would inevitably bring back past memories in a troublous manner upon him.
In fact, were he to come across the children of his dead love--above all Molly, who must be startlingly like her mother--what might the result be?
I hardly like to contemplate it.
The human brain is a very delicately balanced organ, my dear aunt, and once it gets ever so slightly out of order one cannot be too careful to avoid risk."
He finished his say with an expressive gesture of the hand.
Miss O'Donoghue remained for a moment plunged in reflection, during which the cloud upon her countenance gradually lifted.
"It is a strange thing," she said at last, "but constancy seems to run in the family.
There is no denying that.
Here is Sophia, a ridiculous spectacle--and you yourself, my dear Rupert.... And now poor Adrian, too, and his case of mere calf-love, as one would have thought."
"A calf may grow into a fine bull, you know," returned Mr. Landale, who had winced at his aunt's allusion to himself and now spoke in the most unemotional tone he could assume, "especially if it is well fostered in its youth."
"And I suppose," said Miss O'Donoghue, with a faint smile, "you think I ought to know all about bulls."
She again put up her glasses to survey the portrait with critical deliberation; after which, recommending him once more strenuously to have a curtain erected, she observed, that it would break her heart to look at it one moment longer and requested to be conducted from the room.
Mr. Landale could not draw any positive conclusion from his aunt's manner of receiving his confidence, nor determine whether she had altogether grasped the whole meaning of what he had intended delicately to convey to her concerning his brother's past as well as present position; but he had said as much as prudence counselled.
CHAPTER XIII THE DISTANT LIGHT In spite of their first petulant or dolorous anticipation, and of the contrast between the even tenor of country life and the constant stream of amusement which young people of fashion can find in a place like Bath, the two girls discovered that time glided pleasantly enough over them at Pulwick.
Instead of the gloomy northern stronghold their novel-fed imagination had pictured (the more dismally as their sudden removal from town gaieties savoured distantly of punishment at the hand of their irate aunt), they found themselves delivered over into a bright, admirably-ordered house, replete with things of beauty, comfortable to the extremity of luxury; and allowed in this place of safety to enjoy almost unrestricted liberty.
The latter privilege was especially precious, as the sisters at that time had engrossing thoughts of their own they wished to pursue, and found more interest in solitary roamings through the wide estate than in the company of the hosts.
On the fifth day Miss O'Donoghue took her departure.
Her own travelling coach had rumbled down the avenue, bearing her and her woman away, in its polished yellow embrace, her flat trunk strapped behind, and the good-natured old face nodding out of the window, till Molly and Madeleine, standing (a little disconsolate) upon the porch to watch her departure, could distinguish even the hooked nose no longer.
Mr. Landale, upon his mettled grey, a gallant figure, as Molly herself was forced to admit, in his boots and buckskins, had cantered in the dust alongside, intent upon escorting his aged relative to the second stage of her journey.
That night, almost for the first time since their arrival, there was no company at dinner, and the young guests understood that the household would now fall back into its ordinary routine.
But without the small flutter of seeing strangers, or Tanty's lively conversation, the social intercourse soon waned into exceeding dulness, and at an early hour Miss Molly rose and withdrew to her room, pretexting a headache, for which Mr. Landale, with his usual high courtesy, affected deep concern.
As she was slowly ascending the great oaken staircase, she crossed Moggie, the gatekeeper's daughter, who in her character of foster-sister to one of the guests had been specially allotted to them as attendant, during the remainder of their visit to Pulwick.
Molly thought that the girl eyed her hesitatingly, as if she wished to speak: "Well, Moggie?"
she asked, stopping on her way.
"Oh, please, miss," said the buxom lass, blushing and dropping a curtsey, "Renny Potter, please, miss, is up at our lodge to-night, he don't care to come to the 'ouse so much, miss.
But when he heard about you, miss, you could have knocked him down with a feather he was so surprised and that excited, miss, we have never seen him so.
And he's so set on being allowed to see ye both!"
Molly as yet failed to connect any memories of interest with the possessor of the patronymic mentioned, but the next phrase mentioned aroused her attention.
"He is Sir Adrian's servant, now, miss, and goes back yonder to the island, that is where the master lives, to-morrow morning.
But he would be so happy to see the young ladies before he goes, if the liberty were forgiven, he says.
He was servant to the Madam your mother, miss.
"Well, Moggie," answered Miss Molly, smiling, "if that is all that is required to make Renny Potter happy, it is very easily done.
Tell Renny Potter: to-morrow morning."
And she proceeded on her way pondering, while the successful emissary pattered down to the lodge in high glee to gather her reward in her sweetheart's company.
* * * * * When later on Madeleine joined her sister, she found her standing by the deep recessed window, the curtains of which were drawn back, resting her head on her hand against the wainscot, and gazing abroad into the night.
She approached, and passing her hand round Molly's waist looked out also.
"Again at your window?"
"It is a beautiful night, and the view very lovely," said Molly.
And indeed the moon was riding high in a deep blue starry heaven, and shimmered on the strip of distant sea visible from the windows.
"Yes, but yesterday the night was not fine, and nothing was to be seen but blackness; and it was the same the day before, and yet you stared out of this window, as you have every night since our coming.
It is strange to see _you_ so.
What is it, why don't you tell me?"
"Madeleine," said Molly, suddenly, after a lengthy pause, "I am simply _haunted_ by that light over yonder, the Light of Scarthey.
There is a mystery about those ruins, on which I keep meditating all day long.
I want to know more.
It draws me.
I would give anything to be able, now, to set sail and land there all unknown to any one, and see what manner of life is led where that light is burning."
But Madeleine merely gave a pout of little interest.
"What do you think you would find?
A half-witted middle-aged man, mooning among a litter of books, with an old woman, and a little Frenchman to look after him.
Why, Mr. Landale himself takes no trouble to conceal that his poor brother is an almost hopeless lunatic."
"Mr. Landale--" Molly began, with much contempt; but she interrupted herself, and went on simply, "Mr. Landale is a very fine gentleman, with very superior manners.
He speaks like a printed book--but for all that I _would_ like to know."
Madeleine laughed.
"The demon of curiosity has a hold of you, Molly; remember the fable they made us repeat: _De loin c'est quelque chose, et de près ce n'est rien._ Now you shall go straight into your bed, and not take cold."
And Miss Madeleine, after authoritatively closing the curtains, kissed her sister, and was about to commence immediate disrobing, when she caught sight of the shagreen-covered book, lying open on the table.
"So your headache was your diary--how I should like to have a peep."
"I daresay!"
said Molly, sarcastically, and then sat down and, pen in hand, began to re-read her night's entry, now and then casting a tantalising glance over her shoulder at her sister.
The lines, in the flowing convent hand, ran thus: "Aunt O'Donoghue left us this morning, and so here we are, planted in Pulwick; and she has achieved her plan, fully.
But what is odd is that neither Madeleine nor I seem to mind it, now.
What has come over Madeleine is her secret, and she keeps it close; but that _I_ should like being here is strange indeed.
"And yet, every day something happens to make me feel connected with Pulwick--something more, I mean, than the mere fact that we were born here.
So many of the older people greet me, at first, as if they knew me--they all say I am so like 'the Madam;' they don't see the same likeness in Madeleine for all her _grand air_.
There was Mrs. Mearson, the gatekeeper, was struck in amazement.
And the old housekeeper, whenever she has an opportunity tries to entertain me about the beautiful foreign lady and the grand times they had at Pulwick when she was here, and 'Sir Tummas' was still alive.
"But, though we are made to feel that we are more than ordinary guests, it is not on account of Mr. Landale, but _on account of Sir Adrian_--the Master, as they call him, whom we never see, and whom his brother would make out to be mad.
Why is he so anxious that Sir Adrian should not know that Aunt Rose has brought us here?
He seemed willing enough to please her, and yet nothing that she could say of her wish could induce him even to send a messenger over to the rock.
And now we may be here all these two months and never even have caught a sight of the _Master_.
I wonder if he is still like that portrait--whether he bears that face still as he now sits, all alone, brooding as his brother says, up in those ruined chambers, while the light burns calm and bright in the tower!
What can this man of his have to say to me?"
Molly dotted her last forgotten "i," blotted it, closed and carefully locked the book.
Then, rising, she danced over to her sister, and forced her into a pirouette.
"And now," she cried gaily, "our dear old Tanty is pulling on her nightcap and weeping over her posset in the stuffy room at Lancaster regretting _me_; and I should be detesting her with all my energies for leaving me behind her, were it not that, just at present, I actually find Pulwick more interesting than Bath."
Madeleine lifted her heavy-lidded eyes a little wonderingly to her sister's face, as she paused in her gyration.
"What fly stings thee now?"
she inquired in French.
"You do not tell me about _your_ wounds, my dear, those wounds which little Dan Cupid has made upon your tender heart, with his naughty little arrow, and which give you such sweet pain, apparently, that you revel in the throes all day long.
And yet, I am a good child; you shall guess.
If you guess aright, I shall tell you.
So now begin."
They stood before the fire, and the leaping tongues of light played upon their white garments, Madeleine's nightgear scarcely more treacherously tell-tale of her slender woman's loveliness than the evening robe that clung so closely to the vigorous grace of Molly's lithe young figure.
The elder, whose face bore a blush distinct from the reflected glow of the embers, fell to guessing, as commanded, a little wildly: "You begin to find the _beau cousin_ Rupert a little more interesting than you anticipated."
"Bah," cried Molly, with a stamp of her sandalled foot, "it is not possible to guess worse!
He is more insufferable to me, hour by hour."
"I think him kind and pleasant," returned Madeleine simply.
"Ah, because he makes sweet eyes at you, I suppose--yet no--I express myself badly--he could not make anything sweet out of those hard, hard eyes of his, but he is very--what they call here in England--attentive to you.
And he looks at you and ponders you over when you little think it--you poor innocent--lost in your dream of ... _Smith_!
There, I will not tease you.
Guess again."
"You are pleased to remain here because you are a true weather-cock--because you like one thing one day another the next--because the country peace and quiet is soothing to you after the folly and noise of the great world of Bath and Dublin, and reminds you refreshingly, as it does me, of our happy convent days."
The glimmer of a dainty malice lurked in the apparent candour of Madeleine's grave blue eyes, and from thence spread into her pretty smile at the sight of Molly's disdainful lip, "Well then, I give it up.
You have some mischief on foot, of that at least I am sure."
"No mischief--a work of righteousness rather.
Sister Madeleine, you heard all that that gallant gentleman you think so highly of--your cousin Rupert, my dear" (it was a little way of Molly's to throw the responsibility of anything she did not like, even to an obnoxious relationship, upon another person's shoulders), "narrated of his brother Sir Adrian, and how he persuaded Tanty that he was, as you said just now, a hopeless madman--" "But yes--he does mad things," said the elder twin, a little wonderingly.
"Well, Madeleine, it is a vile lie.
I am convinced of it."
"But, my darling----" "Look here, Madeleine, there is something behind it all.
I attacked that creature, that rag, you cannot call her a woman, that female cousin of yours, Sophia, and I pressed her hard too, but she could not give me a single instance about Sir Adrian that is really the least like insanity; and last night, when the young fool who escorted me to dinner, Coventry his name was, told me that every one says Sir Adrian is shut up on the island and that his French servant is really his keeper, and that it was a shame Rupert was not the eldest brother, I quite saw the sort of story Master Rupert likes to spread--don't interrupt, please!
When you were wool-gathering over the fire last night (in the lively and companionable way, permit me to remark in parenthesis, that you have adopted of late), and you thought I was with Tanty, I had marched off with my flat candlestick to the picture gallery to have a good look at the so-called lunatic.
I dragged over a chair and lit the candles in the candelabra each side of the chimney-piece, and then standing on my perch still, I held up my own torch and I saw the sailor really well.
I think he has a beautiful face and that he is no more mad than I am.
But he looks so sad, so sad!
I longed to make those closed lips part and tell me their secret.
And, as I was looking and dreaming, my dear, just as you might, I heard a little noise, and there was Rupert, only a few yards off, surveying me with such an angry gaze--Ugh!"
(with a shiver) "I hate such ways.
He came in upon me with soft steps like some animal.
Look at his portrait there, Madeleine!--Stay!
I shall hold up the light as I did last night to Sir Adrian--see, it flickers and glimmers and makes him seem as if he were alive--oh, I wish he were not hanging in front of our beds, staring out at us with those eyes!
You think them very fine, I daresay, that is because his lashes are as thick and dark as a woman's--but the look in them, my dear--do you know what it reminds me of?
Of the beautiful, cruel greyhound we saw at the coursing at that place near Bunratty (you remember, just before they started the hare), when he stood for a moment motionless, looking out across the plain.
I can never forget the expression of those yellow-circled eyes.
And, when I see Rupert look at you as if he were fixing something in the far distance, it gives me just the feeling of horror and sickness I had then.
(You remember how dreadful it was?)
Rupert makes me think of a greyhound, altogether he is so lithe and so clean-cut, and so full of eagerness, a sort of trembling eagerness underneath his seeming quiet, and I think he could be cruel."
Molly paused with an unusually grave and reflective look; Madeleine yawned a little, not at all impressed.
"How you exaggerate!"
she said.
"Well what happened when he came in and caught you?
The poor man!
I suppose, he thought you were setting the house on fire."
"My dear, I turned as red as a poppy and began blowing out all my illumination, feeling dreadfully guilty, and then he helped me off my chair with such an air of politeness that I could have struck him with pleasure, but I soon gathered my wits again.
And, vexed with myself for being a ninny, I just dropped him a little curtsey and said, 'I've been examining my mad cousin.'
'Well, and what do you think of him?'
he asked me, smiling (his abominable smile!).
But I can keep my thoughts to myself as well as other people.
'I think he is very handsome,' I answered, and then I wagged my head and added, 'Poor fellow,' just as if I thought he was really mad.
'Poor fellow!'
said cousin Rupert, still with his smile.
Whereupon we interchanged good-nights, and he ceremoniously reconducted me to my door.
What was he spying after me for, like that?
My dear, your cousin has a bad conscience.--But I can spy too--I have been questioning the servants to-day, and some of the people on the estate."
"Oh, Molly!"
"Come, don't be so shocked.
It was diplomatically, of course, but I am determined to find out the truth.
Well, so far from looking upon Sir Adrian as a lunatic, they all adore him, it seems to me.
He comes here periodically--once every three months or so--and it is like the King's Justices, you know--St. Louis of France--he redresses all wrongs, and listens to grievances and gives alms and counsel, and every one can come with his story, down to the poorest wretch on the estate, and they certainly gave me to understand that they would fare pretty hardly under Mr. Landale if it were not for that mild beneficent restraining influence in his tower yonder.
It is very romantic, do you know (you like romance, Madeleine).
I wonder if Sir Adrian will come over while we are here.
Oh, I hope, I hope he will.
I shall never rest till I have seen him."
"Silly child," said Madeleine, "and so that is the reason you are glad to remain here?"
"Even so, my dear," answered the other, skipped into the big four-post bed, carefully ascertained and selected the softest pillow, and then, smiling sweetly at her sister from under a frame of dark curls, let her white lids drop over the lustre of her eyes and so intimated she desired to sleep.
CHAPTER XIV THE TOWER OF LIVERPOOL: MASTER AND MAN A prison is a house of care, A place where none can thrive, A Touchstone True to try a friend, A Grave for man alive.
Sometimes a place of right, Sometimes a place of wrong, Sometimes a place of rogues and thieves, And honest men among.
_Old Inscription._ It was soon after sunrise--at that time of year an hour not exorbitantly early--when Molly awoke from a tangle of fantastic dreams in which the haunting figure of her waking thoughts, the hermit of Scarthey, appeared to her in varied shapes; as an awe-inspiring, saintly ascetic with long, white hair; as a young, beautiful, imprisoned prince; even as a ragged imbecile staring vacantly at a lantern, somewhere in a dismal sea-cave.
The last vision was uppermost in her mind when she opened her eyes; and the girl, under the impression of so disgusting a disillusion, remained for a while pondering and yawning, before making up her mind to exchange warmth and featherbed for her appointment without.
But the shafts of light growing through the chinks in the shutters ever brighter and more full of dancing motes, decided her.
"A beautiful morning, Madeleine," she said, leaning over and pulling one of the long fair strands upon her neighbour's pillow with sisterly authority.
"Get up, lazy-bones, and come and have a walk with me before breakfast."
The sleeping sister awoke, smiled with her usual exquisite serenity of temper, and politely refused.
Molly insisted, threatened, coaxed, but to no avail.
Madeleine was luxuriously comfortable, and was not to be disturbed either mentally or bodily; and Molly, aware of the resisting power of will hidden under that soft exterior, at length petulantly desisted; and wrapped up in furs, with hands plunged deep into the recesses of a gigantic muff, soon sallied forth herself alone into the park.
Half-way down the avenue she met blue-eyed Moggie with round face shining out of the sharp, exhilarating atmosphere like a small sun.
The damsel was overcome with blushes and rapture at her young mistress's unexpected promptitude in carrying out her promise, and ran back to warn her sweetheart of that lady's approach.
* * * * * As Molly drew near the keeper's lodge--a sort of Doric temple, quaintly standing in the middle of a hedge-enclosed garden, and half-buried under thickly-clustering, interlacing creepers--from the side of the enormous nest of evergreen foliage there emerged, in a state of high excitement strenuously subdued, a short, square-built man (none other than René L'Apôtre), whilst between the boughs of the garden-hedge peeped forth the bashful, ruddy face of the lady of his fancy, eager to watch the interview.
René ran forward, then stopped a few paces away, hat in hand, scraping and bowing in the throes of an overwhelming emotion that strove hard with humility.
"Ah, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle!"
he ejaculated between spells of amazed staring, and seemed unable to bring forth another word.
"And so you have known my mother, René," said Miss Molly (in her native tongue) with a smile.
At the sound of the voice and of the French words, René's face grew pale under its bronze, and the tears he had so strongly combated, glistened in his eyes.
"If I had not heard last night," he said at length, "that these ladies had come back--it was Moggie Mearson who told me, who was foster sister to you, or was it Mademoiselle your sister?
and proud she is of it--if I had not known that the young ladies were here again, when I saw Mademoiselle I would have thought that my lady herself had returned to us (may the good God have her soul!).
Ah, to think that I should ever see her again in the light of the sun!"
He stopped, suffocated with the sob that his respect would not allow him to utter.
But Molly, who had had other objects in view when she rose from her couch this cold, windy morning, than to present an objective to a serving-man's emotion, now thought the situation had lasted long enough for her enjoyment and determined to put an end to it.
"Eh bien, René," she said gaily, "or should I call you Monsieur Potter?
which, by the way, is a droll name for a Frenchman, I am very glad to see that you are pleased to see me.
If you would care to have some talk with me you may attend me if you like.
But I freeze standing here," stamping her feet one after the other on the hard ground.
"I must absolutely walk; and you may put on your hat again, please; for it is very cold for you too," she added, snuggling into her muff and under her fur tippet.
The man obeyed after another of his quaint salutes, and as Molly started forward, followed her respectfully, a pace in rear.
"I daresay you will not be sorry to have a little talk with a compatriot in your own tongue, all English as you may have grown," said the young lady presently; "and as Moggie has told me that you were in my mother's service, there is a whole volume of things which, I believe, you alone can relate to me.
You shall tell me all that, one day.
But what seems to me the most curious, first of all, is your presence here.
We ourselves are only at Pulwick by chance."
"Mademoiselle," said René in an earnest voice, "if you knew the whole story, you would soon understand that, since it was not to be, that I should remain the humble servitor of Monseigneur le Comte de Savenaye, Mademoiselle's father, or of Madame, who followed him to heaven, notwithstanding all our efforts to preserve her, it is but natural that I should attach myself (since he would allow it) to my present master."
"Mr.
Landale?"
asked Molly, affecting ignorance.
"No, Mademoiselle," cried the Frenchman, hotly.
"My master is Sir Adrian.
Had Mr. Landale remained the lord of this place, I should have been left to die in my prison--or at least have remained there until this spring, for it seems there is peace again, and the Tower of Liverpool is empty now."
"_Voyons, voyons, conte moi cela_, René," said Molly, turning her face, beautifully glowing from the caress of the keen air, eagerly to her companion.
And he, nothing loth to let loose a naturally garrulous tongue in such company, and on such a theme, started off upon a long story illustrated by rapid gesticulation.
"I will tell you," cried he, and plunged into explanation with more energy than coherence, "it was like this: "I had been already two years in that prison; we were some hundreds of prisoners, and it was a cruel place.
A cruel place, Mademoiselle, almost as bad as that where we were shut up, my master and I together, years before, at La Rochelle--and that I will tell you, if you wish, afterwards.
"I had been taken by the marine conscription, when their Republic became the French Empire.
And a sailor I was then (just, as I heard later, as Sir Adrian also was at the time; but that I did not know, you understand), for they took all those that lived on the coast.
Now I had only served with the ship six months, when she was taken by the English, and, as I say, we were sent to the prison in Liverpool, where we found so many others, who had been already there for years.
When I heard it was Liverpool, I knew it was a place near Pulwick, and I at once thought of Mr. Landale, not him, of course, they _now_ call Mr. Landale, but him who had followed my mistress, Madame your mother, to help to fight the Republicans in the old time.
And I thought I was saved: I knew he would get me out if it was possible to get any one out.
For, you see, I thought his honour was home again, after we had been beaten, and there was no more to be done for my lady.
We had contrived to find an English ship to take him home, and he had gone back, as I thought, Mademoiselle.
Well, a prisoner becomes cunning, and besides, I had been in prison before; I managed to make up a letter, and as I knew already some English, I ended by persuading a man to carry it to Pulwick for me.
It was a long way, and I had no money, but I made bold to assure him that Mr. Landale--oh, no!
not _this_ one," René interrupted himself again with a gesture eloquent of resentful scorn, "but my master; I assured the man that he would receive recompence from him.
You see, Mademoiselle, I knew his heart was so good, that he would not allow your mother's servant to rot in the tower....
But days afterwards the man came back.
Oh, he was angry!
terribly angry with me, and said he should pay me out--And so he did, but it is useless to tell you how.
He had been to Pulwick, he said, and had seen Mr. Landale.
Mr. Landale never knew anything of any French prisoner, and refused to give any money to the messenger.
Ah, Mademoiselle, it was very sad!
I had not signed my letter for fear of its getting into wrong hands, but I spoke of many things which I knew he could not have forgotten, and now I thought that he would not trouble his mind about such a wretch as René--triple brute that I was to conceive such thoughts, I should have deserved to remain there for ever!...
I did remain, Mademoiselle, more than three years; many and many died.
As for me, I am hard, but I thought I should never never walk free again; nor would I, Mademoiselle, these seven years, but for him."
"He came, then?"
said the girl with sympathetic enthusiasm.
She was listening with attention, carried away by the speaker's earnestness, and knew instinctively to whom the "him," and the "he" referred.
"He came," said René with much emphasis.
"Of course he came--the moment he knew."
And after a moment of half-smiling meditation he pursued: "It was one May-day, and there was some sun; and there was a smell of spring in the air which we felt even in that dirty place.
Ah, how I remember me of it all!
I was sitting against the wall in the courtyard with two others who were Bretons, like you and me, Mademoiselle, shifting with the sun now and then, for you must know a prisoner loves the sun above all; and there, we only had it a few hours in the day, even when it did shine.
I was carving some stick-heads, and bread-plates in wood--the only thing I could do to put a little more than bread, into our own platters," with a grin, "and whistling, whistling, for if you can't be gay, it is best to play at it.... Well, that day into our courtyard there was shown a tall man--and I knew him at once, though he was different enough in his fine coat, and hat and boots, from the time when I had last seen him, when he was like me, in rags and with a woollen cap on his head, and no stockings under his shoes--I knew him at once!
And when I saw him I stood still, with my mouth round, but not whistling more.
My blood went phizz, phizz, all over my body, and suddenly something said in my head: 'René, he has come to look for you.'
He was searching for some one, for he went round with the guardian looking into each man's face, and giving money to all who begged--and seeing that, they all got up, and surrounded him, and he gave them each a piece.
But I could not get up; it was as if some one had cut out my knees and my elbows.
And that was how he saw me the sooner.
He noticed I remained there, looking at him like a dog, saying nothing.
When he saw me, he stood a moment quite quiet; and without pretending anything he came to me and looked down smiling.--'But if I am not mistaken I know this man,' he said to the guardian, pretending to be astonished.
'Why, this is René L'Apôtre?
Who would have thought of seeing you here, René L'Apôtre?'
says he.
And then he smiled again, as much as to say, 'You see I have come at last, René.'
And once more, as if to explain: 'I have only lately come back to England,' in a gentle way, all full of meaning....
I don't know what took me, but I cried like an infant, in my cap.
And the guardian and some of the others laughed, but when I looked up again, his eyes shone also.
He looked so good, so kind, Mademoiselle, that it was as if I understood in words all he meant, but thought better not to say at the time.
Then he spoke to the guardian, who shook his head doubtfully.
And after saying, 'Have good courage, René L'Apôtre,' and giving me the rest of his money, he went away--but I knew I was not forgotten, and I was so happy that the black, black walls were no more black.
And I sang, not for pretence this time, ah no!
and I spent all my money in buying a dinner for those at our end of the prison, and we even had wine!
You may be sure we drank to his happiness."
Here the man, carried away by his feelings, seized his hat and waved it in the air.
Then, ashamed of his ebullition, halted and glanced diffidently at the young lady.
But Molly only smiled in encouragement.
"Well, and then?"
she asked.
"Well, Mademoiselle," he resumed, "it was long before I saw him again; but I kept good courage, as I was told.
One day, at last, the guardian came to fetch me and took me to the governor's cabinet; and my master was there--I was told that my release had been obtained, though not without trouble, and that Sir Adrian Landale, of Pulwick Priory, had gone warranty for me that I should not use my liberty to the prejudice of His Majesty, the King of England, and that I was to be grateful to Sir Adrian.
I almost laughed at him, Mademoiselle.
Oh!
he took care to advise me to be grateful!"
And here René paused ironically, but there was a quiver on his lips.
"Ah, he little knew, Monsieur the Governor, that when my master had taken me to an inn, and the door was closed over the private room, he who had looked so grand and careless before the governor, took me by both hands and then, in his fine clothes, embraced me--me the dirty prisoner--just as he did when he left me in the old days, and was as poor and ragged as I was!
And let me weep there on his breast, for I had to weep or my heart would have broken.
But I wander, Mademoiselle, you only wanted to know how I came to be in his service still.
That is how it was; as I tell you."
Molly was moved by this artless account of fidelity and gratitude, and as she walked on in attentive silence, René went on: "It was then his honour made me know how, only by accident, and months after his own return, he chanced to hear of the letter that some one had sent to Mr. Landale from the Tower of Liverpool, and that Mr. Landale had said he knew nothing of any French prisoner and had thought it great impudence indeed.
And how he--my master--had suddenly thought (though my letter had been destroyed) that it might be from me, the servant of my lady your mother, and his old companion in arms (for his honour will always call me so).
He could not sleep, he told me, till he had found out.
He started for Liverpool that very night.
And, having discovered that it was me, Mademoiselle, he never rested till he had obtained my liberty."
* * * * * Walking slowly in the winter sunshine, the one talking volubly, the other intently listening, the odd pair had reached a rising knoll in the park where, under the shelter of a cluster of firs, stood a row of carved stone seats that had once been sedillas in the dismantled Priory Church.
From this secluded spot could be obtained the most superb view of the whole country-side.
At the end of the green, gently-sloping stretch of pasture-land, which extended, broken only by irregular clusters of trees, down to the low cliffs forming the boundary of the strand, lay the wide expanse of brown sand, with its streamlets and salt pools scintillating under the morning sun.
Further in the western horizon, a crescent of deep blue sea, sharply defined under a lighter blue sky and fringed landwards with a straggling border of foam, advanced slowly to the daily conquest of the golden bay.
In the midst of that frame the eye was irresistibly drawn, as to the chief object in the picture, to the distant rock of Scarthey--a green patch, with the jagged red outline of the ruins clear cut against the sky.
Since this point of view in the park had been made known to her, on the first day when she was piloted through the grounds, Molly had more than once found her way to the sedillas, yielding to the fascination of the mysterious island, and in order to indulge in the fancies suggested by its ever-changing aspect.
At the fall of day the red glow of the sinking sun would glint through the dismantled windows; and against the flaming sky the ruins would stand out black and grim, suggesting nought but abandonment and desolation until suddenly, as the gloom gathered upon the bay, the light of the lamp springing to the beacon tower, would reverse the impression and bring to mind a picture of faithful and patient watching.
When the sun was still in the ascendant, the island would be green and fresh to the gaze, evoking no dismal impression; and as the rays glanced back from the two or three glazed windows, and from the roofed beacon-tower, the little estate wore a look of solid security and privacy in spite of its crumbling walls, which was almost as tantalising to her romantic curiosity.
It was with ulterior motives, therefore, that she had again wended her way to the knoll this sunny, breezy morning.
She now sat down and let her eyes wander over the wide panorama, whilst René stood at a humble distance, looking with eyes of delight from her to the distant abode of his master.
"And now you live with Sir Adrian, in that little isle yonder," said she, at length.
"How came it that you never sought to go back to your country?"
"There was the war then, Mademoiselle, and it was difficult to return."
"But there has been peace these six months," insisted Molly.
"Yes, Mademoiselle, though I only learned it yesterday.
But then, bah!
What is that?
His honour needs me.
I have stopped with him seven years, and my faith, I shall stop with him for ever."
There was a long silence.
"Does any one know," asked Molly, at length, with a vague air of addressing the trees, mindful, as she spoke, of the manner in which Mr. Landale had practically dismissed her and her sister at a certain point of his version of his brother's history, "_why_ Sir Adrian has shut himself up in that place instead of living at the Hall all this time?"
A certain dignity seemed to come over the servant's squat figure.
He hesitated for a moment, and then said very simply, his honest eyes fixed upon the girl's face: "I am only his humble servant, Mademoiselle, and it is enough for me that it is his pleasure to live alone."
"You are indeed faithful," said Molly, with a little generous flush of shame at this peasant's delicacy compared to her own curiosity.
And, after another pause, she added, pensively: "But tell me, does Sir Adrian never leave his solitude?
I confess I should like to meet one who had known my mother, who could talk of her to me."
René looked at the young girl with a wistful countenance, as though the question had embarked him on a new train of thought.
But he answered evasively: "His honour comes rarely to Pulwick--rarely."
Molly, with a little movement of pique, rose abruptly from her seat.
But quickly changing her mood again she turned round as she was about to depart, and smiling: "Thank you, René," she said, and held out her dainty hand, which he, blushing, engulfed in his great paw, "I am going in, I am dreadfully hungry.
We shall be here two months or more, and I shall want to see you again ... if you come back to Pulwick."
She walked quickly away towards the house.
René followed the retreating figure with a meditative look, so long as he could keep her in sight, then turned his gaze to the island and there stood lost in a deep muse, regardless of the fact that his sweetheart, Moggie, was awaiting a parting interview at the lodge, and that the tide that would wait for no man was swelling under his boat upon the beach.
* * * * * A sudden resolution was formed in Molly's mind as the immediate result of this conversation, and she framed her behaviour that morning solely with a view to its furtherance.
Breakfast was over when, glowing from her morning walk, she entered the dining-room; but, regardless of Mr. Landale's pointedly elaborate courtesy in insisting upon a fresh repast being brought to her, his sarcastically overacted solicitude, intended to point out what a deal of avoidable trouble she gave to the household, Molly remained perfectly gracious, and ate the good things, plaintively set before her by Miss Landale, with the most perfect appetite and good humour.
She expatiated in terms of enthusiasm on the beauty of the estate and the delight of her morning exploration, and concluded this condescending account of her doings (in which the meeting with René did not figure) with a request that Mr. Landale should put horses at the disposal of herself and her sister for a riding excursion that very afternoon.
And with determined energy she carried the point, declaring, despite his prognostications of coming bad weather, that the sunshine would last the day.
In this wise was brought about the eventful ride which cost the life of Lucifer, and introduced such heart-stirring phantasmagories into the even tenor of Sir Adrian Landale's seclusion.
* * * * * That evening the news rapidly spread throughout Pulwick that the cruel sands of the bay had secured yet another victim.
In an almost fainting condition, speechless with horror, and hardly able yet to realise to the full her own anguish, Madeleine was conducted by the terrified groom, through the howling wind and drenching rain, back to the Priory.
And there, between the fearful outcries of Miss Landale, and the deep frowning gravity of her brother, the man stammered out his tale.--How the young lady when the rain first began, had insisted, notwithstanding his remonstrances, upon taking the causeway to the island, and how it was actually by force that he prevented the other lady from following so soon as she understood the danger into which her sister was running.
There was no use, he had thought (explained the man, half apologetically), for two more to throw away their lives, just for no good, that way.
And so they had sat on their horses and watched in terror, as well as they could through the torrents of rain.
They had seen in the distance Lucifer break from the young lady's control, and swerve from the advancing sea.
And then had come the great gust that blew the rain and the sand in their faces and set their horses dancing; and, when they could see again, all traces of horse and rider had disappeared, and there lay nothing before them but the advancing tide, though the island and its tower were still just visible through the storm.
No amount of cross-examination could elicit any further information.
The girl's impulse seemed to have been quite sudden, and she had only laughed back at the groom over her shoulder upon his earnest shout of warning, though she had probably expected them to follow her.
And as there could be no doubt about the calamity which had ensued, and no possible rescue even of the body, he had returned home at once to bring the disastrous news.
Madeleine had been carried completely unconscious to her bed, but presently Miss Sophia was summoned to her side as the girl showed signs of returning animation, and Rupert was left alone.
He fell to pacing the room, lost in a labyrinth of complicated and far-reaching reflections.
Beyond doubt he was shocked and distressed by the sudden and horrible disaster; and yet as an undercurrent to these first natural thoughts, there ran presently a distinct notion that he would have felt the grievousness of it more keenly had Madeleine perished in that cruel manner and her sister survived to bring the tale home.
The antagonism which his cousin, in all the insolence of her young beauty and vigorous self-esteem, had shown for him had been mutual.
He had instinctively felt that she was an enemy, and more than that--a danger to him.
This danger was now removed from his path, and by no intervention or even desire of his own.
The calamity which had struck the remaining sister into such prostration would make her rich indeed; by anticipation one of the great heiresses in England.
"Sorrow," thought Mr. Landale, and his lip curled disdainfully, "a girl's sorrow, at least, is a passing thing.
Wealth is an everlasting benefit."
Madeleine was a desirable woman upon all counts, even pecuniary considerations apart, or would be to one who had a heart to give--and even if the heart was dead...?
Altogether the sum of his meditations was assuming a not unpleasing aspect; and the undercurrent in time assumed almost the nature of self-congratulation.
Even the ordeal which was yet to come when he would have to face Miss O'Donoghue and render an account of his short trust, could not weigh the balance down on the wrong side.
And yet a terrible ordeal it would be; women are so unreasonable, and Aunt Rose so much more so even than the average woman.
Still it had to be done; the sooner the better; if possible while the storm lasted and while roaring waters kept all ill news upon land and the interloping heir on his island.
And thus that very evening, whilst Madeleine sobbed on her pillow and Molly was snugly enjoying the warm hospitality of Scarthey, a mounted messenger departed from the Priory to overtake Miss O'Donoghue on the road to Bath and acquaint her with the terrible fatality that had befallen her darling and favourite.
CHAPTER XV UNDER THE LIGHT DECEMBER 16TH.--Again I separate your green boards, my diary.
No one has opened you; for your key, now a little rusty, still hangs upon my watch--my poor watch whose heart has ceased to beat, who, unlike its mistress, has _not_ survived the ordeal by sand and water!
What is better, no one has attempted to force your secrets from you; which, since it appears that it had been agreed that Molly de Savenaye was dead and buried in Scarthey sands, speaks well for all concerned.
But she is not dead.
She is very much alive; and very happy to be so.
This will indeed be an adventure worth reading, in the days to come; and it must be recounted--though were I to live to a hundred years I do not think I could ever forget it.
Tanty Rose (she has not yet stopped scolding everybody for the fright she has had) is in the next room with Madeleine, who, poor dear, has been made quite ill by this prank of mine; but since after the distress caused by her Molly's death she has had the joy of finding her Molly alive again, things are balanced, I take it; and all being well that ends well, the whole affair is pleasant to remember.
It has been actually as interesting as I expected--now that I think it over--even more.
Of all the many pictures that I fancied, not one was at all like the reality--and this reality I could not have rested till I had found.
It was René's account decided me.
I laid my plans very neatly to pay the recluse a little visit, and plead necessity for the intrusion.
My machinations would have been perfect if they had not caused Madeleine and poor old Tanty unnecessary grief.
But now that I know the truth, I cannot distinctly remember what it was that I _did_ expect to find on that island.
If it had not been that I had already gone through more excitement than I bargained for to reach that mysterious rock, how exciting I should have found it to wander up to unknown ruins, to knock at the closed doors of an enchanted castle, ascend unknown stairs and engage in devious unknown passages--all the while on the tiptoe of expectation!
But when I dragged myself giddy and faint from the boiling breakers and scrambled upon the desolate island under the rain that beat me like the lashes of a whip, pushing against a wind that bellowed and rushed as though determined to thrust me back to the waters I had cheated of their prey, my only thoughts were for succour and shelter.
Such warm shelter, such loving welcome, it was of course impossible that I could for a moment have anticipated!
Conceive, my dear diary, the feelings of a poor, semi-drowned wanderer, shivering with cold, with feet torn by cruel stones, who suddenly emerges from howl and turmoil into a warm, quiet room to be received as a long and eagerly expected guest, whose advent brings happiness, whose presence is a highly prized favour; in fact not as one who has to explain her intrusion, but as one who in the situation holds the upper hand herself.
And _this_ was my welcome from him whose absence from Pulwick was more haunting than any presence I can think of!
Of course I knew him at once.
Even had I not expected to see him--had I not come to seek him in fact--I should have known him at once from the portrait whose melancholy, wide-open eyes had followed me about the gallery.
But I had not dreamed to see him so little altered.
Now, apart from the dress, if he is in any way changed from the picture, it is in a look of greater youth and less sombreness.
The portrait is handsome, but the original is better.
Had it not been so, I imagine I might have felt vastly different when I was seized and enfolded and--kissed!
As it was I cannot remember that, even at the moment of this extraordinary proceeding, I was otherwise than pleased, nor that the dark hints of Mr. Landale concerning Sir Adrian's madness returned to disturb my mind in the least.
And yet I found myself enveloped in great strong arms out of which I could not have extricated myself by the most frantic efforts--although the folding was soft and tender--and I loved that impression.
Why?
I cannot say.
His words of love were not addressed to me; from his exclamation I knew that the real and present Molly was not the true object of his sudden ecstasy.
And yet I am glad that this is the first man who has been able to kiss Molly de Savenaye.
It is quite incomprehensible; I ought to be indignant.
Now the whole secret of my reception is plain to see, and it is pathetic; Sir Adrian Landale was in love with my mother; when she was an unprotected widow he followed her to our own country; if she had not died soon after, he would have married her.
What a true knight must this Sir Adrian be, to keep so fresh for twenty years the remembrance of his boyish love that when I came in upon him to look at him with _her_ eyes, it was to find him pondering upon her, and to fill his soul with the rapturous thought that his love had come back to him.
Though I was aware that all this fervour was not addressed to me, there was something very gratifying in being so like one who could inspire such long-lived passion.--Yes, it was unexpectedly pleasant and comforting to be so received.
And the tender care, the thoughtful solicitude next bestowed on the limp and dishevelled waif of the sea by my _beau ténébreux_ were unmistakably meant for Molly and no one else, whatever his first imaginings may have been, and they were quite as interesting to receive.
The half-hour I spent, cosily ensconced by his hands, and waited upon by his queer household, was perhaps the best I have ever known.
He stood by the fireplace, looking down from his great height, with a wondering smile upon me.
I declare that the loving kindness of his eyes, which he has wide, grey, and beautiful, warmed me as much as the pyramid of logs he had set burning on the hearth!
I took a good reckoning of the man, from under the gigantic collar, in which, I felt, my head rested like a little egg at the bottom of a warm nest.
"And so," I thought, "here is the Light-keeper of Scarthey Island!"
And I was obliged to confess that he was a more romantic-looking person than even in my wildest dreams I had pictured to myself--that in fact I had found out for the first time _the man_ really approved of.
And I congratulated myself on my own cleverness--for it was evident that, just as I had suspected from René's reticent manner, even by him our existence at Pulwick had not been mentioned to "the master."
And as Mr. Landale was quite determined to avail himself of his brother's _sauvagerie_ not to let him know anything about us, on his side, but for me we might have remained at and departed from Pulwick unknown to the head of the house!
And what a pity that would have been!
Now, _why_ did not Mr. Landale wish his brother to know?
Did he think (as indeed has happened) that the Light-keeper would take too kindly to the Savenaye children?
Or to one of them?
If so, he will be _bien attrappé_, for there is no doubt that my sudden and dramatic arrival upon his especial domain has made an impression on him that no meeting prepared and discussed beforehand could have produced.
Adrian Landale may have been in love with our beautiful mamma in his boyish days, but now, Sir Adrian, the _man_ is in love with the beautiful Molly!
That is positive.
I was a long time before I could go to sleep in the tower; it was too perfect to be in bed in such a place, safe and happy in the midst of the rage I could hear outside; to have seen the unknown, to have found him such as he is--to be under _the Light_!
What would have happened if my cousin had really been mad (and René his keeper, as that stupid country-side wit suggested in my ear the other night at dinner)?
It would have been still more of an adventure of course, but not one which even "Murthering Moll the Second" can regret.
Or if he had been a dirty, untidy hermit, as Madeleine thought?
That would have spoilt all.
Thus in the owl's nest, as Mr. Landale (spiteful creature!)
called it to Tanty, there lives not owl any more than lunatic.
A polished gentleman, with white, exquisite hands, who, when he is discovered by the most unexpected of visitors, is shaven as smooth as Rupert himself; has the most unexceptionable of snowy linen and old-fashioned, it is true, but most well-fitting clothes.
As for the entertainment for the said casual visitor, not even Pulwick with all its resources (where housekeeping, between the fussy brother and the docile sister is a complicated science) could have produced more real comfort.
In the morning, when I woke late (it was broad daylight), feeling as if I had been beaten and passed through a mangle, for there was not an inch of my poor body that was not sore, I had not turned round and so given sign of life, before I heard a whisper outside my door; then comes a sturdy knock and in walks old Margery, still dignified as a queen's housekeeper, bearing a bowl of warm frothy milk.
And this being gratefully drunk by me, she gravely inquires, in her queer provincial accent, how I am this morn; and then goes to report to some anxious inquirer (whom?--I can easily guess) that with the exception of my cut foot I am very well.
Presently she returns and lights a blazing fire.
Then in come my dress and linen and my one shoe, all cleaned, dried and mended, only my poor habit is so torn and so stiff that I have to put up with Margery's best striped skirt in lieu of it, till she has time to mend and wash it.
As it is she must have been at work all night upon these repairs for me.
Again she goes out--for another consultation, I suppose--and comes back to find me half clad, hopping about the room; this time she has got nice white linen bandages and with them ties up my little foot, partly for the cuts, partly for want of a sandal, till it is twice the size of its companion.
But I can walk on it.
Then my strange handmaid--who by the way is a droll, grumbling old soul, and orders me about as if she were still my nurse--dresses me and combs my hair, which will not yet awhile be rid of all its sand.
And so, in due course, Molly emerges from her bower, as well tended almost as she might have been at Bath, except that Margery's striped skirt is a deal too short for her and she displays a little more of one very nice ankle and one gouty foot than fashion warrants.
And in this manner the guest goes to meet her host in the great room.
He was walking up and down as if impatiently expecting me, and when I hobbled in, he came forward with a smile on his face which, once more, I thought beautiful.
"God be praised!"
he said, taking both my hands and kissing one of them, with his fine air of gallantry which was all the more delightful on account of his evident earnestness, "you seem none the worse for this terrible adventure.
I dreaded this morning to hear that you were in a fever.
You know," he added so seriously that I had to smile, "you might easily have had a fever from this yesterday's work; and what should we have done without doctor and medicines!"
"You have a good surgeon, at least," said I laughing and pointing at my swaddled extremity.
He laughed too at the _enmitouflage_.
"I tried to explain how it was to be done," he said, "but I think I could have managed it more neatly myself."
Then he helped me to the arm-chair, and René came in, and, after a profound bow (which did not preclude much staring and smiling at me afterwards), laid, on a dazzling tablecloth, a most tempting breakfast, explaining the while, in his odd English, "The bread is stale, for we bake only twice a month.
But there are some cakes hot from the fire, some eggs, new laid last evening, some fresh milk, some tea.
It was a happy thing I arrived yesterday for there was no more tea.
The butter wants, but Mistress Margery will have some made to-morrow, so that the demoiselle will not leave without having tasted our Scarthey butter."
All the while Sir Adrian looked on with a sort of dreamy smile--a happy smile!
"Poor René!"
he said, when the man had left the room, "one would think that you have brought to him almost as much joy as to me."
I wondered what Mr. Landale would have said had he through some magic glass been able to see this little feast.
I never enjoyed a meal more.
As for my host, he hardly touched anything, but, I could see, was all absorbed in the delight of looking at me; and this he showed quite openly in the most child-like manner.
Not one of the many fine gentlemen it has been my fate to meet in my six months' apprenticeship to the "great world," not cousin Rupert himself with all his elaborate politeness (and Rupert has de _grandes manières_, as Tanty says), could have played the host with a more exquisite courtesy, and more true hospitality.
So I thought, at least.
Now and again, it is true, while his eyes were fixed on me, I would see how the soul behind them was away, far in the past, and then at a word, even at a movement, back it would come to me, with the tenderest softening I have ever seen upon a human face.
* * * * * It was only at the end of breakfast that he suddenly adverted to the previous day.
"Of course," he said, hesitatingly, but keeping a frank gaze on mine, "you must have thought me demented when--when you first entered, yesterday."
Now, I had anticipated this apology as inevitable, and I was prepared to put him at his ease.
"I----?
Not at all," I said quite gravely; and, seeing the puzzled expression that came upon his face, I hastened to add in lower tones: "I know I am very like my mother, and it was her name you called out upon seeing me."
And then I stopped, as if that had explained everything.
He looked at me with a wondering air, and fell again into a muse.
After a while he said, with his great simplicity which seems somehow in him the last touch of the most perfect breeding: "Yes, such an apparition was enough to unhinge any one's mind for the moment.
You never knew her, child, and therefore never mourned her death.
But we--that is, René and I, who tried so hard to save her--though it is so long ago, we have not forgotten."
It was then I asked him to tell me about the mother I had never known.
At first it was as if he could not; he fell into a great silence, through which I could feel the working of his old sorrow.
So then I said to him quickly, for I feared he thought me an indiscreet trespasser upon sacred ground, that he must remember my right to know more than the vague accounts I had been given of my mother's history.
"No one will tell me of her," I said.
"It is hard, for I am her own daughter."
"It is wrong," he said very gently; "you ought to know, for you are indeed, most verily, her own daughter."
And then by fragments he tried to tell me a little of her beauty, her loving heart, her faithfulness and bravery.
At first it was with great tripping sighs as if the words hurt him, but by and by it came easier, and with his eyes fixed wistfully on me he took me, as it were, by his side through all their marvellous adventures.
And thus I heard the stirring story of the "Savenaye band," and I felt prouder of my race than I had ever been before.
Hitherto, being a Savenaye only meant the pride our aunt tried to instil into us of being undeniably _biennées_ and connected with numbers of great families.
But the tale of the deeds mine had done for the King's cause, and especially the achievements of my own mother in starting such an expedition after my father's death, and following its fortunes to the bitter end, made my blood tingle with a new emotion.
Little wonder that Sir Adrian should have devoted his life to her service.
How madly enthralled I should have been, being a man, and free and strong, by the presence of a woman such as my mother.
I, too, would have prostrated myself to worship her image returning to life--and I am that living, living portrait!
When he came to the story of her death, he hesitated and finally stopped.
It must have been horrible.
I could see it in his eyes, and I dared not press him.
Now, I suppose I am the only one in the world, besides René, who knows this man as he is.
And I am proud of it.
And it is for this constancy, which no vulgar soul of them can understand, that Rupert and his class have dubbed the gallant gentleman a madman.
It fills me with scorn of them.
I do not yet know what love is, therefore of course I cannot fathom its grief; but this much I know--that if I loved and yet could not reach as high as ever love may reach both in joy and sorrow, I should despise myself.
I, too, would draw the utmost from life that life can give.
He never even hinted at his love for my mother; speaking of himself throughout as René might, as of her humble devoted servant merely.
And then the question began to gnaw at me.
"Did she love him?"
and somehow, I felt as if I could not rest till I knew; and I had it on my lips twenty times to cry out to him: "I know you loved her: oh!
tell me, did she love you?"
And yet I dared no more have done so, and overstepped the barrier of his gentle, reticent dignity, than I could have thrust the lighthouse tower down; and I could not think, either, whether I should be glad to hear that she had loved him, or that she had not.
Not even here, alone with myself, can I answer that question.
But though I respect him because he is as I have found him, and understand how rare a personality it takes to achieve such refinement of faithfulness, it seems to me, that to teach this constant lover to forget the past in the present, would be something worth living for--something worthy of _me_!
Molly!--What is the meaning of this?
You have never before put that thought in words, even to yourself!
But let me be frank, or else what is the use of this diary?
Looking back to those delightful three days, did not the _thought_ come to me, if not the words?
Well, well, it is better, sometimes, I believe, to let oneself drift, than to try and guide the boat; and I must hurry back to Scarthey or I shall never have told my story.... How swiftly time had flown by us!
I sitting in the arm-chair, with the old dog's muzzle on my lap, and Sir Adrian standing by his great chimney; the clock struck twelve, in the midst of the long silence, and I had thought that barely an hour had passed.
I got up, and, seeing me limp in my attempt to walk, Sir Adrian gave me his arm; and so we went round the great room _bras dessus_, _bras dessous_, and it already seemed quite natural to feel like an intimate friend in that queer dwelling.
We paused a long time in silence by the window, the tempest wind was still raging, but the sky was clear, and all round us was a wonderful sight; the sea, as far as eyes could reach, white with foam, lashed and tossing in frenzy round the rock on which we stood so safely, and rising in long jets of spray, which now and then dashed as far as our window; and when I looked down nearer, I could see the little stunted trees, bending backwards and forwards under the blast, and an odd idea came to my mind:--they looked to me when they caught my sight, as though they were bowing deep, hurriedly and frantically greeting me among them.
I glanced up at my silent companion, the true knight, and found his wide grey eyes fixed upon me with the same expression that was already familiar to me, which I had especially noted as he told me his long tale of olden times.
This time I felt the look go to my heart.
_And then the thought first came to my mind, all unformed, but still sweet._ I don't know exactly why, but in answer to his sad look, I smiled at him, without a word, upon which he suddenly grew pale.
After a while he gave a sigh, and, as he drew my arm again through his, I fancy his hand trembled a little.
When he had taken me back to my chair, he walked to and fro in silence, looking at me ever and anon.
A long time we passed thus, without speaking; but it seemed as if our thoughts were intermixing in harmony in the midst of our silence.
And then the spell was broken by René, who never came in without making me his great scrape, trying hard not to beam too obtrusively in the delight that evidently overtakes him whenever he sets eyes on me.
It was after a prolonged talk between him and the master, I fancy, concerning the means of attending fitly upon my noble and delicate person, that Sir Adrian, brought back, evidently, to the consideration of present affairs, began to be exercised about the best means of whiling away my time.
When he hinted at the difficulty, I very soon disposed of it.
I told him I had never been so happy in my life before--that the hours went all too quickly--I told him there was so much he and René had yet to tell me of their wonderful adventures, that I thought I should have to carry them back to Pulwick with me.
At the mention of Pulwick his brow darkened, and René turned away to cough into his hand, and I saw that I had gone too fast.
(N.B.--Pulwick is evidently a sore subject; I am sure I am not surprised.
I can conceive how Rupert and Sophia would drive a man of Sir Adrian's sensitiveness nearly to desperation.
Yet I _have_ brought Sir Adrian back to Pulwick, in spite of all.
Is not that a feather in my cap?)
But to return; I next made René laugh aloud and Sir Adrian give his indulgent smile--such as a father might give to his child--by adding that when I was bored I would soon let them know.
"I always do," I said, "for I consider that a duty to myself."
"God knows," said this strange man then, half smiling, "I would we could keep you here for ever."
It was almost a declaration, but his eyes were far off--it was not addressed to me.
I soon found that the recollection of all the extraordinary incidents Sir Adrian had lived through, is one neither of pride nor pleasure to him, but, all the same, never has anything in books seemed to me so stirring, as the tale of relentless fate, of ever-recurring battles and struggles and misfortunes told by the man who, still in the strength of life, has now chosen to forego everything that might for the remainder of his days have compensated him.
Willing as he was to humour me, however, and disproportionately anxious to amuse me, it was little more than the dry bones of his history, I was able to obtain from him.
With René's help, however, and my own lively imagination I have been able to piece together a very wonderful skeleton, from these same dry bones, and, moreover, endow it with flesh and blood and life.
René was very willing to descant upon his master's exploits, as far as he knew them: "Whew, Mademoiselle should have seen him fight!"
he would say, "a lion, Mademoiselle, a real lion!"
And then I would contrast the reposeful, somewhat immobile countenance, the dreaming eye, the almost womanly softness of his smile, with the picture, and find the contrast piquant in the extreme.
Concerning his present home Sir Adrian was more willing to speak--I had told him how the light on the little island had fascinated me from the distance, and all the surmises I had made about it.
"And so, it was in order to see what sort of dungeon they kept the madman in," he said, laughing quietly, "that you pushed the reconnaissance, which nearly sent you into the jaws of death!"
I was so struck, at first, by his speaking of himself as the reputed "madman" that I could not answer.
To think of him as serenely contemptuous of the world's imputation--and an imputation so galling as this one of being irresponsible for his actions--and deliberately continuing his even way without taking the trouble to refute it, has given me an insight into his nature, that fills me with admiration, and yet, at the same time, with a sort of longing to see him reinstated in his proper place, and casting out those slandering interlopers.
But, as he was waiting to be answered, I had to collect my thoughts and admit, not without a little bashfulness, that my first account of my exploit had contained a slight prevarication.
In all he has to say about his little Scarthey domain, about the existence he has made for himself there, I cannot help noticing with what affection he speaks of René.
René, according to Sir Adrian, is everything and everywhere; a perfect familiar genius; he is counsellor as well as valet, plays his master's game of chess as well as shaves him, can tune his organ, and manage his boat, and cast his nets, for he is fisherman as well as gardener; he is the steward of this wonderful little estate, and its stock of one pony, one cow, and twelve hens; he tends the light, and can cook a dinner a great deal better than his great rival, old Margery.
Of this last accomplishment we had good proof in the shape of various dainties that appeared at our dinner.
For when I exclaimed in astonishment, the master said, well pleased, and pointing to the attentive major-domo: "This is René's way of spoiling me.
But now he has surpassed himself to celebrate so unique an occasion."
And René's face was all one grin of rapture.
I observe that on occasions his eyes wander quite tenderly from me to his master.
Shall I ever enjoy dinners again like those in that old ruined tower!
Or hours like those during which I listened to tales of peril and adventure, or to the music that pealed forth from the distant corner, when Sir Adrian sat down to his organ and made it speak the wordless language of the soul: that language that made me at times shiver with a mad yearning for life, more life; at times soothed my heart with a caress of infinite softness.
How is it that our organ-songs at the convent _never_ moved me in this fashion?
Ah!
those will be days to remember; all the more for being certain that they will not be forgotten by him.
Yes, those days have brought some light into his melancholy life.
Even René knows that.
"Oh, my lady," said he to me as he was leaving the island yesterday.
"You have come like the good fairy, you have brought back the joy of life to his honour: I have not heard him really laugh--before this year passed I did not believe he knew any more how to laugh--what you can call laugh!"
It is quite true.
I had made some droll remark about Tanty and Cousin Sophia, and when he laughed he looked like a young man.
He was quick enough in grasping at a pretext for keeping me yet another day.
Yesterday the wind having suddenly abated in the night, there was quite a bevy of little fishing-boats sailing merrily away.
And the causeway at low water was quite visible.
As we looked out I know the same idea came to both our minds, though there was no word between us.
At last it was I who spoke.
"The crossing is quite safe," said I.
And I added, as he answered nothing, "I almost wish now it was not.
How quick the time has gone by, here!"
His countenance when I looked up was darker.
He kept his eyes fixed in the distance.
At last he said in a low voice: "Yes, I suppose it is high time you should go back."
"I am sure I don't wish it," I said quite frankly--he is not the sort of man with whom one would ever think of _minauderie_, "but Madeleine will be miserable about me."
"And so you would really care to stop here," said he, with a smile of wonder on his face, "if it were not for that reason?"
"Naturally I would," said I.
"I feel already as cosy as a tame cat here.
And if it were not for Madeleine, poor little Madeleine, who must be breaking her heart!--But then how can I go back?--I have no wraps and only one shoe?"
His face had cleared again.
He was walking up and down in his usual way, whilst I hopped back, with more limping than was at all necessary, to my favourite arm-chair.
"True, true," he said, as if speaking to himself, "you cannot walk, with one shoe and a bandaged foot.
And your clothes are too thin for the roundabout sea journey in this cold wind.
This is what we shall do, child," he went on, coming up to me with a sage expression that struggled with his evident eager desire.
"René shall go off, as soon as the tide permits, carrying the good news of your safety to your sister, and bring back some warm things for you to wear to-morrow morning, and I shall write to Rupert to send a carriage, to wait for you on the strand."
And so, pleased like two children who have found a means of securing a further holiday, we wrote both our letters.
I wonder whether it occurred to Sir Adrian, as it did to me, that, if we had been so very anxious that I should be restored to the care of Pulwick with the briefest delay, I might have gone with René that same day, wrapped up in a certain cloak which had done good warming service already; and that, as René had constructed with his cunning hands a sufficient if not very pretty sandal for my damaged foot out of some old piece of felt, I might have walked from the beach to the fishing village; and that there, no doubt, a cart or a donkey might have conveyed me home in triumph.
Perhaps it did _not_ occur to him; and certainly I had no desire to suggest it on my side.
Thus, soon after mid-day, Master René departed alone.
And Sir Adrian and I, both very glad of our reprieve, watched, leaning side by side upon the window-sill, the brave little craft glide away on the still ruffled waters, until, when it had grown very small in the distance, we saw the sail lowered and knew René had reached mainland.
And that was perhaps the best day of the three.
René having been unexpectedly despatched, we had to help to do everything ourselves with old Margery, who is rather feeble.
The sky was clear and beautiful; and, followed gravely by Jem the dog, we went round the little outer domain.
I fed the hens, and Sir Adrian carried the pail when Margery had milked the cow; we paid a visit in his wide paddock to the pony, who trotted up to his master whinnying with pleasure.
We looked at the waters rushing past like a mill race on the further side of the island, as the tide was rising, and he explained to me that it was this rush which makes the neighbourhood of Scarthey so dangerous to unwary crafts; we went down into the sea-caves which penetrate deep under the ruins.--They say that in olden days there was a passage under the rocky causeway that led as far as the old Priory, but all traces of it have been effaced.
Then, later on, Sir Adrian showed me in detail his library.
"I was made to be a man of books," he said, when I wondered at the number he had accumulated around him--there must be thousands, "a man of study, not of action.
And you know how fate has treated me.
These have been my one consolation of late years."
And it marvelled me to think that one who had achieved so many manly deeds, should love musty old tiresome things so much.
He really turned them over quite reverentially.
I myself do not think much of books as companions.
When I made that little confession he smiled rather sadly, and said that one like me never would lack the suitable companions of youth and happiness; but that a creature of his unfortunate disposition could find, in these long rows of folded leaves, the society of the best and the loftiest minds, not of our age, but of all ages, and, what was more, could find them ready for intercourse and at their best humour, just in those hours when he himself was fit and disposed for such intercourse--and this without dread of inflicting his own misery and dulness upon them.
But I could not agree with his appreciation.
I felt my nose curl with disdain at the breath of dust and must and age these old tomes gave forth, and I said again it was, to my mind, but a poor and tame sort of fellowship.
He was perched on his ladder and had some odd volume in his hand, from which he was about to give an example in point; on hearing, however, this uncongenial sentiment he pushed back the book and came down quickly enough to talk to me.
And this was the last of our excursions among the bookshelves.
Of this I was glad, for I confess it was there I liked Sir Adrian the least.
When the end of the short day drew near it was time to go and attend to the beacon.
We ascended the ladder-like wooden stairs leading to the platform.
Then I had the _reverse_ of that view that for so many days had engrossed my interest.
_Pulwick from Scarthey!..._ What a long time it seemed then since I had left those rooms the windows of which now sent us back the rays of the setting sun!
and I had no desire to return, though return I must on the morrow.
René, of course, had left everything in his usual trim order, so all we had to do was to see to the lamp.
It pleased my fantasy to light the beacon of Scarthey myself, and I struck the steel and kindled the brimstone and set fire to the huge, ill-smelling wicks until they gave a flame as big as my hand; and "there is the light of Scarthey at close quarters," I thought.
And the Light-keeper was bending over me with his kindly look, humouring me like a child.
As we sat there silently for a while in the twilight, there came from the little room adjoining the turret an odd sound of flapping and uncanny, melancholy cries.
Sir Adrian rose, and we remembered the seagull by which he had played the part of good Samaritan.
It had happened on the second day, as the storm was at its height.
There had come a great crash at the window, and we saw something white that struggled on the sill outside; Sir Adrian opened the casement (when we had a little tornado of our own inside, and all his papers began dancing a sarabande in the room), and we gathered in the poor creature that was hurt and battered and more than half stunned, opening alternately its yellow bill and its red eyes in the most absurd manner.
With a solicitude that it amused me to watch, Sir Adrian had tended the helpless, goose-like thing and then handed it to René's further care.
René, it seemed, had thought of trying to tame the wild bird, and had constructed a huge sort of cage with laths and barrel-hoops, and installed it there with various nasty, sea-fishy, weedy things, such as seagulls consider dainty.
But the prisoner, now its vigour had returned, yearned for nothing but the free air, and ever and anon almost broke its wings in sudden frenzy to escape.
"I wonder at René," said Sir Adrian, contemplating the animal with his grave look of commiseration; "René, who, like myself, has been a prisoner!
He will be disappointed, but we shall make one of God's creatures happy this day.
There is not overmuch happiness in this world."
And, regardless of the vicious pecks aimed at his hands, he with firmness folded the great strong wings and legs and carried the gull outside on the parapet.
There the bird sat a moment, astonished, turning its head round at its benefactor before taking wing; and then it rose flying away in great swoops--flap, flap--across the waves till we could see it no longer.
Ugly and awkward as the creature looked in its cage, it was beautiful in its joyful, steady flight, and I was glad to see it go.
I must have been a bird myself in another existence, for I have often that longing to fly upon me, and it makes my heart swell with a great impatience that I cannot.
But I could not help remarking to Sir Adrian that the bird's last look round had been full of anger rather than gratitude, and his answer, as he watched it sweep heavily away, was too gloomy to please me: "Gratitude," said he, "is as rare as unselfishness.
If it were not so this world would be different indeed.
As it is, we have no more right to expect the one than the other.
And, when all is said and done, if doing a so-called kind action gives us pleasure, it is only a special form of self-indulgence."
There is something wrong about a reasoning of this kind, but I could not exactly point out where.
We both stood gazing out from our platform upon the darkening waters.
Then across our vision there crept, round the promontory, a beautiful ship with all sails set, looking like some gigantic white bird; sailing, sailing, so swiftly yet so surely by, through the dim light; and I cried out in admiration: for there is something in the sight of a ship silently gliding that always sets my heart beating.
But Sir Adrian's face grew stern, and he said: "A ship is a whitened sepulchre."
But for all that he looked at it long and pensively.
Now it had struck me before this that Sir Adrian, with all his kindness of heart, takes but a dismal view of human nature and human destiny; that to him what spoils the face of this world is that strife of life--which to me is as the breath of my nostrils, the absence of which made my convent days so grey and hateful to look back upon.
I did not like to feel out of harmony with him, and so almost angrily I reproached him.
"Would you have every one live like a limpet on a rock?"
cried I.
"Great heavens!
I would rather be dead than not be up and doing."
He looked at me gravely, pityingly.
"May _you_ never see what I have seen," said he.
"May you never learn what men have made of the world.
God keep your fair life from such ways as mine has been made to follow."
The words filled me, I don't know why, with sudden misgiving.
Is this life, I am so eager for, but horror and misery after all?
Would it be better to leave the book unopened?
They said so at the convent.
But what can they know of life at a convent?
He bent his kind face towards mine in the thickening gloom, as though to read my thoughts, and his lips moved, but he did not speak aloud.
Then, above the song of the waves as they gathered, rolled in, and fell upon the shingle all around, there came the beat of oars.
"Hark," said Sir Adrian, "our good René!"
His tone was cheerful again, and, as he hurried me away down the stairs, I knew he was glad to divert me from the melancholy into which he had allowed himself to drift.
And then "good René" came, bringing breezy life and cheerfulness with him, and a bundle and a letter for me.
Poor Madeleine!
It seems she has been quite ill with weeping for Molly; and, indeed, her dear scrawl was so illegible that I could hardly read it.
René says she was nearly as much upset by the joy as by the grief.
Mr. Landale was not at home; he had ridden to meet Tanty at Liverpool, for the dear old lady has been summoned back in hot haste with the news of my decease!
He for one, I thought to myself, will survive the shock of relief at learning that Molly has risen from the dead!
* * * * * Ting, ting, ting....
There goes my little clock, fussily counting the hour to tell me that I have written so long a time that I ought to be tired.
And so I am, though I have not told you half of all I meant to tell!
CHAPTER XVI THE RECLUSE AND THE SQUIRE I thought I should never get away from supper and be alone!
Rupert's air of cool triumph--it was triumph, however he may have wished to hide it--and Tanty's flow of indignation, recrimination, speculation, and amazement were enough to drive me mad.
But I held out.
I pretended I did not mind.
My cheeks were blazing, and I talked _à tort et à travers_.
I should have _died_ rather than that Rupert should have guessed at the tempest in my heart.
Now I am alone at last, thank God!
and it will be a relief to confide to my faithful diary the feelings that have been choking me these last two hours.
"Pride must have a fall."
Thus Rupert at supper, with reference, it is true, to some trivial incident, but looking at me hard and full, and pointing the words with his meaning smile.
The fairies who attended at my birth endowed me with one power, which, however doubtful a blessing it may prove in the long run, has nevertheless been an unspeakable comfort to me hitherto.
This is the reverse of what I heard a French gentleman term _l'esprit de l'escalier_.
Thanks to this fairy godmother of mine, the instant some one annoys or angers me there rises on the tip of my tongue the most galling rejoinder that can possibly be made in the circumstances.
And I need not add: _I make it_.
To-night, when Rupert flung his scoff at me, I was ready for him.
"I trust the old adage has not been brought home to you, _Sir_ Rupert," said I, and then pretending confusion.
"I beg your pardon," I added, "I have been so accustomed to address the head of the house these last days that the word escaped me unawares."
The shot told _well_, and I was glad--glad of the murderous rage in Rupert's eyes, for I knew I had hit him on the raw.
Even Tanty looked perturbed, but Rupert let me alone for the rest of supper.
He is right nevertheless, that is what stung me.
I am humbled, _and I cannot bear it_!
Sir Adrian has left.
I was so triumphant to bring him back to Pulwick this morning, to have circumvented Rupert's plans, and (let me speak the truth,) so happy to have him with me that I did not attempt to conceal my exultation.
And now he has gone, gone without a word to me; only this miserable letter of determined farewell.
I will copy it--for in my first anger I have so crumpled the paper that it is scarcely readable.
"My child, I must go back to my island.
The world is not for me, nor am I for the world, nor would I cast the shadow of my gloomy life further upon your bright one.
Let me tell you, however, that you have left me the better for your coming; that it will be a good thought to me in my loneliness to know of your mother's daughters so close to me.
When you look across at the beacon of Scarthey, child, through the darkness, think that though I may not see you again I shall ever follow and keep guard upon your life and upon your sister's, and that, even when you are far from Pulwick, the light will burn and the heart of Adrian Landale watch so long as it may beat."
I have shed more tears--hot tears of anger--since I received this than I have wept in all my life before.
Madeleine came in to me just now, too full of the happiness of having me back, poor darling, to be able to bear me out of sight again; but I have driven her from me with such cross words that she too is in tears.
I must be alone and I must collect myself and my thoughts, for I want to state exactly all that has happened and then perhaps I shall be able to see my way more clearly.
* * * * * This morning then, early after breakfast, I started across the waters between René and Sir Adrian, regretting to leave the dear hospitable island, yet with my heart dancing within me, as gaily as did our little boat upon the chopping waves, to be carrying the hermit back with me.
I had been deadly afraid lest he should at the last moment have sent me alone with the servant; but when he put on his big cloak, when I saw René place a bag at the bottom of the boat, I knew he meant to come--perhaps remain some days at Pulwick, and my spirits went up, up!
It was a lovely day, too; the air had a crisp, cold sparkle, and the waters looked so blue under the clear, frosty sky.
I could have sung as we rowed along, and every time I met Sir Adrian's eye I smiled at him out of the happiness of my heart.
His look hung on me--we French have a word for that which is not translatable, _Il me couvait des yeux_--and, as every day of the three we had spent together I had thought him younger and handsomer, so this morning out in the bright sunlight I said to myself, I could never wish to see a more noble man.
When we landed--and it was but a little way, for the tide was low--there was the carriage waiting, and René, all grins, handed over our parcels to the footman.
Then we got in, the wheels began slowly dragging across the sand to the road, the poor horses pulling and straining, for it was heavy work.
And René stood watching us by his boat, his hand over his eyes, a black figure against the dazzling sunshine on the bay; but I could see his white teeth gleam in that broad smile of his from out of his shadowy face.
As, at length, we reached the high road and bowled swiftly along, I would not let Sir Adrian have peace to think, for something at my heart told me he hated the going back to Pulwick, and I so chattered and fixed his attention that as the carriage drew up he was actually laughing.
When we stopped another carriage in front moved off, and there on the porch stood--Rupert and Tanty!
Poor Tanty, her old face all disfigured with tears and a great black bonnet and veil towering on her head.
I popped _my_ head out of the window and called to them.
When they caught sight of me, both seemed to grow rigid with amazement.
And then across Rupert's face came such a look of fury, and such a deathly pallor!
I had thought, certainly, he would not weep the eyes out of his head for me; but that he should be stricken with _anger_ to see me alive I had hardly expected, and for the instant it frightened me.
But then I had no time to observe anything else, for Tanty collapsed upon the steps and went off into as fine a fit of hysterics as I have ever seen.
But fortunately it did not last long.
Suddenly in the middle of her screams and rockings to and fro she perceived Sir Adrian as he leant anxiously over her.
With the utmost energy she clutched his arm and scrambled to her feet.
"Is it you, me poor child?"
she cried, "Is it you?"
And then she turned from him, as he stood with his gentle, earnest face looking down upon her, and gave Rupert a glare that might have slain him.
I knew at once what she was thinking: I had experienced myself that it was impossible to see Sir Adrian and connect his dignified presence for one second with the scandalous impression Rupert would have conveyed.
As for Rupert, he looked for the first time since I knew him thoroughly unnerved.
Then Tanty caught me by the arm and shook me: "How _dare_ you, miss, how dare you?"
she cried, her face was flaming.
"How dare I what?"
asked I, as I hugged her.
"How dare you be walking about when it is dead you are, and give us all such a fright--there--there, you know what I mean.--Adrian," she whimpered, "give me your arm, my nephew, and conduct me into your house.
All this has upset me very much.
But, oh, am I not glad to see you both, my children!"
In they went together.
And my courage having risen again to its usual height, I waited purposely on the porch to tease Rupert a little.
I had a real pleasure in noticing how he trembled with agitation beneath his mask.
"Well, are you glad to see me, Cousin Rupert?"
said I.
He took my hand; his fingers were damp and cold.
"Can you ask, my fair cousin?"
he sneered.
"Do you not see me overcome with joy?
Am I not indeed especially favoured by Providence, for is not this the second time that a beloved being has been restored into my arms like Lazarus from the grave?"
I was indignant at the heartlessness of his cynicism, and so the answer that leaped to my lips was out before I had time to reflect upon its unladylikeness.
"Ay," said I, "and each time you have cried in your soul, like Martha, 'Behold, he stinketh.'"
My cousin laughed aloud.
"You have a sharp tongue," he said, "take care you are not cut with it yourself some day."
Just then the footmen who had been unpacking Tanty's trunks from the first carriage laid a great wooden box upon the porch, and one of them asked Rupert which room they should bring it to.
Rupert looked at it strangely, and then at me.
"Take it where you will," he exclaimed at last.
"There lies good money-value wasted--though, after all, one never knows."
"What is it?"
said I, struck by a sinister meaning in his accents.
"Mourning, beautiful Molly--mourning for you--crape--gowns--weepers--wherewith to have dried your sister's tears--but not needed yet, you see."
He bared his teeth at me over his shoulder--I could not call it a smile--and then paused, as he was about to brush past into the hall, to give me the _pas_, with a mocking bow.
He does not even attempt now to hide his dislike of me, nor to draw for me that cloak of suave composure over the fierce temper that is always gnawing at his vitals as surely as fox ever gnawed little Spartan.
He sees that it is useless, I suppose.
As I went upstairs to greet Madeleine, I laughed to myself to think how Fate had circumvented the plotter.
Alas, how foolish I was to laugh!
Rupert is a dangerous enemy, and I have made him mine; and in a few hours he has shuffled the cards, and now he holds the trumps again.
For that there is _du Rupert_ in this sudden departure of my knight, I am convinced.
Of course, _his_ reasons are plain to see.
It is the vulgarest ambition that prompts him to oust his brother for as long as possible--for ever, if he can.
And now, _I_ am outwitted.
_Je rage._ I have never been so unhappy.
My heart feels all crushed.
I see no help anywhere.
I cannot in common decency go and seek Sir Adrian upon his island again, and so I sit and cry.
* * * * * Immediately upon his arrival Tanty was closeted with Sir Adrian in the chamber allotted to her for so long a space of time that Rupert, watching below in an inward fever, now flung back in his chair biting his nails, now restlessly pacing the room from end to end, his mind working on the new problem, his ears strained to catch the least sound the while, was fain at last to ring and give orders for the immediate sounding of the dinner bell (a good hour before that meal might be expected) as the only chance of interrupting a conference which boded so ill to his plans.
Meanwhile Madeleine sobbed out the story of her grief and joy on Molly's heart; and Miss Sophia, who thus inconsiderately arrested in the full congenial flow of a new grief, was thrown back upon her old sorrows for consolation, had felt impelled to pay a visit to the rector's grave with the watering-can, and an extra pocket-handkerchief.
Never perhaps since that worthy clergyman had gasped out his last struggling breath upon her bosom had she known more unmixed satisfaction than during those days when she hovered round poor prostrate Madeleine's bed and poured into her deaf ear the tale of her own woes and the assurances of her thoroughly understanding sympathy.
She had been looking forward, with a chastened eagerness, to the arrival of the mourning, and had already derived a good deal of pleasure from the donning of certain aged weeds treasured in her wardrobe; it was therefore a distinct though quite unconscious disappointment when the news came which put an untimely end to all these funereal revels.
At the shrill clamour of the bell, as Rupert anticipated, Adrian emerged instantly from his aunt's room, and a simultaneous jingle of minor bells announced that the ladies' attention was in all haste being turned to toilet matters.
Whatever had passed between his good old relative and his sensitive brother, Rupert's quick appraising glance at the latter's face, as he went slowly down the corridor to his own specially reserved apartment, was sufficient to confirm the watcher in his misgiving that matters were not progressing as he might wish.
Sir Adrian seemed absorbed, it is true, in grave thought, but his countenance was neither distressed nor gloomy.
With a spasm of fierce annoyance, and a bitter curse on the meddling of old females and young, Rupert had to admit that never had he seen his brother look more handsome, more master of the house and of himself, more _sane_.
A few minutes later the guests of Pulwick assembled in the library one by one, with the exception of Sophia, still watering the last resting-place of the Rev.
Herbert Lee.
Adrian came first, closely followed by Tanty, who turned a marked shoulder upon her younger nephew and devoted all her attention to the elder--in which strained condition of affairs the conversation between the three was not likely to be lively.
Next the sisters, attired alike in white, entered together, bringing a bright vision of youth and loveliness into the old room.
At sight of them Adrian sprang to his feet with a sudden sharp ejaculation, upon which the two girls halted on the threshold, half shy, half smiling.
For the moment, in the shadow of the doorway, they were surprisingly like each other, the difference of colouring being lost in their curious similarity of contour.
My God, were there then two Céciles?
Beautiful, miraculous, consoling had been to the mourner in his loneliness the apparition of his dead love restored to life, every time his eyes had fallen upon Molly during these last few blessed days; but this new development was only like a troublous mocking dream.
Tanty turned in startled amazement.
She could feel the shudder that shook his frame, through the hand with which he still unconsciously grasped at the back of her chair.
An irrepressible smile crept to Rupert's lips.
The little interlude could not have lasted more than a few seconds when Molly, recovering her usual self-possession, came boldly forward, leading her sister by the tips of her fingers.
"Cousin Adrian," she said, "my sister Madeleine has many things to say to you in thanks for your care of my valuable person, but just now she is too bashful to be able to utter one quarter of them."
As the girls emerged into the room, and the light from the great windows struck upon Madeleine's fair curls and the delicate pallor of her cheek; as she extended her hand, and raised to Adrian's face, while she dropped her pretty curtsey, the gaze of two unconsciously plaintive blue eyes, the man dashed the sweat from his brow with a gesture of relief.
Nothing could be more unlike the dark beauty of the ghost of his dreams or its dashing presentment now smiling confidently upon him from Tanty's side.
He took the little hand with tender pressure: Cécile's daughter must be precious to him in any case.
Madeleine, moreover, had a certain appealing grace that was apt to steal the favour that Molly won by storm.
"But, indeed, I could never tell Sir Adrian how grateful I am," said she, with a timidity that became her as thoroughly as Molly's fearlessness suited her own stronger personality.
At the sound of her voice, again the distressful nightmare-like feeling seized Sir Adrian's soul.
Of all characteristics that, as the phrase is, "go in families," voices are generally the most peculiarly generic.
When Molly first addressed Sir Adrian, it had been to him as a voice from the grave; now Madeleine's gentle speech tripped forth upon that self-same note--Cécile's own voice!
And next Molly caught up the sound, and then Madeleine answered again.
What they said, he could not tell; these ghosts--these speaking ghosts--brought back the old memories too painfully.
It was thus Cécile had spoken in the first arrogance of her dainty youth and loveliness; and in those softer tones when sorrow and work and failure had subdued her proud spirit.
And now she laughs; and hark, the laugh is echoed!
Sir Adrian turns as if to seek some escape from this strange form of torture, meets Rupert's eye and instinctively braces himself into self-control.
"Come, come," cried Miss O'Donoghue, in her comfortable, commonplace, cheerful tone: "This dinner bell of yours, Adrian, has raised false hopes, which seem to tarry in their fulfilment.
What are we waiting for, may I ask?"
Adrian looked at his brother.
"Rupert, you know, my dear aunt," he said, "has the ordering of these matters."
"Sophia is yet absent," quoth Rupert drily, "but we can proceed without her, if my aunt wishes."
"Pooh, yes.
Sophia!"
snorted Miss O'Donoghue, grasping Sir Adrian's arm to show herself quite ready for the march, "Sophia!
We all know what she is.
Why, my dear Adrian, she'll never hear the bell till it has stopped this half hour."
"Dinner," cried Rupert sharply to the butler, whom his pull of the bell-rope had summoned.
And dinner being served, the guests trooped into that dining-room which was full of such associations to Sir Adrian.
It was a little thing, but, nevertheless, intensely galling to Rupert to have to play second gentleman, and give up his privileges as host to his brother.
Usually indeed Adrian cared too little to stand upon his rights, and insisted upon Rupert's continuing to act in his presence as he did in his absence; but this afternoon Tanty had left him no choice.
Nevertheless, as Mr. Landale sat down between the sisters, and turned smiling to address first one and then the other, it would have taken a very practised eye to discern under the extra urbanity of his demeanour the intensity of his inward mortification.
He talked a great deal and exerted himself to make the sisters talk likewise, bantering Molly into scornful and eager retorts, and preventing Madeleine from relapsing into that state of dreaminess out of which the rapid succession of her recent sorrow and joy had somewhat shaken her.
The girls were both excited, both ready to laugh and jest.
Tanty, satisfied to see Adrian preside at the head of the table with a grave, courteous, and self-contained manner that completely fulfilled her notions of what family dignity required of him, cracked her jokes, ate her dinner, and quaffed her cup with full enjoyment, laughing indulgently at her grand-nieces' sallies, and showing as marked a disfavour to Rupert as she deemed consistent with good manners.
The poor old lady little guessed how the workings in each brother's mind were all the while, silently but inevitably, tending towards the destruction of her newly awakened hopes.
* * * * * There was silence between Sir Adrian and Rupert when at last they were left alone together.
The elder's gaze wandering in space, his absent hand softly beating the table, his relaxed frame--all showed that his mind was far away from thought of the younger's presence.
The relief to be delivered from the twin echoes of a haunting voice--once the dearest on earth to him--was immense.
But his whole being was still quivering under the first acuteness of so disturbing an impression.
His years of solitude, moreover, had ill prepared him for social intercourse; the laughter, the clash of conversation, the noise on every side, the length of the meal, the strain to maintain a fit and proper attitude as host, had tried to the utmost nerves by nature hypersensitive.
Rupert, who had leisure to study the suddenly lined and tired lineaments of the abstracted countenance before him, noted with self-congratulation the change that a few hours seemed to have wrought upon it, and decided that the moment had come to strike.
"So, Adrian," he said, looking down demurely as he spoke into the glass of wine he had been toying with--Rupert was an abstemious man.
"So, Adrian, you have been playing the chivalrous rôle of rescuer of distressed damsels--squire of dames and what not.
The last one would have ascribed to you at least at this end of your life.
Ha," throwing up his head with a mirthless laugh; "how little any of us would have thought what a blessing in disguise your freak of self-exile was destined to become to us!"
At the sound of the incisive voice Adrian had returned with a slight shiver from distant musing to the consciousness of the other's presence.
"And did you not always look upon my exile as a blessing undisguised, Rupert?"
answered he, fixing his brother with his large grave gaze.
Rupert's eyelids wavered a little beneath it, but his tone was coolly insolent as he made reply: "If it pleases you to make no count of our fraternal affection for you, my dear fellow; if by insisting upon _our_ unnatural depravity you contrive a more decent excuse for your own vagaries, you have my full permission to dub me Cain at once and have done with it."
A light sigh escaped the elder man, and then he resolutely closed his lips.
It was by behaviour such as this, by his almost diabolical ingenuity in the art of being uncongenial, that Rupert had so largely contributed to make his own house impossible to him.
But where was the use of either argument or expostulation with one so incapable of even understanding the mainsprings of his actions?
Moreover (_he_, above all, must not forget it) Rupert had suffered through him in pride and self-esteem.
And yet, despite Sir Adrian's philosophic mind, despite his vast, pessimistic though benevolent tolerance for erring human nature, his was a very human heart; and it added not a little to the sadness of his lot at every return to Pulwick (dating from that first most bitter home-coming) to feel in every fibre of his being how little welcome he was where the ties of flesh and blood alone, not to speak of his most ceaseless yet delicate generosity, should have ensured him a very different reception.
Again he sighed, this time more deeply, and the corners of Rupert's lips, the arch of his eyebrows, moved upwards in smiling interrogation.
"It must have given you a shock," said Mr. Landale, carelessly, "to see the resemblance between Molly and poor Cécile; not, of course, that _I_ can remember her; but Tanty says it is something startling."
Adrian assented briefly.
"I daresay it seems quite painful to you at first," proceeded Rupert, much in the same deliberate manner as a surgeon may lay bare a wound, despite the knowledge of the suffering he is inflicting, "I noticed that you seemed upset during dinner.
But probably the feeling will wear off."
"Probably."
"Madeleine resembles her father, I am told; but then you never saw the _feu Comte_, did you?
Well, they are both fine handsome girls, full of life and spirits.
It is our revered relative's intention to leave them here--as perhaps she has told you--for two months or so."
"I have begged her," said Sir Adrian gravely, "to make them understand that I wish them to look upon Pulwick as their home."
"Very right, very proper," cried the other; "in fact I knew that was what you would wish--and your wishes, of course, are my law in the matter.
By the way, I hope you quite understand, Adrian, how it happened that I did _not_ notify to you the arrival of these guests extraordinary--knowing that you have never got over their mother's death, and all that--it was entirely from a wish to spare you.
Besides, there was your general prohibition about my visitors; I did not dare to take the responsibility in fact.
And so I told Tanty."
"I do not wish to doubt the purity of your motives, though it would have grieved me had _these_ visitors (no ordinary ones as you yourself admit) come and gone without my knowledge.
As it fell out, however, even without that child's dangerous expedition, I should have been informed in any case--René knew."
"René knew?"
cried Rupert, surprised; and "damn René" to himself with heart-felt energy.
That the infernal little spy, as he deemed his brother's servant, should have made a visit to Pulwick without his knowledge was unpleasant news, and it touched him on his tenderest point.
But now, replenishing his half-emptied glass to give Adrian no excuse for putting an end to the conference before he himself desired it, he plunged into the heart of the task he had set himself without further delay: "And what would you wish me to do, Adrian," he asked, with a pretty air of deference, "in the matter of entertaining these ladies?
I have thought of several things likely to afford them amusement, but, since you are here, you will readily understand that I should like your authorisation first.
I am anxious to consult you when I can," he added, apologetically.
"So forgive my attacking you upon business to-night when you seem really so little fitted for it--but you know one cannot count upon you from one minute to another!
What would you say if I were to issue invitations for a ball?
Pulwick was noted for its hospitality in the days of our fathers, and the gloom that has hung over the old home these last eight years has been (I suppose) unavoidable in the circumstances--but none the less a pity.
No fear but that our fair cousins would enjoy such a festivity, and I think I can promise you that the sound of our revels should not reach as far as your hermitage."
A slow colour had mounted to Adrian's cheeks; he drew his brows together with an air of displeasure; Rupert, quick to read these symptoms, hastened to pursue the attack before response should be made: "The idea does not seem to please you," he cried, as if in hurt surprise.
"'Tis true I have now no legal right to think of reviving the old hospitable traditions of the family; but you must remember, Adrian, you yourself have insisted on giving me a moral right to act host here in your absence--you have over and over again laid stress upon the freedom you wished me to feel in the matter.
Hitherto I have not made use of these privileges; have not cared to do so, beyond an occasional duty dinner to our nearest neighbours.
A lonely widower like myself, why should I?
But now, with these gay young things in the house--so near to us in blood--I had thought it so much our duty to provide fitting entertainment for them that your attitude is incomprehensible to me.
Come!
does it not strike you as savouring a little of the unamiable dog in the fable?
I know you hate company yourself, and all the rest of it; but how can these things here affect you upon your island?
As for the budget, it will stand it, I assure you.
I speak hotly; pray excuse me.
I own I have looked forward to the thought of seeing once more young and happy faces around me."
"You mistake me," said Sir Adrian with an effort; "while you are acting as my representative you have, as you know, all liberty to entertain what guests you choose, and as you see fit.
It is natural, perhaps, that you should now believe me anxious to hurry back to the lighthouse, and I should have told you before that it is my intention this time to remain longer than my wont, in which circumstance the arrangements for the entertaining of our relatives will devolve upon myself."
Rupert broke into a loud laugh.
"Forgive me, but the idea is too ludicrous!
What sort of funeral festivities do you propose to provide to the neighbourhood, with you and Sophia presiding, the living images of mourning and desolation?
There, my dear fellow, I _must_ laugh.
It will be the skeleton at the feast with a vengeance.
Why, even to-night, in the bosom of your family, as it were, your presence lay so like a wet blanket upon us all that, 'pon my soul, I nearly cracked my voice trying to keep those girls from noticing it!
Seriously, I am delighted, of course, that you should feel so sportive, and it is high time indeed that the neighbourhood should see something of you, but I fear you are reckoning beyond your strength.
Anyhow, command me.
I shall be anxious to help you all I can in this novel departure.
What are your plans?"
"I have laid no plans," answered Sir Adrian coldly, after a slight pause, "but you do not need me to tell you, Rupert, that to surround myself with such gaiety as you suggest is impossible."
"You mean to make our poor little cousins lead as melancholy an existence as you do yourself then," cried Rupert with an angry laugh.
Matters were not progressing as he could have wished.
"I fear this will cause a good deal of disappointment, not only to them but to our revered aunt--for she is very naturally anxious to see her charges married and settled, and she told me that she more or less counted upon my aid in the matter.
Now as you are here of course I have, thank Heaven, nothing more to say one way or another.
But you will surely think of asking a few likely young fellows over to the house, occasionally?
We are not badly off for eldest sons in the neighbourhood; Molly, who is as arrant a little flirt, they tell me, as she is pretty, will be grateful to you for the attention, on the score of amusement at least."
Mr. Landale, speaking somewhat at random out of his annoyance to have failed in immediately disgusting the hermit of the responsibilities his return home might entail, here succeeded by chance in producing the desired impression.
The idea of Molly--Cécile's double--marrying--worse still, making love, coquetting before his eyes, was intolerable to Adrian.
To have to look on, and see _Cécile's_ eyes lavish glances of love; _her_ lips, soft words and lingering smiles, upon some country fool; to have himself to give this duplicate of his love's sweet body to one unworthy perhaps--it stung him with a pain as keen as it was unreasonable.
It was terrible to be so made, that the past was ever as living as the present!
But he must face the situation, he must grapple with his own weakness.
Tender memories had lured him from his retreat and made him for a short time almost believe that he could live with them, happy a little while, in his own home again; but now it was these very memories that were rising like avengers to drive him hence.
Of course the child must marry if there her happiness lay.
Ay, and both Cécile's children must be amused, made joyful, while they still could enjoy life--Rupert was right--right in all he said--but he, Adrian, could not be there to see.
That was beyond his endurance.
It was impossible of course, for one so single-minded himself, to follow altogether the doublings of such a mind as Rupert's; but through the melancholy relief of this sudden resolution, Adrian was distinctly conscious of the underlying duplicity, the unworthy motives which had prompted his brother's arguments.
He rose from the table, and looked down with sad gaze at the younger's beautiful mask of a face.
"God knows," he said, "God knows, Rupert, I do not so often inflict my presence upon you that you should be so anxious to show me how much better I should do to keep away.
I admit nevertheless the justice of all you say.
It is but right that Mesdemoiselles de Savenaye should be surrounded with young and cheerful society; and even were I in a state to act as master of the revels (here he smiled a little dreamily), my very presence, as you say, would cast a gloom upon their merrymaking--I will go.
I will go back to the island to-night--I can rely upon you to assist me to do so quietly without unnecessary scenes or explanations--yes--yes--I know you will be ready to facilitate matters!
Strange!
It is only a few hours ago since Tanty almost persuaded me that it was my duty to remain here; now you have made me see that I have no choice but to leave.
Have no fear, Rupert--I go.
I shall write to Tanty.
But remember only, that as you treat Cécile's children, so shall I shape my actions towards you in future."
Slowly he moved away, leaving Rupert motionless in his seat; and long did the younger brother remain moodily fixing the purple bloom of the grapes with unseeing eyes.
PART III "CAPTAIN JACK," THE GOLD SMUGGLER CHAPTER XVII THE GOLD SMUGGLER AND THE PHILOSOPHER On the evening of the day which had seen Miss Molly's departure for the main land, René, after the usual brisk post-prandial altercation with old Margery by her kitchen fire, was cheerfully finding his way, lantern in hand, to his turret, when in the silence of the night he heard the door of the keep open and close, and presently recognised Sir Adrian's tread echoing on the flagged steps beneath him.
Astonished at this premature return and full of vague dismay, he hurried down to receive his master.
There was a cloud on Sir Adrian's face, plainly discernible in spite of the unaltered composure of his manner.
"I did not expect your honour back so soon," said René, tentatively.
"I myself did not anticipate to return.
I had thought I might perhaps stay some days at Pulwick.
But I find there is no home like this one for me, René."
There was a long silence.
But when René had rekindled a blaze upon the hearth and set the lamp upon the table, he stood a moment before withdrawing, almost begging by his look some further crumb of information.
"My room is ready, I suppose?"
inquired Sir Adrian.
"Yes, your honour," quoth the man ruefully, "Margery and I put it back exactly as--as before."
"Good-night then, good-night!"
said the master after a pause, warming his hands as the flames began to leap through the network of twigs.
"I shall go to bed, I am tired; I had to row myself across.
You will take the boat back to-morrow morning."
René opened his mouth to speak; caught the sound of a sigh coming from the hearthside, and, shaking his head, in silence obeyed the implied dismissal.
And bitterly did he meditate in his bunk, that night, upon the swift crumbling of those air-castles he had built himself so gaily erstwhile, in the rose and blue atmosphere that _La Demoiselle_ had seemed to bring with her to Scarthey.
* * * * * From the morrow the old regular mode of life began again in the keep.
Sir Adrian read a good deal, or at least appeared so to do; but René, who kept him more than ever under his glances of wistful sympathy, noted that far from being absorbed, as of old, in the pages of his book, the recluse's eyes wandered much off its edges into space; that when writing, or at least intent on writing, his pen would linger long in the bottle and hover listlessly over the paper; that he was more abstracted, even than his wont, when looking out of the eastern window; and that on the platform of the beacon it was the landward view which most drew his gaze.
There was also more music in the keep than was the custom in evener days.
Seated at his organ the light-keeper seemed to find a voice for such thoughts as were not to be spoken or written, and relief for the nameless pity of them.
But never a word passed between the two men on the subject that filled both their hearts.
It was Sir Adrian's pleasure that things at Scarthey should seem to be exactly the same as before, and that was enough for René.
"And yet," mused the faithful fellow, within his disturbed mind, "the ruins now look like a house the day after an interment.
If we were lonely before, my faith, now we are desolate?"
and, trying to find something or somebody to charge with the curse of it, he invariably fell to upon Mr. Landale's sleek head, why, he could hardly have explained.
Three new days had thus passed in the regularity, if not the serenity of the old--they seemed old already, buried far back in the past, those days that had lapsed so evenly before the brightness of youthful and beautiful life had entered the keep for one brief moment, and departing, again left it a ruin indeed--when the retirement of Scarthey was once more invaded by an unexpected visitor.
It was about sundown of the shortest day.
Sir Adrian was at his organ, almost unconsciously interpreting his own sadness into music.
In time the yearning of his soul had had expression, the echo of the last sighing chord died away in the tranquil air, yet the musician, with head bent upon his breast, remained lost in far-away thoughts.
A slight shuffling noise disturbed him; turning round to greet René as he supposed, he was astonished to see a man's figure lolling in his own arm-chair.
As he peered inquiringly into the twilight, the intruder rose to his feet, and cried with a voice loud and clear, pleasant withal to the ear: "Sir Adrian, I am sorry you have stopped so soon; I never heard anything more beautiful!
The door was ajar, and I crept in like a cat, not to disturb you."
Still in doubt, but with his fine air of courtesy, the light-keeper advanced towards the uninvited guest.
"Am I mistaken," he said, with some hesitation, "surely this is Hubert Cochrane's voice?"
"Jack Smith's voice, my dear fellow; Jack Smith, at your service, please to remember," answered the visitor, with a genial ring of laughter in his words.
"Not that it matters much here, I suppose!
Had I not heard the peal of your organ I should have thought Scarthey deserted indeed.
I could find no groom of the chambers to announce me in due form."
As he spoke, the two had drawn near each other and clasped hands heartily.
"Now, to think of your knowing my voice in this manner!
You have a devilish knack of spotting your man, Sir Adrian.
It is almost four years since I was here last, is it not?"
"Four years?--so it is; and four years that have done well by you, it would appear.
What a picture of strength and lustiness!
It really seems to regenerate one, and put heart of grace in one, only to take you by the hand.--Welcome, Captain Smith!"
Nothing could have more succinctly described the outer man of him who chose to be known by that most nondescript of patronymics.
Sir Adrian stood for a moment, contemplating, with glances of approval such as he seldom bestowed on his fellow-man, the symmetrical, slender, yet vigorous figure of his friend, and responding with an unwonted cheerfulness to the smile that lit up the steel-blue eyes, and parted the shapely, strong, and good-humoured mouth of the privateersman.
"Dear me, and what a buck we have become!"
continued the baronet, "what splendid plumage!
It is good to see you so prosperous.
And so this is the latest fashion?
No doubt it sets forth the frame of a goodly man, though no one could guess at the 'sea dog' beneath such a set of garments.
I used to consider my brother Rupert the most especial dandy I had ever seen; but that, evidently, was my limited experience: even Rupert cannot display so perfect a fit in bottle-green coats, so faultless a silken stock, buckskins of such matchless drab!"
Captain Jack laughed, blushed slightly under the friendly banter, and allowed himself to be thrust back into the seat he had just vacated.
"Welcome again, on my lonely estate.
I hope this is not to be a mere flying visit?
You know my misanthropy vanishes when I have your company.
How did you come?
Not by the causeway, I should say," smiling again, and glancing at the unblemished top-boots.
"I have two men waiting for me in the gig below; my schooner, the _Peregrine_, lies in the offing."
The elder man turned to the window, and through the grey curtain of crepuscule recognised the rakish topsail schooner that had excited Molly's admiration some days before.
He gazed forth upon it a few meditative moments.
"Not knowing whether I would find you ready to receive me," pursued the captain, "I arranged that the _Peregrine_ was to wait for me if I had to return to-night."
"Which, of course, is not to be heard of," said Sir Adrian.
"Here is Renny; he will carry word that with me you remain to-night.... Come, Renny, do you recognise an old acquaintance?"
Already well disposed towards any one who could call this note of pleasure into the loved voice, the Breton, who had just entered, turned to give a broad stare at the handsome stranger, then burst into a guffaw of pure delight.
"By my faith, it is Mr. the Lieutenant!"
he ejaculated; adding, as ingeniously as Tanty herself might have done, that he would never have known him again.
"It is Mr. the Captain now, Renny," said that person, and held out a strong hand to grip that of the little Frenchman, which the latter, after the preliminary rubbing upon his trousers that his code of manners enjoined, readily extended.
"Ah, it is a good wind that sent you here this day," said he, with a sigh of satisfaction when this ceremony had been duly gone through.
"You say well," acquiesced his master, "it has ever been a good wind that has brought Captain Jack across my path."
And then receiving directions to refresh the gig's crew and dismiss them back to their ship with instructions to return for orders on the morrow, the servant hurried forth, leaving the two friends once more alone.
"Thanks," said Captain Jack, when the door had closed upon the messenger.
"That will exactly suit my purpose.
I have a good many things to talk over with you, since you so kindly give me the opportunity.
In the first place, let me unburden myself of a debt which is now of old standing--and let me say at the same time," added the young man, rising to deposit upon the table a letter-case which he had taken from his breast-pocket, "that though my actual debt is now met, my obligation to you remains the same and will always be so.
You said just now that I looked prosperous, and so I am--owing somewhat to good luck, it is true, but owing above all to you.
No luck would have availed me much without _that_ to start upon."
And he pointed to the contents of the case, a thick bundle of notes which his host was now smilingly turning over with the tip of his fingers.
"I might have sent you a draft, but there is no letter-post that I know of to Scarthey, and, besides, it struck me that just as these four thousand pounds had privately passed between you and me, you might prefer them to be returned in the same manner."
"I prefer it, since it has brought you in person," said Sir Adrian, thrusting the parcel into a drawer and pulling his chair closer towards his guest.
"Dealings with a man like you give one a taste of an ideal world.
Would that more human transactions could be carried out in so simple and frank a manner as this little business of ours!"
Captain Jack laughed outright.
"Upon my word, you are a greater marvel to me every time I see you--which is not by any means often enough!"
The other raised his eyebrows in interrogation, and the sailor went on: "Is it really possible that it is to _my_ mode of dealing that you attribute the delightful simplicity of a transaction involving a little fortune from hand to hand?
And where pray, in this terraqueous sublunary sphere--I heard that good phrase from a literary exquisite at Bath, and it seems to me comprehensive--where, then, on this terraqueous sublunary globe of ours, Sir Adrian Landale, could one expect to find another person ready to lend a privateersman, trading under an irresponsible name, the sum of four thousand pounds, without any other security than his volunteered promise to return it--if possible?"
Sir Adrian, ignoring the tribute to his own merits, arose and placed his friendly hand on the speaker's shoulder: "And now, my dear Jack," he said gravely, "that the war is over, you will have to turn your energies in another direction.
I am glad you are out of that unworthy trade."
Captain Jack bounded up: "No, no, Sir Adrian, I value your opinion too much to allow such a statement to pass unchallenged.
Unworthy trade!
We have not given back those French devils one half of the harm they have done to our own merchant service; it was war, you know, and you know also, or perhaps you don't--in which case let me tell you--that my _Cormorant_ has made her goodly name, ay, and brought her commander a fair share of his credit, by her energy in bringing to an incredible number of those d----d French sharks--beg pardon, but you know the pestilent breed.
Well, we shall never agree upon the subject I fear.
As for me, the smart of the salt air, the sting of the salt breeze, the fighting, the danger, they have got into my blood; and even now it sometimes comes over me that life will not be perfect life to me without the dancing boards under my feet and the free waves around me, and my jolly boys to lead to death or glory.
Yet, could you but know it, this is the veriest treason, and I revoke the words a thousand times.
You look amazed, and well you may: ah, I have much to tell you!
But I take it you will not care to hear all I have been able to achieve on the basis of your munificent help at my--ahem, unworthy trade."
"Well, no," said Sir Adrian smiling, "I can quite imagine it, and imagine it without enthusiasm, though, perhaps, as you say, such things have to be.
But I should like to know of these present circumstances, these prospects which make you look so happy.
No doubt the fruits of peace?"
"Yes, I suppose in one way they may be called so.
Yet without the war and your helping hand they would even now hang as far from me as the grapes from the fox.--When I arrived in England three months after the peace had been signed, I had accumulated in the books of certain banks a tolerably respectable account, to the credit of a certain person, whose name, oddly enough, you on one or two occasions have applied, absently, to Captain Jack Smith.
I was, I will own, already feeling inclined to discuss with myself the propriety of assuming the name in question, when, there came something in my way of which I shall tell you presently; which something has made me resolve to remain Captain Smith for some time longer.
The old _Cormorant_ lay at Bristol, and being too big for this new purpose, I sold her.
It was like cutting off a limb.
I loved every plank of her; knew every frisk of her!
She served me well to the end, for she fetched her value--almost.
Next, having time on my hands, I bethought myself of seeing again a little of the world; and when I tell you that I drove over to Bath, you may perhaps begin to see what I am coming to."
Sir Adrian suddenly turned in his chair to face his friend again, with a look of singular attention.
"Well, no, not exactly, and yet--unless--?
Pshaw!
impossible----!"
upon which lucid commentary he stopped, gazing with anxious inquiry into Captain Jack's smiling eyes.
"Ah, I believe you have just a glimmer of the truth with that confounded perspicacity of yours," saying which the sailor laughed and blushed not unbecomingly.
"This is how it came about: I had transactions with old John Harewood, the banker, in Bristol, transactions advantageous to both sides, but perhaps most to him--sly old dog.
At any rate, the old fellow took a monstrous fancy to me, over his claret, and when I mentioned Bath, recommended me to call upon his wife (a very fine dame, who prefers the fashion of the Spa to the business of Bristol, and consequently lives as much in the former place as good John Harewood will allow).
Well, you wonder at my looking prosperous and happy.
Listen, for here is the _hic_: At Lady Maria Harewood's I met one who, if I mistake not, is of your kin.
Already, then, somewhere at the back of my memory dwelt the name of Savenaye----Halloa, bless me!
I have surely said nothing to----!"
The young man broke off, disconcerted.
Sir Adrian's face had become unwontedly clouded, but he waved the speaker on impatiently: "No, no, I am surprised, of course, only surprised; never mind me, my thoughts wandered--please go on.
So you have met her?"
"Ay, that I have!
Now it is no use beating about the bush.
You who know her--you do know her of course--will jump at once to the only possible conclusion.
Ah, Adrian!"
Captain Jack pursued, pacing enthusiastically about, "I have been no saint, and no doubt I have fancied myself as a lover once or twice ere this; but to see that girl, sir, means a change in a man's life: to have met the light of those sweet eyes is to love, to love in reality.
It is to feel ashamed of the idiotic make-believes of former loves.
To love her, even in vague hope, is to be glorious already; and, by George, to have her troth, is to be--I cannot say what ... to be what I am now!"
The lover's face was illumined; he walked the room like one treading on air as the joy within him found its voice in words.
Sir Adrian listened with an extraordinary tightness at his heart.
He had loved one woman even so; that love was still with him, as the scent clings to the phial; but the sight of this young, joyful love made him feel old in that hour--old as he had never realised before.
There was no room in his being for such love again.
And yet...?
There was a tremulous anxiety in the question he put, after a short pause.
"There are _two_ Demoiselles de Savenaye, Jack; which is it?"
Captain Jack halted, turned on his heels, and exclaimed enthusiastically: "To me there is but one--one woman in the world--Madeleine!"
His look met that of Sir Adrian in full, and even in the midst of his own self-centred mood he could not fail to notice the transient gleam that shot in the elder's eyes, and the sudden relaxation of his features.
He pondered for a moment or two, scanning the while the countenance of the recluse; then a smile lighted up his own bronzed face in a very sweet and winning way.
"As her kinsman, have I your approval?"
he asked and proceeded earnestly: "To tell the truth at once, I was looking to even more than your approval--to your support."
Sir Adrian's mood had undergone a change: as a breeze sweeping from a new quarter clears in a moment a darkening mist from the face of the earth, Captain Jack's answer had blown away for the nonce the atmosphere of misgiving that enveloped him.
He answered promptly, and with warmth: "Being your friend, I am glad to know of this; being her kinsman, I may add, my dear _Hubert_"--there was just a tinge of hesitation, followed by a certain emphasis, on the change of name--"I promise to support you in your hopes, in so far as I have any influence; for power or right over my cousin I have none."
The sailor threw himself down once more in his arm-chair; and, tapping his shining hessians with the stem of his long clay in smiling abstraction, began, with all a lover's egotism, to expatiate on the theme that filled his heart.
"It is a singular, an admirable, a never sufficiently-to-be-praised conjunction of affairs which has ultimately brought me near you when I was pursuing the Light o' my Heart, ruthlessly snatched away by a cunning and implacable dragon, known to you as Miss O'Donoghue.
I say _dragon_ in courtesy; I called her by better names before I realised what a service she was unconsciously rendering us by this sudden removal."
"Known to me!"
laughed Sir Adrian.
"My own mother's sister!"
"Then I still further retract.
Moreover, seeing how things have turned out, I must now regard her as an angel in disguise.
Don't look so surprised!
Has she not brought my love under your protection?
I thought I was tolerably proof against the little god, but then he had never shot his arrows at me from between the long lashes of Madeleine de Savenaye.
Oh, those eyes, Adrian!
So unlike those southern eyes I have known so well, too well in other days, brilliant, hard, challenging battle from the first glance, and yet from the first promising that surrender which is ever so speedy.
Pah!
no more of such memories.
Before _her_ blue eyes, on my first introduction, I felt--well, I felt as the novice does under the first broadside."
The speaker looked dreamily into space, as if the delicious moment rose again panoramically before him.
"Well," he pursued, "that did me no harm, after all.
Lady Maria Harewood, who, I have learned since, deals strongly in sentiment, and, being unfortunately debarred by circumstances from indulgence in the soothing luxury on her own behalf, loves to promote matches more poetical--she calls it more 'harmonious'--than her own very prosaic one, she, dear lady, was delighted with such a rarity as a bashful privateersman--her 'tame corsair,' as I heard her call your humble servant.--I was a hero, sir, a perfect hero of romance in the course of a few days!
On the strength of this renown thrust upon me I found grace before the most adorable blue eyes; had words of sympathy from the sweetest lips, and smiles from the most bewitching little mouth in all the world.
So you see I owe poor Lady Maria a good thought.... You laugh?"
Sir Adrian was smiling, but all in benevolence, at the artlessness of this eager youth, who in all the unconscious glory of his looks and strength, ascribed the credit of his entrance into a maiden's heart to the virtue of a few irresponsible words of recommendation.
"Ah!
those were days!
Everything went on smoothly, and I was debating with myself whether I would not, at once, boldly ask her to be the wife of Hubert Cochrane; though the casting of Jack Smith's skin would have necessitated the giving up of several of his free-trading engagements."
"Free trading!
You do not mean to say, man alive, that you have turned smuggler now!"
interrupted Sir Adrian aghast.
"Smuggler," cried Jack with his frank laugh, "peace, I beg, friend!
Miscall not a gentleman thus.
Smuggler--pirate?
I cut a pretty figure evidently in your worship's eyes.
Lucky for me you never would be sworn as a magistrate, or where should I be ... and you too, between duty and friendship?--But to proceed: I was about, as I have said, to give that up for the reasons I mentioned, when, upon a certain fine evening, I crossed the path of one of the most masterful old maids I have ever seen, or even heard of; and, would you believe it?"
--this with a quizzical look at his host's grave face--"this misguided old lady took such a violent dislike to me at first sight, and expressed it so thoroughly well, that, hang me if I was not completely brought to.
And all for escorting my dear one from Lady Maria's house to her own!
Well, the walk was worth it--though the old crocodile was on the watch for us, ready to snap; had got wind of the secret, somehow, a secret unspoken even between us two.
This first and last interview took place on the flags, in front of No.
17 Camden Place, Bath.
Oh!
It was a very one-sided affair from the beginning, and ended abruptly in a door being banged in my face.
Then I heard about Miss O'Donoghue's peculiarities in the direction of exclusiveness.
And then, also, oddly enough, for the first time, of the great fortune going with my Madeleine's hand.
Of course I saw it all, and, I may say, forgave the old lady.
In short, I realised that, in Miss O'Donoghue's mind, I am nothing but an unprincipled fortune-seeker and adventurer.
Now you, Adrian, can vouch that, whatever my faults, I am none such."
Sir Adrian threw a quiet glance at his friend, whose eyes sparkled as they met it.
"God knows," continued the latter, "that all I care for, concerning the money, is that _she_ may have it.
This last venture, the biggest and most difficult of all, I then decided to undertake, that I might be the fitter mate for the heiress--bless her!
Oh, Adrian, man, could you have seen her sweet tearful face that night, you would understand that I could not rest upon such a parting.
In the dawn of the next morning I was in the street--not so much upon the chance of meeting, though I knew that such sweetness would have now to be all stolen--but to watch her door, her window; a lover's trick, rewarded by lover's luck!
Leaning on the railings, through the cold mist (cold it was, though I never felt it, but I mind me now how the icicles broke under my hand), what should I see, before even the church-bells had set to chiming, or the yawning sluts to pull the kitchen curtains, but a bloated monster of a coach, dragging and sliding up the street to halt at her very door.
Then out came the beldam herself, and two muffled-up slender things--my Madeleine one of course; but I had a regular turn at sight of them, for I swear I could not tell which was which!
Off rattled the chariot at a smart pace; and there I stood, friend, feeling as if my heart was tied behind with the trunks."
The sailor laughed, ran his fingers through his curls and stamped in lively recollection.
"Nothing to be drawn from their landlady.
But I am not the man to allow a prize to be snatched from under my very nose.
So, anathematising Miss O'Donoghue's family-tree, root, stem, and branch--except that most lovely off-shoot I mean to transplant (you will forgive this heat of blood; it was clearing for action so to speak)--I ran out and overtook the ostler whom I had seen putting the finishing touch to the lashing of boxes behind!
_'Gloucester!
'_ says he.
The word was worth the guinea it cost me, a hundred times over.--In less than an hour I was in the saddle, ready for pursuit, cantering boot to boot with my man--a trusty fellow who knows how to hold his tongue, and can sit a horse in the bargain.
Neither at Gloucester, nor the next day, up to Worcester, could we succeed in doing more than keep our fugitives in view.
When they had alighted at one inn, as ascertained by my squire, we patronised the opposition hostelry, and the ensuing morning cantered steadily in pursuit, on _our_ new post-horses half an hour after they had rumbled away with _their_ relays.
But the evening of our arrival at Worcester, my fellow found out, at last, what the next stage was to be, and--clever chap, he lost nothing for his sharpness--that the Three Kings' Heads had been recommended to the old lady as the best house in Shrewsbury.
This time we took the lead, and on to Shrewsbury, and were at the glorious old Kings' Heads (I in a private room, tight as wax) a good couple of hours before the chariot made its appearance.
And there, man, there!
my pretty one and I met again!"
"That was, no doubt," put in Sir Adrian, in his gentle, indulgent way, "what made the Kings' Heads so glorious?"
"Ay.
Right!
And yet it was but a few seconds, on the stair, under a smoky lamp, but her beauty filled the landing with radiance as her kindness did my soul.--It was but for a moment, all blessed moment, too brief, alas!
Ah, Adrian, friend--old hermit in your cell--_you_ have never known life, you who have never tasted a moment such as that!
Then we started apart: there was a noise below, and she had only time to whisper that she was on her way to Pulwick to some relatives--had only heard it that very day--when steps came up the stairs, creaking.
With a last promise, a last word of love, I leaped back into my own chamber, there to see (through the chink between door and post) the untimely old mischief-maker herself pass slowly, sour and solemn, towards her apartments, leaning upon her other niece's arm.
How could I have thought _that_ baggage like my princess?
Handsome, if you will; but, with her saucy eye, her raven head, her brown cheek, no more to be compared to my stately lily than brass to gold!"
The host listening wonderingly, his eyes fixed with kindly gravity upon the speaker as he rattled on, here gave a slight start, all unnoticed of his friend.
"The next morning, when I had seen the coach and its precious freight move on once more northward, I began the retreat south, hugging myself upon luck and success.
I had business in Salcombe--perhaps you may have heard of the Salcombe schooners--in connection with the fitting out of that sailing wonder, the _Peregrine_.
And so," concluded Captain Jack, laughing again in exuberance of joy, "you may possibly guess one of the reasons that has brought her and me round by your island."
There ensued a long silence, filled with thoughts, equally pressing though of widely different complexion, on either side of the hearth.
* * * * * During the meal, which was presently set forth and proclaimed ready by René, the talk, as was natural in that watchful attendant's presence, ran only on general topics, and was in consequence fitful and unspontaneous.
But when the two men, for all their difference of age, temper, and pursuits so strongly, yet so oddly united in sympathy, were once more alone, they naturally fell back under the influence of the more engrossing strain of reflection.
Again there was silence, while each mused, gazing into space and vaguely listening to the plash of high water under the window.
"It must have been a strong motive," said Sir Adrian, after his dreamy fashion, like one thinking aloud, "to induce a man like you to abandon his honourable name."
Captain Jack flushed at these words, drew his elbows from the table, and shot a keen, inquiring glance at his friend, which, however, fell promptly before the latter's unconscious gaze and was succeeded by one of reflective melancholy.
Then, with a slight sigh, he raised his glass to the lamp, and while peering abstractedly through the ruby, "The story of turning my back upon my house," he said musingly, "shaking its very dust off my feet, so to speak, and starting life afresh unbeholden to my father (even for what he could not take away from me--my own name),--is a simple affair, although pitiful enough perhaps.
But memories of family wrongs and family quarrels are of their nature painful; and, as I am a mirth-loving fellow, I hate to bring them upon me.
But perhaps it has occurred to you that I may have brought some disgrace upon the name I have forsaken."
"I never allowed myself to think so," said Sir Adrian, surprised.
"Your very presence by my fireside is proof of it."
Again the captain scrutinised his host; then with a little laugh: "Pardon me," he cried, "with another man one might accept that likely proof and be flattered.
But with you?
why, I believe I know you too well not to feel sure that you would have received me as kindly and unreservedly, no matter what my past if only you thought that I had repented; that you would forgive even a _crime_ regretted; and having forgiven, forget....
But, to resume, you will believe me when I say that there was nothing of the sort.
No," he went on, with a musing air, "but I could tell you of a boy, disliked at home for his stubborn spirit, and one day thrashed, thrashed mercilessly--at a time when he had thought he had reached to the pride of man's estate, thrashed by his own father, and for no just cause.... Oh, Adrian, it is a terrible thing to have put such resentment into a lad's heart."
He rose as he spoke, and placed himself before the hearth.
"If ever I have sons," he added after a pause, and at the words his whole handsome face relaxed, and became suffused with a tender glow, "I would rather cut my right hand off than raise such a spirit in them.
Well, I daresay you can guess the rest; I will even tell you in a few words, and then dismiss the subject.--I have always had a certain shrewdness at the bottom of my recklessness.
Now there was a cousin of the family, who had taken to commerce in Liverpool, and who was therefore despised, ignored and insulted by us gentry of the Shaws.
So when I packed my bundle, and walked out of the park gate, I thought of him; and two days later I presented myself at his mansion in Rodney Street, Liverpool.
I told him my name, whereat he scowled; but he was promptly brought round upon hearing of my firm determination to renounce it and all relations with my father's house for ever, and of my reasons for this resolve, which he found excellent.
I could not have lighted upon a better man.
He hated my family as heartily as even I could wish, and readily, out of spite to them, undertook to aid me.
He was a most enterprising scoundrel, had a share in half a dozen floating ventures.
I expressed a desire for life on the ocean wave, and he started me merrily as his nephew, Jack Smith, to learn the business on a slaver of his.
The 'ebony trade,' you know, was all the go then, Adrian.
Many great gentlemen in Lancashire had shares in it.
Now it is considered low.
To say true, a year of it was more than enough for me--too much!
It sickened me.
My uncle laughed when I demurred at a second journey, but to humour me, as I had learned something of the sailing trade, he found me another berth, on board a privateer, the _St.
Nicholas_.
My fortune was made from the moment I set foot on that lucky ship, as you know."
"And you have never seen your father since?"
"Neither father, nor brothers, nor any of my kin, save the cousin in question.
All I know is that my father is dead--that he disinherited me expressly in the event of my being still in the flesh; my eldest brother reigns; many of us are scattered, God knows where.
And my mother"--the sailor's voice changed slightly--"my mother lives in her own house, with some of the younger ones.
So much I have ascertained quite recently.
She believes me dead, of course.
Oh, it will be a good day, Adrian, when I can come back to her, independent, prosperous, bringing my beautiful bride with me!...
But until I can resume my name in all freedom, this cannot be."
"But why, my dear fellow, these further risks and adventures?
Surely, even at your showing you have enough of this world's goods; why not come forward, now, at once, openly?
I will introduce you, as soon as may be, in your real character, for the sake of your mother--of Madeleine herself."
The sailor shook his head, tempted yet determined.
"I am not free to do so.
I have given my word; my honour is engaged," he said.
Then abruptly asked: "Have you ever heard of guinea smuggling?"
"Guinea smuggling!
No," said Sir Adrian, his amazement giving way to anxiety.
"No?
You surprise me.
You who are, or were, I understand, a student of philosophical matters, freedom of exchange, and international intercourse and the rest of it--things we never shall have so long as governments want money, I am thinking.--However, this guinea smuggling is a comparatively new business.
Now, _I_ don't know anything about the theory; but I know this much of the practice that, while our preventive service won't let guineas pass the Channel (as goods) this year, somebody on the other side is devilish anxious to have them at almost any cost.
And the cost, you know, is heavy, for the risk of confiscation is great.
Well, your banker or your rich man will not trust his bullion to your common free trader--he is not quite such a fool."
"No," put in Sir Adrian, as the other paused on this mocking proposition.
"In the old days, when I was busy in promoting the Savenaye expedition, I came across many of that gentry, and I cannot mind a case where they could have been trusted with such a freight.
But perhaps," he added with a small smile, "the standard may be higher now."
Captain Jack grinned appreciatively.
"That is where the 'likes of me' comes in.
I will confess this not to be my first attempt.
It is known that I am one of the few whose word is warranty.
What is more, as I have said, it is known that I have the luck.
Thus, even if I could bring my own name into such a trade, I would not; it would be the height of folly to change now."
For all his disapproval Sir Adrian could not repress a look of amusement.
"I verily believe, Jack," he said, shaking his head, "that you are as superstitious yourself as the best of them!"
"I ought to make a good thing out of it," said Jack, evasively.
"And even with all that is lovely to keep me on shore, I would hardly give it up, if I could.
As things stand I could not if I would.
Do not condemn me, Adrian,--that would be fatal to my hopes--nay, I actually want your help."
"I would you were out of it," reiterated Sir Adrian; "it takes so little to turn the current of a man's life when he seems to be making straight for happiness.
As to the morals of it, I fail, I must admit, to perceive any wrong in smuggling, at least in the abstract, except that a certain kind of moral teaches that all is wrong that is against the law.
And yet so many of our laws are so ferocious and inept, and as such the very cause of so much going wrong that might otherwise go well; so many of those who administer them are themselves so ferocious and inept, that the mere fact of a pursuit being unlawful is no real condemnation in my eyes.
But, as you know, Jack, those who place themselves above some laws almost invariably renounce all.
If you are hanged for stealing a horse, or breaking some fiscal law and hanged for killing a man, the tendency, under stress of circumstances is obvious.
Aye, have we not a proverb about it: as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb?...
There are gruesome stories about your free traders--and gruesome endings to them.
I well remember, in my young days, the clanking gibbet on the sands near Preston and the three tarred and iron-riveted carcases hanging, each in its chains, with the perpetual guard of carrion crows....
Hanging in chains is still on the statute book, I believe.
But I'll stop my croaking now.
You are not one to be drawn into brutal ways; nor one, I fear, to be frightened into prudence.
Nevertheless," laughing quietly, "I am curious to know in what way you expect help from me, in practice.
Do you, seriously, want me to embark actually on a smuggling expedition?--I demur, my dear fellow."
Obviously relieved of some anxiety, the other burst out laughing.
"Never fear!
I know your dislike to bilge water too well.
I appreciate too well also your comfortable surroundings," he returned, seating himself once more complacently in his arm-chair, "much as I should love your company on board my pleasure ship--for, if you please, the _Peregrine_ is no smuggling lugger, but professes to be a yacht.
Still, you can be of help for all that, and without lifting even a finger to promote this illicit trade.
You may ignore it completely, and yet you will render me incalculable service, provided you do not debar me from paying you a few more visits in your solitude, and give me the range of your caves and cellars."
"You are welcome enough," said the recluse.
"I trust it may end as well as it promises."
And, after a pause, "Madeleine does not know the nature of your present pursuit?"
"Oddly enough, and happily (for our moments of interview are short, as you may imagine) she is not curious on the subject.
I don't know what notions the old Lady Maria may have put into her head about me.
I think she believes that I am engaged on some secret political intrigue and approves of such.
At least I gathered as much from her sympathetic reticence; and, between ourselves, I am beginning to believe it myself."
"How is that?"
asked the listener, moved to fresh astonishment by this new departure.
"Well, I may tell you, who not only can be as silent as the tomb, but really have a right to know, since you are tacitly of the conspiracy.
This time the transaction is to be with some official of the French Court.
They want the metal, and yet wish to have it secretly.
What their motive may be is food for reflection if you like, but it is no business of mine.
And, besides the fact that one journey will suffice for a sum which at the previous rate would have required half a score, all the trouble and uncertainty of landing are disposed of; at any rate, I am, when all is ready, to be met by a government vessel, get my _quid pro quo_ as will be settled, and there the matter is to end."
"A curious expedition," mused Sir Adrian.
"Yes," said the sailor, "my last will be the best.
By the way, will you embark a few bags with me?
I will take no commission."
Sir Adrian could not help laughing.
"No, thank you; I have no wish to launch any more of my patrimony on ventures--since it would be of no service to you.
I had almost as lief you had made use of my old crow's nest without letting me into the ins and outs of your projects.
But, be it as it may, it is yours, night and day.
Your visits I shall take as being for me."
"What a man you are, upon my soul, Sir Adrian!"
cried Captain Jack, enthusiastically.
* * * * * Later on, when the "shaking down" hour, in Captain Jack's phraseology, had sounded, and the two friends separated to rest, the young man refused the offer, dictated by hospitality, of his host's own bedroom.
Sir Adrian did not press the point, and, leaving his guest at liberty to enjoy the couch arranged by René in a corner under the bookshelves, even as when Mademoiselle de Savenaye had been the guest of the peel, himself retired to that now hallowed apartment.
"Odd fellow, that," soliloquised Captain Jack, as, slowly divesting himself, he paced about the long room and, in the midst of roseate reflections, examined his curious abode.
"Withal, as good as ever stepped.
It was a fine day's work our old _St.
Nicholas_ did, about this time eight years ago.
Rather unlike a crowded battery deck, this," looking from the solemn books to the glinting organ pipes, and conscious of the great silence.
"As for me, I should go crazy by myself here.
But it suits him.
Queer fish!"
again ruminated the young sailor.
"He hates no one and yet dislikes almost everybody, except that funny little Frenchy and me.
Whereas _I_ like every man I meet--unless I detest him!...
My beautiful plumage!"
this whilst carefully folding the superfine coat and thereon the endless silken stock.
"Now there's a fellow who does not care a hang for any woman under the sun, and yet enters into another chap's love affairs as if he understood it all.
I believe it will make him happy to win my cause with Madeleine.
I wish one could do something for _his_ happiness.
It is absurd, you know," as though apostrophising an objector, "a man can't be happy without a woman.
And yet again, my good Jack, you never thought that before you met Madeleine.
He has not met his Madeleine, that's what it means.
Where ignorance is bliss....
Friend Adrian!
Let us console ourselves and call you ignorantly happy, in your old crow's nest.
You have not stocked it so badly either.--For all your ignorance in love, you have a pretty taste in liquor."
So thinking, he poured himself a last glass of his host's wine, which he held for a moment in smiling cogitation, looking, with the mind's eye, through the thick walls of the keep, across the cold mist-covered sands of Scarthey and again through the warm and scented air of a certain room (imagination pictured) where Madeleine must at that hour lie in her slumber.
After a moment of silent adoration he sent a rapturous kiss landwards and tossed his glass with a last toast: "Madeleine, my sweet!
To your softly closed lids."
And again Captain Jack fell to telling over the precious tale of that morning's interview, furtively secured, by that lover's luck he so dutifully blessed, under the cluster of Scotch firs near the grey and crumbling boundary walls of Pulwick Park.
CHAPTER XVIII "LOVE GILDS THE SCENE AND WOMAN GUIDES THE PLOT" Tanty's wrath upon discovering Sir Adrian's departure was all the greater because she could extort no real explanation from Rupert, and because her attacks rebounded, as it were, from the polished surface he exposed to them on every side.
Madeleine's indifference, and Molly's apparently reckless spirits, further discomposed her during supper; and upon the latter young lady's disappearance after the meal, it was as much as she could do to finish her nightly game of patience before mounting to seek her with the purpose of relieving her overcharged feelings, and procuring what enlightenment she might.
The unwonted spectacle of the saucy damsel in tears made Miss O'Donoghue halt upon the threshold, the hot wind of anger upon which she seemed to be propelled into the room falling into sudden nothingness.
There could be no mistake about it.
Molly was weeping; so energetically indeed, with such a passion of tears and sobs, that the noise of Tanty's tumultuous entrance fell unheeded upon her ears.
All her sympathies stirred within her, the old lady advanced to the girl with the intention of gathering her to her bosom.
But as she drew near, the black and white of the open diary attracted her eye under the circle of lamplight, and being possessed of excellent long sight, she thought it no shame to utilise the same across her grand-niece's prostrate, heaving form, before making known her presence.
_"And so I sit and cry.
"_ Miss Molly was carrying out her programme with much precision, if indeed her attitude, prone along the table, could be described as sitting.
Miss O'Donoghue's eyes and mouth grew round, as with the expression of an outraged cockatoo she read and re-read the tell-tale phrases.
Here was a complication she had not calculated upon.
"Dear, dear," she cried, clacking her tongue in disconsolate fashion, so soon as she could get her breath.
"What is the meaning of this, my poor girl?"
Molly leaped to her feet, and turning a blazing, disfigured countenance upon her relative, exclaimed with more energy than politeness: "Good gracious, aunt, what _do_ you want?"
Then catching sight of the open diary, she looked suspiciously from it to her visitor, and closed it with a hasty hand.
But Miss O'Donoghue's next words settled the doubt.
"Well, to be sure, what a state you have put yourself into," she pursued in genuine distress.
"What has happened then between you and that fellow, whom I declare I begin to believe as crazy as Rupert says, that you should be crying your eyes out over his going back to his island?--you that I thought could not shed a tear if you tried.
Nothing left but to sit and cry, indeed."
"So you have been reading my diary, you mean thing," cried Miss Molly, stamping her foot.
"How dare you come creeping in here, spying at my private concerns!
Oh!
oh!
oh!"
with unpremeditated artfulness, relapsing into a paroxysm of sobs just in time to avert the volley of rebuke with which the hot-tempered old lady was about to greet this disrespectful outburst.
"I am the most miserable girl in all the world.
I wish I were dead, I do."
Again Tanty opened her arms, and this time she did draw the stormy creature to a bosom, as warm and motherly as if all the joys of womanhood had not been withheld from it.
"Tell me all about it, my poor child."
There was a distinct feeling of comfort in the grasp of the old arms, comfort in the very ring of the deep voice.
Molly was not a secretive person by nature, and moreover she retained quite enough shrewdness, even in her unwonted break-down, to conjecture that with Tanty lay her sole hope of help.
So rolling her dark head distractedly on the old maid's shoulder, the young maid narrated her tale of woe.
Pressed by a pointed question here and there, Tanty soon collected a series of impressions of Molly's visit to Scarthey, that set her busy mind working upon a startlingly new line.
It was her nature to jump at conclusions, and it was not strange that the girl's passionate display of grief should seem to be the unmistakable outcome of tenderer feelings than the wounded pride and disappointment which were in reality its sole motors.
"I am convinced it is Rupert that is at the bottom of it," cried Molly at last, springing into uprightness again, and clenching her hands.
"His one idea is to drive his brother permanently from his own home--and he _hates me_."
Tanty sat rigid with thought.
So Molly was in love with Sir Adrian Landale, and he--who knows--was in love with her too; or if not with her, with her likeness to her mother, and that was much the same thing when all was said and done.
Could anything be more suitable, more fortunate?
Could ever two birds be killed with one stone with more complete felicity than in this settling of the two people she most loved upon earth?
Poor pretty Molly!
The old lady's heart grew very tender over the girl who now stood half sullenly, half bashfully averting her swollen face; five days ago she had not known her handsome cousin, and now she was breaking her heart for him.
It might be, indeed, as she said, that they had to thank Rupert for this--and off flew Tanty's mind upon another tangent.
Rupert was very deep, there could be no doubt of that; he was anxious enough to keep Adrian away from them all; what would it be then when it came to a question of his marriage?
Tanty, with the delightful optimism that seventy years' experience had failed to damp, here became confident of the approach of her younger nephew's complete discomfiture, and in the cheering contemplation of that event chuckled so unctuously that Molly looked at her amazed.
"It is well for you, my dear," said the old lady, rising and wagging her head with an air of enigmatic resolution, "that you have got an aunt."
* * * * * Some two days later, René, sitting upon a ledge of the old Scarthey wall, in the spare sunshine which this still, winter's noon shone pearl-like through a universal mist, busy mending a net, to the tune of a melancholy, inward whistle, heard up above the licking of the waves all around him and the whimper of the seagulls overhead, the beat of steady oars approaching from land side.
Starting to his feet, the little man, in vague expectation, ran to a point of vantage from which to scan the tideway; after a few seconds' investigation he turned tail, dashed into the ruins, up the steps, and burst open the door of the sitting-room, calling upon his master with a scared expression of astonishment.
Captain Jack, poring over a map, his pipe sticking rakishly out of one side of his mouth, looked up amused at the Frenchman's evident excitement, while Adrian, who had been busy with the uppermost row of books upon his west wall, looked down from his ladder perch, with the pessimist's constitutional expectation of evil growing upon his face.
"One comes in a boat," ejaculated René, "and I thought I ought to warn his honour, if his honour will give himself the trouble to look out."
"It must be the devil to frighten Renny in this fashion," muttered Captain Jack as distinctly as the clench of his teeth upon the pipe would allow him.
Sir Adrian paled a little, he began to descend his ladder, mechanically flicking the dust from his cuffs.
"Your honour," said René, drawing to the window and looking out cautiously, "I have not yet seen her, but I believe it is old miss--the aunt of your honour and these ladies."
Captain Jack's pipe fell from his dropping jaw and was broken into many fragments as he leaped to his feet with an elasticity of limb and a richness of expletive which of themselves would have betrayed his calling.
Flinging his arm across one of Adrian's shoulders he peeped across the other out of the window, with an alarm half mocking, half genuine.
"The devil it is, friend Renny," he cried, drawing back and running his hands with an exaggerated gesture of despair through his brown curls; "Adrian, all is lost unless you hide me."
"My aunt here, and alone," exclaimed Adrian, retreating from the window perturbed enough himself, "I must go down to meet her.
Pray God it is no ill news!
Hurry, Renny, clear these glasses away."
"In the name of all that's sacred, clear me away first!"
interposed Captain Jack, this time with a real urgency; through the open lattice came the sound of the grating of the boat's keel upon the sand and a vigorous hail from a masculine throat--"Ahoy, Renny Potter, ahoy!"
"Adrian, this is a matter of life and death to my hopes, hide me in your lowest dungeon for goodness' sake; I do not know my way about your ruins, and I am convinced the old lady will nose me out like a badger."
There was no time for explanation; Sir Adrian made a sign to René, who highly enjoying the situation and grinning from ear to ear, was already volunteering to "well hide Mr. the Captain," and the pair disappeared with much celerity into the inner room, while Adrian, unable to afford himself further preparation, hurried down the great stairs to meet this unexpected guest.
He emerged bareheaded into the curious mist which hung pall-like upon the outer world, and seemed to combine the opposite elements of glare and dulness, just as Tanty, aided by the stalwart arm of the boatman, who had rowed her across, succeeded in dragging her rheumatic limbs up the last bit of ascent to the door of the keep.
She halted, disengaged herself, and puffing and blowing surveyed her nephew with a stony gaze.
"My dear aunt," cried Adrian, "nothing has happened, I trust?"
"Sufficient has already happened, nephew, I should _hope_," retorted the old lady with extreme dignity, "sufficient to make me desire to confer with you most seriously.
I thank you, young man," turning to William Shearman who stood on one side, his eager gaze upon "the master," ready to pull his forelock so soon as he could catch his eye, "be here again in an hour, if you please."
"But you will allow me to escort you myself," exclaimed Adrian, rising to the situation, "and I hope there need be no hurry so long as daylight lasts--Good-morning, Will, I am glad the new craft is a success--you need not wait.
Tanty, take my arm, I beg, the steps are steep and rough."
Gripping her nephew's arm with her bony old woman's hand, Miss O'Donoghue began a laborious ascent, pausing every five steps to breathe stertorously and reproachfully, and look round upon the sandstone walls with supreme disdain; but this was nothing to the air with which, when at last installed upon a high hard chair, in the sitting-room (having sternly refused the easy one Sir Adrian humbly proffered), she deliberately proceeded to survey the scene.
In truth, the neatness that usually characterised Adrian's surroundings was conspicuously absent from them, just then.
Two or three maps lay overlapping each other upon the table beside the tray with its flagon of amber ale, which had formed the captain's morning draught; and the soiled glass, the fragments of his pipe, and its half-burnt contents lay strewn about the prostrate chair which that lively individual had upset in his agitation.
Adrian's ladder, the books he had been handling and had not replaced, the white ash of the dying fire, all contributed to the unwonted aspect of somewhat melancholy disorder; worse than all, the fumes of the strong tobacco which the sailor liked to smoke in his secluded moments hung rank, despite the open window, upon the absolute motionlessness of the atmosphere.
Tanty snorted and sniffed, while Adrian, after picking up the chair, began to almost unconsciously refold the maps, his eyes fixed wonderingly upon his visitor's face.
This latter delivered herself at length of some of the indignation that was choking her, in abrupt disjointed sentences, as if she were uncorking so many bottles.
"Well I'm sure, nephew, I am not surprised at your _extraordinary_ behaviour, and if this is the style you prefer to live in--style, did I say?--sty would be more appropriate.
Of course it is only what I have been led to expect, but I must say I was ill prepared to be treated by you with actual disrespect.
My sister's child and I your guest, not to speak of your aunt, and you your mother's son, and her host besides!
It is a slap in the face, Adrian, a slap in the face which has been a very bitter pill to have to swallow, I assure you--I may say without exaggeration, in fact, that it has cut me to the quick."
"But surely," cried the nephew, laughing with gentle indulgence at this complicated indictment, "surely you cannot suppose I would have been willingly guilty of the smallest disrespect to you.
I am a most unfortunate man, most unfortunately situated, and if I have offended, it is, you must believe, unwittingly and unavoidably.
But you got my letter--I made my motives clear to you."
"Oh yes, I got your letter yesterday," responded Tanty, not at all softened, "and a more idiotic production from a man of your attainments, allow me to remark, I never read.
Adrian, you are making a perfect fool of yourself, and _you cannot afford it_!"
"I fear you will never really understand my position," murmured Adrian hopelessly.
Tanty rattled her large green umbrella upon the floor with a violence that made her nephew start, then turned upon him a countenance inflamed with righteous anger.
"It is only three days ago since I gave you fully my view of the situation," she remarked, "you were good enough at the time to admit that it was a remarkably well-balanced one.
I should be glad if you will explain in what manner your position could have changed in the space of just three hours after, to lead you to rush back to your island, really as if you were a mole or a wild Indian, or some other strange animal that could not bear civilised society, without even so much as a good-bye to me, or to your cousins either?
What is that?--you say you wrote--oh, ay--you wrote--to Molly as well as to me; rigmaroles, my dear nephew, mere absurd statements that have not a grain of truth in them, that do not hold water for an instant.
You are not made for the world forsooth, nor the world for you!
and if that is not flying in the face of your Creator, and wanting to know better than Providence!--And then you say, 'you cast a gloom by your mere presence.'
Fiddle-de-dee!
It was not much in the way of gloom that Molly brought back with her from her three days' visit to you--or if that is gloom--well, the more your presence casts of it the better--that is all I can say.
Ah, but you should have seen her, poor child, after you went away in that heartless manner and you had removed yourself and your shadow, and your precious gloom--if you could have seen how unhappy she has been!"
"Good God!"
exclaimed the man with a paling face, "what are you saying?"
"Only the truth, sir--Molly is breaking her heart because of your base desertion of her."
"Good God," muttered Adrian again, rose up stiffly in a sort of horrified astonishment and then sat down again and passed his hand over his forehead like a man striving to awaken from a painful dream.
"Oh, Adrian, don't be more of a fool than you can possibly help!"
cried his relative, exasperated beyond all expression by his inarticulate distress.
"You are so busy contemplating all sorts of absurdities miles away that I verily believe you cannot see an inch beyond your nose.
My gracious!
what is there to be so astonished at?
How did you behave to the poor innocent from the very instant she crossed your threshold?
Fact is, you have been a regular gay Lothario.
Did you not"--cried Tanty, starting again upon her fine vein of metaphor--"did you not deliberately hold the cup of love to those young lips only to nip it in the bud?
The girl is not a stock or a stone.
You are a handsome man, Adrian, and the long and the short of it is, those who play with fire must reap as they have sown."
Tanty, who had been holding forth with the rapidity of a loose windmill in a hurricane, here found herself forced to pause and take breath; which she did, fanning herself with much energy, a triumphant consciousness of the unimpeachability of her logic written upon her heated countenance.
But Adrian still stared at her with the same incredulous dismay; looking indeed as little like a gay Lothario as it was possible, even for him.
"Do you mean," he said at last, in slow broken sentences, as his mind wrestled with the strange tidings; "am I to understand that Molly, that bright beautiful creature, has been made unhappy through me?
Oh, my dear Tanty," striving with a laugh, "the idea is too absurd, I am old enough to be her father, you know--what evidence can you have for a statement so distressing, so extraordinary."
"I am not quite in my dotage yet," quoth Tanty, drily; "neither am I in the habit of making unfounded assertions, nephew.
I have heard what the girl has said with her own lips, I have read what she has written in her diary; she has sobbed and cried over your cruelty in these very arms--I don't know what further evidence----" But Sir Adrian had started up again--"Molly crying, Molly crying for me--God help us all--Cécile's child, whom I would give my life to keep from trouble!
Tanty, if this is true--it must be true since you say so, I hardly know myself what I am saying--then I am to blame, deeply to blame--and yet--I have not said one word to the child--did nothing...." here he paused and a deep flush overspread his face to the roots of his hair; "except indeed in the first moment of her arrival--when she came in upon me as I was lost in memories of the past--like the spirit of Cécile."
"Humph," said Tanty, pointedly, "but then you see what you took for Cécile's spirit happened to be Molly in the flesh."
She fixed her sharp eyes upon her nephew, who, struck into confusion by her words, seemed for the moment unable to answer.
Then, as if satisfied with the impression produced, she folded her hands over the umbrella handle and observed in more placid tones than she had yet used: "And now we must see what is to be done."
Adrian began to pace the room in greater perturbation.
"What is to be done?"
he repeated, "alas!
what can be done?
Tanty, you will believe me when I tell you that I should have cut off my right hand rather than brought this thing upon the child--but she is very young--the impression, thank heaven, cannot in the nature of things endure.
She will meet some one worthy of her--with you, Tanty, kindest of hearts, I can safely trust her future.
But that she should suffer now, and through me, that bright creature who flitted in upon my dark life, like some heaven-sent messenger--these are evil tidings.
Tanty, you must take her away, you must distract her mind, you must tell her what a poor broken-down being I am, how little worthy of her sweet thoughts, and she will learn, soon learn, to forget me, to laugh at herself."
Although addressing the old lady, he spoke like a man reasoning with himself, and the words dropped from his lips as if drawn from a very well of bitterness.
Tanty listened to him in silence, but the tension of her whole frame betrayed that she was only gathering her forces for another explosion.
When Adrian's voice ceased there was a moment's silence and then the storm burst; whisking herself out of her chair, the umbrella came into play once more.
But though it was only to thump the table, it was evident Miss O'Donoghue would more willingly have laid it about the delinquent's shoulders.
"Adrian, are you a man at all?"
she ejaculated fiercely.
Then with sudden deadly composure: "So _this_ is the reparation you propose to make for the mischief you have wrought?"
"In God's name!"
cried he, goaded at length into some sort of despairing anger himself, "what would you have me do?"
The answer came with the promptitude of a return shot: "Do?
why marry her, of course!"
"_Marry her!_" There was a breathless pause.
Tanty, leaning forward across the table, crimson, agitated, yet triumphant; Adrian's white face blasted with astonishment.
"Marry her," he echoed at length once more, in a whisper this time.
Then with a groan: "This is madness!"
Miss O'Donoghue caught him up briskly.
"Madness?
My good fellow, not a bit of it; on the contrary, sanity, happiness, prosperity.--Adrian, don't stand staring at me like a stuck pig!
Why, in the name of conscience, should not you marry?
You are a young man still--pooh, pooh, what is forty!--you are a very fine-looking man, clever, romantic--hear me out, sir, please--_and you have made the child love you_.
There you are again, as if you had a pain in your stomach; you would try the patience of Job!
Why, I don't believe there is another man on earth that would not be wild with joy at the mere thought of having gained such a prize.
A beautiful creature, with a heart of gold and a purse of gold to boot."
"Oh, heavens, aunt!"
interrupted the man, passionately, "leave that question out of the reckoning.
The one thing, the only thing, to consider is _her_ happiness.
You cannot make me believe it can be for her happiness that she should marry such as me."
"And why shouldn't it be for her happiness?"
answered the dauntless old lady.
"Was not she happy enough with you here in this God-forsaken hole, with nothing but the tempest besides for company?
Why should not she be happy, then, when you come back to your own good place?
Would not you be _kind_ to her?--would not you cherish her if she were your wife?"
"Would I not be kind to her?--would I not cherish her?--would I not----?
My God!"
"Why, Adrian," cried Tanty, charmed at this unexpected disclosure of feeling and the accent with which it was delivered, "I declare you are as much in love with the girl as she is with you.
Why, now you shall just come back with me to Pulwick this moment, and she shall tell you herself if she can find happiness with you or not.
Oh--I will hear no more--your own heart, your feelings as a gentleman, as a man of honour, all point, my dear nephew, in the same direction.
And if you neglect this warning voice you will be blind indeed to the call of duty.
Come now, come back to your home, where the sweetest wife ever a man had awaits you.
And when I shall see the children spring up around you, Adrian, then God will have granted my last wish, and I shall die in peace....
There, there, I am an old fool, but when the heart is over full, then the tears fall.
Come, Adrian, come, I'll say no more; but the sight of the poor child who loves you shall plead for her happiness and yours.
And hark, a word in your ear: let Rupert bark and snarl as he will!
And what sort of a devil is it your generosity has made of _him_?
You have done a bad day's work there all these years, but, please God, there are better times dawning for us all.--What are you doing, Adrian?
Oh!
writing a few orders to your servant to explain your departure with me--quite right, quite right, I won't speak a word then to interrupt you.
Dear me!
I really feel quite in spirits.
Once dear Molly and you settled, there will be a happy home for Madeleine: with you, we can look out a suitable husband for her.
Well, well, I must not go too fast yet, I suppose: but I have not told you in what deep anxiety I have been on _her_ account by reason of a most deplorable affair--a foolish girl's fancy only, of course, with a most undesirable and objectionable creature called _Smith_.... Oh!
you are ready, are you?--My dear Adrian, give me your arm then, and let us proceed."
* * * * * Silence had reigned for but a few seconds in the great room of the keep when Captain Jack re-entered, bearing on his face an expression at once boyishly jubilant and mockingly astonished.
He planted himself in front of the landward window, and gazed forth a while.
"There goes my old Adrian, as dutifully escorting that walking sack of bones, that tar-barrel ornament--never mind, old lady, from this moment I shall love you for your brave deeds of this morning--escorting his worthy aunt as dutifully as though he were a penniless nephew.... Gently over the gunnel, madam!
That's done!
So you are going to take my gig?
Right, Adrian.
Dear me, how she holds forth!
I fancy I hear her from here.--Give way, my lads!
That's all right.
Gad!
Old Adrian's carried off on a regular journey to Cythera, under a proper escort!"
With this odd reminiscence of early mythological reading, the sailor burst into a loud laugh and walked about slapping his leg.
"Would ever any one have guessed anything approaching this?
Star-gazing, book-grubbing Sir Adrian ... in love!
Adrian the solitary, the pessimist, the I-don't-know-what superior man, in love!
Neither more nor less!
In love, like an every-day inhabitant of these realms, and with that black-eyed sister of mine that is to be!
My word, it's too perfect!
Adrian my brother-in-law--for if I gauge that fine creature properly--splendid old lady--she won't let him slide back this time.
No, my dear Adrian, you are hooked for matrimony and a return to the living world.
That black-eyed jade too, that Molly sister of my Madeleine, will wake up and lead you a life, by George!...
Row on, my lads," once more looking at the diminishing black spot upon the grey waters.
"Row on--you have never done a better day's work!"
René, entering a few moments later, with an open note in his hand, found his master's friend still chuckling, and looked at him inquisitively.
"His honour has returned to Pulwick," said he, in puzzled tones, handing the missive.
"Ay, lad," answered the sailor, cheerily.
"The fact is, my good Renny, that in that room of Sir Adrian's where you ensconced me for safety from that most wonderful specimen of her sex (I refer to your master's worthy aunt), it was impossible to avoid overhearing many of her remarks--magnificent voice for a storm at sea, eh?
Never mind what it was all about, my good man; what I heard was good news.
Ah!"
directing his attention to the note; "his honour does not say when he will return, but will send back the gig immediately; and you, M. Potter, are to look after me for as long as I choose to stop here."
René required no reflection to realise that anything in the shape of good news which took his master back to his estate must be good news indeed; and his broad face promptly mirrored, in the broadest of grins, the captain's own satisfaction.
"For sure, we will try to take care of M. the captain, as well as if his honour himself was present.
He told me you were to be master here."
"Make it so.
I should like some dinner as soon as possible, and one of my bro----of Sir Adrian's best bottles.
It's a poor heart that never rejoices.
Meanwhile, I want to inspect your ruins and your caves in detail, if you will pilot me, Renny.
This is a handy sort of an old Robinson Crusoe place for hiding and storing, is it not?"
CHAPTER XIX A JUNIOR'S OPINION A rarely failing characteristic of very warm-hearted and strongly impulsive people is their inability of graduating their likes and dislikes; a state of mind which cannot fail to lead to frequent alterations of temper.
On more than one occasion, since the domineering old lady had started upon her peregrinations, had her favour for the two brothers undergone reversal; but the ground Rupert gained by Adrian's offences was never of safe tenure.
At the present hour, under the elation of her victorious sally upon the hermit's pessimistic entrenchments--the only thing in him of which she disapproved--he at once resumed the warm place she liked to keep for him in her heart.
And as a consequence "Master Rupert," as she contemptuously called the "locum tenens Squire," who, in the genealogical order of things, should have been a person of small importance, fell promptly into his original state of disgrace.
During the drive from the village (where she had ordered the carriage to await her return) to the gates of Pulwick, Miss O'Donoghue entertained her companion with an indignant account of his brother's ingratitude, of his hypocritical insinuating method of disparagement of Sir Adrian himself, winding up each indictment with a shrewd, "but he could not impose upon _me_," which, indeed, she firmly believed.
Her object was, of course, to strengthen the baronet in his resolve to return to the headship of his family--little guessing what a strong incentive to seclusion these very tales of a state of things he suspected but too well would have proved, had it not been for the new unforeseen motive that the morning's revelation had brought.
"Does Molly know of your visit to me?"
he asked, as the carriage halted before the gate, and the enormous, red-headed Cumbrian gatekeeper with his rosy Moggie, proudly swung it open to stand on either side, the one bowing with jubilant greeting and the other curtseying with bashful smiles at the real master.
"Does she expect my visit?"
relapsing into gravity after returning the salutation in kindliness.
"I have told no one of my purpose this day.
Rupert walked off to the stables immediately after breakfast--going a-hunting he said he was, and offered to bear the girls to the meet.
And then, feeling lonely without his company," added Tanty, with a wink, "I ordered the carriage and thought I would go and have a peep at the place where poor Molly was drowned, just for a little diversion.
Whether the little rogue expects you or not, after your note of the other day, I am sure I could not take upon myself to say.
She sits watching that crazy old tower of yours by day and your light by night.
Well, well, I must not tell tales out of school, you may find out for yourself.
But mind you, Adrian," she impressed on him, sagely, "it is not I who bring you back: you return of your own accord.
The child would murder me, if she knew--with that proud heart of hers."
"My dear Tanty, trust me.
This incomprehensible discovery of yours, which I cannot yet believe in, really is, so far as my discretion is concerned, as if I had never heard of it.
Heavens!
I have been a blundering fool, but I could not insult her with a hint of it for the world.
I have come to see Rupert to-day, as usual, of course--and, as you say ...
I shall see for myself.
You have opened my eyes."
Miss O'Donoghue looked at her nephew with admiration.
"_Voyez un peu_," she said, "_comme l'amour vous dégourdit_ even a doleful Sir Adrian!
Faith, here we are.
This has been a pleasant ride, but my old bones are so tired, and you and yours have set them jogging so much of late, that I think I'll never want to stir a foot again once I get back to Bunratty ... except indeed to come and be godmother to the heir."
Having lent a dutiful arm up the stairs to his now beaming relative, Sir Adrian came down pensively and entered the library.
There, booted and spurred, but quietly installed at a writing table, sat Mr. Landale, who rose in his nonchalant manner and with cold looks met his brother.
There was no greeting between them, but simply thus: "I understood from Aunt Rose you were out hunting."
"Such was my intention, but when I found out that she had gone to see you--don't look so astonished, Adrian--a man must know what is going on in his household--I suspected you would escort her back; so I desisted and waited for you.
It is an unexpected pleasure to see you, for I thought we had sufficiently discussed all business, recently.
But doubtless you will profit of the opportunity to go into a few matters which want your attention.
Do you mean to remain?"
Speaking these words in a detached manner, Mr. Landale kept a keenly observant look upon his brother's countenance.
In a most unwonted way the tone and the look irritated Sir Adrian.
"I came back, Rupert, because there were some things I wished to see for myself here," he answered frigidly.
And going to the bell, rang it vigorously.
On the servant's appearance, without reference to his brother, he himself, and very shortly, gave orders: "I shall dine here to-day.
Have the tapestry-room made ready for me."
Then turning to Rupert, whose face betrayed some of the astonishment aroused by this most unusual assumption of authority, and resuming as it were the thread of his speech, he went on: "No, Rupert, I have no desire to talk business with you.
It is a pity you should have given up your day.
Is it yet too late?"
"Upon my word, Adrian," said Mr. Landale, clenching his hand nervously round his fine cambric handkerchief, "there must be something of importance in the wind to have altered your bearing towards me to this extent.
I have no wish to interfere.
I came back and gave up good company for the reason I have stated.
I will now only point out that, with your sudden whims, you render my position excessively false in a house where, at your own wish, I am ostensibly established as master."
And without waiting for another word, the younger brother, having shot the arrow which hitherto never failed to reach the bull's-eye of the situation, left the room with much dignity.
Once more alone, Sir Adrian, standing motionless in the great room, darkened yet more in the winter light by the heavy festoons of curtains that hung over the numerous empty bookshelves, the souls of which had migrated to the peel to keep the master company, cogitated upon this first unpleasant step in his new departure, and wondered within himself why he had felt so extraordinarily moved by anger to-day at the cold inquisitiveness of his brother.
No doubt the sense of being watched thus, held away at arm's-length as it were, was cause sufficient.
And yet that was not it; ingratitude alone, even to enmity, in return for benefits forgot could not rouse this bitterness.
But had it not been for Tanty's interference he would be now exiled from his home until the departure of Cécile's child, just as, but for chance, he would have been kept in actual ignorance of her arrival.
It was his brother's doing that he had blindly withdrawn himself when his presence would have caused happiness to her.
Yes, that was it.
Rupert had a scheme.
That was what dwelt in his eyes,--a scheme which would bring, indeed did bring, unhappiness to that dear guest.... No wonder, now, that the unconscious realisation of it awoke all the man's blood in him.
"No, Rupert," Sir Adrian found himself saying aloud, "I let you reign at Pulwick so long as you crossed not one jot of such pleasure and happiness that might belong to Cécile's child.
But here our wills clash; and now, since there cannot be two masters in a house as you say, _I_ am the master here."
* * * * * As Sir Adrian's mind was seething in this unusual mood, Miss O'Donoghue, entering her nieces' room, found Molly perched, in riding dress, on the window-sill, looking forth upon the outer world with dissatisfied countenance.
Mr. Landale had sent word at the last moment that, to his intense regret, he could not escort the ladies to the meet, some important business having retained him at Pulwick.
So much did Miss Molly pettishly explain in answer to the affectionate inquiry concerning the cloud on her brow, slashing her whip the while and pouting, and generally out of harmony with the special radiance of the old lady's eye and the more than usual expansiveness of the embrace which was bestowed upon her.
"Tut, tut, tut, now," observed the artful person in tones of deep commiseration.
"Ah well, Rupert's a poor creature which ever side he turns up.
Will you go now, my child, and fetch me the letters I left on the drawing-room table?
Isn't it like me to spend half the morning writing them and leave them down there after all!"
Molly rose unwillingly, threw her whip on the bed, her hat on the floor; and mistily concerned over Tanty's air of irrepressible and pleasurable excitement, walked out of the room, bestowing as she passed her long pier glass a moody glance at her own glowering beauty.
"What's the use of _you_?"
she muttered to herself, "Anybody can fetch and carry for old aunts and look out of windows on leafless trees!"
The way to the drawing-room was through the library.
As Molly, immersed in her reflections, passed along this room, she stopped with a violent start on perceiving the figure of Sir Adrian, a tall silhouette against the cold light of the window.
As she came upon him, her face was fully illumined, and there was a glorious tale-telling in the widening of her eyes and the warm flush that mounted to her cheek that on the instant scattered in the man's mind all wondering doubts.
A rush of tenderness filled him at one sweep, head and heart, to the core.
"Molly!"
he cried, panting; and then with halting voice as she advanced a pace and stood with mouth parted and brilliant expectant eyes: "You took away all light and warmth with you when you left my lonely dwelling.
I tried to take up my life there, but----" "But you have come back--for me?"
And drawn by his extended hands she advanced, her burning gaze fixed upon his.
"I dared not think of seeing you again," he murmured, clasping her hands; "yet my return ... pleases you?"
"Yes."
Thus was crowned this strange wooing, was clenched a life's union, based upon either side on fascinating unrealities.
She was drawn into his arms; and against his heart she lay, shaking with little shivers of delight, looking into the noble face bent so lovingly over hers, her mind floating between unconscious exultation and languorous joy.
For a long while without a word he held her thus on his strong arm, gazing with a rending conflict of rapture and anguish on the beautiful image of his life's love, until his eyes were dimmed with rising tears.
Then he slowly stooped over the up-turned face, and as she dropped her lids with a faint smile, kissed her lips.
There came a warning rattle at the door handle, and Molly, disengaging herself softly from her betrothed's embrace, but still retaining his arm, turned to witness the entrance of Miss O'Donoghue and Mr. Landale.
On the former's face, under a feigned expression of surprise, now expanded itself in effulgence the plenitude of that satisfaction which had been dawning there ever since her return from the island.
Rupert held himself well in hand.
He halted, it is true, for an instant at the first sight of Sir Adrian and Molly, and put his handkerchief furtively to his forehead to wipe the sudden cold sweat which broke out upon it.
But the hesitation was so momentary as to pass unperceived; and if his countenance, as he advanced again, bore an expression of disapproval, it was at once dignified and restrained.
"So you are there, Molly," exclaimed the old lady with inimitable airiness.
"Just imagine, my dear, I had those letters in my pocket all the while, after all.
You did not find them, did you?"
But Adrian, still retaining the little hand on his arm, came forward slowly and broke through the incipient flow.
"Aunt Rose," said he in a voice still veiled by emotion, "I know your kind heart will rejoice with me, although you may not be so surprised, as no doubt Rupert will be, at the news we have for you, Molly and I."
"You are right, Adrian," interrupted Rupert gravely, "to any who know your life and _your past_ as I do, the news you seem to have for us must seem strange indeed.
So strange that you will excuse me if I withhold congratulations.
For, if I mistake not," he added, with a delicately shaded change of tone to sympathetic courtesy, and slightly turning his handsome face towards Molly, "I assume that my fair cousin de Savenaye has even but now promised to be my sister, Lady Landale."
Sir Adrian who, softened by the emotion of this wonderful hour, had made a movement to grasp his brother's hand, but had checked himself with a passionate movement of anger, instantly restrained, as the overt impertinence of the first words fell on his ears, here looked with a shadowing anxiety at the girl's face.
But Molly, who could never withhold the lash of her tongue when Rupert gave the slightest opening, immediately acknowledged her enemy's courtly bow with sauciness.
"What!
No congratulations from the model brother?
Not even a word of thanks to Molly de Savenaye for bringing the truant to his home at last?
But you malign yourself, my dear Rupert.
I believe 'tis but excess of joy that ties your tongue."
With gleaming smile Mr. Landale would have opposed this direct thrust by some parry of polished insult; but he met his elder's commanding glance, remembered his parting words on two previous occasions, and wisely abstained, contenting himself with another slight bow and a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.
At the same time Miss O'Donoghue, with an odd mixture of farcically pretended astonishment and genuine triumph, fell on the girl's neck.
"It is possible, soul of my heart, my sweet child--I can't believe it--though I vow I knew it all along!
So I am to see my two favourites made one by holy matrimony!"
punctuating her exclamation with kisses on the fair young face, and wildly seeking in space with her dried-up old fingers to meet Adrian's hand.
"I, the one barren stock of the O'Donoghues, shall see my sister's children re-united.
Ah, Adrian, what a beautiful coat this will make for you to hand to your children!
O'Donoghue, Landale, Kermelégan, Savenaye--eighteen quarters with this heiress alone, Adrian child, for the descendants of Landale of Pulwick!"
And Miss O'Donoghue, overcome by this culminating vision of happiness and perfection, fairly burst into tears.
In the midst of this scene, Mr. Landale, after listening mockingly for a few instants, retired with ostentatious discretion.
Later in the day, as Madeleine bent her pretty ears, dutifully yet with wandering attention, to Molly's gay prognostications concerning Pulwick under her sway; whilst the servants in the hall, pantry and kitchen discussed the great news which, by some incomprehensible agency, spread with torrent-like swiftness through the whole estate; while Miss O'Donoghue was feverishly busy with the correspondence which was to disseminate far and wide the world's knowledge of the happy betrothal, Sir Adrian met his brother walking meditatively along the winding path of the garden, flicking with the loop of his crop the border of evergreens as he went.
From their room, Molly and Madeleine, ensconced in the deep window-seat, could see the meeting.
"How I should like to hear," said Molly.
"I know this supple wretch will be full of Adrian's folly in marrying me--first, because, from the Rupertian point of view, it is a disastrous thing that his elder should marry at all; and secondly, because Molly, mistress at Pulwick Priory, means a very queer position indeed for Mr. Rupert Landale.
How I wish my spirit could fly into Adrian's head just for a moment!
Adrian is too indulgent.
It requires a Molly to deal with such impertinence."
"Indeed you are unjust with our cousin," said Madeleine, gently.
"Why this hatred?
I cannot understand."
"No, of course not, Madeleine.
Rupert is charming--with you.
I am not blind.
But take care he does not find out _your_ secret, miss.
Oh, I don't ask you any more about it.
But if he ever does--_gare, ma chère_."
But at the present juncture, Molly's estimate of Sir Adrian's mood was mistaken.
His love of peace, which amounted to a well-known weakness where he alone was concerned, weighed not a feather in the balance when such an interest as that now engaged was at stake.
As a matter of fact, Rupert Landale was to be taken by surprise again, that day, and again not pleasantly.
On noticing his brother's approach, he stopped his angry flickings, and slowly moved to meet him.
At first they walked side by side in silence.
Presently Sir Adrian began: "Rupert," he said gravely, "after our first interview to-day, it was my intention to have begged your pardon for a certain roughness in my manner which I should have controlled and which you resented.
I would have done so, had you allowed me, at that moment when I announced my forthcoming marriage and my heart was full of good-will to all, especially to you.
Now, on the contrary, to re-establish at least that outward harmony without which life in common would be impossible, I expect from you some expression of regret for your behaviour."
The first part of his brother's say was so well in accordance with his more habitual mood, that Mr. Landale had already sketched his equally habitual deprecating smile; but the conclusion changed the entire standpoint of their relations.
"An expression of regret--from _me_?"
cried he, exaggerating his astonishment almost to mockery.
"From any one but my brother," said Adrian, with a slight but perceptible hardening in his tone, "I should say an apology for an impertinence."
Mr. Landale, now genuinely taken aback, turned a little pale and halted abruptly.
"Adrian, Adrian!"
he retorted, quickly.
"This is one of your mad moments.
I do not understand."
"No, brother, I am not mad, and never have been, dearly as you would wish me to be so in reality--since Death would have none of me.
But though you know this yourself but too well, you have never understood me really.
Now listen--once for all.
Try and see our positions as they are: perhaps then matters will go more pleasantly in the future for you as well as for me."
Mr. Landale looked keenly at the speaker's face for a second, and then without a word resumed his walk, while Sir Adrian by his side pursued with quiet emphasis: "When I returned, from the other world so to speak, at least from your point of view (one which I fully understood), I found that this very return was nothing short of a calamity for all that remained of my kin.
I had it in my power to reduce that misfortune to a great extent.
You loved the position--that worldly estimation, that fortune, all those circumstances which, with perfect moral right, you had hitherto enjoyed.
They presented little attraction to me.
Moreover, there were many reasons, which I am quite aware you know, that made this very house of mine a dismal dwelling for me.
You see I have no wish to give too generous a colour to my motives, too self-denying a character to the benefits I conferred upon you.
But, as far as you are concerned, they were benefits.
For them I received no gratitude; but as I did not expect gratitude it matters little.
I might, however, have expected at least that you should be neutral, not directly hostile to me----Pray let me finish" (in anticipation of a rising interruption from his companion), "I shall soon have done, and you will see that I am not merely recriminating.
Hostile you have been, and are now.
So long as the position you assumed towards me only bore on our own relations, I acquiesced: you had so much more to lose than I could gain by resenting your hidden antagonism.
I held you, so to speak, in the hollow of my hand; I could afford to pass over it all.
Moreover, I had chosen my own path, which was nothing if not peaceful.
I say, you always were hostile to me; you have been so, more than ever since the arrival of Cécile de Savenaye's children.
You were, however, grievously mistaken if you thought--I verily believe you did--that I did not realise the true motives that prompted you to keep me away from them.--I loved them as their mother's children; I love Molly with a sort of love I myself do not understand, but deep enough for all its strangeness.
Yet I submitted to your reasoning, to your plausible representations of the disastrous effects of my presence.
I went back to my solitude because it never entered my mind that it could be in my power to help their happiness; you indeed had actually persuaded me of the contrary, as you know, and I myself thought it better to break the unfortunate spell that was cast on me.
Unfortunate I thought it, but it has proved far otherwise."
They had reached the end of the alley, and as they turned back, facing each other for a moment, Sir Adrian noticed the evil smile playing upon his brothers lips.
"It has proved otherwise," he repeated.
"How I came to change my views, I daresay you have guessed, for you have, of late, kept a good watch on your mad brother, Rupert.
At any rate you know what has come to pass.
Now I desire you to understand this clearly--interference with me as matters stand means interference with Molly: and as such I must, and shall, resent it."
"Well, Adrian, and what have I done _now_?"
was Mr. Landale's quiet reply.
He turned a gravely attentive, innocently injured countenance to the paling light.
"When I said you did not understand me," returned Sir Adrian with undiminished firmness; "when I said you owed me some expression of regret, it was to warn you never again to assume the tone of insinuation and sarcasm to me, which you permitted yourself to-day in the presence of Molly.
You could not restrain this long habit of censuring, of unwarrantable and impertinent criticism, of your elder, and when you referred to my past, Molly could not but be offended by the mockery of your tones.
Moreover, you took upon yourself, if I have heard aright, to disapprove openly of our marriage.
Upon what ground that would bear announcing I know not, but let this be enough: try and realise that our respective positions are totally changed by this unforeseen event, and that, as Molly is now to be mistress at Pulwick, I must of course revoke my tacit abdication.
Nevertheless, if you think you can put up with the new state of things, there need be little alteration in your present mode of life, my dear Rupert; if you will only make a generous effort to alter your line of conduct."
And here, Sir Adrian, succumbing for a moment to the fault, so common to kindly minds, of discounting the virtue of occasional firmness by a sudden return to geniality, offered his hand in token of peace.
Mr. Landale took it; his grasp, however, was limp and cold.
"I am quite ready to express regret," he said in a toneless voice, "since that would seem to be gratification to you, and moreover seems to be the tacit condition on which you will refrain from turning me out.
I ought indeed to have abstained from referring, however vaguely, to past events, for the plain reason that anything I could say would already have come too late to prevent the grievous deed you have now pledged yourself to commit."
"Rupert--!"
exclaimed Sir Adrian stepping back a pace, too amazed, at the instant, for indignation.
"Now, in your turn, hear me, Adrian," continued Mr. Landale with his blackest look.
"I have listened to your summing up of our respective cases with perfect patience, notwithstanding a certain assumption of superiority which--allow me to insist on this--is somewhat ridiculous from you to me.
You complain of my misunderstanding you.
Briefly, this is absurd.
As a matter of fact I understand you better than you do yourself.
On the other hand it is you that do not understand me.
I have no wish to paraphrase your little homily of two minutes ago, but the heads of my refutation are inevitably suggested by the points of your indictment.
To use your own manner of speech, my dear Adrian, I have no wish to assume injured disinterestedness, when speaking of my doings with regard to you and your belongings and especially to this old place of yours, of our family.
You have only to look and see for yourself...." Mr. Landale made a wide comprehensive gesture which seemed to embrace the whole of the noble estate, the admirably kept mansion with walls now flushed in the light of the sinking sun, the orderly maintenance of the vast grounds, the prosperousness of its dependencies--all in fact that the brothers could see with the eyes of the body from where they stood, and all that they could see with the eyes of the mind alone: "Go and verify whether I fulfilled my duty with respect to the trust which was yours, but which you have allowed to devolve upon my shoulders, and ask yourself whether you would have fulfilled it better--if as well.
I claim no more than this recognition; for, as you pointed out, the position carried its advantages, if it entailed arduous responsibility too.
It was my hope that heirs of my body would live to perpetuate this pride--this work of mine.
It was not to be.
Now that you step in again and that possibly your flesh will reap the benefits I have laboured to produce, ask yourself, Adrian, whether you, who shirked your own natural duties, would have buckled to the task, under _my_ circumstances--distrusted by your brother, disliked and secretly despised by all your dependants, who reserved all their love and admiration for the 'real master' (oh, I know the cant phrase), although he chose to abandon his position and yield himself to the stream of his own inertness, the real master who in the end can find no better description for these years of faithful service than 'hostility' and 'ingratitude.'"
Sir Adrian halted a pace, a little moved by the speciousness of the pleading.
The incidental reference to that one grief of his brother's life was of a kind which could never fail to arouse generous sympathy in his heart.
But Mr. Landale had not come to the critical point of his say, and he did not choose to allow the chapter of emotion to begin just yet.
"But," he continued, pursuing his restless walk, "again to use your own phraseology, I am not merely recriminating.
I, too, wish you to understand me.
It would be useless to discuss now, what you elect to call my hostility in past days.
I had to keep up the position demanded by our ancient name; to keep it up amid a society, against whose every tenet almost--every prejudice, you may call them--you chose to run counter.
My antagonism to your mode of acting and thinking was precisely measured by your own against the world in which the Landales, as a family, hold a stake.
Let that, therefore, be dismissed; and let us come at once to the special hostility you complain of in me, since the troublesome arrival of Aunt Rose and her wards.
As the very thing which I was most anxious to prevent, if possible, has, after all, come to pass, the present argument may seem useless; but you have courted it yourself."
"Most anxious to prevent--if possible...!"
repeated Sir Adrian, slowly.
"This, from a younger brother, is almost cynical, Rupert!"
"Cynical!"
retorted Mr. Landale, with a furious laugh.
"Why, you have given sound to the very word I would, in anybody else's case, have applied to a behaviour such as yours.
Is it possible, Adrian," said Rupert, turning to look his brother in the eyes with a look of profound malice, "that it has not occurred to you yet, that _cynical_ will be the verdict the world will pass on the question of your marriage with that young girl?"
Sir Adrian flushed darkly, and remained silent for a pace or two; then, with a puzzled look: "I fail to understand you," he said simply.
"I am no longer young, of course; yet, in years, I am not preposterously old.
As for the other points--name and fortune----" But Rupert interrupted him with a sharp exclamation, which betrayed the utmost nervous exasperation.
"Pshaw!
If I did not know you so well, I would say you were playing at candour.
This--this unconventionality of yours would have led you into curious pitfalls, Adrian, had you been obliged to live in the world.
My 'hostility' has saved you from some already, I know--more is the pity it could not save you from this--for it passes all bounds that you should meditate such an unnatural act, upon my soul, in the most natural manner in the world.
One must be an Adrian Landale, and live on a tower for the best part of one's life, to reach such a pitch of--unconventionality, let us call it."
"For God's sake," exclaimed Sir Adrian, suddenly losing patience, "what are you driving at, man?
In what way can my marriage with a young lady, who, inconceivable as it may be, has found something to love in me; in what way, I say, can it be accounted cynical?
I am not subtle enough to perceive it."
"To any one but you," sneered the other, coming to his climax with a sort of cruel deliberation, "it would hardly require special subtleness to perceive that for the man of mature age to marry the _daughter_, after having, in the days of his youth, been the lover of the _mother_, is a proceeding, the very idea of which is somewhat revolting in the average individual....
There are many roués in St. James' who would shrink before it; yet you, the enlightened philosopher, the moralist----" But Sir Adrian, breathing quickly, laid his hand heavily on his brother's shoulder.
"When you say the mother's lover, Rupert," he said, in a contained voice, which was as ominous of storm as the first mutters of thunder, "you mean that I loved her--you do not mean to insinuate that that noble woman, widowed but a few weeks, whose whole soul was filled with but one lofty idea, that of duty, was the mistress--the mistress of a boy, barely out of his teens?"
Rupert shrugged his shoulders.
"I insinuate nothing, my dear Adrian; I think nothing.
All this is ancient history which after all has long concerned only you.
You know best what occurred in the old days, and of course a man of honour is bound to deny all tales affecting a lady's virtue!
Even you, I fancy, would condescend so far.
But nevertheless, reflect how this marriage will rake up the old story.
It will be remembered how you, for the sake of remaining by Cécile de Savenaye's side, abandoned your home to fight in a cause that did not concern you; nay, more, turned your back for the time upon those advanced social theories which even at your present season of life you have not all shaken off.
You travelled with her from one end of England to the other, in the closest intimacy, and finally departed over seas, her acknowledged escort.
She on her side, under pretext of securing the best help on her political mission that England can afford her, selected a young man notoriously in love with her, at the very age when the passions are hottest, and wisdom the least consideration--as her influential agent, of course.
Men are men, Adrian--especially young men--small blame to you, young that you were, if then ... but you cannot expect, in sober earnest, the world to believe that you went on such a wild pilgrimage for nothing!
Women are women--especially young women, of the French court--who have never had the reputation of admiring bashfulness in stalwart young lovers...." Sir Adrian's hand, pressing upon his brother's shoulder, as if weighted by all his anger, here forced the speaker into silence.
"Shame!
Shame, Rupert!"
he cried first, his eyes aflame with a generous passion; then fiercely: "Silence, fellow, or I will take you by that brazen throat of yours and strangle the venomous lie once for all."
And then, with keen reproach, "That you, of my blood, of hers too, should be the one to cast such a stigma on her memory--that you should be unable even to understand the nature of our intercourse.... Oh, shame, on you for your baseness, for your vulgar, low suspiciousness!...
But, no, I waste my breath upon you, you do not believe this thing.
You have outwitted yourself this time.
Hear me now: If anything could have suggested to me this alliance with the child of one I loved so madly and so hopelessly, the thought that such dastardly slander could ever have been current would have done so.
The world, having nothing to gain by the belief, will never credit that Sir Adrian Landale would marry the daughter of his paramour--however his own brother may deem to his advantage to seem to think so!
The fact of Molly de Savenaye becoming Lady Landale would alone, had such ill rumours indeed been current in the past, dispel the ungenerous legend for ever."
There were a few moments of silence while Sir Adrian battled, in the tumult of his indignation, for self-control again; while Rupert, realising that he had outwitted himself indeed, bestowed inward curses upon most of his relations and his own fate.
The elder brother resumed at length, with a faint smile: "And so, you see, even if you had spoken out in time, it would have been of little avail."
Then he added, bitterly.
"I have received a wound from an unforeseen quarter.
You have dealt it, to no purpose, Rupert, as you see ... though it may be some compensation to such a nature as yours to know that you have left in it a subtle venom."
The sun had already sunk away, and its glow behind the waters had faded to the merest tinge.
In the cold shadow of rising night the two men advanced silently homewards.
Sir Adrian's soul, guided by the invidious words, had flown back to that dead year, the central point of his existence--It was true: men will be men--in that very house, yonder, he had betrayed his love to her; on board the ship that took them away and by the camp fire on the eve of fight, he had pleaded the cause of his passion, not ignobly indeed, with no thought of the baseness which Rupert assigned to him, yet with a selfish disregard of her position, of his own grave trust.
And it was with a glow of pride, in the ever living object of his life's devotion--of gratitude almost--that he recalled the noble simplicity with which the woman, whom he had just heard classed among the every-day sinners of society, had, without one grandiloquent word, without even losing her womanly softness, kept her lover as well as herself in the path of her lofty ideal--till the end.
And yet she did love him: at the last awful moment, sinking into the very jaws of death, the secret of her heart had escaped her.
And now--now her beauty, and something of her own life and soul was left to him in her child, as the one fit object on which to devote that tenderness which time could not change.
* * * * * After a while, from the darkness by his side came the voice of his brother again, in altered, hardly recognisable accents.
"Adrian, those last words of yours were severe--unjust.
I do not deserve such interpretation of my motives.
Is it my fault that you are not as other men?
Am I to be blamed for judging you by the ordinary standard?
But you have convinced me: you were as chivalrous as Cécile was pure, and if needs be, believe me, Adrian, I will maintain it so in the face of the world.
Yes, I misunderstood you--and wounded you, as you say, but such was not my intention.
Forgive me."
They had come to the door.
Sir Adrian paused.
There was a rapid revulsion in his kindly mind at the extraordinary sound of humble words from his brother; and with a new emotion, he replied, taking the hand that with well-acted diffidence seemed to seek his grasp: "Perhaps we have both something to forgive each other.
I fear you did not misjudge me so much as you misjudged her who left me that precious legacy.
But believe that, believe it as you have just now said, Rupert, the mother of those children never stooped to human frailty--her course in her short and noble life was as bright and pure as the light of day."
Without another word the two brothers shook hands and re-entered their home.
Sir Adrian sought Miss O'Donoghue whom he now found in converse with Molly, and with a grave eagerness, that put the culminating touch to the old lady's triumph, urged the early celebration of his nuptials.
Mr. Landale repaired to his own study where in solitude he could give loose rein to his fury of disappointment, and consider as carefully as he might in the circumstances how best to work the new situation to his own advantage.
* * * * * Even on that day that had been filled with so many varied and poignant emotions for him; through the dream in which his whole being seemed to float, Sir Adrian found a moment to think of the humble followers whom he had left so abruptly on the island, and of the pleasure the auspicious news would bring to them.
It was late at night, and just before parting with the guest who was so soon to be mistress under his roof, he paused on the stairs before a window that commanded a view of the bay.
Molly drew closer and leant against his shoulder; and thus both gazed forth silently for some time at the clear distant light, the luminous eye calmly watching over the treacherous sands.
That light of Scarthey--it was the image of the solitary placid life to which he had bidden adieu for ever; which even now, at this brief interval of half a day, seemed as far distant as the years of despair and vicissitude and disgust to which it had succeeded.
A man can feel the suddenly revealed charm of things that have ceased to be, without regretting them.
With the dear young head that he loved, with a love already as old as her very years, pressing his cheek; with that slender hand in his grasp, the same, for his love was all miracle, that he had held in the hot-pulsed days of old--he yet felt his mind wander back to his nest of dreams.
He thought with gratitude of René, the single-minded, faithful familiar; of old Margery, the nurse who had tended Cécile's children, as well as her young master; thought of their joy when they should hear of the marvellous knitting together into the web of his fate, of all those far-off ties.
In full harmony with such fleeting thoughts, came Molly's words at length breaking the silence.
"Will you take me back to that strange old place of yours, Adrian, when we are married?"
Sir Adrian kissed her forehead.
"And would you not fear the rough wild place, child," he murmured.
"Not for ever, I mean," laughed the girl, "for then my mission would not be fulfilled--which was to make of Adrian, Sir Adrian, indeed.
But now and again, to recall those lovely days, when--when you were so distracted for the love of Murthering Moll and the fear lest she should see it.
You will not dismantle those queer rooms that received so hospitably the limping, draggled-tailed guest--they must again shelter her when she comes as proud Lady Landale!
How delicious it would be if the tempest would only rage again, and the sea-mew shriek, and the caverns roar and thunder, and I knew you were as happy as I am sure to be!"
"All shall be kept up even as you left it," answered Sir Adrian moved by tender emotion; "to be made glorious again by the light of your youth and fairness.
And Renny shall be cook again, and maid of all work.
My poor Renny, what joy when he hears of his master's happiness, and all through the child of his beloved mistress!
But he will have to spend a sobering time of solitude out there, till I can find a substitute for his duties."
"You are very much attached to that funny little retainer, Adrian!"
said Molly after a pause.
"To no man alive do I owe so much.
With no one have I had, through life, so much in common," came the grave reply.
"Then," returned the girl, "you would thank me for telling you of the means of making the good man's exile less heavy, until you take him back with you."
"No doubt."
There was a tone of surprise and inquiry in his voice.
"Why, it is simple enough.
Have you never heard of his admiration for Moggie Mearson, our maid?
Let them marry.
They will make a good pair, though funny.
What, you never knew it?
Of course not, or you would not have had the heart to keep the patient lovers apart so long.
Let them marry, my Lord of Pulwick: it will complete the romance of the persecuted Savenayes of Brittany and their helpful friends of the distant North."
Musing, Sir Adrian fell into silence.
The faithful, foolish heart that never even told its secret desire, for very fear of being helped to win it; by whom happiness and love were held to be too dearly bought at the price of separation from the lonely exile!
"_Eh bien_, dreamer?"
cried the girl gaily.
"Thank you, Molly," said Sir Adrian, turning to her with shining eyes.
"This is a pretty thought, a good thought.
Renny will indeed doubly bless the day when Providence sent you to Pulwick."
And so, the following morn, Mr. Renny Potter was summoned to hear the tidings, and informed of the benevolent prospects more privately concerning his own life; was bidden to thank the future Lady Landale for her service; was gently rebuked for his long reticence, and finally dismissed in company of the glowing Moggie with a promise that his nuptials should be celebrated at the same time as those of the lord of the land.
The good fellow, however, required first of all an assurance that these very fine plans would not entail any interference with his duties to his master before he would allow himself to be pleased at his fortunes.
Great and complex, then, was his joy; but it would have been hard to say, as Moggie confessed to her inquiring mistress that night, when he had returned to his post, whether the pride and delight in his master's own betrothal was not uppermost in his bubbling spirits.
CHAPTER XX TWO MONTHS LATER: THE QUICK AND THE DEAD Neighbour, what doth thy husband when he cometh home from work?
He thinks of her he loved before he knew me _Luteplayer's Song._ _February 18th._ Upon the 18th of January, 1815, did I commit that most irreparable of all follies; then by my own hand I killed fair Molly de Savenaye, who was so happy, so free, so much in love with life, and whom I loved so dearly, and in her stead called into existence Molly Landale, a poor-spirited miserable creature who has not given me one moment's amusement.
How could I have been so stupid?
Let me examine.
It is only a month ago, only a month, 4 weeks, 31 days, millions of horrible dreary minutes, Oh, Molly, Molly, Molly!
since you stood, that snowy day, in the great drawing-room (_my_ drawing-room now, I hate it), and vowed twice over, once before the Jesuit father from Stonyhurst, once before jolly, hunting heretical parson Cochrane to cleave to Adrian Landale till death bid you part!
Brr--what ghastly words and with what a light heart I said them, tripped them out, _ma foi_, as gaily as "good-morning" or "good-night!"
They were to be the _open sesame_ to joys untold, to lands flowing with milk and honey, to romance, adventure, splendour--and what have they brought me?
It is a cold day, sleeting, snowing, blowing, all that is abominable.
My lord and master has ridden off, despite it, to some distant farm where there has been a fire.
The "Good Sir Adrian," as they call him now--he is _that_; but, oh dear me--there!
I must yawn, and I'll say no more on this head, at present, for I want to think and work my wretched problem out in earnest, and not go to sleep.
It is the first time I have taken heart to write since yonder day of doom, and God knows when I shall have heart again!
Upon such an afternoon there is nothing better to do, since Sir Adrian would have none of my company--he is so precious of me that he fears I should melt like sugar in the wet--he never guessed that it was just because of the storm I wished the ride!
Were we to live a hundred years together--which, God forfend--he would never understand me.
Ah, lack-a-day, oh, misery me!
(My lady, you are wandering; come back to business.)
What, then, has marriage brought me?
First of all a husband.
That is to say, another person, a man who has the right to me--to whom I myself have given that right--to have me, to hold me, as it runs in the terrible service, the thunders of which were twice rolled out upon my head, and which have been ringing there ever since.
And I, Molly, gave of my own free will, that best and most blessed of all gifts, my own free will, away.
I am surrounded, as it were, by barriers; hemmed in, bound up, kept in leading strings.
I mind me of the seagull on the island.
'Tis all in the most loving care in the world, of course, but oh!
the oppression of it!
I must hide my feelings as well as I can, for in my heart I would not grieve that good man, that _excellent_ man, that pattern of kind gentleman--oh, oh, oh--it will out--that _dreary_ man, that dull man, that most melancholy of all men!
Who sighs more than he smiles, and, I warrant, of the two, his sighs are the more cheerful; who looks at his beautiful wife as if he saw a ghost, and kisses her as if he kissed a corpse!
There is a mate for Molly!
the mate she chose for herself!
So much for the husband.
What else has marriage brought her?
Briefly I will capitulate.
A title--I am _my lady_.
For three days it sounded prettily in my ears.
But to the girl who refused a duchess' coronet, who was born comtesse--to be the baronet's lady--Tanty may say what she likes of the age of creation, and all the rest of it--that advantage cannot weigh heavy in the balance.
Again then, I have a splendid house--which is my prison, and in which, like all prisoners, I have not the right to choose my company--else would Sophia and Rupert still be here?
They are going, I am told occasionally; but my intimate conviction is, however often they may be going, _they will never go_.
_Item four:_ I have money, and nothing to spend it on--but the poor.
What next?
What next?--alas, I look and I find nothing!
This is all that marriage has brought me; and what has it not taken from me?
My delight in existence, my independence, my hopes, my belief in the future, my belief in _love_.
Faith, hope, and charity, in fact, destroyed at one fell sweep.
And all, to gratify my curiosity as to a romantic mystery, my vanity as to my own powers of fascination!
Well, I have solved the mystery, and behold it was nothing.
I have eaten of the fruit of knowledge, and it is tasteless in my mouth.
I have made my capture with my little bow and spear, and I am as embarrassed of my captive as he of me.
We pull at the chain that binds us together; nay, such being the law of this world between men and women, the positions are reversed, my captive is now my master, and Molly is the slave.
Tanty, I could curse thee for thy officiousness, from the tip of thy coal black wig to the sole of thy platter shoe--but that I am too good to curse thee at all!
Poor book of my life that I was so eager to fill in, that was to have held a narrative all thrilling, and all varied, now will I set forth in thee, my failure, my hopelessness, and after that close thee for ever.
Of what use indeed to chronicle, when there is nought to tell but flatness, chill monotony, on every side; when even the workings of my soul cannot interest me to follow, since they can now foreshadow nothing, lead to nothing but fruitless struggle or tame resignation!
I discovered my mistake--not the whole of it, but enough to give me a dreadful foreboding of its hideousness, not two hours after the nuptial ceremony.
Adrian had borne himself up to that with the romantic, mysterious dignity of presence that first caught my silly fancy; behind which I had pictured such fascinating depths of passion--of fire--Alas!
When he looked at me it was with that air of wondering, almost timid, affection battling with I know not what flame of rapture, with which look I have become so fatally familiar since--without the flame of rapture, be it understood, which seems to have rapidly burnt away to a very ash of grey despondency and self-reproach.
I could have sworn even as he gave me his arm to meet and receive the congratulations of our guests, that the glow upon his cheek, the poise of his head denoted the pride any man, were he not an idiot nor a brute, must feel in presenting his bride--such a bride!--to the world.
Then we went in to the great dining hall where the wedding feast, a very splendid one, was spread.
All the gentlemen looked with admiration at me; many with envy at Adrian.
I knew that I was beautiful in my fine white satin with my veil thrown back, without the flattering whispers that reached me now and again; but these were sweet to hear nevertheless.
I knew myself the centre of all eyes, and it elated me.
So too did the tingling flavour of the one glass of sparkling wine I drank to my fortunes.
Immediately upon this silent toast of Lady Landale to herself, Rupert rose and in choice words and silver-ringing voice proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom.
There was a merry bustling pause while the glasses were filled; then rising to their feet as with one man, all the gentlemen stood with brimming goblets one instant extended, the next emptied to the last drop; and then the cheers rang out, swelling up the rafters, three times three, seeming to carry my soul along with them.
I felt my heart expand and throb with an emotion I never knew in it before, which seemed to promise vast future capacities of pain and delight.
I turned to my husband instinctively; looking for, expecting, I could not explain why, an answering fire in his eyes.
This was the last moment of my illusions.
From thence they began to shrivel away with a terrifying rapidity.
Adrian sat with a face that looked old and lined and grey; with haggard unseeing eyes gazing forth into space as though fixing some invisible and spectre show.
He seemed as if wrapt in a world of his own, to which none of us had entrance; least of all, I, his wife.
The shouts around us died away, there were cries upon him for "Speech--speech," then playful queries--"How is this, Sir Adrian?
So bashful, egad!"
next nudges were exchanged, looks of wonder, and an old voice speaking broadly: _"Yes, by George,"_ it was saying, _"I remember it well, by George, in this very room, now twenty years ago, 'Here, gentlemen,' says old Sir Tummas, 'Here's to Madam de Savenaye,' and gad, ma'am, we all yelled,--she was a lovely creature--Eh--Eh?
"_ "Hush," said some one, and there was a running circle of frowns and the old voice ceased as abruptly as if its owner had been seized by the weasand.
In the heavy embarrassed silence, I caught Tanty's red perturbed look and Rupert's smile.
But Adrian sat on--like a ghost among the living, or a live man among the dead.
And this was my gallant bridegroom!
I seized him by the hand--"Are you ill, Adrian?"
He started and looked round at me--Oh that look!
It seemed to burn into my soul, I shall never forget the hopelessness, the dull sadness of it, and then--I don't know what he read in my answering glance--the mute agonised question, followed by a terror.
"They want you to speak," I whispered, and shook the cold hand I held in a fury of impatience.
His lips trembled: he stared at me blankly.
"My God, my God, what have I done?"
he muttered to himself, "Cécile's child--Cécile's child!"
I could have burst out sobbing.
But seeing Rupert's face bent down towards his plate, demure and solemn, yet stamped, for all his cleverness, with an almost devilish triumph, my pride rose and my courage.
Every one else seemed to be looking towards us: I stood up.
"Good friends," I said, "I see that my husband is so much touched by the welcome that you are giving his bride, the welcome that you are giving him after his long exile from his house, that he is quite unable to answer you as he would wish.
But lest you should misunderstand this silence of his, I am bold enough to answer you in his name, and--since it is but a few moments ago that you have seen us made one, I think I have the right to do so.... We thank you."
My heart was beating to suffocation--but I carried bravely on till I was drowned in a storm of acclamations to which the first cheers were as nothing.
They drank my health again, and again I heard the old gentleman of the indiscreet voice--I have learned since he is stone deaf, and I daresay he flattered himself he spoke in a whisper--proclaim that I was _my mother all over again: begad--so had she spoken to them twenty years ago in this very room!_ Here Tanty came to the rescue and carried me off.
I dared not trust myself to look at Adrian as I left, but I knew that he followed me to the door, from which I presumed that he had recovered his presence of mind in some degree.
Since that day we have been like two who walk along on opposite banks of a widening stream--ever more and more divided.
I have told no one of my despair.
It is curious, but, little wifely as I feel towards him, there is something in me that keeps me back from the disloyalty of discussing my husband with other people.
And it is not even as it might have been--this is what maddens me.
_We are always at cross purposes._ Some wilful spirit wakes in me, at the very sound of his voice (always gentle and restrained, and echoing of past sadness); under his mild, tender look; at the every fresh sign of his perpetual watchful anxiety--I give him wayward answers, frowning greetings, sighs, pouts; I feel at times a savage desire to wound, to anger him, and as far as I dare venture I have ventured, yet could not rouse in him one spark, even of proper indignation.
The word of the riddle lay in that broken exclamation of his at our wedding feast.
"Cécile's child!"
His wife, then, is only Cécile's child to him.
I have failed when I thought to have conquered--and with the consciousness of failure have lost my power, even to the desire of regaining it.
My dead mother is my rival; her shade rises between me and my husband's love.
Could he have loved me, I might perhaps have loved him--and now--now I, _Molly_, I, shall perhaps go down to my grave without having known _love_.
I thought I had found it on that day when he took me in his arms in that odious library--my heart melted when he so tenderly kissed my lips.
And now the very remembrance of that moment angers me.
Tenderness!
Am I only a weak, helpless child that I can arouse no more from the man to whom I have given myself!
I thought the gates of life had been opened to me--behold, they led me to a warm comfortable prison!
And this is Molly's end!
There is a light in Madeleine's eyes, a ring in her voice, a smile upon her lip.
She has bloomed into a beauty that I could hardly have imagined, and this is because of this unknown whom she _loves_.
She breathes the fulness of the flower; and by-and-by, no doubt, she will taste the fulness of the fruit; she will be complete; she will be fed and I am to starve.
What is coming to me?
I do not know myself.
I feel that I could grudge her these favours, that I _do_ grudge them to her.
I am sick at heart.
And she--even she has proved false to me.
I know that she meets this man.
Adrian too knows it, and more of him than he will tell me; and he approves.
I am treated like a child.
The situation is strange upon every side; Madeleine loving a plebeian--a sailor, not a king's officer--stooping to stolen interviews!
Adrian the punctilious, in whose charge Tanty solemnly left her, pretending ignorance, virtually condoning my sister's behaviour!
For though he has distinctly refused to enlighten me or help me to enlighten myself, he could not, upon my taxing him with it, deny that he was in possession of facts ignored by me.
Then there is Rupert paying now open court to this sly damsel--for the sake of her beautiful eyes, or for the beautiful eyes of her casket?
And last and strangest, the incongruous friendship struck up this week between her and that most irritating of melancholy fools, Sophia.
The latter bursts with suppressed importance, she launches glances of understanding at my sister; sighs, smiles (when Rupert's eye is not on her), starts mysteriously.
One would say that Madeleine had made a confidant of her--only that it would be too silly.
What?
Make a confidant of that funereal mute and deny _me_ the truth!
If I had the spirit for it I would set myself to discovering this grand mystery; and then let them beware!
They would have none of Molly as a friend: perhaps she will yet prove one too many upon the other side.
If I have grown bitter to Madeleine, it is her own fault; I would have been as true as steel to her if she had but trusted me.
Now and again, when a hard word and look escape me, she gives me a great surprised, reproachful glance, as of a petted child that has been hurt; but mostly she scarcely seems to notice the change in me--Moonlike in dreamy serenity she sails along, wrapt in her own thoughts, and troubles no more over Molly's breaking her heart than over Rupert's determined suit.
To me when she remembers me, she gives the old caresses, the old loving words; to him smiles and pretty courtesy.
Oh, she keeps her secret well!
But I came upon her in the woods alone, last Friday, fresh, no doubt, from her lover's arms; tremulous, smiling, yet tearful, with face dyed rose.
And when to my last effort to attain the right of sisterhood she would only stammer the tell-tale words: _she had promised!_ and press her hot cheeks against mine, I thrust her from me, indignant, and from my affections for ever.
Yet I hold her in my power, I could write to Tanty, put Rupert on the track.... Nay, I have not fallen so low as to become Rupert's accomplice yet!
And so the days go on.
Between my husband's increasing melancholy, my own mad regrets, Rupert's watchfulness, Madeleine's absorption and Sophia's twaddle, my brain reels.
I feel sometimes as if I could scream aloud, as we all sit round the table, and I know that _this_ is the life that I am doomed to, and that the days may go on, go on thus, till I am old.
Poor Murthering Moll the second!
Why even the convent, where at least I knew nothing, would have been better!
No, it is not possible!
Something is still to come to me.
Like a bird, my heart rises within me.
I have the right to my life, the right to my happiness, say what they may.
CHAPTER XXI THE DAWN OF AN EVENTFUL DAY Rupert's behaviour at home, since his brother's wedding, had been, as even Molly was bound to admit to herself, beyond reproach in tactfulness, quiet dignity, and seeming cheerfulness.
He abdicated from his position of trust at once and without the smallest reservation; wooed Madeleine with so great a discretion that her dreamy eyes saw in him only a kind relative; and he treated his sister-in-law, for all her freaks of bearing to him, with a perfect gentleness and gentility.
At times Sir Adrian would watch him with great eyes.
What meant this change?
the guileless philosopher would ask himself, and wonder if he had judged his brother too harshly all through life; or if it was his plain speaking in their last quarrel which had put things in their true light to him, and awakened some innate generosity of feeling; or yet if--this with misgiving--it was love for pretty Madeleine that was working the marvel.
If so, how would this proud rebellious nature bear another failure?
Rupert spoke with unaffected regret about leaving Pulwick, at the same time, in spite of Molly's curling lip, giving it to be understood that his removal was only a matter of time.
For the ostensible purpose, indeed, of finding himself another home he made, in the beginning of March, the second month after his brother's marriage, several absences which lasted a couple of days or more, and from which he would return with an eager sparkle in his eye, almost a brightness on his olive cheek, to sit beside Madeleine's embroidery frame, pulling her silks and snipping with her scissors, and talking gaily, persistently, with such humour and colour as at last to draw that young lady's attention from far off musings to his words with smiles and laughter.
Meanwhile, Molly would sit unoccupied, brooding, watching them, now fiercely, from under her black brows, now scornfully, now abstractedly; the while she nibbled at her delicate finger-nails, or ruthlessly dragged them along the velvet arms of her chair with the gesture of a charming, yet distracted, cat.
Sir Adrian would first tramp the rooms with unwitting restlessness, halting, it might be, beside his wife to strive to engage her into speech with him; and, failing, would betake himself at length with a heavy sigh to solitude; or, yet, he would sit down to his organ--the new one in the great hall which had been put up since his marriage, at Molly's own gay suggestion, during their brief betrothal--and music would peal out upon them till Lady Landale's stormy heart could bear it no longer, and she would rise in her turn, fly to the shelter of her room and roll her head in the pillows to stifle the sound of sobs, crying from the depths of her soul against heaven's injustice; anon railing in a frenzy of impotent anger against the musician, who had such passion in him and gave it to his music alone.
During Rupert's absences that curious intimacy which Molly had contemptuously noted between her sister and sister-in-law displayed itself in more conspicuous manner.
Miss Landale's long sallow visage sported its airs of mystery and importance, its languishing leers undisguisedly, so long as her brother Rupert's place was empty; and though her visits to the rector's grave were now almost quotidian, she departed upon them with looks of wrapt importance, and, returning, sought Madeleine's chamber (when that maiden did not herself stroll out to meet her in the woods), her countenance invariably wreathed with suppressed, yet triumphant smiles, instead of the old self-assertive dejection.
* * * * * The 15th of March of that year was to be a memorable day in the lives of so many of those who then either dwelt in Pulwick, or had dealings on that wide estate.
Miss Landale, who had passed the midnight hour in poring over the delightful wickedness of Lara, and, upon at length retiring to her pillow, had had a sentimental objection to shutting out the romantic light of the moon by curtain or shutter, was roused into wakefulness soon after dawn by a glorious white burst of early sunshine.
As a rule, the excellent soul liked to lie abed till the last available moment; but that morning she was up with the sun.
When dressed she drew a letter from a secret casket with manifold precautions as though she were surrounded with prying eyes, and, placing it in her reticule, hastened forth to seek the little lonely disused churchyard by the shore.
She afterwards remarked that she could never forget in what agitation of spirits and with what strange presentiment of evil she was led to this activity at so unwonted an hour.
The truth was, however, that Miss Landale tripped along through the damp wooded path as gaily as if she were going to visit her living lover instead of his granite tomb; and that in lieu of evil omens a hundred fantastically sentimental thoughts floated through her brain, as merrily and irresponsibly as the motes in the long shafts of brilliancy that cleaved, sword-like through the mists, upon her from out the east.
Visions of Madeleine's face when she would learn before breakfast that Sophia had actually been to the churchyard already; visions of whom she might meet there; rehearsals of a romantic scene upon that hallowed spot, of her own blushes, her knowing looks, her playful remonstrances, with touching allusions to one who had loved and lost, herself, and who thus, &c. &c. Miss Landale tossed her long faded ringlets quite coquettishly, turned one slim bony hand with coy gesture before her approving eyes.
Then she patted her reticule and hurried on with fresh zest, enjoying the tart whisper of the wind against her well bonneted face, the exquisite virginal beauty of the earth in the early spring of the day and of the year.
As she stepped out of the shadow of the trees, her heart leaped and then almost stood still as she perceived in the churchyard lying below her, beside the great slab of granite which lay over the remains of her long-departed beloved one, the figure of a man, whose back was turned towards her, and whose erect outline was darkly silhouetted against the low, dazzling light.
Then a simper of exceeding archness crept upon Miss Landale's lips; and with as genteel an amble as the somewhat precipitate nature of the small piece of ground that yet divided her from the graveyard would allow, she proceeded on her way.
At the click of the lych-gate under her hand the man turned sharply round and looked at her without moving further.
An open letter fluttered in his hand.
His face was still against the light, and Miss Landale's eyes had wept so many tears by day and night that her sight was none of the best.
She dropped a very elegant curtsey, simpered, drew nearer, and threw a fetching glance upwards.
Then her shrill scream rang through the still morning air and frightened the birds in the ruined church.
"You are early this morning, Sophia," said Mr. Landale.
Sophia sank upon the tombstone.
To say that she was green or yellow would ill describe the ghastliness of the tint that suffused her naturally bilious countenance; still speechless, she made a frantic plunge towards the great urn that adorned the head of the grave.
Mr. Landale looked up from his reading again with a quiet smile.
"I shall have done in one minute," he remarked, "It is a fine production, egad!
full of noble protestations and really high-sounding words.
And then, my dear Sophia, you can take charge of it, and I shall be quite ready for the other, which I presume you have as usual with you--ah, in your bag!
Thanks."
"Rupert?"
ejaculated the unfortunate lady, first in agonised query, and next in agonised reproach, clasping her hands over the precious reticule--"Rupert!"
Mr. Landale neatly folded the sheet he had been reading, moistened with his tongue a fresh wafer which he drew from his waistcoat pocket, and, deftly placing it upon the exact spot from which the original one had been removed, handed the letter to his sister with a little bow.
But, as with a gesture of horror the latter refused to take it, he shrugged his shoulders and tossed it carelessly into the urn.
"Now give me Madeleine's," he said, peremptorily.
Rolling upwards eyes of appeal the unhappy Iris called upon heaven to witness that she would die a thousand deaths rather than betray her solemn trust.
But even as she spoke the fictitious flame of courage withered away in her shrinking frame; and at the mere touch of her brother's finger and thumb upon her wrist, the mere sight of his face bending masterfully over her with white teeth just gleaming between his twisting smile and half-veiled eyes of insolent determination, she allowed him, unresisting, to take the bag from her side; protesting against the breach of faith only by her moans and the inept wringing of her hands.
Mr. Landale opened the bag, tossed with cynical contempt upon the flat tombstone, sundry precious relics of the mouldering bones within, and discovered at length in an inner pocket a dainty flower-scented note.
Then he flung down the bag and proceeded with the same deliberation to open the letter and peruse its delicate flowing handwriting.
"Upon my word," he vowed, "I think this is the prettiest she has written yet!
What a sweet soul it is!
Listen, Sophia: 'You praise me for my trust in you--but, Jack, dear love, my trust is so much a part of my love that the one would not exist without the other.
Therefore, do not give me any credit, for you know I could not help loving you.'
Poor heart!
poor confiding child!
Oh!"
ejaculated Mr. Landale as if to himself, carefully proceeding the while with his former manoeuvres to end by placing the violated missive, to all appearance intact, beside its fellow, "we have here a rank fellow, a foul traitor to deal with!"
Then, wheeling round to his sister, and fixing her with piercing eyes: "Sophia," he exclaimed, in tones of sternest rebuke, "I am surprised at you.
I am, indeed!"
Miss Landale raised mesmerised, horror-stricken eyes upon him; his dark utterances had already filled her foolish soul with blind dread.
He sat down beside her, and once more enclosed the thin arm in his light but warning grasp.
"Sophia," he said solemnly, "you little guess the magnitude of the harm you have been doing; the frightful fate you have been preparing for an innocent and trusting girl; the depth of the villainy you are aiding and abetting.
You have been acting, as I say, in ignorance, without realising the awful consequences of your folly and duplicity.
But that you should have chosen _this_ sacred place for such illicit and reprehensible behaviour; that by the grave of this worthy man who loved you, by the stones chosen and paid for by my fraternal affection, you should plot and scheme to deceive your family, and help to lead a confiding and beautiful creature to ruin, I should never have expected from _you_, Sophia--Sophia!"
Miss Landale collapsed into copious weeping.
"I am sure, brother," she sobbed, "I never meant any harm.
I am sure nobody loves the dear girl better than I do.
I am sure I never wished to hide anything from you!--Only--they told me--they trusted me--they made me promise--Oh brother, what terrible things you have been saying!
I cannot believe that so handsome a young gentleman can mean anything wrong--I only wish you could have seen him with her, he is so devoted--it is quite beautiful."
"Alas--the tempter always makes himself beautiful in the eyes of the tempted!
Sophia, we can yet save this unhappy child, but who knows how soon it may be too late!--You can still repair some of the wrong you have done, but you can only do so by the most absolute obedience to me....
Believe me, I know the truth about this vile adventurer, this Captain Jack Smith."
"Good Heavens!"
cried Sophia, "Rupert, do not tell me, lest I swoon away, that he is married already?"
"The man, my dear, whose plots to compromise and entangle a lovely girl you have favoured, is a villain of the deepest dye--a pirate."
"Oh!"
shivered Sophia with fascinated misery--thrilling recollections of last night's reading shooting through her frame.
"A smuggler, a criminal, an outlaw in point of fact," pursued Mr. Landale.
"He merely seeks Madeleine for her money--has a wife in every port, no doubt--" Miss Landale did not swoon; but her brother's watchful eye was satisfied with the effect produced, and he went on in a well modulated tone of suppressed emotion: "And after breaking her heart, ruining her body and soul, dragging her to the foulest depths he would have cast her away like a dead weed--perhaps murdered her!
Sophia, what would your feelings be then?"
A hard red spot had risen to each of Miss Landale's cheek bones; her tears had dried up under the fevered glow.
"We believed," she said trembling in every limb, "that he was working on a mission to the French court--" "Faugh--" cried Mr. Landale, contemptuously, "smuggling French brandy for our English drunkards and traitorous intelligence for our French enemies!"
"Such a handsome young man, so gentlemanly, such an air!"
maundered the miserable woman between her chattering teeth.
"It was quite accidental that we met, Rupert, quite accidental, I assure you.
Madeleine--poor dear girl--came down with me here, I wanted to show her the g-grave----" here Sophia gurgled convulsively, remembering her brother's cruel reproaches.
"Well?"
"She came here with me, and as I was kneeling down, planting crocuses just here, Rupert, and she was standing _there_, a young man suddenly leaped over the wall, and fell at her feet.
He had not seen _me_--Alas, it reminded me of my own happiness!
And he was so well-dressed, so courteous--and seemed such a perfect gentleman--and he took off his hat so gracefully I am sure I never could have believed it of him.
And they confided in me and I promised by--by--those sacred ashes to keep their secret.
I remembered of course what Tanty had said in her letter, and quite understood he was the young gentleman in question--but they explained to me how she was under a wrong impression altogether.
He said that the instant he laid eyes upon me, he saw I had a feeling heart, and he knew they could trust me.
He spoke so nobly, Rupert, and said: What better place could they have for their meetings than one consecrated to such faithful love as this?
It was so beautiful--and oh dear!
I can't but think there is some mistake."
And Miss Landale again wrung her hands.
"But I have proof!"
thundered her brother, "convincing proof, of what I have told you.
At this very moment the man who would marry Madeleine, forsooth, runs the risk of imprisonment--nay, of the gallows!
You may have thought it strange that I should have opened and read letters not addressed to me, but with misfortune hanging over a beloved object I did not pause to consider myself.
My only thought was to save her."
Here Mr. Landale looked very magnanimous, and thrust his fingers as he spoke through the upper buttons of his waistcoat with the gesture which traditionally accompanies such sentiments: these cheap effects proved generally irresistible with Sophia.
But his personality had paled before the tremendous drama into which the poor romance-loving soul was so suddenly plunged, and in which in spite of all her woe she found an awful kind of fascination.
Failing to read any depth of admiration in her roving eye, Rupert promptly abandoned grandiloquence, and resuming his usual voice and manner, he dropped his orders upon her heat of agitation like a cool relentless stream under which her last protest fizzed, sputtered, and went out.
"I mean to unmask the gay lover at my own time and in my own way; never fear, I shall deal gently with _her_.
You will now take this letter of his and put it in your bag, leaving hers in that curious post-office of yours."
"Yes, Rupert."
"And you will give his letter to her at once when you go in without one word of having met me."
"Y ... yes, Rupert."
"As you are too great a fool to be trusted if you once begin to talk, you will have a headache for the rest of the day and go to bed in a dark room."
"Y ... yes, Rupert."
"You will moreover swear to me, now, that you will not speak of our interview here till I give you leave; say I swear I will not."
"I swear I will not."
"So help me God!"
"Oh, Rupert."
"_So help me God_, you fool!"
Sophia's lips murmured an inaudible something; but there was such complete submission in every line and curve of her figure, in the very droop of her ringlets and the helpless appeal of her gaze that Rupert was satisfied.
He assisted her to arise from her tombstone, bundled the clerical love-tokens back into the bag, duly placed Captain Jack's letter in the inner pocket, and was about to present her with his arm to conduct her homewards, when he caught sight of a little ragged urchin peeping through the bars of the gate, and seemingly in the very act of making a mysterious signal in the direction of Miss Landale's unconscious figure.
Rupert stared hard at the ruddy, impudent face, which instantly assumed an appearance of the most defiant unconcern, while its owner began to devote his energies to shying stones at an invisible rook upon the old church tower with great nicety of aim.
"Sophia," said her brother in a low tone, "go to the gate: that boy wants to speak to you.
Go and see what he wants and return to me."
Miss Landale gasped, gazed at her brother as if she thought him mad, looked round at the little boy, coloured violently, then meeting Rupert's eye again staggered off without a word of protest.
Rupert, shaken with silent laughter, humming a little song to himself, stooped to pick a couple of tender spring flowers from the border beside the grave, and after slipping them into a button-hole of his many caped overcoat, stood looking out over the stretch of land and sea, where Scarthey rose like a dream against the sparkle of the water and the exquisite blue of the sky.
Presently rapid panting breaths and a shuffling rustle of petticoats behind him informed him of his sister's return.
"So you are there, my dear," he said loudly.
"One of your little fishing friends from the village, I suppose--a Shearman, unless I am mistaken.
Yes, a Shearman; I thought so.
Well, shall we return home now?
They will be wondering what has become of us.
Pray take my arm."
Then beneath his breath, seeing that words were struggling to Sophia's lips, "Hold your tongue."
The small ragged boy watched their departure with a derisive grin, and set off at a brisk canter down to the shore, jingling some silver coin in his pocket with relish as he went.
When Rupert and Sophia had reached the wood the former paused.
"Letter or message?"
"Oh, Rupert, it was a letter; had I not better destroy it?"
"Give it to me."
* * * * * A hasty scrawl, it seemed, folded anyhow.
Only two or three lines, yet Rupert conned them for a curiously long time.
"My darling," it ran, "meet me to-day in the ruins at noon.
A misfortune has happened to me, but if you trust me, all will still be well.--Your Jack."
Mr. Landale at length handed it back to Sophia.
"You will give it to Madeleine with the other," he said briefly.
"Mention the fact of the messenger having brought it."
And then in a terrible bass he added, "And remember your oath!"
She trembled; but as he walked onwards through the wood, his lips were smiling, and his eyes were alight with triumph.
CHAPTER XXII THE DAY: MORNING The appointment of a regular light-keeper at Scarthey, intended to release René and old Margery from their exile, had been delayed so as to suit the arrangement which was to leave for a time the island domain of Sir Adrian at the disposal of Captain Jack.
Meanwhile Moggie's presence greatly mitigated the severity of her husband's separation from his master.
On his side the sailor was in radiant spirits.
All worked as he could wish, and Sir Adrian's marriage, besides being a source of unselfish satisfaction, was, with regard to his own prospects, an unexpected help; for, his expedition concluded, he would now be able in the most natural manner to make his appearance at Pulwick, an honoured guest of the master, under the pride of his own name.
And for the rest, hope unfolded warm-coloured visions indeed.
During the weeks which had elapsed since Sir Adrian's departure, Captain Jack's visits to the island had been fitful and more or less secret--He always came and left at night.
But as it was understood that the place was his to be used and enjoyed as he thought best, neither his sudden appearances with the usual heavy travelling-bag, nor his long absences excited any disturbance in the arcadian life led by René between his buxom young wife and the old mother--as the good-humoured husband now termed the scolding dame.
A little sleeping closet had been prepared and allotted to the use of the peripatetic guest in one of the disused rooms when René's own accommodation under the light tower had been enlarged for the new requirements of his matrimonial status.
And so Monsieur the Captain (in René's inveterate outlandish phraseology) found his liberty of action complete.
Both the women's curiosity was allayed, and all tendency to prying into the young stranger's mysterious purposes amid their seclusion condemned beforehand, by René's statement: that Monsieur the Captain was a trusted friend of the master--one indeed (and here the informant thought fit to stretch a point, if but slightly) to whom the Lord of Pulwick was indebted, in bygone days, for life and freedom.
Except when weather-bound, a state of things which at that time of year occurred not unfrequently, René journeyed daily as far as the Hall, ostensibly to report progress and take possible orders, but really to gratify himself with the knowledge that all was well with the master.
About the breakfast hour, upon this 15th of March, as Sir Adrian was discussing with the bailiff sundry matters of importance to the estate, a tap came to the door, which he recognised at once as the Frenchman's own long accustomed mode of self-announcement.
Since he had assumed the reins of government, the whilom recluse had discovered that the management of such a wide property was indeed no sinecure; and moreover--as his brother, who certainly understood such matters in a thoroughly practical manner, had warned him--that a person of his own philosophical, over-benevolent and abstracted turn of mind, was singularly ill-fitted for the task.
But a strong sense of duty and a determination to act by it will carry a man a long way.
He had little time for dreaming and this was perhaps a providential dispensation, for Sir Adrian's musings had now lost much of the grave placidity born of his long, peaceful residence in his Thelema of Scarthey.
The task was long and arduous; on sundry occasions he was forced to consult his predecessor on the arcana of landed estate government, which he did with much simplicity, thereby giving Mr. Landale, not only inwardly mocking satisfaction, but several opportunities for the display of his self-effacing loyalty and superior capacities.
The business of this day was of sufficiently grave moment to make interruption unwelcome--being nothing less than requests from a number of tenants to the "Good Sir Adrian," "the real master come to his own again"--for a substantial reduction of rent; a step towards which the master's heart inclined, but which his sober reason condemned as preposterous.
But René's countenance, as he entered, betrayed news of such import that Sir Adrian instantly adjourned the matter on hand, and, when the bailiff had retired, anxiously turned to the new-comer, who stood in the doorway mopping his steaming brow.
"Well, Renny," said he, "what is wrong?
Nothing about your wife--?"
"No, your honour," answered the man, "your honour is very good.
Nothing wrong with our Moggie.
But the captain....
I ran all the way from the Shearmans."
"No accident there, I hope."
"I fear there is, your honour.
The captain--he has been attacked this morning."
"Not wounded--!"
exclaimed Sir Adrian.
"Not dead, Renny?"
"Oh no, your honour, well.
But he has, I fear, killed one of the men ... the revenue men--" Then, seeing his master start aghast, he went on rapidly; "At least he is very bad--but what for did he come to make the spy upon our island?
We have left him at the Shearmans--the mother Shearman will nurse him.
But the captain, your honour"--the speaker lowered his voice to a whisper and advanced a step, looking round--"that is the worst of all, the captain has turned mad, I believe--Instead of going off with his ship and his crew, (they are safe out to sea, as they should be) he remains at Scarthey.
Yes--in your honour's rooms.
He is walking up and down and clutching his hair and talking to himself, like a possessed.
And when I respectfully begged him to consider that it was of the last folly his having rested instead of saving himself, I might as well have tried to reason a mule.
And so, knowing that your honour would never forgive me if misfortune arrived, I never drew breath till I reached here to tell you.
If his honour would come himself he might be able to make Mr. his friend hear reason--Your honour will run no risk, for it is only natural that you should go to the peel after what has occurred--but if you cannot get Mr. the captain to depart this night, there will arrive to us misfortune--it is I who tell you so."
"I will go back with you, at once," said Sir Adrian, rising much perturbed.
"Wait here while I speak to Lady Landale."
Molly was standing by the great log fire in the hall, yawning fit to dislocate her pretty jaws, and teasing the inert form of old Jim, as he basked before the flame, with the tip of her pretty foot.
She allowed her eyes to rest vaguely upon her husband as he approached, but neither interrupted her idle occupation nor endeavoured to suppress the yawn that again distended her rosy lips.
He looked at her for a moment in silence; then laying a hand upon her shoulder, said gently: "My child, I am called back to Scarthey and must leave instantly.
You--you will be careful of yourself--amuse yourself during my absence--it may be for two or three days."
Lady Landale raised her black brows with a fine air of interrogation, and then gazed down at the old dog till the lashes swept her cheek, while a mocking dimple just peeped from the corner of her mouth and was gone again.
"Oh yes," she answered drily, "I shall take endless care of myself and amuse myself wildly.
You need have no fear of that."
Sir Adrian sighed, and his hand fell listless from her shoulder.
"Good-bye, then," he said, and stooped it seemed hesitatingly to lay his lips between the little dark tendrils of hair that danced upon her forehead.
But with a sudden movement she twitched her face away.
"Despite all the varied delights which bind me to Pulwick," she remarked carelessly, "the charms of Sophia and Rupert's company, and all the other _amusements_--I have a fancy to visit your old owl's nest again--so we need not waste sentiment upon a tender parting, need we?"
Sir Adrian's cheek flushed, and with a sudden light in his eyes he glanced at her quickly; but his countenance faded into instant melancholy again, at sight of her curling lip and cold amused gaze.
"Will you not have me?"
she asked.
"If you will come--you will be welcome--as welcome," his voice shook a little, "as my wife must always be wherever I am."
"Ah--oh," yawned Lady Landale, "(excuse me pray--it's becoming quite an infirmity) so that is settled.
I hope it will storm to-night, that the wind will blow and howl--and then I snuggle in the feather bed in that queer old room and try and fancy I am happy Molly de Savenaye again."
Adrian's lip quivered; yet in a second or two he spoke lightly.
"I do not want to hurry you, but I have to leave at once."
Then struck by a sudden thought, by that longing to bring pleasure to others which was always working in him, "Why not let Madeleine come with you too?"
he asked, "she could share your room, and--it would be a pleasure to her I think."
He sighed as he thought of the trouble in store for the lovers.
Lady Landale grew red to the roots of her hair and shot a look of withering scorn at her husband's unconscious face.
"It would be charming," she said, sarcastically, "but after all I don't know that I care to go so much--oh, don't stare at me like that, for goodness' sake!
A woman may change her mind, I suppose--at least, in a trifle here and there if she can't as regards the whole comfort of her life.--Well, well, perhaps I shall go--this afternoon--later--you can start now.
I shall follow--I can always get a boat at the Shearmans.
And I shall bring Madeleine, of course--it is most kind and thoughtful of you to suggest it.
_Mon Dieu_, I have a husband in a thousand!"
She swept him a splendid curtsey, kissed her hand at him, and then burst out laughing at the pale bewilderment of his face.
* * * * * When Sir Adrian returned to the morning-room, he found René, half hidden behind the curtain folds, peering curiously out of the window which overlooked the avenue.
On his master's entrance, the man turned his head, placed his finger on his lip, and beckoned him to approach.
"If I may take the liberty," said he with subdued voice, "will his honour come and look out, without showing himself?"
And he pointed to a group, consisting of Mr. Landale and two men in blue jackets and cockaded hats of semi-naval appearance, now slowly approaching the house.
Mr. Landale was listening with bent head, slightly averted, to the smaller of his two companions--a stout square-looking fellow, who spoke with evident volubility, whilst the other followed defferentially one pace in rear.
Presently the trio halted, a few yards from the entrance, and Mr. Landale, cutting designs upon the sand with the end of his stick in a meditative way, appeared to be giving directions at some length, on the conclusion of which the two men, touching their hats with much respect, departed together, while the magistrate pensively proceeded on his way to the house.
"Those, your honour," said René, "were with him that was struck in the fight this morning.
It was I rowed them over, together with the wounded.
I left them at the Shearmans, and slipped away myself to carry the news.
If I might take upon myself to advise, it would be better if your honour would come with me now, at once, for fear Mr. Landale should delay us by questioning me--Mr. Landale being a magistrate, as I heard these men say; and Moggie has assured me that he always arranges himself for knowing when I arrive from the island--ever since the day when the demoiselles had just come, and I found it out.
Ever since then he has not liked me, Mr. Landale.
Come away, your honour, before he finds out I have been here to-day."
Following upon this advice, which he found to the point, Sir Adrian left his house by a back passage; and, through a side garden, found his way to the coast and to the fishing village.
The wounded man who had not recovered consciousness, lay in the brother Shearman's hut, as René had said, surrounded by such uncouth attendance as the rude fisherfolk could dispense.
After giving directions for the summoning of medical aid and the removal, if it should prove advisable, of the patient to the Hall, but without a single comment upon the unfortunate occurrence, Sir Adrian then took the road of the peel.
During the transit, walking rapidly by his master's side, across the now bare causeway, René gave his account of events.
The captain (he related) after three days' absence had re-appeared the night before the last, and requested him to warn the womankind not to be alarmed if they heard, as no doubt they would, strange noises on the beach at night.
He was, said he, storing provisions and water for the forthcoming journey, and the water in the well was so excellent that he had determined to take in his store.
Of course his honour understood well that René did not concern himself in these matters; but that was the explanation he conveyed to his wife, lest she should be alarmed and wonder.
As for the old mother, she was too deaf to be awakened out of sleep by anything short of the trumpet of the last judgment.
As announced, there had been during the night the noise of a party of men landing, of the hoisting and rolling of barrels--a great _remue-ménage_ altogether--and the next morning, that was yesterday, the captain had slept sound in his bunk till late.
During several hours of the following day, he had some secret work to do in the caves of which René had shown the ins and outs, and whilst so engaged had requested that watch should be kept from the light-tower, and message sent by some arranged signal should any one approach the island.
But no one had come near.
Whilst at his post, the watcher had heard at different times the sound of hammering; and when the captain had come to relieve him, the good gentleman was much begrimed with dust and hot with work, but appeared in excellent humour.
In the castle, he sang and whistled for joyfulness, and made jokes with Moggie, all in his kind way, saying that if he were not to be married himself soon, he would feel quite indignant and jealous at the happiness of such a rascal as her husband.
Oh!
he was happy--Monsieur the Captain--he had brought Moggie a beautiful shawl; and to René, he had given a splendid watch, telling him to keep count of the hours of his unmerited bliss.
Alas, this morning all had been different indeed!
The captain looked another man; his face was as white as linen.
The very look of him would have told any one that a misfortune had occurred.
René did not quite understand it himself, but this is what had taken place: The captain had left Scarthey on foot late in the evening, and when he returned (he was not long away) he bade René again not to mind what he heard during the night; and, in faith, once more there had been a real noise of the devil; men coming to and fro, a deal of rowing on the water, away and back again, in the early night and then once more before dawn.
"But I was not unquiet," said René, "I knew they had come for the remainder of what Mr. Smith was pleased to call his provisions.
From our room I could see by the light on the stairs that the lamp was burning well, and Moggie slept like a child, so sound, she never moved.
Just before the rising sun, I had got up and put out the lamp, and was going to bed again, when there came thumps of the devil at the lower door.
Well knowing that the captain had his own way of entering--for he had spent many days in finding out all sorts of droll passages in the ruins--I was quite seized; and as I hurried down, the thumps came again and great cries for the lighthouse-keeper.
And, your honour, when I unbarred the door, there was a man in uniform whom I did not know, and he asked me, grumbling, if I knew of the pretty doings on the beach, whilst I slept like pig, he said--Of course I made the astonished as his honour may imagine: I knew nothing, had heard nothing, though my heart was beating like to burst not knowing what was coming.
Then he ordered me to lend a hand and bring a ladder to carry away one of his men who had been murdered by the smugglers, he said.
And there, on the sands, in front of the small cave was another man, in a blue coat too, watching over the body of one who was stretched out, quite tranquil, his face covered with blood and his eyes closed.
They are gone, says the gross man.
And I was glad, as your honour may well think, to see the chaloupe full of the captain's men rowing hard towards the vessel.
She had just come out of the river mouth and was doubling round the banks.
We carried the man on his ladder to the kitchen and we and the women did all we could, but he remained like a log.
So after a time the two men (who said they had come along the dyke soon after midnight, on foot, as they thought it would be more secret, and had watched all night in the bent) wanted to eat and drink and rest.
They had missed their game, the big man said; they had been sent to find out what sort of devil's tricks were being played on in the island unbeknown to Sir Adrian;--but it was the devil's luck altogether, for the smugglers had slipped away and would not be seen in this part of the world again.
That is the way the fat man spoke.
The other had nothing to say, but swallowed our bacon and our beer as if he did not care.
And then, your honour, they told me I should have to lend them the yawl to go on land, and go myself to help, and take the body with us.
And as he was speaking, I saw Moggie the wife, who had been backwards and forwards serving them, looking at me very straight but without blowing a word, as if she had fear.
And all at once I felt there was something on foot.
So I drew the men more beer and said I would see after the yawl.
Outside the door the wife whispered: 'Upstairs, quick!
Renny,' and she herself whisked back into the kitchen so that she should not cause suspicion to those others--Ah, your honour, that is a woman!"
"Well, well," interrupted his master, anxiously.
"Well, I went upstairs, four by four; and there, in your honour's room, without an attempt to conceal himself (when any moment it might have entered into those brigands' heads downstairs to search the place), there was Monsieur the Captain, raging up and down, like a wolf in cage, as I had the honour to describe before.
No wonder Moggie was afraid for him.
A woman is quick to feel danger ahead.
He looked at me as if he did not know me, his face all unmade.
'You know what has happened;' he says.
'Am I not the most unfortunate...?
All is lost.'
'With respect,' says I; 'nothing is lost so long as life is safe, but it is not a good thing Monsieur the Captain that you are here, like this, when you should be on your good ship as many miles away as she can make.
Are you mad?'
to him I say, and he to me, 'I think I am.'
'At least let me hide you,' I beg of him, 'I know of many beautiful places,' and so for the matter of that does he.
But it was all lost trouble.
At length he sits down at the table and begins to write, and his look brightens: 'You _can_ help me, my good friend,' he says; 'I have a hope left--who knows--who knows,'--and he writes a few lines like an enraged and folds them and kisses the billet.
'Find means,' says he, 'René, to get Johnny, the Shearman boy, to take this to the old churchyard and place it in the place he knows of; or, better still, should he chance upon Miss Landale to give it to her.
He is a sharp rogue,' says he, 'and I can trust his wits; but should you not find him, dear René, you must do the commission for me yourself.
Now go--go,' he cries, and pushes me to the stairs.
And, as I dared remain no more, I had to leave him.
Of course Monsieur the Captain has not been here all this time without telling me of his hopes, and it is clear that it is to bid farewell to Mademoiselle Madeleine that he is playing with his life.
It is as ill reasoning with a lover as a lunatic: they are the same thing, _Ma foi_, but I trust to your honour to bring him to his senses if any one can.
And so, to continue, I went down and I told the men in blue the boat was ready, we carried the body; I left them at the Shearmans, as your honour knows.
I found Johnny and gave him the letter; he knew all about what to do, it seemed.
And then I came straight to the Hall."
"It is indeed a miserable business!"
said Sir Adrian.
René heaved a great sigh of sympathy, as he noticed the increasing concern on his master's face.
"You heard them mention my brother's name?"
inquired the latter, after following the train of his misgivings for a few moments.
"You have reason to think that Mr. Landale knew of these men's errand; other reason, I mean, than having seen them with him just now?"
René's quick mind leaped at the meaning of the question: "Yes, your honour.
'Mr.
Landale will want to know of this,' says the fat one; 'though it is too late,' he says."
And René added ruefully: "I have great fear.
The captain is not at the end of his pains, if Mr. Landale is ranged against him!"
Such was also Sir Adrian's thought.
But he walked on for a time in silence; and, having reached Scarthey, rapidly made his way into the peel.
Captain Jack was still pacing the room much as René had described when Sir Adrian entered upon him.
The young man turned with a transient look of surprise to the new-comer, then waved away the proffered hand with a bitter smile.
"You do not know," he said, "who it is you would shake hands with--an outlaw--a criminal.
Ah, you have heard?
Then Renny, I suppose, has told you."
"Yes," groaned the other, holding his friend by both shoulders and gazing sorrowfully into the haggard face, "the man may die--oh, Jack, Jack, how could you be so rash?"
"I can't say how it all happened," answered Captain Jack, falling to his walk to and fro again in the extremity of his distress, and ever and anon mopping his brow.
"I felt such security in this place.
All was loaded but the last barrel, when, all of a sudden, from God knows where, the man sprang on me and thrust his dark lantern in my face.
'It is Smith,' I heard him say.
I do believe now that he only wanted to identify me.
No man in his senses could have dared to try and arrest me surrounded by my six men.
But I had no time to think then, Adrian.
I imagined the fellow was leading a general attack....
If that last barrel was seized the whole secret was out; and that meant ruin.
Wholesale failure seemed to menace me suddenly in the midst of my success.
I had a handspike in my hand with which I had been helping to roll the kegs.
I struck with it, on the spur of the moment; the man went down on the spot, with a groan.
As he fell I leaped back, ready for the next.
I called out, 'Stretchers, lads; they want to take your captain?'
My lads gathered round me at once.
But there was silence; not another creature to be seen or heard.
They set to work to get that last blessed bit of cargo, the cause of all the misery, on board with the rest; while I stood in the growing dawn, looking down at the motionless figure and at the blood trickling into the sand, trying to think, to settle what to do, and only conscious of one thing: the intense wish that I could change places with my victim.
Can you wonder, Adrian, that my brain was reeling?
You who know all, all this means to me, can you wonder that I could not leave this shore--even though my life depended on it--without seeing her again!
Curwen, my mate, came up to me at last, and I woke up to some sort of reason at the idea that they, the crew and the ship, must be removed from the immediate danger.
But the orders I gave must have seemed those of a madman: I told him to sail right away but to double back in time to have the schooner round again at twelve noon to-day, and then to send the gig's crew to pick me up on Pulwick sand.
'Life and death,' said I to him, and he, brave fellow, 'Ay, ay, sir,' as if it was the most simple thing in the world, and off with him without another word."
"What imprudence, what imprudence!"
murmured Sir Adrian.
"Who knows?
None will believe that I have not seized the opportunity of making my escape with the others.
The height of imprudence may become the height of security.
I have as yet no plan--but it will come.
My luck shall not fail me now!
who knows: nothing perhaps is damaged but an excise man's crown.
Thank heaven, the wind cannot fail us to-day."
"But, meanwhile," urged Sir Adrian, quite unconvinced, highly disturbed, "that treasure on board....
I know what has been your motive, Jack, but indeed it is all nothing short of insanity, positive insanity.
Can you trust your men?"
"I would trust them with my own secrets, willingly enough; but not with those of other people.
So they do not know what I have in those barrels.
Four thousand golden guineas in each...!
No, the temptation would be too terrible for the poor lads.
Not a soul knows that, beyond you and me.
Curwen has charge of the cargo, such as it is.
But I can answer for it none of them will dream of tampering with the casks.
They are picked men, sober, trusty; who have fought side by side with me.
I am their best friend.
They are mine, body and soul, I believe.
They do know there is some risk in the business, but they trust me.
They are sure of treble pay, and besides, are not troubled with squeamishness.
As for Curwen, he would go to hell for me, and never ask a question.
No, Adrian, the scheme was perfect, but for this cursed blow of mine this morning.
And now it is a terrible responsibility," continued the young man, again wiping his forehead; "every ounce of it weighs on my shoulders.
But it is not that that distracts me.
Oh, Adrian ...
Madeleine!"
The elder man felt his heart contract at the utter despairing of that cry.
"When my handspike crashed on that damned interferer's skull," the sailor went on, "I felt as if the blow had opened an unfathomable chasm between her and me.
Now I am felon--yes, in law, a felon!
And yet I am the same man as yesterday.
I shall have to fly to-night, and may never be able to return openly to England again.
All my golden dreams of happiness, of honour, vanished at the sound of that cursed blow.
But I must see her, Adrian, I _must_ see her before I go.
I am going to meet her at noon, in the ruins of Pulwick."
"Impossible!"
ejaculated the other aghast.
"Listen, Jack, unfortunate man!
When I heard of the--the misfortune, and of your folly in remaining, I instantly planned a last meeting for you.
As it fell out, my wife has a fancy to spend the night here: I have asked her to bring her sister with her.
But this inconceivably desperate plan of leaving in your ship, in broad light of day, frustrates all I would have done for you.
For God's sake let us contrive some way of warning the _Peregrine_ off till midnight; keep hidden, yourself; do not wilfully run your head into the noose!"
But the young man had stopped short in his tramping, and stood looking at his friend, with a light of hope flaming in his eye.
"You have done that, Adrian!
You have thought of that!"
he repeated, as if mechanically.
A new whirlwind of schemes rushed through his mind.
For a while he remained motionless, with his gaze fixed on Sir Adrian, putting order in his own thoughts with that genius of precision and swiftness which, in strong natures, rises to meet a crisis.
Then advancing, and seizing him by both hands: "Adrian," he cried, in something more like his own voice, again, "I shall yet owe my happiness to you, to this thought, this sublime thought of your heart!"
And, as Sir Adrian, astounded, unable to understand this extremity of hopefulness, following upon the previous depth of misery, stared back at him, speechless, the latter proceeded in still more surprising fashion.
"Now, you listen to me, this time.
I have been selfish in running the risk of having you mixed up in my dangerous affairs.
But, God is my witness, I acted under the belief that all was absolutely secure.
Now, however, you must do nothing more that might implicate you.
Remember, do nothing to let people suspect that you have seen me to-day.
Renny, too, must keep close counsel.
You know nothing of my future movements.
Remain here for a while, do not even look out of the window....
I fear we shall not meet for a long time.
Meanwhile, God bless you--God bless you!"
After another wrench of the hands he held in his, the sailor released them and fairly ran out of the room, without heeding his friend's bewildered expostulations.
At the door of the keep he met René again.
And after a brief but earnest colloquy, the man whose life was now forfeit to the community and upon whose head there would soon be a price, was quietly walking along the causeway, making for the shore, with the greatest apparent unconcern and deliberation.
And whilst Sir Adrian, alone in his chamber, with his head resting upon his hand, anxiously pondered upon the possible issues of this nefarious day's doings, the sailor advanced, in broad daylight towards the land to keep his appointment.
* * * * * A solitary speck of life upon the great waste, with the consciousness of the precarious thread of chance upon which it hung!
What wonder that, for all his daring, the traveller felt, as he deliberately regulated his pace to the most nonchalant gait, a frantic desire to run forward, or to lie down!
How many approach glasses might now be laid, like so many guns, upon him from secret points of the coast until he came within range of recognition; what ambushes those clumps of gorse and juniper, those plantations of alders and young firs on the bluffs yonder, might conceal?
The eye could reach far and wide upon the immense stretch of sand, along the desert coast; and his solitary figure, moving upon the yellow strand was a mark for miles around.
Steadily, nevertheless did he advance; the very daring, the unpardonable foolhardiness of the deed his safety.
And yet the strain was high.
Were they watching the island?
Among the eager crew, to each of whom the capture might mean a splendid prize and chance of promotion, was there one would have the genius of suddenly suspecting that this foolhardy wayfarer might be the man they wanted and not merely Sir Adrian returning on foot towards his home?...
And then came the answer of hopeful youth and hardy courage----.
No.
The preventive are a lubberly lot--It will require something better than a water-guard to track and take Lucky Jack Smith!
* * * * * But for all his assurance Lucky Jack Smith drew a long breath of relief when he felt the shadow of Pulwick woods closing around him at last.
CHAPTER XXIII THE DAY: NOON There stood two men and they did point their fingers at that house.
And on his finger one had blood; the other's finger shook.
_Luteplayer's Song._ Broken lengths of wall, a crumbling indication of the spring of once exquisite arches, windows gaping darkly like the eye sockets of a skull--this was all that was left of the old priory of Pulwick, whilom proud seat of clerical power and learning.
But the image of decay was robbed of all melancholy by the luxuriance of climbing vegetation, by the living screen of noble firs and larches arranged in serried ranks upon the slopes immediately behind it, with here and there a rugged sentinel within the ruinous yards and rooms themselves; by wild bushes of juniper and gorse and brambles.
And, with the bright noon sun pouring down upon the worn red sandstone, and gilding the delicate tassels of the larches' green needles; with the light of young love, spreading glamour upon every leaf and stone, in the eyes of the lovers, the scene, witness of so many sweet meetings, bore that day a beautiful and home-like aspect.
Captain Jack was standing upon the grass-grown floor of what had been the departed monks' refectory, with ears eagerly bent to listen.
Three ragged walls, a clump of fir trees, and a bank of brambles screened him from any chance passer-by, and he now and again peered through a crevice on to a path through the woods, cautiously, as if fearful to venture forth.
His face was pale beneath its tan, and had none of its usual brightness; his attire for him was disordered; his whole appearance that of a man under the pressure of doubt and anxiety.
Yet, when the sound of a light footfall struck among the thousand whispering noises of wind and leaf that went to make up the silence of the ruins, the glory of joy that lit up eye and lip left no room for any other impression.
Madeleine stood in the old doorway: a vision of beautiful life amid emblems of decay and death.
"I come alone to-day," she said, with her half-shy smile.
And then, before she could utter a further word of explanation, she was gathered into her lover's strong arms with a passion he had never as yet shown in his chivalrous relations with her.
But it was not because they met without the sympathetic rapture of Miss Landale's eye upon them; not because there was no other witnesses but the dangling ivy wreath, the stern old walls, the fine dome of spring sky faintly blue; not because of lover's audacious joy.
This Madeleine, feeling the stormy throbbing of his heart against hers, knew with sure instinct.
She pushed him gently from her as soon as she could, the blushes chased from her cheeks by pale misgivings, and looked at him with eyes full of troubled questioning.
Then he spoke, from his full heart: "Madeleine, something has happened--a misfortune, as I wrote to you.
I must now start upon my venture sooner than I thought--at once.
I shall have to _fly_ in fact, to-day.
There have been spies upon me, and my secret trust is in danger.
How they have tracked me, how suspicion has been aroused, I cannot guess.
But I have been tracked.
A fellow came at dawn.
I had to defend my secret--the secret not my own, the charge entrusted to me.
The man was hurt.
I cannot explain, dear love, there is no time; even now I run the risk of my life by being here, and life is so dear to me now, my Madeleine!
Hush!
No, do not be afraid!
I am afraid of nothing, so long as you trust me.
Will you trust me?
I cannot leave you here behind; and now, with this cursed stroke of ill-luck, this suspicion upon me, it may be long before I can return to England.
I cannot leave you behind, I cannot!
Will you trust me, Madeleine, will you come with me?
We shall be married in France, my darling.
You should be as a queen in the guard of her most humble slave.
I am half mad to think I must go.
Ah, kiss me, love, and say yes!
Listen!
I must sail away and make believe that I have gone.
My _Peregrine_ is a bird that none can overtake, but I shall come back to-night.
Listen: If you will be on the island to-night--Sir Adrian is there already, and I hear your sister is coming--a freak of fancy--and he, God bless him, has told her to bring you too (it shows my luck has not deserted me yet).
I shall be there, unknown to all except Renny.
I cannot meet you nearer home, but you will be my own brave bride and keep your own counsel.
You will not be frightened, will you, my beautiful love?
All you have to do is to follow Renny's instructions.
My ship will be back, waiting, an hour after dark, ready, when you set foot on it, to spread its wings with its treasures--treasures, indeed!
And then we shall have the world before us--riches, love, such love!
And once safe, I shall be free to prove to you that it is no common blood I would mate with that dear and pure stream that courses in your veins.
You shall soon know all; will you trust me?"
She hung upon his hot words, looking at him with loving, frightened eyes.
Now he gathered her to his arms again, again his bursting heart throbbed its stormy passion to her ear.
She was as one carried away by a torrent against which resistance is useless.
He bent his head over her face; the scent of the bunch of violets in her breast rose deliciously to his nostrils.
Alas!
Hubert Cochrane was not to reach that kiss of acquiescence, that kiss from which it seemed that but so small a fraction of space and time divided him!
Some one, who had stepped along in the shadow as silently as a cat coming upon a bird, clapped here a hand upon his shoulder.
"Who are you, sir, and what do you want?"
exclaimed Captain Jack, wrenching himself free, falling back a pace and measuring the new-comer from head to foot with furious glances, while, with burning blushes Madeleine faltered: "Rupert!"
Nothing awakens anger in hot blood sooner than an unsanctioned touch.
In certain moods the merest contact is as infuriating as a blow.
Such an insult, added to the irreparable injury of interrupting their meeting at the most exquisite and crucial moment, drove Captain Jack beside himself with rage.
But Madeleine's hand was still on his arm.
She felt it suddenly harden and twitch with murderous anger.
But, by an effort that made the veins of his temple swell like whipcord, he refrained from striking the double offender.
Mr. Landale surveyed the pair for a moment in silence with his grave look; then coldly he answered the sailor's irate speech.
"My name, fellow, is Rupert Landale.
I am here to protect my cousin from an unprincipled and criminal adventurer."
"You take a sharp tone sir," cried Captain Jack, the flush on his face deepening yet a shade, his nostrils ominously dilated, yet speaking without further loss of self-control.
"You probably count upon the presence of this lady to prevent my resenting it; but as my time with her is short and I have still much to say, I shall be forced promptly to eject you from the ruins here, unless you will be good enough to immediately remove yourself.
I shall hope for another meeting with you to discuss the question as to your right of interference; but to-day--I cannot spare the time."
Rupert smiled without moving; then the sailor gently disengaging himself from Madeleine would have put her behind him but that she pressed forward and laid a hand upon an arm of each of the men.
"Stay, Jack," she pleaded, "let me speak.
There is some mistake here.
Cousin Rupert, you cannot know that I am engaged to this gentleman and that he is a friend of your brother's as well as of other good friends of mine."
"My poor child," answered Rupert, closing a cold hand gently over hers and speaking with a most delicate tenderness of accent, "you have been grossly imposed upon, and so have others.
As for my poor brother Adrian, he is, if anything, easier to deceive than you, innocent convent-bred girl!
I would have you to go home, my dear, and leave me to deal with this--gentleman.
You have bitter truths to learn; would it not be better to wait and learn them quietly without further scandal?"
This was too much for Captain Jack, who fairly ground his teeth.
Rupert's honeyed tones, his grasp of Madeleine's hand were more unbearable even than the words.
He advanced upon the elder man and seizing him by the collar whirled him away from the girl as easily as a straw puppet.
The fine gentleman of sensitive nerves and unworked sinews had no chance against the iron strength of the man who had passed all the years of virility fighting against sea and storm.
The two faced each other; Jack Smith, red and panting with honest rage, only the sense of his lady's proximity keeping him from carrying his high-handed measures a little further.
Mr. Landale, livid, with eyes suddenly black in their orbits, moistening his white lips while he quivered from head to foot with a passion so tense that not even his worst enemy could have attributed it to fear.
An unequal match it would seem, yet unequal in a way that the young man, in the conscious glory of his strength could not have conceived.
Madeleine neither screamed nor fainted; she had grown white, in natural apprehension, but her eyes fixed upon her lover's face shone with admiration.
Mr. Landale turned slowly towards her.
"Madeleine," he said, readjusting his stock and smoothing the folds of his collar with a steadfast striving after coolness, "you have been grossly deceived.
The man you would trust with your life and honour is a mere smuggler.
He has no doubt told you fine stories, but if he has given himself out for aught else he lied, take my word for it--he lied.
He is a common smuggler, and the vessel he would carry you away in is packed with smuggled goods.
To-day he has attacked and wounded an officer, who, in the discharge of his duty, endeavoured to find out the nature of his suspicious purpose.
Your would-be lover's neck is in danger.
A felon, he runs the risk of his life every moment he remains on land--but he would make a last effort to secure the heiress!
Look at him," his voice raising in spite of himself to a shriller pitch--"he cannot deny it!"
Madeleine gazed from one to the other.
Her mind, never a very quick one at decision, was too bewildered to act with clearness; moreover with her education and ignorance of the world the indictment conveyed no special meaning to her.
But there was an agony of suspense and beseeching in the glance that her lover cast upon her; and to that appeal she smiled proudly.
Hers were no true love, she felt, were its confidence shaken by the slandering of anger.
Then the thought of his danger, danger admitted by his own lips, flashed upon her with terror.
She rushed to him, "Oh go, Jack, go!--As you love me, go!"
Mr. Landale, who had already once or twice cast impatient looks of expectation through a window of the east wall, taken by surprise at this unforeseen result of his speech, suddenly climbed up upon a broken piece of stone-work, from which there was an abrupt descent towards the shore, and began to signal in eager gesticulation.
There was a sound of heavy running footfalls without.
Captain Jack raised his head, every nerve on the alert.
"Go, go," again cried Madeleine, dreading she knew not what.--A fat panting red face looked over the wall; Mr. Landale turned for a second to throw at the lovers a glance of elation.
But it seemed as if the sailor's spirits rose at the breath of danger.
He rapidly looked round upon the ruins from which there were no other outlets than the window guarded by Mr. Landale, and the doorway in which the red-faced new-comer now stood, framed in red stone; then, like a cat he darted on to the ledge of the wall at the opposite end, where some invading boughs of larch dropped over the jagged crest, before the burly figure in the blue coat of the preventive service had recovered from the surprise of finding a lady in his way, or gathered his wits and his breath sufficiently to interfere.
There the nimble climber stood a moment balancing himself lightly, though the ivied stones rocked beneath him.
"I go, love," he cried in ringing voice, "but one word from you and I go----" "Oh, I trust you!
I will trust you!"
screamed the girl in despair, while her fascinated gaze clung to the erect figure silhouetted against the sky and the stout man looked up, open-mouthed.
Mr. Landale snarled at him: "Shoot, fool--shoot!"
And straining forward, himself drew a pistol from the man's belt, cocked it and thrust it into his grasp.
Captain Jack kissed his hand to Madeleine with a joyful gesture, then waved his hat defiantly in Rupert's direction, and with a spring disappeared, just as the pistol cracked, drawing a shriek of terror from the girl, and its bullet flattened itself against the upper stone of the wall--considerably wide of the mark.
"Come, this way----!"
screamed Mr. Landale from his window sill, "you have another!"
But the preventive shook his head, and thrust his smoking barrel back through his belt, with an air of philosophical resignation; and slowly approaching the window, through which the fugitive could now be seen steadily bowling down the seaward slope, observed in slow, fat tones: "Give you a hand, sir?"
Rupert, thrusting his extended arm aside jumped down beside him as if he would have sprung at his throat.
"Why are you so late?--why have you brought no one with you?
I gave you notice enough.
You fool!
You have let him slip through your fingers, now, after all!
Couldn't you even shoot straight?
Such a mark as he made against the sky--Pah!
well may the sailors say, lubberly as a land preventive----!"
"Why, there you are, Mr.
Landale!"
answered the man with imperturbable, greasy good-humour.
"The way you shoved that there pistol into my hand was enough to put off anybody.
But you country magistrate gentlemen, as I have always said, you are the real sort to make one do illegal actions with your flurry and your hurry over everything.
'Shoot!'
says you, and damme, sir, if I didn't shoot straight off before I knew if I were on my head or on my heels.
It's a mercy I didn't hit the sweet young lady--it is indeed.
And as for the young gentleman, though to be sure he did show a clean pair of heels at the sight of me, I had no proper time for i-dentification--no time for i-den-ti-fi-cation, Mr. Landale, sir.
So I say, sir, it's a mercy I did not hit him either, now I can think of it.
Ah, slow and sure, that's my motter!
I takes my man on his boat, in the very middle of his laces and his brandy and his silk--I takes him, sir, in the very act of illegality, red-handed, so to speak, and then, if he shows fight, or if he runs away, then I shoots, sir, and then if I hits, why it's a good job too--but none of this promiscuous work for Augustus Hobson.
Slow and sure, that's my motter."
The speaker who had been rolling a quid of tobacco in his mouth during this exposition of policy, here spat emphatically upon the grass, and catching Madeleine's abstracted eye, begged pardon for the liberty with a gallant air.
"Aye, so slow, man, that you are pretty sure to fail," muttered Mr. Landale.
"I knows my business, sir, meaning no offence," retorted Mr. Hobson serenely.
"When I has no orders I acts on regulation.
I brought no one with me because I had no one to bring, having sent, as per regulation, my one remaining man to give notice to the water service, seeing that that there schooner has had the impudence to come back, and is at this very moment cruising quite happy-like just the other side of the bank; though if ever their cutter overhauls her--well, I'm a Dutchman!
You might have done wiser, perhaps (if I may make so bold as to remark), to leave the management of this business to them as understands such things.
As to being late, sir, you told me to be in the ruins at twelve noon, and I beg to insinuate that it's only just past the hour now."
At this point the preventive man drew from his capacious breeches a brass time-piece, of congenial stoutness, the face of which he turned towards the magistrate.
The latter, however, waved the proffered witness impatiently aside.
Furtively watching his cousin, who, leaning against the door-post, her pale head thrown out in strong relief by the dark stones, stood as if absolutely detached from her surroundings, communing over troubled thoughts with her own soul, he said with deliberate distinctness: "But have I been misled, then, in understanding that you were with the unfortunate officer who was so ferociously assaulted this morning?
that you and he did come upon this Captain Smith, red-handed as you call it, loading or unloading his vessel on Scarthey Island?"
"Aye, sir," rolled out the other, unctuously, "there you are again, you see.
Poor Nat Beavor, he was one of your hot-headed ones, and see what it has brought _him_ to--a crack in his skull, sir, so that it will be days before he'll know himself again, the doctor says, if ever he does in this world, which I don't think.
Ah, I says to him, when we started in the dawn this morning agreeable to our arrangement with you: 'For peeping and prying on the quiet without any running risks and provoking others to break the law more than they're doing, I'm your man,' says I; 'but as for attacking desperate individles without proper warrant and authority, not to speak of being one to ten, I tell you fair, Nat Beavor, I'll have nothing to do with it.'
But Nat, he went off his head, clean, at the sight of Captain Jack and his men a trundling the little kegs down the sands, as neat and tidy as could be; and so he cut out from behind the rocks, and I knew there was mischief ahead!
Ah, poor fellow, if he would only have listened to me!
I did my best for him, sir; started off to call up the other man, who was on the other side of the ruins, as soon as I saw his danger, but when I came back----" "The birds were flown, of course," interrupted Rupert with a sneer, "and you found the body of your comrade who had been dastardly wounded, and who, I hear, is dead now.
So the villain has twice escaped you.
Cousin Madeleine," hastily breaking off to advance to the girl, who now awakening from her reflective mood seemed about to leave the ruins, "Cousin Madeleine, are you going?
Let me escort you back."
She slowly turned her blue eyes, burning upon him from her white face.
"Cousin Rupert, I do not want your company."
Then she added in a whisper, yet with a passion for which Rupert would never have given her credit and which took him vastly by surprise, "I shall never forgive you."
"My God, Madeleine," cried he, with genuine emotion, "have I deserved this?
I have had no thought but to befriend you, I have opened your eyes to your own danger----" "Hold your tongue, sir," she broke in, with the same repressed anger.
"Cease vilifying the man I love.
All your aspersions, your wordy accusations will not shake my faith in him.
_Mon Dieu_," she cried, with an unsteady attempt at laughter, looking under her lashes and tilting her little white round chin at Mr. Hobson, who, now seated upon a large stone, and with an obtrusive quid of tobacco bulging in an imperfectly shorn cheek, was mopping his forehead with a doubtful handkerchief.
"_That_ is the person, I suppose, whose testimony I am to believe against my Jack!"
"Your Jack was prompt enough in running away from him, such as he is," retorted her cousin bitterly.
He could not have struck, for his purpose, upon a weaker joint in her poor woman's armour of pride and trust.
She caught her breath sharply, as if indeed she had received a blow.
"Well, say your say," she exclaimed, coming to a standstill and facing him; "I will hear all that you and your--your friend have to say, lest," with a magnificent toss of her head, "you fancy I am afraid, or that I believe one word of it all.
I know that Jack--that Captain Smith, as he is called--is engaged upon a secret and important mission; but it is one, Rupert, which all English gentlemen should wish to help, not impede."
"Do you know what the mission is--do you know to whom?
And if, my fair cousin, it is such that all English gentlemen would help, why then this secrecy?"
She bit her lip; but it trembled.
"What is it you accuse him of?"
she asked, with a stamp of her foot.
"Listen to me," said Rupert gently, "it is the kinder thing that you should know the truth, and believe me, every word I say I can substantiate.
This Captain Jack Smith, whatever his real name may be, was picked up when a mere boy by an old Liverpool merchant, starving in the streets of that town.
This merchant, by name Cochrane, an absurd person who gave himself out to be a relative of Cochrane of Shaws, adopted the boy and started him upon a slaver, that is a ship which does trade in negro slaves, my dear--a pretty trade.
He next entered a privateer's ship as lieutenant.
You know what these are--ocean freebooters, tolerated by government for the sake of the harm they wreck upon the ships of whatever nation we may happen to be at war with--a sort of pirate ship--hardly a much more reputable business than the slaver's; but Captain Smith made himself a name in it.
Now that the war is over, he has taken to a lower traffic still--that of smuggling."
"But _what_ is smuggling?"
cried the girl, tears brimming up at last into her pretty eyes, and all her heat of valiance suddenly gone.
"What does it mean?"
"What is smuggling?
Bless your innocence!
I beg your pardon, my dear--miss I should say--but if you'll allow _me_ I think I'm the man to explain that 'ere to you."
The husky mellifluous tones of the preventive-service man, who had crept up unnoticed to listen to the conversation, here murmured insinuatingly in her ear.
Rupert hesitated; then reading shrinking aversion upon Madeleine's face, shrewdly conjectured that the exposition of her lover's doings might come with more force from Mr. Hobson's lips than from his own, and allowed the latter to proceed unmolested.
"Smuggling, my pretty," wheezed the genial representative of the custom laws, "again asking pardon, but it slipped out, smuggling is, so to say, a kind of stealing, a kind of cheating and that of a most rank and heinous kind.
For, mind you, it ain't stealing from a common man, nor from the likes of you and me, nor from a nobleman either: it's cheating and stealing from his most gracious Majesty himself.
For see you, how 'tis, his Majesty he says, 'Every keg of brandy,' says he, 'and every yard of lace and every pipe o' tobacco as is brought into this here country shall be paid for, so much on, to me, and that's called a tax, miss, and for that there are the custom houses and custom officers--which is me--to see his Majesty paid right and proper his lawful dues.
But what does your smuggler do, miss--your rollicking, dare-devil chap of a smuggler?
Why he lands his lace and his brandy and his 'baccy unbeknownst and sells 'em on the sly--and pockets the profit!
D'ye see?--and so he cheats his Majesty, which is a very grievous breaking of the law; so much so that he might as well murder at once--Kind o' treason, you may say--and that's what makes 'em such desperate chaps.
They knows if they're caught at it, with arms about them, and two or three together--it's--clank."
Mr. Hobson grasped his own bull neck with an unpleasantly significant gesture and winked knowingly at the girl, who turned white as death and remained gazing at him with a sort of horrified fascination which he presently noted with an indulgent smile.
"Don't take on now, my lass--no offence, miss--but I can't bear to see a fine young 'oman like you upset-like--I'm a damned, hem, hem, a real soft hearted fellow.
Your sweetheart's heels have saved his gullet this time--and though he did crack poor Nat upon the skull (as I can testify for I as good as saw him do it--which makes it a hanging matter twice over I won't deny), yet there's a good few such as him escapes the law and settles down arter, quite respectable-like.
A bit o' smuggling now is a thing many a pretty fellow has taken to in his day, and has made a pretty penny out of too, and is none the worse looked to arter, as I said.
Aye, and there's many a gentleman and a magistrate to boot as drinks his glass of smuggled brandy and smokes his smuggled baccy and finds them none the worse, oh dear no!
Human nature it is and human nature is a queer thing.
Even the ladies, miss, are well-known to be soft upon the smuggled lace: it's twice as cheap you see as t'other, and they can get double as handsome for the money.
Begging your pardon--if I may make so bold--" stretching out a great, coarse, tobacco-stained finger and thumb to close them appreciatively upon the hanging lace of Madeleine's neck handkerchief, "may be your spark brought you that there, miss, now?
He, he, he--as pretty a bit of French point it is as has ever been my fate to lay hands on--Never fear," as the girl drew back with a gesture of loathing from the contact.
"I ain't agoing to seize it off you or take you up, he--he--he--eh, Mr. Landale?
I'm a man o' my duty, I hope, but our orders don't run as far as that."
"Rupert!"
cried Madeleine, piteously turning a dark gaze of anguish at him--it seemed as if she were going to faint.
He hastened up to her, shouldering the clumsy form of Mr. Augustus Hobson unceremoniously out of the way: the fellow had done his work for the time being, and this last piece of it so efficaciously indeed that his present employer felt, if not remorse, at least a certain pity stir within him at the stricken hopelessness of the girl's aspect.
He passed his arm round her waist as she shivered and swayed.
"Lean on me," he said, his fine eyes troubled with an unwonted softness and anxiety.
"Rupert," she whispered, clutching at his sleeve, eagerly fixing him with a look eloquent of unconscious pleading, "all these things this--this man talks of are things which are brought into England--are they not?
I know that--_he_ was bringing nothing into the country, but he was going to another country upon some important trust, the nature of which he had promised not to reveal.
Therefore he cannot be cheating the King, if that is smuggling--Oh Rupert, is there not some grievous mistake?"
"My poor child," said Rupert, holding her close and tenderly, and speaking with a gentle gravity in which there was this time less hypocrisy, "there is one thing which is smuggled out of England, and it is as dishonest and illegal work as the other, the most daring and dangerous smuggling of all in fact; one in which none but a desperate man would engage--that of gold."
"Yes, gold," exclaimed the girl sharply, withdrawing herself from her cousin's arms, while a ray of intelligence and hope lit up her face.
"Gold for the French King's service."
Rupert betrayed no emotion; he drew from the inner pocket of his coat a crushed news-sheet.
"Deceived there, as well as everywhere else, poor little cousin," he said.
"And did the scoundrel say so?
Nay, he is a damnable scoundrel who could betray your trustfulness to your own sweet face.
Gold indeed--but not for the King--gold for the usurper, for the tyrant who was supplied already, no doubt, by the same or similar traitor hands with enough to enable him to escape from the island where he was so justly imprisoned.
See here, Madeleine, Bonaparte is actually landed in France: it has all been managed with the most devilish ingenuity and takes the whole world by surprise.
And your lover, doubtless, is engaged upon bringing him fresh supplies to enable him to begin again and rack humanity with hideous wars.
Oh, he never told you of the Corsican's escape, yet this news is three days old.
See you, my dear, this explains the whole mystery, the necessity for absolute secrecy; all England is friendly to the French monarch; no need to smuggle gold for his aid--but the other...!
It is treason, the blackest treason on every side of it, treason to his King, to his country, to _your_ King, to you.
And he would have cozened you with tales of his loyalty to the rightful cause!"
"Give me the paper," said Madeleine.
A tide of blood had swept into her face; she was no longer white and shaken, but erect and beautiful in strong indignation.
Rupert examined her, as if a little doubtful how to take the sudden change; but he handed her the printed sheet in silence.
She read with lips and nostrils expanded by her quick breathing; then crumpled up the sheet and cast it at his feet.
And after a pause, with her princess air of dignity, "I thank you, cousin Rupert," she said; then, passing him with stately steps, moved towards the house.
He pressed forward to keep up with her; and upon the other side, smiling, irrepressible, jocose, Mr. Hobson did the same.
"You are not fit to go alone," urged the former, while the latter engagingly protruding an elbow, announced that he'd be proud to give her an arm as far as the Hall.
She drew away from this well-meaning squire of dames with such shuddering distaste, and looked once more so white and worn and sickened after her sudden blaze of passion, that Mr. Landale, seeing that the only kindness was to let her have her will, arrested his companion roughly enough, and allowed her to proceed as she wished.
* * * * * And so, with bent head, Madeleine hurried forth.
And the same glorious sun smiled down upon her in her anguish that had greeted her when she hastened an hour before glowing and light-hearted--if, indeed, a heart so full of love could be termed light--to meet her lover; the same brambles caught her dress, the same bird trilled his song.
But Madeleine thought neither of ray nor leaf, nor yet of mating songsters: all the spring world, as she went, was to her strewn with the wreck of her broken hopes, and encompassed by the darkness of her lonely future.
* * * * * Mr. Landale and the preventive service man stood some time watching her retreating figure through the wood, and then walked slowly on for a while, in silent company.
Presently the latter, who during the last part of the interview, had begun to feel a little ruffled by the magistrate's persistently overbearing manner, inquired with something of dudgeon in his voice: "Begging your pardon, sir, what was that I heard the young lady call out just now?
'Gold!'
she cries.
Is it guineas that nipping young man is a taking over seas, if I may make so bold?
Now you see, sir, we haven't had no orders about no gold on this station--that sort of thing is mostly done down south.
But what I wants to know is: Why, if you knew all about the fellow's little games, you sent us to spy on him?
Ah, poor Nat would want a word or two with you on that score, I fancy!
Now it's as plain as Salisbury...." "But I know nothing certain," impatiently interrupted Mr. Landale.
"I know no more than you do yourself.
Only not being a perfect idiot, I can put two and two together.
What in the name of goodness can a man smuggle _out_ of England but gold?
But I wanted the proofs.
And your business, it was agreed with the Chief Officer, was to follow my instructions."
"And so we did," grumbled Mr. Hobson; "and a pretty business it's turned out!
Nat's to pocket his bludgeoning, I suppose, and I am to bear the blame and lose my share.
A cargo of guineas, by God!
I might have nosed it, down south, but here....
Blast it!
But since you was so clever over it, sir, why in blazes--if I may speak so to a gentleman and a magistrate," pursued the man with a rueful explosion of disgust, "didn't you give _me_ the hint?
Why, guineas is contraband of war--it's treason, sir--and guineas is a cargo that's _fought_ for, sir!
I shouldn't have moved with two men in a boat patrol, d'ye think?
I should have had the riding officers, and the water-guard, and a revenue cruiser in the offing, and all tight and regular.
But you _would_ have all the credit, and where are you?
and _where's_ my share?
and where is Nat?--Bah!"
"You are forgetting yourself, officer," said Mr. Landale, looking severely into the eyes of the disappointed preventive man, whose rising ebullition became on the instant reduced.
"So I am, sir, so I am--and beg your pardon.
But you must admit, it's almost enough to make ... but never mind, sir, the trick is done.
Whatever it may be that that there schooner carries in her bottom, she is free now to take it, barring accident, wherever she pleases.
I'll trouble you to look this way, sir."
They had emerged from the wooded part of the park, and the rising ground on which they stood commanded a wide sea-view, west of the great bay.
"There she is again, sir," said Mr. Hobson, waving his broad paw, like a showman displaying his goods, with a sort of enraged self-satisfaction.
"There is the schooner, ready to hoist sail as soon as he comes alongside.
And that there black point which you may see, if your eyes are good enough, is a six-oared galley with as ship-shaped a crew--if it's the same as I saw making off this morning--as ever pulled.
Your Captain Smith, you may take your oath, is at the tiller, and making fun of us two to the lads.
In five minutes he will be on board, and then the revenue cutter from the station may give chase if she likes!...
And there she is, due to the time--about a mile astern.
But bless you, that's all my eye, you may take your oath!
They know well enough that in an open sea they can't run down a Salcombe schooner.
But to earn their pay they will hang on till they lose her, and then sail home, all cosy.--I'm thinking," he added slily, with a side glance at the magistrate: "we won't hang him _this_ time."
Mr. Landale made no answer; during the last few minutes his reflections had enabled him to take a new view of the situation.
After all the future fate of Captain Jack was of little moment.
He had been successfully exposed before Madeleine, whose love for the young man was, as had just been sufficiently proved, chiefly composed of those youthful illusions which dispelled once, never can return.
Rupert fell gradually into a reverie in which he found curious satisfaction.
His work had not been unsuccessful, whatever Mr. Hobson's opinion might be.
But, as matters stood between Madeleine and her lover, the girl's eyes had been opened in time, and that without scandal.... And even the escape of Captain Jack was, upon reflection, the best thing that could have happened.
And so it was with a return to his usual polite bearing, that he listened to the officer's relapse into expostulation.
"Now if you had only given me the hint first of all," the man was grumblingly saying, "and then let me act--for who would have suspected a boat, yacht-rigged like that?--A friend of Sir Adrian's, too!
If you'd only left it to me!
Why that six-oared galley alone is agin the law unless you can prove good reason for it ... as for the vessel herself...." "Yes, my dear Mr. Hobson," interrupted Mr. Landale, smiling propitiously.
"I have no doubt you would have secured him.
I have made a mess of it.
But now you understand, least said, soonest mended, both for me and (between ourselves, Mr. Hobson) for the young lady."
The man, in surprise at this sudden alteration of manner, stopped short and gaped; and presently a broad smile, combined with a knowing wink, appeared on his face.
He received the guineas that Mr. Landale dropped in his palm with an air of great candour, and, without further parley, acted on the kind advice to repair to the Priory and talk with one Mrs. Puckett the housekeeper, on the subject of corporeal refreshment.
* * * * * "Well," said Molly, bursting in upon her sister, who sat by her writing-table, pen in hand, and did not even raise her head at the unceremonious entrance.
"This is evidently the day for mysterious disappearances.
First Rupert and Sophia; then my lord and master who is fetched hurriedly to his island (that isle of misfortune!)
God knows for what--though _I_ mean to know presently; then you, Mademoiselle, and Rupert again.
It is, faith, quite a comedy.
But the result has been that I have had my meals alone, which is not so gay.
Sophia is in bed, it turns out; Rupert out a-riding, on important business, of course!
all he does is desperately important.
And there you are--alone in your room, moping.
God, child, how pale you are!
What ails you then?"
"Molly," cried Madeleine, ignoring Lady Landale's question and feverishly folding the written sheet which lay under her hand, "if you love me, if ever you loved me, will you have this letter conveyed by a safe messenger to Scarthey, and given to René--to none but René, at once?
Oh, Molly, it will be a service to me, you little guess of what moment!"
"_Voyez un peu!_" said Lady Landale coolly.
"What trust in Molly, all at once!
Aha, I thought it would come.
If I love you?
Hum, I'm not so sure about that.
If ever I loved you?--a droll sort of plea, in truth, considering how you have requited my love!"
Madeleine turned a dazed look upon her sister, who stood surveying her, glowing like a jewel of dazzling radiance, from her setting of black mantle and black plumed hat.
"So you will not!"
she answered hopelessly, and let her forehead fall upon her hand without further protest.
"But I did not say I would not--as it happens I am going to the island myself.
How you stare--oh you remember now do you?
Who told you I wonder?--of course, such a couple as we are, Adrian and I, could not be divided from each other for over half a day, could we?
By the way, I was to convey a gracious invitation to you too.
Will you come with me?--No?--strange girl.
So even give me the letter, I will take it to--no, not to René, 'tis addressed to Captain Smith, I see.
Dear me--you don't mean to say, Madeleine, that you are corresponding with that person; that he is near us?
What would Tanty say?"
"Oh, Molly, cease your scoffs," implored poor Madeleine, wearily.
"You are angry with me, well, now rejoice, for I am punished--well punished.
Oh, I would tell you all but I cannot!
my heart is too sick.
See, you may read the letter, and then you will understand--but for pity's sake go--Do not fail to go; he will be there on the island at dark--he expects _me_--Oh, Molly!
I cannot explain--indeed I cannot, and there is no time, it will soon be dusk; but there is terrible danger in his being there at all."
Molly took the letter, turned it over with scornful fingers and then popped it in her pocket.
"If he expects you," she asked, fixing cold, curious eyes on her sister's distress, "and he is in danger, why _don't_ you go?"
A flush rose painfully to Madeleine's face, a sob to her throat.
"Don't ask me," she murmured, turning away to hide her humiliation.
"I have been deceived, he is not what I thought."
Lady Landale gazed at the shrinking figure for a little while in silence.
Then remarking contemptuously: "Well you are a poor creature," turned upon her heel to leave her.
As she passed the little altar, she paused to whisk a bunch of violets out of a vase and dry the stems upon her sister's quilt.
"Molly," cried Madeleine, in a frenzy, "give me back my letter, or go."
"I go, I go," said Lady Landale with a mocking laugh.
"How sweet your violets smell!--There, do not agitate yourself: I'm going to meet your lover, my dear.
I vow I am curious to see the famous man, at last."
CHAPTER XXIV THE NIGHT So the blood burned within her, And thus it cried to her: And there, beside the maize field The other one was waiting-He, the mysterious one.
_Luteplayer's Song._ The mantle of night had already fallen upon the land when Lady Landale, closely wrapped in her warmest furs, with face well ensconced under her close bonnet, and arms buried to the elbow in her muff, sallied from her room on the announcement that the carriage was waiting.
As, with her leisurely daintiness, she tripped it down the stairs, she crossed Mr. Landale, and paused a moment, ready for the skirmish, as she noticed the cynical curiosity with which he examined her.
"Whither, my fair sister," said he, ranging himself with his best courtesy against the bannisters, "so late in the day?"
"To my lord and master's side, of course," said Molly.
"Why--is not Adrian coming back to-night?"
"Apparently not, since he has graciously permitted me to join him upon his rock.
I trust you will not find it too unhappy in our absence: that would be the crowning misfortune of a day when everything seems to have gone wrong.
Sophia invisible with her vapours; Madeleine with the megrim; and you in and out of the house as excited and secret as the cat when she has licked all the cream.
I suppose I shall end by knowing what it is all about.
Meanwhile I think I shall enjoy the tranquillity of the island--although I have actually to tear myself away from the prospect of a tête-à-tête evening with you."
But as Rupert's serenity was not to be moved, her ladyship hereupon allowed herself to be escorted to the carriage without further parley.
As she drove away through the dark night, first down the level, well-metalled avenue, then along the uneven country road, and finally through the sand of the beach in which hoofs and tyres sank noiselessly, inches deep, Molly gave herself up, with almost childish zest to the leaven of imagination....
Here, in this dark carriage, was reclining, not Lady Landale (whose fate deed had already been signed, sealed and delivered to bring her nothing but disappointment), but her happier sister, still confronted with the fascinating unknown, hurrying under cover of night, within sound of the sea, to that enthralling lure, a lover--a real lover, ardent, daring, _young_, ready to risk all, waiting to spread the wings of his boat, and carry her to the undiscovered country.
Glowing were these fleeting images of the "might have been," angry the sudden relapses into the prose of reality.
No, Madeleine, the coward, who thought she had loved her lover, was now in her room, weak and weeping, whilst he, no doubt, paced the deck in mad impatience (as a lover should), now tortured by the throes of anxiety, now hugging himself with the thought of his coming bliss ... that bliss that never was to be his.
And in the carriage there was only Molly, the strong-hearted but the fettered by tie and vow, the slave for ever of a first girlish fancy but too successfully compassed; only Lady Landale rejoining her husband in his melancholy solitude; Lady Landale who never--never!
awful word!
would know the joys which yonder poor fool had had within her grasp and yet had not clutched at.
Molly had read, as permitted, her sister's letter, and to some purpose; and scorn of the girl who from some paltry quibble could abandon in danger the man she professed to love, filled her soul to the exclusion of any sisterly or ever womanly pity.
At the end of half an hour the carriage was stopped by the black shadow of a man, who seemed to spring up from the earth, and who, after a few rapid words interchanged with the coachman, extinguished both the lights, and then opened the door.
Leaning on the offered elbow Molly jumped down upon the yielding sand.
"René?"
she asked; for the darkness even on the open beach was too thick to allow of recognition.
"René, your ladyship--or Mademoiselle is it?"
answered the man in his unmistakable accent.
"I must ask; for, by the voice no one can tell, as your ladyship, or Mademoiselle knows--and the sky is black like a chimney."
"Lady Landale, René," and as he paused, she added, "My sister would not come."
"Ah, _mon Dieu_!
She would not come," repeated the man in tones of dismay; and the black shadow was struck into a moment of stillness.
Then with an audible sigh Mr. Potter roused himself, and saying with melancholy resignation, "The boat is there, I shall be of return in a minute, My Lady," took the traveller's bag on his shoulder and disappeared.
The carriage began to crunch its way back in the darkness and Molly was left alone.
* * * * * In front of her was a faint white line, where the rollers spread their foam with mournful restless fugue of long drawn roar and hissing sigh.
In the distance, now and then glancing on the crest of the dancing billows, shone the steady light of Scarthey.
The rising wind whistled in the prickly star-grass and sea-holly.
Beyond these, not a sight, not a sound--the earth was all mystery.
Molly looked at the light--marking the calm spot where her husband waited for her; its very calm, its familiar placidity, monotony, enraged her; she hearkened to the splashing, living waves, to the swift flying gusts of the storm wind, and her soul yearned to their life, and their mysteriousness.
What she longed for, she herself could not tell.
No words can encompass the desire of pent-up young vitality for the unknown, for the ideal, for the impossible.
But one thing was overpoweringly real: that was the dread of leaving just then the wide, the open world whose darkness was filled to her with living scenes of freedom and space, and blood-stirring emotions; of re-entering the silent room under the light; of consorting with the shadowy personality, her husband; of feeling the web of his melancholy, his dreaminess, imprison as it were the wings of her imagination and the thoughtful kindness of his gaze, paralyse the course of her hot blood through her veins.
And yet, thither she was going, must be going!
Ah Madeleine, fool--you may well weep, yonder on your pillow, for the happiness that was yours and that you have dropped from your feeble hands!
* * * * * In a few minutes the black shadow re-appeared close to her.
"If My Lady will lean on my shoulder, I shall lead her to the boat."
And after a few steps, the voice out of the darkness proceeded in explanation: "I have not taken a lantern, I have put out those of the carriage, for I must tell My Lady, that since what arrived this morning, there may be _gabelous_--they call them the preventive here--in every corner, and the light might bring them, as it does the night papilions, and ... as I thought Mademoiselle was to accompany you--they might have frightened her.
These people want to know so much!"
"I know nothing of what has happened this morning, that you speak of as if the whole world must know," retorted Lady Landale coolly.
"You are all hatching plots and sitting on secrets, but nobody confides in me.
It seems then, that you expected Mademoiselle, my sister, here for some purpose and that you regret she did not come; may I ask for an explanation?"
A few moments elapsed before the man replied, and then it was with embarrassment and diffidence: "For sure, I am sorry, My Lady ... there have been misfortunes on the island this morning--nothing though to concern her ladyship--and, as for Mademoiselle, mother Margery would have liked to see her, no doubt ... and Maggie the wife also--and--and no doubt also Mademoiselle would have liked to come.... What do I know?"
"Oh, of course!"
said Molly with her little note of mocking laughter.
Then again they walked a while in silence.
As René lifted his mistress in his arms to carry her over the licking hissing foam, she resumed: "It is well, René, you are discreet, but I am not such a fool as people seem to think.
As for her, you were right in thinking that she might easily be frightened.
She was afraid even to come out!"
René shoved his boat off, and falling to his sculls, suddenly relapsed into the old vernacular: "_Ah Madame_," he sighed, "_c'est bien triste--un gentilhomme si beau--si brave!_" During the crossing no further words passed between them.
"So brave--so handsome?"
The echo of the words came back to the woman in every lap of the water on the sides of the boat, in every strain of the oars.
The keel ground against the beach, and René leaped out to drag the boat free of the surf.
As he did so, two blacker outlines segregated themselves from the darkness and a rough voice called out, subdued but distinct: "Savenaye, St.
Malo!"
"Savenaye, St.
Malo!"
repeated René, and helped Lady Landale to alight.
Then one of the figures darted forward and whispered a rapid sentence in the Frenchman's ear.
René uttered an exclamation, but his mistress intervened with scant patience: "My good René," said she, "take the bag into the peel, and come back for me.
I have a message for these gentlemen."
René hesitated.
As he did so a rustle of anger shook the lady in her silks and furs.
"Do you hear me?"
she repeated, and he could guess how her little foot stamped the yielding sand.
"_Oui, Madame_," said he, hesitating no longer.
Immediately the other two drew near.
Molly could just see that they stood in all deference, cap in hand.
"Madam," began one of these in hurried words, "there is not a moment to be lost: the captain had to remain on board."
"What!"
interrupted Lady Landale with much asperity, "not come in person!"
She had been straining her eyes to make out something of her interlocutor's form, unable to reconcile her mind's picture with the coarse voice that addressed her--And now all her high expectations fell from her in an angry rush.
"Have I come all this way to be met by a messenger!
Who are you?"
"Madam," entreated the husky voice, "I am the mate of the _Peregrine_.
The captain has directed me to beg and pray you not to be afraid, but to have good courage and confidence in us--the schooner is there; in five minutes you can be safe on board.
You see, madam," continued the man with an earnestness that spoke well of his devotion, "the captain found he couldn't, he dared not leave the ship--he is the only one who knows the bearings of these waters here--any one of us might run her on the bank, and where would we be then, madam, and you, if we were found in daylight still in these parts?--'For God's sake, Curwen,' says he, 'implore the lady not to be afraid and tell her to trust, as she has promised,' so he says.
And for God's sake, say I, madam, trust us.
In five minutes you will be with him?
Say the word, madam, am I to make the signal?
There he is, eating his heart out.
There are all the lads ready waiting for your foot on the ladder, to hoist sail.
No time to lose, we are already behind.
Shall I signal?"
Molly's heart beat violently; under the sudden impulse, the fascination of the black chasm, of the peril, the adventure, the unfathomed, took possession of her, and whirled her on.
"Yes," she said.
On the very utterance of the word the man, who had not yet spoken, uncovered a lantern, held it aloft, as rapidly replaced it under his coat, and moved away.
Almost immediately, against the black pall, behind the dim line of grey that marked the shore, suddenly sprang up three bright points in the form of a triangle.
It was as if all the darkness around had been filled with life; as if the first fulfilment of those promises with which it had been drawing this woman's soul was now held out to her to lure her further still.
"See, madam, how they watch!--By your leave."
And with no further warning, Molly felt herself seized with uncompromising, but deferential, energy, by a pair of powerful arms; lifted like a child, and carried away at a bear-like trot.
By the splashing she judged it was through the first line of breakers.
Then she was handed into another irresistible grasp.
The boat lurched as the mate jumped in.
Then: "Now give way, lads," he said, "and let her have it.
Those lights must not be burning longer than we can help.
Tain't wholesome for any of us."
And under the pulse of four willing pairs of arms the skiff, like a thing of life, clove the black waters and rose to the billows.
"You see, madam," explained the mate, "we could not do without the lights, to show us where she lay, and give us a straight course.
We are all right so long as we keep that top 'un in the middle--but he won't be sorry, I reckon, when he can drop them overboard.
They can't be seen from the offing yet, but it's astounding how far a light will reach on a night like this.
Cheerily, lads, let her have it!"
But Molly heeded him not.
She had abandoned herself to the thrilling delight of the excitement.
The die was cast--not by her own hand, no one should be able to hold her responsible--she had been kidnapped.
Come what might she must now see the adventure out.
The lights grew larger; presently a black mass, surmounted by a kind of greyish cloud, loomed through the pitch of the night; and next it was evident that the beacon was hanging over the side of a ship, illuminating its jagged leaping water line.
A voice, not too loud, yet, even through the distance, ringing clear in its earnestness sounded from above.
"Boat ahoy!
what boat is that?"
And promptly the helmsman by Molly's side returned: "Savenaye, St.
Malo."
On the instant the lights went out.
There was a creaking of block and cordage, and new ghostly clouds rose over the ship--sails loosened to the wind.
As the skiff rowers came alongside, boat-hooks leaped into action and gripped the vessel; an arm, strong as steel, was held out for the passenger as she fearlessly put her foot on the ladder; another, a moment later, with masterful tenderness bent round her waist, and she was fairly lifted on board the _Peregrine_.
But before her foot touched the deck, she felt upon her lips, laid like a burning seal, a passionate kiss; and her soul leaped up to it, as if called into sudden life from slumber, like the princess of fairy lore.
She heard Madeleine's mysterious lover whisper in her ear: "At last!
Oh, what I have suffered, thinking you would not come!"
From the warm shelter of her loosened cloak the violets in her bosom sent forth a wave of sweetness.
For a moment these two were in all creation alone to each other, while in a circle the _Peregrine's_ crew stood apart in respectful silence: a broad grin of sympathy upon the mouth of every mother's son.
Released at last, Lady Landale took a trembling step on the deck.
Into what strange world had she come this night?
The schooner, like a mettled steed whose head is suddenly set free, was already in motion, and with gentle forward swaying leaps rising to the wave and gathering speed under her swelling sails.
Captain Jack had seized Molly's hand, and the strong clasp trembled round the little fingers; he said no more to her; but, in tones vibrating with emotion which all the men, now silently seeking their posts in the darkness, could hear: "My lads," he cried, "the lady is safe with us after all.
Who shall say that your skipper is not still Lucky Smith?
Thank you, my good fellows!
Now we have yet to bring her safe the other side.
Meanwhile--no cheering, lads, you know why--there is a hundred guineas more among you the hour we make St. Malo.
Stand to, every man.
Up with those topsails!"
Scarcely had the last words been spoken when, from the offing, on the wings of the wind, came a long-drawn hail, faint through the distance, but yet fatally distinct: "Ahoy, what schooner is that?"
Molly, who had not withdrawn her hand, felt a shock pass over Captain Jack's frame.
He turned abruptly, and she could see him lean and strain in the direction of the voice.
The call, after an interval, was repeated.
But the outlook was impenetrable, and it was weird indeed to feel that they were seen yet could not see.
Molly, standing close by his side, knew in every fibre of her own body that this man, to whom she seemed in some inexplicable fashion already linked, was strongly moved.
Nevertheless she could hardly guess the extremity of the passion that shook him.
It was the frenzy of the rider who feels his horse about to fail him within a span of the winning post; of the leader whose men waver at the actual point of victory.
But the weakness of dismay was only momentary.
Calm and clearness of mind returned with the sense of emergency.
He raised his night-glass, with a steady hand this time, and scanned the depth of blackness in front of him: out of it after a moment, there seemed to shape itself the dim outline of a sail, and he knew that he had waited too long and had fallen in again with the preventive cutter.
Then glancing aloft, he understood how it was that the _Peregrine_ had been recognised.
The overcast sky had partly cleared to windward during the last minutes; a few stars glinted where hitherto nothing but the most impenetrable pall had hung.
In the east, the rays of a yet invisible moon, edging with faint silver the banks of clouds just above the horizon, had made for the schooner a tell-tale background indeed.
On board no sound was heard now save the struggle of rope and canvas, the creaking of timber and the swift plashing rush of water against her rounded sides as she sped her course.
"Madeleine," he said, forcibly controlling his voice, and bringing, as he spoke, his face close to Molly's to peer anxiously at its indistinct white oval, "we are not free yet; but in a short time, with God's help, we shall have left those intermeddling fools yonder who would bar our way, miles out of the running.
But I cannot remain with you a moment longer; I must take the helm myself.
Oh, forgive me for having brought you to this!
And, should you hear firing, for Heaven's sake do not lose courage.
See now, I will bring you to your cabin; there you will find warmth and shelter.
And in a little while, a very little while, I will return to you to tell you all is well.
Come, my dearest love."
Gently he would have drawn her towards the little deck-cabin, guiding her steps, as yet untutored to the motion of the ship, when out of the black chasm, upon the weather bow of the _Peregrine_, leaped forth a yellow tongue of light fringed with red and encircled by a ruddy cloud; and three seconds later the boom of a gun broke with a dull, ominous clangour above the wrangling of sea and wind.
Molly straightened herself.
"What is that?"
she asked.
"The warning gun," he answered, hurriedly, "to say that they mean to see who we are and that if we do not stop the next will be shotted.
Time presses, Madeleine, go in--fear nothing!
We shall soon be on their other side, out of sight in darkness again."
"I shall stop with you.
Let no thought of me hinder you.
I am not afraid.
I want to see."
At these words the lover was struck with a surprise that melted into a proud and new joy.
He had loved Madeleine for her woman's grace and her woman's heart; now, he told himself, he must worship her also for her brave soul.
But this was no time for useless words.
It was not more unsafe for her on deck than in the cabin, and at the thought of her beside him during the coming struggle the strength of a god rose within him.
"Come," he answered, briefly, and moved with her to the helm which a sailor silently surrendered to him whilst she steadied herself by holding to the binnacle--the only place on board at that time where (from sheer necessity) any light had been allowed to remain.
It was faint enough, but the reflection from the compass-board, as he bent to examine it, was sufficient to make just visible, with a dim fantastic glow, the strong beauty of his face, and put a flash into each wide dilated eye.
And thus did Molly, for the first time, see Captain Jack.
She sank down at the foot of the binnacle, her hands clasped round her knees, as if hugging the new rapture as closely to her as she could.
And looking up at the alert figure before her which she now began to discern more clearly under the lightening sky; at the face which she divined, although she could only see the watchful gleam of the eyes as now and again they sought her down in the shadow at his feet, she felt herself kindle in answer to the glow of his glorious life-energy.
They were going, side by side, this young hero of romance and she, to fight their way through some unknown peril!
"Madeleine, my sweet bride, my brave love, they are about to fire again, and this time you will hear the shot burring; but be not afraid, it will strike ahead of us."
Another flash sprang out of the night, much nearer this time, and louder, for it belched forth a shot which ploughed its way in the water across the schooner's bow.
"I am not afraid," said Molly again; and she laughed a little fierce, nervous laugh.
"They are between us and the open sea.
Thus far the luck is on their side.
Had you come but half an hour sooner, Madeleine, we should be running as free as any king's ship.
Now they think, no doubt, they will drive me on to the sand; but," he tossed back his head with a superb gesture; "there is no power from heaven or hell that can keep me out of my course to-night."
By this time the preventive cutter was faintly discernible two cables length on the larboard bow.
There came another hail--a loud, husky bellow from over the water, "Schooner ahoy!
Heave to, or we'll sink you!"
"Madeleine," said Captain Jack; "come closer to me, lie down, behind me, quick--The next shot will be in my rigging.
Heave to?--with my treasures, my bride on board and a ten knot breeze...!"
And he looked down at Molly, laughing in his contempt.
Then he shouted some order which brought the _Peregrine_ some points more off the wind, and she bounded forward with renewed zest.
"Sink us!
Why don't you fire now, you lubbers?"
He glanced back over his shoulder to see the beacon of Scarthey straight over the stern.
"You have got us in line with the light, and that's your last chance.
In another minute I shall be past you.
Ah, I can see you now, my fine fellows!--Courage, Madeleine."
To Molly, of course, his words conveyed no meaning, except that the critical moment had come, that the ship which carried her flying upon the water like a living thing, eager, yet obedient in all its motions to the guiding will of the man beside her, was rushing to the fray.
The thought fired her soul, and she sprang up to look over the side.
"What," she exclaimed, for the little cutter on close quarters looked insignificant indeed by the side of the noble vessel that so scornfully bore down on her.
"Is that all!"
"They have a gun, and we have none," answered Captain Jack.
"Down, Madeleine!
down behind, in the name of God!"
"Why should I crouch if you stand up?"
The man's heart swelled within him; but as he looked with proud admiration at the cloaked and hooded figure by his side, the cutter's gun fired for the third time.
With roar and hiss the shot came over the bow of the schooner, as she dipped into the trough, and raking the deck, crashed through her side on the quarter.
Molly gave a shriek and staggered.
A fearful malediction burst from Captain Jack's lips: he left the tiller and sprang to her.
One of the hands, believing his skipper to have been struck, ran to the helm, and again put the vessel on her proper course which a few moments later was to make her shoot past the revenue cutter.
"Wounded, Madeleine!
Wounded through my fault!
By the living God, they shall pay for this!"
"Oh," groaned Molly, "something has cut me in the arm and shoulder."
Then rapidly gathering composure, "But it's not much, I can move it."
At one glance the sailor saw from the position of the shot hole in the vessel's side that the wound could only have been made by a splinter.
But the possibility of exposing his beloved to such another risk was not to be borne--a murderous rush of blood flew to his brain.
The cutter, perceiving the tactics of the swifter schooner, was now tacking about with the intention of bringing the gun to bear upon her once more as she attempted to slip by.
But Captain Jack in his new-fanned fury had made up his mind to a desperate cast of the die.
"Starboard, hard a starboard," he called out in a voice that his men had known well in old fighting days and which was heard as far as the cutter itself.
"They shall not fire that gun again!"
With a brief, "Starboard it is, sir," the man who had taken the helm brought the ship round, and the silent, active crew in a trice were ready to go about.
Majestically the schooner changed her course, and as the meaning of the manoeuvre became fearfully apparent, shouts and oaths arose in confusion from the cutter.
"What are you going to do?"
eagerly asked Molly, enthralled by the superb motion of the vessel under her foot as it swept round and increased speed upon the new tack.
He held her in his arms.
His hand had sought her wounded shoulder and pressed the lacerated spot in his effort to staunch the precious blood that rose warm through the cloth, torturing his cold fingers.
"I am going to clear those men from our way to freedom and to love!
I am going to sink that boat: they shall pay with their lives for this!
Come to the other side, Madeleine, and watch how my stout _Peregrine_ sweeps our course--and then I may see how these scoundrels have mangled you, my love.
But, nay, this is no sight for you.
Hold on close to me, sweet, and hide your eyes while they go."
He steadied himself firmly with one hand on the rigging.
Now musket shots flashed on board the cutter in quick succession, and sundry balls whizzed over the poop, intended for the helmsman by their side.
Captain Jack gnashed his teeth, as the menacing drone of one of them came perilously close to the beloved head by his cheek.
"Look out, every man.
We'll run her down!"
he called.
His voice was like the blast of bugles.
Cheers broke out from every part of the ship, drowning the yells of execration and the shouts of fear from below.
And now, with irresistible sway, the rushing _Peregrine_ heavy and powerful was closing and bearing down upon her frailer enemy.
There was a spell of suspense when all was silence, save the rush and turmoil of the waters, and the flapping of the cutter's sails, helpless for the moment in the teeth of the breeze.
Like a charging steed the schooner seemed to leap at her foe.
Then came the shock.
There was a brief check in her career, she rose by the head; the rigging strained and sighed, the masts swayed groaning, but stood.
Over the bows, in the darkness was heard a long-drawn crash, was seen a white wall of foaming water rising silently to break the next moment with a great roar.
The cutter, struck obliquely amidships, was thrown straightway on her beam ends: the _Peregrine_, with every sail spread and swollen, held her as the preying bird with outstretched wings holds its quarry, and pressed her down until she began to fill and settle.
It was with wide-open eyes, with eager, throbbing heart that Molly watched it all.
"Lights, my lads," cried Captain Jack, with a shout of exultation, when the anxious instant had passed.
"Take in every man you can save but handspike is the word for the first who shows fight!
Curwen, do you get her clear again."
All around upon the deck, sprang rumour and turmoil, came shouts and sounds of scuffling and the rushing of feet; from the blank waters came piteous calls for help.
But paying little heed to aught but Molly, Captain Jack seized a lighted lantern from the hands of a passing sailor and drew her aside.
Fevered with pain and fascinated by the horror of fight and death's doings, yet instinctively remembering to pull her hood over her face, she allowed herself to be taken into the little deck cabin.
He placed the lantern upon the table: "Rest here," he said quickly, once more striving to see her beneath the jealous shade.
"I must find out if anything is amiss on board the ship and attend to these drowning men--even before you, my darling!
But I shall be back instantly.
You are not faint?"
The light shone full on his features which Molly eagerly scanned from her safe recess.
When she met his eyes, full of the triumph of love and hope, her soul broke into fierce revolt--again she felt upon her lips that kiss of young passionate love that had been the first her life had ever known ... and might be the last, for the disclosure was approaching apace.
She was glad of the respite.
"Go," she said with as much firmness as she could muster.
"Let me not stand between you and your duty.
I am strong."
Strong indeed--Captain Jack might have wondered whence had come to this gentle Madeleine this lioness-strength of soul and body, had he had time to wonder, time for aught but his love thoughts and his fury, as he dashed back again panting for the moment when he could have her to himself.
"Any damage, Curwen?"
"Bowsprit broken, and larboard bulwark stove in, otherwise everything has stood."
"Casualties?"
"No, sir.
We have three of the cutter's men on board already.
They swarmed over the bows.
One had his cutlass out and had the devil's impudence to claim the schooner, but a boat-hook soon brought him to reason.
There they be, sir," pointing to a darker group huddled round the mast.
"I have lowered the gig to see if we can pick up the others, damn them!"
"As soon as they are all on board bring them aft, I will speak to them."
When, with a master's eye, he had rapidly inspected his vessel from the hold to the rigging, without finding aught to cause anxiety for its safety, Captain Jack returned to the poop, and there found the party of prisoners arranged under the strong guard of his own crew.
Molly stood, wrapped up in her cloak, at the door of the cabin, watching.
One of the revenue men came forward and attempted to speak--but the captain impatiently cut him short.
"I have no time to waste in talk, my man," he said commandingly.
"How many were you on board the cutter?"
"Nine," answered the man sullenly.
"How many have we got here?"
"Six, sir," interposed Curwen.
"Those three," pointing to three disconsolate and dripping figures, "were all we could pick up."
"Hark ye, fellows," said the captain.
"You barred my road, I had to clear you away.
You tried to sink me, I had to sink you.
You have lost three of your ship-mates, you have yourselves to blame for it; your shot has drawn blood from one for whom I would have cut down forty times your number.
I will send you back to shore.
Away with you!
No, I will hear nothing.
Let them have the gig, Curwen, and four oars."
"And now God speed the _Peregrine_," cried Jack Smith, as the revenue men pushed off in the direction of the light and the wind was again swelling every sail of his gallant ship.
"We are well out of our scrape.
Shape her course for St. Malo, Curwen.
If this wind holds we should be there by the nineteenth in the morning, at latest."
CHAPTER XXV THE FIGHT FOR THE OPEN As o'er the grass, beneath the larches there We gaily stepped, the high noon overhead, Then Love was born--was born so strong and fair.
Knowest thou!
Love is dead.
_Gipsy Song._ At last he was free.
He had wrested his bride and the treasure trusted to his honour from the snares so unexpectedly laid on his path; whatever troubles might remain stored against him in the dim distance of time, he would not reck them now.
The present and the immediate future were full of splendour and triumph.
All those golden schemes worked out under yonder light of Scarthey--God bless it--now receding in the gloom behind his swift running ship, whether in the long watches of the night, or in the recent fevered resolves of imminent danger, they had come to pass after all!
And she, the light of his life, was with him.
She had trusted her happiness, her honour, herself, to his love.
The thought illumined his brain with glory as he rushed back to the silent muffled figure that still stood awaiting his coming.
"At last!"
he said, panting in the excess of his joy; "At last, Madeleine ...
I can hardly believe it!
But selfish brute that I am, you must be crushed with fatigue.
My brave darling, you would make me forget your tender woman's frame, and you are wounded!"
Supporting her--for the ship, reaching the open sea, had begun to roll more wildly--he led her back into the little room now lighted by the fitful rays of a swinging lamp.
With head averted, she suffered herself to be seated on a kind of sofa couch.
When he had closed the door, he seized her hand, on which ran streaks of half-dried blood, and covered it with kisses.
"Ah, Madeleine!
here in the sanctuary I had prepared for you, where I thought you would be so safe, so guarded, tell me that you forgive me for having brought this injury to you.
Wounded, torn, bleeding....
I who would give all my blood, my life, if life were not so precious to me now that you have come into it, to save you from the slightest pain!
At least here you are secure, here you can rest, but--but there is no one to wait on you, Madeleine."
He fell on his knees beside her.
"Madeleine, my wife, you must let me tend you."
Then, as she shivered slightly, but did not turn to him, he went on in tones of the most restrained tenderness mingled with humblest pleading: "Had it not been for your accident, I had not ventured even to cross the threshold of this room.
But your wound must be dressed; darling, darling, allow me, forgive me; the risk is too great."
Rising to his feet again he gently pulled at her cloak.
Molly spoke not a word, but untied it at the neck and let it fall away from her fair young body; and keeping her hooded face still rigidly averted, she surrendered her wounded arm.
He muttered words of distress at the sight of the broad blood stains; stepped hurriedly to a little cupboard where such surgical stores as might be required on board were hoarded, and having selected scissors, lint, and bandages, came back and again knelt down by her side to cut off, with eager, compassionate hands, the torn and maculated sleeve.
The wound was but a surface laceration, and a man would not have given a thought to it in the circumstances.
But to see this soft, white woman's skin, bruised black in parts, torn with a horrid red gap in others; to see the beauty of this round arm thus brutally marred, thus twitching with pain--it was monstrous, hideously unnatural in the lover's eyes!
With tenderness, but unflinchingly, he laved the mangled skin with cool, fresh water; pulled out, with far greater torture to himself than to her, some remaining splinters embedded in the flesh; covered the wound with lint, and finished the operation by a bandage as neat as his neat sailor's touch, coupled with some knowledge of surgery, gained in the experiences of his privateering days, could accomplish it.
He spoke little: only a word of encouragement, of admiration for her fortitude now and then; and she spoke not at all during the ministration.
She had raised her other hand to her eyes, with a gesture natural to one bracing herself to endurance, and had kept it there until, his task completed, her silence, the manner in which she hid her face from him awoke in him all that was best and loftiest in his generous heart.
As he rose to his feet and stood before her, he too dared not speak for fear of bruising what he deemed an exquisite maidenliness, before which his manhood was abashed at itself.
For some moments there was no sound in the cabin save that of the swift rushing waters behind the wooden walls and of the labour and life of the ship under full sail; then he saw the tumultuous rising of her bosom, and thought she was weeping.
"Madeleine," he cried with passionate anxiety, "speak!
Let me see your face--are you faint?
Lie upon this couch.
Let me get you wine--oh that these days were passed and I could call you wife and never leave you!
Madeleine, my love, speak!"
Molly rose to her feet, and with a gesture of anger threw off her hood and turned round upon him.
And there in the light of the lamp, he glared like one distraught at the raven locks, the burning eyes of a strange woman.
She was very pale.
"No," said Molly, defiantly, when twice or thrice his laboured breath had marked the passing of the horrible moment, "I am not Madeleine."
Then she tried to smile; but unconsciously she was frightened, and the smile died unformed as she pursued at random: "You know me--perhaps by hearsay--as I know you, Captain Smith."
But he, shivering under the coldness of his disappointment, answered in a kind of weary whisper: "Who are you--you who speak with her voice, who stand at her height and move and walk as she does?
I have seen you surely--Ah, I know.... Madam, what a cruel mockery!
And she, where is she?"
Still staring at her with widely dilated eyes, he seized his forehead between his hands.
The gesture was one of utter despair.
Before this weakness Molly promptly resumed the superiority of self-possession.
"Yes," she said, and this time the smile came back to her face, "I am Lady Landale, and my sister Madeleine--I grieve to have to say so--has not had that courage for which you gave her credit to-night."
Little was required at a moment like this to transmute such thoughts as seethed in the man's head to a burst of fury.
Fury is action, and action a relief to the strained heart.
There was a half-concealed, unintended mockery in her tones which brought a sudden fire of anger to his eyes.
He raised both hands and shook them fiercely above his head: "But why--why in the name of heaven--has such a trick been played on me ... at such a time?"
He paused, and trembling with the effort, restrained himself to a more decent bearing before the woman, the lady, the friend's wife.
His arms fell by his side, and he repeated in lower tones, though the flame of his gaze could not be subdued: "Why this deception, this playing with the blindness of my love?
Why this comedy, which has already had one act so tragic?--Yes, think of it, madam, think of the tragedy this is now in my life, since she is left behind and I never now, with these men's lives to account for, may go back and claim her who has given me her troth!
Already I staked the fortune of my trust, on the bare chance that she would come.
What though her heart failed her at the eleventh hour?--God forgive her for it!--surely she never sanctioned this masquerade?...
Oh no!
she would not stoop to such an act, and human life is not a thing to jest upon.
She never played this trick, the thought is too odious.
What have you done!
Had I known, had I had word sooner--but half an hour sooner--those corpses now rolling under the wave with their sunken ship would still be live men and warm.... And I--I should not be the hopeless outlaw, the actual murderer that this night's work has made of me!"
His voice by degrees rose once more to the utmost ring of bitterness and anger.
Molly, who had restored her cloak to her shoulders and sat down, ensconced in it as closely as her swaddled arm would allow her, contemplated him with a curious mixture of delight and terror; delight in his vigour, his beauty, above everything in his mastery and strength; and delight again at the new thrill of the fear it imposed upon her daring soul.
Then she flared into rage at the thought of the coward of her blood who had broken faith with such a man as this, and she melted all into sympathy with his anger--A right proper man most cruelly used and most justifiably wrathful!
And she, being a woman whose face was at most times as a book on which to read the working of her soul, there was something in her look, as in silence she listened and gazed upon him, which struck him suddenly dumb.
Such a look on a face so like, yet so unlike, that of his love was startling in the extreme--horrible.
He stepped back, and made as if he would have rushed from the room.
Then bethinking himself that he was a madman, he drew a chair near her in a contrary mood, sat down, and fixed his eyes upon her very steadily.
She dropped her long lids, and demurely composed her features by some instinct that women have, rather than from any sense of the impression she had produced.
A little while they sat thus again in silence.
In the silence, the rolling of the ship and the manner in which, as she raced on her way, she seemed to breathe and strain, worked in with the mood of each; in his, with the storm and stress of his soul; in hers, as the very expression of her new freedom and reckless pleasure.
Then he spoke; the strong emotion that had warmed her had now left his voice.
It was cold and scornful.
"Madam, I await your explanation.
So far, I find myself only the victim of a trick as unworthy and cruel as it is purposeless."
She had delayed carrying out her mission with the most definite perverseness.
She could not but acknowledge the justice of his reproof, realise the sorry part she must play in his eyes, the inexcusable folly of the whole proceeding, and yet she was strung to a very lively indignation by the tone he had assumed, and suddenly saw herself in the light of a most disinterested and injured virtue.
"Captain Smith," she exclaimed, flashing a hot glance at him, "you assume strangely the right to be angry with me!
Be angry if you will with things as they are; rail against fate if you will, but be grateful to me.--I have risked much to serve you."
The whole expression of his face changed abruptly to one of eager, almost entreating, inquiry.
"Do me the favour," she continued, "to look into the pocket of my cloak--my arm hurts me if I move--you will find there a letter addressed to you.
I was adjured to see that it should reach you in safety.
I promised to place it in your own hands.
This could hardly have been done sooner, as you know."
The words all at once seemed to alter the whole situation.
He sprang up and came to her quickly.
"Oh, forgive me, make allowances for me, Lady Landale, I am quite distracted!"
There had returned a tinge of hope into his voice.
"Where is it?"
he eagerly asked, seeking, as directed, for the pocket.
"Ah!"
and mechanically repeating, "Forgive me!"
he drew out the letter at last and retreated, feverishly opening it under the light of the lamp.
Molly had turned round to watch.
Up to this she had felt no regret for his disillusion, only an irritable heat of temper that he should waste so much love upon so poor an object.
But now all her heart went to him as she saw the sudden greyness that fell on his face from the reading of the very first line; there was no indignation, no blood-stirring emotion; it was as if a cold pall had fallen upon his generous spirit.
The very room looked darker when the fire within the brave soul was thus all of a sudden extinguished.
He read on slowly, with a kind of dull obstinacy, and when he came to the miserable end continued looking at the paper for the moment.
Then his hand fell; slowly the letter fluttered to the floor, and he let his eyes rest unseeingly, wonderingly upon the messenger.
After a little while words broke from him, toneless, the mere echo of dazed thoughts: "It is over, all over.
She has lost her trust.
She does not love me any more."
He picked up the letter again, and sitting down placed it in front of him on the table.
"'Tis a cruel letter, madam, that you have brought me," he said then, looking up at Molly with the most extraordinary pain in his eyes.
"A cruel letter!
Yet I am the same man now that I was this morning when she swore she would trust me to the end--and she could not trust me a few hours longer!
Why did you not speak?
One word from you as you stepped upon the ship would have saved my soul from the guilt of these men's death!"
Then with a sharper uplifting of his voice, as a new aspect of his misfortune struck him: "And you--you, too!
What have I to do with you, Adrian's wife?
He does not know?"
She did not reply, and he cried out, clapping his hands together: "It only wanted this.
My God, it is I--I, his friend, who owes him so much, who am to cause him such fear, such misery!
Do you know, madam, that it is impossible that I should restore you to him for days yet.
And then when, and where, and how?
God knows!
Nothing must now come between me and my trust.
I have already dishonourably endangered it.
To attempt to return with you to-night, as perhaps you fancy I will--as, of course, I would instantly do had I alone myself and you to consider, would be little short of madness.
It would mean utter ruin to many whom I have pledged myself to serve.
And yet Adrian--my honour pulls me two ways--poor Adrian!
What dumb devil possessed you that you did not speak before.
Had you no thought for your woman's good name?
Ill-fated venture, ill-fated venture, indeed!
Would God that shot had met me in its way--had only my task been accomplished!"
He buried his head in his hands.
Lady Landale flushed and paled alternately, parted her lips to speak, and closed them once more.
What could she say, and how excuse herself?
She did not repent what she had done, though it had been sin all round; she had little reck of her woman's good name, as he called it; the death of the excise men weighed but lightly, if at all, upon her conscience; the thought of Adrian was only then a distasteful memory to be thrust away; nay--even this man's grief could not temper the wild joy that was in her soul to-night.
Fevered with fatigue, with excitement, by her wound, her blood ran burning in her veins, and beat faster in every pulse.
And as she felt the ship rise and fall, and knew that each motion was an onward leap that separated her further and ever further from dull home and dull husband, and isolated her ever more completely with her sister's lover, she exulted in her heart.
Presently he lifted his head.
"Forgive me," he said, "I believe that you meant most kindly, and as you say, I should be grateful.
Your service is ill-requited by my reproaches, and you have run risk indeed--merciful Heaven, had my old friend's wife been killed upon my ship through my doings!
But you see I cannot command myself; you see how I am situated.
You must forgive me.
All that can be done to restore you to your home as soon as possible shall be done, and all, meanwhile, to mitigate the discomfort you must suffer here--And for your good intention to her and me, I thank you."
He had risen, and now bowed with a dignity that sat on his sailor freedom in no wise awkwardly.
She, too, with an effort, stood up as if to arrest his imminent departure.
A tall woman, and he but of average height, their eyes were nearly on a level.
For a second or two her dark gaze sought his with a strange hesitation, and then, as if the truth in him awoke all the truth in her, the natural daring of her spirit rose proudly to meet this kindred soul.
She would let no falsehood, no craven feminine subterfuge intervene between them.
"Do not thank me," she exclaimed, glowing with a brilliant scorn in which the greatness of her beauty, all worn as she was, struck him into surprise, yet evoked no spark of admiration.
"What I did I did, to gratify myself.
Oh, aye, if I were as other women I should smile and take your compliments, and pose as the martyr and as the self-sacrificing devoted sister.
But I will not.
It was nothing to me how Madeleine got in or out of her love scrapes.
I would not have gone one step to help her break her promise to you, or even to save your life, but that it pleased me so to do.
Madeleine has never chosen to make me her confidant.
I would have let her manage her own affairs gaily, had I had better things to occupy my mind--but I had not, Captain Smith.
Life at Pulwick is monotonous.
I have roaming blood in my veins: the adventure tempted, amused me, fascinated me--and there you have the truth!
Of course I could have given the letter to the men and sent them back to you with it--it was not because of my promise that I did not do it.
Of course I could have spoken the instant I got on board, perhaps----" here a flood of colour dyed her face with a gorgeous conscious crimson, and a dimple faintly came and went at the corner of her mouth, "perhaps I would have spoken.
But then, you must remember, you closed my lips!"
"My God!"
said Captain Jack, and looked at her with a sort of horror.
But this she could not see for her eyes were downcast.
"And now that I have come," she went on, and would have added, "I am glad I did," but that all of a sudden a new bashfulness came upon her, and she stammered instead, incoherently: "As for Adrian--René knew I had a message for you, and René will tell him--he is not stupid--you know--René, I mean."
"I am glad," answered the man gravely, after a pause, "if you have reasonable grounds for believing that your husband knows you to be on my ship.
He will then be the less anxious at your disappearance: for he knows too, madam, that his wife will be as honoured and as guarded in my charge as she would be in her mother's house."
He bowed again in a stately way and then immediately left her.
Molly sank back upon her couch, and she could not have said why, burst into tears.
She felt cold now, and broken, and her stiffening wound pained her.
But nevertheless, as she lay upon the little velvet pillow, and wept her rare tears were strangling sobs, the very ache of her wound had a strange savour that she would not have exchanged for any past content.
* * * * * René, having obeyed his mistress's orders, and left her alone with the sailors on the beach, withdrew within the shelter of the door, but remained waiting, near enough to be at hand in case he should be called.
It was still pitch dark and the rollers growled under a rough wind; he could catch the sound of a man's voice, now and again, between the clamour of the sea and the wuthering of the air, but could not distinguish a word.
Presently, however, this ceased, and there came to him the unmistakable regular beat of oars retreating.
The interview was over, and breathing a sigh of relief at the thought that, at last, his master's friend would soon be setting on his way to safety, the servant emerged to seek her ladyship.
A few minutes later he dashed into Sir Adrian's room with a livid face, and poured forth a confused tale: Milady had landed without Mademoiselle; had stopped to speak to two of the _Peregrine_, whilst he waited apart.
The men had departed in their boat.
"The _Peregrine_ men!
But the ship has been out of sight these eight hours!"
ejaculated Sir Adrian, bewildered.
Then, catching fear from his servant's distraught countenance: "My wife," he exclaimed, bounding up; and added, "you left her, Renny?"
The man struck his breast: he had searched and called.... My Lady was nowhere to be found.
"As God is my witness," he repeated, "I was within call.
My Lady ordered me to leave her.
Your honour knows My Lady has to be obeyed."
"Get lanterns!"
said Sir Adrian, the anguish of a greater dread driving the blood to his heart.
Even to one who knew the ground well, the isle of Scarthey, on a black, stormy night, with the tide high, was no safe wandering ground.
For a moment, the two--comrades of so many miserable hours--faced each other with white and haggard faces.
Then with the same deadly fear in their hearts, they hurried out into the soughing wind, down to the beach, baited on all sides by the swift-darting hissing surf.
Running their lanterns close to the ground, they soon found, by the trampled marks upon the sand, where the conclave had been held.
From thence a double row of heavy footprints led to the shelving bit of beach where it was the custom for boats to land from seawards.
"See, your honour, see," cried René, in deepest agitation, "the print of this little shoe, here--and there, and here again, right down to the water's edge.
Thank God--thank God!
My Lady has had no accident.
She has gone with the sailors to the boat.
Ah!
here the tide has come--we can see no farther."
"But why should she have gone with them?"
came, after a moment, Sir Adrian's voice out of the darkness.
"Surely that is strange--and yet ...
Yes, that is indeed her foot-print in the sand."
"And if your honour will look to sea, he will perceive the ship's lights yonder, upon the water.
That is the captain's ship....
Your honour, I must avow to you that I have concealed something from you--it was wrong, indeed, and now I am punished--but that poor Monsieur the Captain, I was so sorry for him, and he so enamoured.
He had made a plan to lift off Mademoiselle Madeleine with him to-night, marry her in France; and that was why he came back again, at the risk of his life.
He supplicated me not to tell you, for fear you would wish to prevent it, or think it your duty to.
Mademoiselle had promised, it seemed, and he was mad with her joy, the poor gentleman!
and as sure of her faith as if she had been a saint in Heaven.
But My Lady came alone, your honour, as I said.
The courage had failed to Mademoiselle, I suppose, at the last moment, and Madame bore a message to the captain.
But the captain was not able to leave his ship, it seems; and, my faith," cried Mr. Potter; his spirits rising, as the first ghastly dread left him, "the mystery explains itself!
It is quite simple, your honour will see.
As the captain did not come to the island, according to his promise to Mademoiselle--he had good reasons, no doubt--Madame went herself to his ship with her message.
She had the spirit for it--Ah!
if Mademoiselle had had but a little of it to-night, we should not be where we are!"
Sir Adrian caught at the suggestion out of the depths of his despair.
"You are right, Renny, you must be right.
Yet, on this rough sea, in this black night--what madness!
The boat, instantly; and let us row for those lights as we never rowed before!"
Even as the words were uttered the treble glimmer vanished.
In vain they strained their eyes: save for the luminous streak cast by their own beacon lamp, the gloom was unbroken.
"His honour will see, a boat will be landing instantly with My Lady safe and sound," said René at last.
But his voice lacked confidence, and Sir Adrian groaned aloud.
And so they stood alone in silence, forced into inaction, that most cruel addition to suspense, by the darkness and the waters which hemmed them in upon every side.
The vision of twenty dangerous places where one impetuous footfall might have hurled his darling into the cruel beating waves painted themselves--a hideous phantasmagory--upon Sir Adrian's brain.
Had the merciless waters of the earth that had murdered the mother, grasped at the child's life also?
He raised his voice in a wild cry, it seemed as if the wind caught it from him and tore it into shreds.
"Hark!"
whispered René, and clasped his master's icy hand.
Like an echo of Sir Adrian's cry, the far-off ring of a human voice had risen from the sea.
Again it came.
"_C'est de la mer, Monseigneur!_" panted the man; even as he spoke the darkness began to lift.
Above their heads, unnoticed, the clouds had been rifted apart beneath the breath of the north wind; the horizon widened, a misty wing-like shape was suddenly visible against the receding gloom.
The captain's ship!
The _Peregrine_!
As master and man peered outward as if awaiting unconsciously some imminent solution from the gliding spectre, it seemed as if the night suddenly opened on the left to shoot forth a burst of red fire.
A few seconds later, the hollow boom of cannon shook the air around them.
Sir Adrian's nails were driven into René's hands.
The flaming messenger had carried to both minds an instant knowledge of the new danger.
"Great Heavens!"
muttered Adrian.
"He will surrender; he must surrender!
He could not be so base, so wicked, as to fight and endanger _her_!"
But the servant's keener sight, trained by long stormy nights of watching, was following in its dwindling, mysterious course that misty vision in which he thought to recognize the _Peregrine_.
"_Elle file, elle file joliment la goëlette!_ Mother of Heaven, there goes the gun again!
I never thought my blood would turn to water only to hear the sound of one like this.
But your honour must not be discouraged; he can surely trust the captain.
Ah, the clouds--I can see no more."
The wild blast gathering fresh droves of vapour from the huddled masses on the horizon was now, in truth, herding them fiercely across the spaces it had cleared a few moments before.
Confused shouts, strange clamour seemed to ring out across the waves to the listeners: or it might have been only the triumphant howlings of the rising storm.
"Will not your honour come in?
The rain is falling."
"No, Renny, no, give me my lantern again, friend, and let us examine anew."
Both knew it to be of no avail, but physically and mentally to move about was, at least, better than to stand still.
Step by step they scanned afresh the sand, the shingle, the rocks, the walls, to return once more to the trace of the slender feet, leading beside the great double track of heavy sea boots to the water's edge.
Sir Adrian knelt down and gazed at the last little imprint that seemed to mock him with the same elusive daintiness as Molly herself, as if he could draw from it the answer to the riddle.
René endeavouring to stand between his master and the driving blast laid down his lantern too, and strove by thumping his breast vigorously to infuse a little warmth into his numbed limbs and at the same time to relieve his overcharged feelings.
As he paused at length, out of breath, the noise of a methodical thud and splash of oars arose, above the tumult of the elements, very near to them, upon their left.
Sir Adrian sprang to his feet.
"She returns, she returns," shouted René, capering, in the excess of the sudden joy, and waving his lantern; then he sent forth a vigorous hail which was instantly answered close by the shore.
"Hold up your light, your honour--ah, your honour, did I not say it?--while I go to help Madame.
Now then, you others down there," running to the landing spot, "make for the light!"
The keel ground upon the shingle.
"My Lady first," shouted René.
Some one leaped up in the boat and flung him a rope with a curse.
"The lady, ay, ay, my lad, you'd better go and catch her yourself.
There she goes," pointing enigmatically behind him with his thumb.
Sir Adrian, unable to restrain his impatience, ran forward too, and threw the light of his lantern upon the dark figures now rising one by one and pressing forward.
Five or six men, drenched from head to foot, swearing and grumbling; with faces pinched with cold, all lowering with the same expression of anger and resentment and shining whitely at him out of the confusion.
He saw the emptying seats, the shipped oars, the name _Peregrine_ in black letters upon the white paint of the dingey; and she?...
she was not there!
The revulsion of feeling was so cruel that for a while he seemed turned to stone, even his mind becoming blank.
The waves lashed in up to his knees; he never felt them.
René's strong hands came at last to drag him away, and then René's voice, in a hot whisper close to his ear, aroused him: "It is good news, your honour, after all, good news.
My Lady is on board the _Peregrine_.
I made these men speak.
They are the revenue men--that God may damn them!
and they were after the captain; but he ran down their cutter, that brave captain.
And these are all that were saved from her, for she sank like a stone.
The _Peregrine_ is as sound as a bell, they say--ah, she is a good ship!
And the captain, out of his kind heart, sent these villains ashore in his own boat, instead of braining them or throwing them overboard.
But they saw a lady beside him the whole time, tall, in a great black cloak.
My Lady in her black cloak, just as she landed here.
Of course Monsieur the Captain could not have sent her back home with these brigands then--not even a message--that would have compromised his honour.
But his honour can see now how it is.
And though My Lady has been carried out to sea, he knows now that she is safe."
CHAPTER XXVI THE THREE COLOURS The sun was high above the Welsh hills; the _Peregrine_ had sheered her way through a hundred miles or more of fretted waters before her captain, in his hammock slung for the nonce near the men's quarters, stirred from his profound sleep--nature's kind restorer to healthy brain and limbs--after the ceaseless fatigue and emotions of the last thirty-six hours.
As he leaped to his feet out of the swinging canvas, the usual vigour of life coursing through every fibre of him, he fell to wondering, in half-awake fashion, at the meaning of the unwonted weight lurking in some back recess of consciousness.
Then memory, the ruthless, arose and buffeted his soul.
The one thing had failed him without which all else was as nothing; fate, and his own hot blood, had conspired to place his heart's desire beyond all reasonable hope.
Certain phrases in Madeleine's letter crossed and re-crossed his mind, bringing now an unwonted sting of anger, now the old cruel pain of last night.
The thought of the hateful complication introduced into his already sufficiently involved affairs by the involuntary kidnapping of his friend's wife filled him with a sense of impotent irritation, very foreign to his temper; and as certain looks and words of the unwished-for prisoner flashed back upon him, a hot colour rose, even in his solitude, to his wholesome brown cheek.
But in spite of all, in spite of reason and feeling alike his essential buoyancy asserted itself.
He could not despair.
He had not been given this vigour of soul and body to sit down under misfortune.
Resignation was for the poor of heart; only cravens gave up while it was yet possible to act.
His fair ship was speeding with him as he loved to feel her speed; around him spread the vast spaces in which his spirit rejoiced--salt sea and vaulted heavens; the full air of the open, the brisk dash of the wind filled him with physical exhilaration at every breath, and tingled in his veins; the sporting blood, which had come to him from generations of hunting squires, found all its craving satisfied in this coursing across the green ocean fields, and the added element of danger was as the sting of the brine to his palate.
What--despair now?
with his perilous enterprise all but accomplished, the whole world, save one country, before him, and Madeleine unwed!
Another might, but not Jack Smith; not Hubert Cochrane!
He was actually trolling out the stave of a song as he sprang up the companion ladder after his rough breakfast in the galley, but the sound expired at the sight of the distant flutter of a woman's scarf in the stern of the ship.
He halted and ran his fingers through his crisp hair with an expressive gesture of almost comical perplexity; all would be plain sailing enough, with hope at the prow again, but for this--he stamped his foot to choke down the oath of qualification--this encumbrance.
Adrian's wife and Madeleine's sister, as such entitled to all honour, all care, and devotion; and yet, as such again, hideously, doubly unwelcome to him!
As he stood, biting his lips, while the gorgeous sunshine of the young spring morning beat down upon his bare head, the brawny figure of the mate, his mahogany-tinted face wrinkled into as stiff a grin as if it had been indeed carved out of the wood in question, intervened between his abstracted gaze and the restless amber beyond.
"It's a fine day, sir," by way of opening conversation.
The irrepressible satisfaction conveyed by the wide display of tobacco-stained teeth, by the twinkle in the hard, honest eyes called up a queer, rueful grimace to the other man's face.
"Do you know, Curwen," he said, "that you brought me the wrong young lady last night?"
The sailor jumped back in amazement.
"The wrong young lady, sir," staring with starting, incredulous eyeballs, "the wrong, young lady!"
here he clapped his thigh, "Well of all--the wrong young lady!
Are you quite sure, sir?"
Captain Jack laughed aloud.
But it was with a bitter twist at the corners of his lips.
"Well I'm----," said poor Curwen.
All his importance and self-satisfaction had left him as suddenly as the starch a soused collar.
He scanned his master's face with almost pathetic anxiety.
"Oh, I don't blame you--you did your part all right.
Why, I myself fell into the same mistake, and we had not much time for finding it out, had we?
The lady you see--the lady--she is the other lady's sister and she came with a message.
And so we carried her off before we knew where we were--or she either," added Captain Jack as a mendacious after thought.
"Well I'm----," reiterated Curwen who then rubbed his scrubby, bristling chin, scratched his poll and finally broke into another grin--this time of the kind classified as sheepish.
"And what'll be to do now?"
"By the God that made me, I haven't a notion!
We must take all the care of her we can, of course.
Serve her her meals in her cabin, as was arranged, and see that she is attended to, just as the other young lady would have been you know, only that I think she had better be served alone, and I shall mess downstairs as usual.
And then if we can leave her at St. Malo, we shall.
But it must be in all safety, Curwen, for it's a terrible responsibility.
Happily we have now the time to think.
Meanwhile I have slept like a log and she--I see is astir before me."
"Lord bless you, sir, she has been up these two hours!
Walking the deck like a sailor, and asking about things and enjoying them like.
Ah, she is a rare lady, that she is!
And it is the wrong one--well this is a go!
And I was remarking to Bill Baxter, just now, that it was just our captain's luck to have found such a regular sailor's young woman, so I said--begging pardon for the word.
And not more than he is worth, says he, and so said I also.
And she the wrong lady after all!
Well, it's a curious thing, sir, nobody could be like to guess it from her.
She's a well-plucked one, with her wound and all.
She made me look at it this morning, when I brought her a cup of coffee and a bite: 'You're old enough to be my father,' says she, as pretty as can be, 'so you shall be doctor as well as lady's maid; and, if you've got a girl of your own, it'll be a story to tell her by the fire at night, when you're home again,' so she said; and never winced when I put my great fingers on her arm.
I was all of a tremble, I declare, with her a smiling up at me, but the wound--it's doing finely; healing as nice as ever I see, and not a sign of sickness on her.
The very lady as I was saying, for our captain--but here she comes."
This was an unwontedly long speech for Curwen; and, silent again, he effaced himself discreetly, just in time to avoid the angry ejaculation that had sprung to his captain's lips, but not without a backward glance of admiration at the tall, alert figure now bearing down in their direction with steps already firmly balanced to the movement of the ship.
At a little distance from Captain Jack, Molly paused as if to scrutinise the horizon, and enjoy the invigorating atmosphere.
In reality her heart was beating fast, her breath came short; and the gaze she flung from the faint outline of coast upon one side to the vast monotony of sparkling sea upon the other conveyed no impression to her troubled mind.
The next instant he was by her side.
As she smiled at him, he noticed that her face was pale, and her eyes darkly encircled.
"Ah, madam," said he, as he drew close and lifted his hand to his head, with a gesture of formal courtesy that no doubt somewhat astonished a couple of his men who were watching the group with covert smiles and nudges, being as yet unaware of the misadventure, "you relieve my mind of anxiety.
How is the arm?
Does it make you suffer much?
No!
You must be strong indeed."
"Yes, I am strong," answered she, and flushed, and looked out across the sea, inhaling the air with dilated nostrils.
Within her, her soul was crying out to him.
It was as if there was a tide there, as fierce and passionate as the waves around her, all bearing, straining to him, and this with a struggle and flow so resistless, that she could neither remember the past, nor measure the future, but only feel herself carried on, beaten and tossed upon these great waters, like a helpless wreck.
"I trust you are well attended to," began the man constrainedly again.
"I fear you will have to endure much discomfort.
I had reckoned----."
Here he halted galled by the thought of what it was he had reckoned upon, the thought of the watchful love that was to have made of the little ship a very nest for his bride, of the exquisite joy it was to have harboured!
And he set his teeth at fate.
She played for a while with her little finger tips upon the rail, then turned her gaze, full and bold, upon him.
"I do not complain," she said.
He bowed gravely.
"We will do our best for you, and if you will take patience, the time will pass at last, as all time passes.
I have a few books, they shall be brought into your cabin.
In three days we shall be in St. Malo--There, if you like----" he hesitated, embarrassed.
"There!"
echoed Lady Landale with her eyes still fixed upon his downcast face--"If I like--what?"
"We could leave you----" Her bosom rose and fell quickly with stormy breaths.
"Alone, moneyless, in a strange town--that is well and kindly thought!"
she said.
Whence had come to her this strange power of feeling pain?
She had not known that one could suffer in one's heart like this; she, whose quarrel with life hitherto had been for its too great comfort, security and peace.
She felt a lump rise to her throat, and tears well into her eyes, blurring all the sunlit vision and she turned her head away and beat her sound left hand clenched upon the ledge.
"Before heaven," cried Jack, distressed out of his unnatural stiffness, "you mistake me, Lady Landale!
I am only anxious to do what is best for you, what Adrian would wish.
To leave you alone, deserted, helpless at St. Malo, you could not have thought I should mean that?
No, indeed, I would have seen you into safe hands, in some comfortable hotel, with a maid to wait upon you--I know of such a place--Adrian could not have been long in coming to fetch you.
I should have had a letter ready to post to him the instant we landed.
As to money," flushing boyishly, "that is the least consideration--there is no dearth of that to fear.
If you prefer it I can, however, convey you somewhere upon the English coast after we quit St. Malo; but that will entail a longer residence for you here on board ship; and it is no fit place for you."
Still looking out across the sea, Molly replied, in a deep shaken voice, unlike her own, "You did not think it unfit for my sister."
"Your sister?
But your sister was to have been my wife!"
Burning through the mists of her unshed tears once more her glance returned to his: "And I--" she cried and here was suddenly silent again, gazing at the thin circlet of gold upon her left hand, beneath the flashing diamonds.
After a moment then, she broke out fiercely--"Oh do with me what you will, but for God's sake leave me in peace!"
And stamping, turned her shoulder on him to stare straight outwards as before.
Captain Jack drew back, paused an instant, clutched his hair with a desperate gesture and slowly walked away.
* * * * * The voyage of the _Peregrine_ was as rapid as her captain had hoped, and the dawn of the fourth day broke upon them from behind the French coast, where Normandy joins old Armorica.
For a little while, Lady Landale, awakened from her uneasy sleep by the unusual stir on deck, lay languidly watching the light as it filtered through the port-hole of her little cabin, the colours growing out of greyness on the walls; listening to the tramp of feet and the mate's husky voice without.
Then her heart tightened with a premonition of the coming separation.
She sat up and looked out of her window: as the horizon rose and fell giddily to her eye there lay the fatal line of land.
The land of her blood but to her now, the land of exile!
She had seen but little of Captain Jack these last two days; interchanged but few and formal words with him, now and then, as they met morning and evening or came across each other during the day.
She felt that he avoided her.
But she had seen him, she had heard his voice, they had been close to each other upon the great seas, however divided, and this had been something to feed upon.
Now what prospect before her hungry heart but--starvation?
At least the last precious moments should not be lost to her.
She rose and dressed in haste; a difficult operation in her maimed state.
Before leaving her narrow quarters, she peered into the looking-glass with an eagerness she had never displayed in the days of her vain girlhood.
"What a fright!"
she said to the anxious face that looked back at her with yearning eyes and dark burning lips.
And she thought of Madeleine's placid fairness as Cain might of Abel's modest altar.
When she emerged upon deck, a strange and beautiful scene was spread to her gaze.
A golden haze enveloped the water and the coast, but out of it, in brown jagged outline, against the blazing background of glowing sunlight rose the towers, the pointed roofs and spires of that old corsair's hive, St. Malo.
The waters were bright green, frothed with oily foam around the ship.
The masts cast strange long black shadows, and Molly saw one spring from her own feet as she moved into the morning glow.
The _Peregrine_, she noticed, was cruising parallel with the coast, instead of making for the harbour, and just now all was very still on board.
Two men, conspicuous against the yellow sky, stood apart, a little forward, with their backs turned to her.
One of these was Captain Jack, gazing steadily at the town through a telescope; the other the mate.
Both were silent.
Silently herself and unnoticed Molly went up and stood beside them; observing her sister's lover as intently as he that unknown distant point, she presently saw the lean hand nearest her tremble ever so slightly as it held the glass; then he turned and handed it to his companion, saying briefly, "See what you make of it."
The man lifted the glass, set it, looked, dropped his hand and faced his captain.
Their eyes met, but neither spoke for a second or two.
"It is so, then?"
said the captain at last.
"Aye, sir, no mistake about that.
There's the tricolour up again--and be damned to it--as large as life, to be sure!"
The healthy tan of the captain's face had not altered by one shade; his mouth was set in its usual firm line, but, by the intuition of her fiery soul, the woman beside him knew that he had received a blow.
"A strange thing," went on Curwen in a grumbling guttural bass, "and it's only a year ago since they set up the old white napkin again.
You did not look for this, sir?"
He too had his intuitions.
"No, Curwen, it is the last thing I looked for.
And it spells failure to me--failure once more!"
As he spoke he turned his head slightly and perceiving Molly standing close behind him glanced up sharply and frowned, then strove to smooth his brow into conventional serenity and greeted her civilly.
Curwen, clenching his hard hands together round the telescope, retired a step and stood apart, still hanging on his captain's every gesture like a faithful dog.
"What does it mean?"
asked Molly, disregarding the morning salutation.
"It means strange things to France," responded Captain Jack slowly, with a bitter smile; "and to me, Madam, it means that I have come on a wild goose chase----" He stretched out his hand for the glass once more as he spoke--although even by the naked eye the flag, minute as it was, could be seen to flash red in the breeze--and sought the far-off flutter again; and then closing the instrument with an angry snap, tossed it back.
"But what does it mean?"
reiterated Molly, a wild impatience, a wild hope trembling in her breast.
"It means, Madam, that I have brought my pigs to the wrong market," cried Captain Jack, still with the smile that sat so strangely upon his frank lips; "that the goods I have to deliver, I cannot deliver.
For if there is any meaning in symbols, by the wave of that tricolour yonder the country has changed rulers again.
My dealings were to be with the king's men, and as they are not here, at least, no longer in power--how could they be under that rag?--I must even trot the cargo home again.
Not a word to the men, Curwen, but give the order to sheer off!
We have lowered the blue, white and red too often, have not we?
to risk a good English ship, unarmed, under the nozzles of those Republican or Imperial guns."
The man grinned.
The two could trust each other.
Molly turned away and moved seawards, for she knew that the joy upon her face was not to be hidden.
Captain Jack fell to pacing the deck with bent head, and long, slow steps.
Absorbed in dovetailing the last secret arrangements of his venture, and more intent still, during his very few hours of idleness, on the engrossing thought of love, he had had no knowledge of the extraordinary challenge to fate cast by Bonaparte, of that challenge which was to end in the last and decisive clash of French and English hosts.
He had not even heard of the Corsican's return to France with his handful of grenadiers, for newspapers were scarce at Scarthey.
But even had he heard, like the rest of the world, he would no doubt have thought no more of it than as a mad freak born of the vanquished usurper's foolhardy restlessness.
But the conclave of plenipotentiaries assembled at Vienna were not more thunderstruck when, on that very 19th of March, the semaphore brought them news of the legitimate King of France once more fled, and of his country once more abandoned to the hated usurper, than was Captain Jack as he watched the distant flagstaff in the sunrise, and saw, when the morning port gun had vomited forth its white cloud on the ramparts of St. Malo, the fatal stripes run up the slender line in lieu of the white standard.
But Jack Smith's mind, like his body, was quick in action.
The sun had travelled but a degree or two over the wide undulating land, the mists were yet rising, when suddenly he halted, and called the mate in those commanding tones that had, from the first time she had heard them, echoed in Molly's heart: "Bring her alongside one of those smacks yonder, the furthest out to sea."
Thereupon followed Curwen's hoarse bellow, an ordered stampede upon the deck, and gracefully, with no more seeming effort than a swan upon a garden pond, the _Peregrine_ veered and glided towards the rough skiff with its single ochre sail and its couple of brown-faced fishermen, who had left their nets to watch her advance.
Captain Jack leant over the side, his hands over his mouth, and hailed them in his British-French--correct enough, but stiff to his tongue, as Molly heard and smiled at, and loved him for, in woman's way, when she loves at all.
"Ahoy, the friend!
A golden piece for him who will come on board and tell the news of the town."
A brief consultation between the fisher pair.
"_Un écu d'or_," repeated Captain Jack.
Then there was a flash of white teeth on the two weather-beaten faces.
"_On y va, patron_," cried one of the fellows, cheerfully, and jumped into his dinghey, while his comrade still stared and grinned, and the stalwart lads of the _Peregrine_ grinned back at the queer foreign figure with the brown cap and the big gold earrings.
Soon the fisherman's bare feet were thudding on the deck, and he stood before the English captain, cap in hand, his little, quick black eyes roaming in all directions, over the wonders of the beautiful white ship, with innocent curiosity.
But before Captain Jack could get his tongue round another French phrase, Molly, detaching herself from her post of observation, came forward, smiling.
"Let me speak to him," she said, "he will understand me better, and it will go quicker.
What is it you want to know?"
Captain Jack hesitated a moment, saw the advantage of the suggestion, and then accepted the offer with the queer embarrassment that always came over him in his relations with her.
"You are very good," he said.
"Oh, I like to talk the father and mother tongue," she said, gaily and sweetly.
Her eyes danced; he had never seen her in this mood, and, as before, grudgingly had to admit her beauty.
"And if you will allow it," she went on, "I am glad to be of use too."
The fisherman, twirling his cap in his knotted fingers, stared at her open mouthed.
_Une si belle dame!_ like a queen and speaking his tongue that it was a music to listen to.
This was in truth a ship of marvels.
_Ah, bon Dieu, oui, Madame_, there were news at St. Malo, but it depended upon one's feelings whether they were to be regarded as good or bad--_Dame_, every one has one's opinions--but for him--_pourvu qu'on lui fiche la paix_--what did it matter who sat on the throne--His Majesty the King--His Majesty the Emperor, or Citizen Bonaparte.
Oh, a poor fisherman, what was it to him?
He occupied himself with his little fishes, not with great folk.
(Another white-teethed grin.)
What had happened?
_Parbleu_, it began by the military, those accursed military (this with a cautious look around, and gathering courage by seeing no signs of disapproval, proceeding with greater volubility).
The poor town was full of them, infantry and artillery; regiments of young devils--and a band of old ones too.
The veterans of _celui là_ (spitting on the deck contemptuously) they were the worst; that went without saying.
A week ago there came a rumour that he had escaped--was in France--and then the ferment began--duels every day--rows in the cafés, fights in the ports.
At night one would hear shouts in the streets--_Vive l'Empereur!_ and it spread, it spread.
_Ma foi_--one regiment mutinied, then another--and then it was known that the Emperor had reached Paris.
Oh, then it was warm!
All those gentlemen, the officers who were for the King, were arrested.
Then there was a grand parade on the _place d'armes_--Yes, he went there too, though he did not care much about soldiers.
All the garrison was there.
The colonel of the veterans came out with a flag in its case.
_Portez armes!_ Good.
They pull out the flag from the case: it's the old tricolour with the eagle on the top!
_Presentez armes!_ And this time it was all over.
Ah, one should have seen that, heard the houras, seen the bonfires!
_Monsieur le Maire_ and the rest, appointed by the King, they were in a great fright, they had to give way--what does Madame say?
Traitors?
Oh, _bédame_ (scratching his head), it was no joke with the military just now--the whole place was under military law and, _saperlotte_, when the strong commands it is best for the weak to obey.
As for him, he was only a poor fisherman.
What did he know?
he was not a politician: every one to his trade.
So long as they let one have the peace--He thanked the gentleman, thanked him much; thanked the lady, desired to wish her the good-morning and _Monsieur_ too.
Did they like no little fresh soles this morning?
He had some leaping then below in his boat.
No?
well the good-morning then.
They had heard enough.
The fisherman paddled back to his skiff, and Molly stood watching from a little distance the motionless figure of the captain of the _Peregrine_ as with one hand clenching the hand-rail he gazed towards St. Malo with troubled eyes.
After a few minutes Curwen advanced and touched him lightly on the arm.
Captain Jack turned slowly to look at him: his face was a little pale and his jaw set.
But the mate, who had served under him since the day he first stepped upon the old _St.
Nicholas_, a gallant, fair-faced lad (and who knew "every turn of him," as he would have expressed it himself), saw that he had taken his decision; and he stepped back satisfied, ready to shape his course for the near harbour, or for the Pacific Ocean, or back to Scarthey itself at his master's bidding.
"Call the men up," said the captain, "they have earned their bounty and they shall have it.
Though their skipper is a poorer man than he thought to be, by this fool's work yonder, his good lads shall not suffer.
Tush, man, that's the order--not a word.
And after that, Curwen, let her make for the sea again, northwards."
CHAPTER XXVII THE LIGHT AGAIN--THE LADY AND THE CARGO Does not all the blood within me Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, As the spring to meet the sunshine!
_Hiawatha._ "Curwen," said Captain Jack, suddenly--the two stood together at the helm on the afternoon of the same day, and the _Peregrine_ was once more alone, a speck upon the waste of waters, "I have made up my mind to return to Scarthey."
The mate wagged his bushy eyebrows and shifted his hand on the helm.
"Ay, ay, sir," he said, after just an instant's pause.
"I would not run you and the men into unnecessary danger, that you may be sure of; but the fact is, Curwen, I'm in a devil of a fix all round.
There's no use hiding it from you.
And, all things considered, to land the lady and the cargo at the lighthouse itself, gives me as fair a chance of getting out of it as any plan I can think of.
The cargo's not all my own and it's a valuable one, I daresay you have guessed as much; and it's not the kind we want revenue men to pry into.
I could not unload elsewhere that I know of, without creating suspicion.
As to storing it elsewhere, it's out of the question.
Scarthey's the place, though it's a damned risky one just now!
But we've run many a risk together in our day, have we not?"
"Ay, sir; who's afraid?"
"Then there's the lady," lowering his voice; "she's Lady Landale, my friend's wife, the wife of the best friend ever man had.
Ay, you remember him, I doubt not--the gentleman seaman of the _Porcupine_--I owe him more than I can ever repay, and he owes me something too.
That sort of thing binds men together; and see what I have done to him--carried off his wife!"
Curwen grunted, enigmatically, and disengaged a hand to scratch his chin.
"I must have speech with him.
I must, it is enough to drive me mad to think what he may be thinking of me.
What I purpose is this: we'll disguise the ship as far as we can (we have the time), paint her a new streak and alter those topsails, change the set of the bowsprit and strike out her name."
"That's unlucky," said the mate.
"Unlucky, is it?
Well, she's not been so lucky this run that we need fear to change the luck.
Then, Curwen, we'll slip in at night at a high tide, watching for our opportunity and a dark sky; we'll unship the cargo, and then you shall take command of her and carry her off to the East Coast and wait there, till I am able to send you word or join you.
It will only be a few hours danger for the men, after all."
Still keeping his seaman eye upon the compass, Curwen cleared his throat with a gruesome noise.
Then in tones which seemed to issue with difficulty from some immense depth: "Beg pardon, sir," he said, "that ain't a bargain."
"How now?"
cried his captain, sharply.
"No, sir," rolling his head portentously; "that don't run to a bargain, that don't.
The lads of the _Peregrine_ 'll stick to their skipper through thick and thin.
I'll warrant them, every man Jack of them; and if there was one who grumbled, I'd have my knife in him before another caught the temper from him--I would, or my name's not Curwen.
If ye bid us steer to hell we'll do it for you, sir, and welcome.
But for to go and leave you there--no, sir, it can't be done."
Captain Jack gave a little laugh that was as tender as a woman's tear.
Curwen rolled his head again and mumbled to himself: "It can't be done."
Then Jack Smith clapped his hand on the sailor's shoulder.
"But it's got to be done!"
he cried.
"It is the only thing you can do to help me, Curwen.
To have our _Peregrine_ out in the daylight on that coast would be stark madness--no disguise could avail her, and you can't change your ugly old phiz, can you?
As for me, I must have a few days on shore, danger or no danger.
Ah, Curwen," with a sudden, passionate outbreak, "there are times when a man's life is the least of his thoughts!"
"Couldn't I stop with you, sir?"
"I would not trust the ship to another, and you would double the risk for me."
"I could double a blow for you too," cried the fellow, hoarsely.
"But if it's got to be--it must be.
I'll do it, sir."
"I count on it," said the captain, briefly.
As the ring of his retreating steps died away upon his ear the mate shook his head in melancholy fashion: "Women," he said, "is very well, I've nought to say against them in their way.
And the sea's very well--as I ought to know.
But women and the sea, it don't agree.
They's jealous one of the other and a man gets torn between."
As Molly sat in her cabin, watching the darkening sky outside with dreaming eyes, she started on seeing Captain Jack approach, and instead of passing her with cold salute, halt and look in.
"I would speak a word with you," he said.
"On deck, then," said Molly.
She felt somehow as if under the broad heaven they were nearer each other than in that narrow room.
The sea was rough, the wind had risen and still blew from the north, it was cold; but her blood ran too fast these days to heed it.
She drew one of the capes of her cloak over her head and staggering a little, for the schooner, sailing close to the wind, pitched and rolled to some purpose, she made for her usual station at the bulwarks.
"Well?"
she asked.
He briefly told her his purpose of returning to Scarthey direct.
Her eye dilated; she grew pale.
"Is that not dangerous?"
He made a contemptuous gesture.
"But they must be watching for you on that coast.
You have sunk the boat--killed those men.
To return there--My God, what folly!"
"I must land my goods, Madam.
You forget that I have more contraband on board than, smuggler as I am, even I bargained for."
"If it is for me?--I would rather fling myself into the waves this instant than that you should expose yourself to danger."
"Then I should fling myself after you, and that would be more dangerous still."
He smiled a little mockingly upon her as he spoke; but the words called a transient fire into her face.
"You would risk your life to save me?"
she cried.
"To save Adrian's wife, Madam."
"_Bah!_" He would have gone then, but she held him with her free hand.
She was again white to the lips.
But her eyes--how they burned!
He would have given all his worth to avoid what he felt was coming.
A woman, at such a juncture may forbid speech, or deny her ear: a man, unless he would seem the first of Josephs or the last of coxcombs, dare not even hint at his unwelcome suspicions.
"I will not have you go into this danger, I will not!"
stammered Molly incoherently.
The dusk was spreading, and her eyes seemed to grow larger and larger in the uncertain light.
"Lady Landale, you misunderstand.
It is true that to see you safely restored to your husband's roof is an added reason for my return to Scarthey--but were you not on board, I should go all the same.
I will tell you why, it is a secret, but you shall know it.
I have treasures on board, vast treasures confided to me, and I must store them in safety till I can give them back to their rightful owners.
This I can only do at Scarthey--for to cruise about with such a cargo indefinitely is as impossible as to land it elsewhere.
And more than this, had I not that second reason, I have yet a third that urges me to Scarthey still."
"For Madeleine?"
she whispered, and her teeth gleamed between her lips.
He remained silent and tried gently to disengage himself from her slender fingers, but the feeling of their frailness, the knowledge of her wound, made her feeble grasp as an iron vice to his manliness.
She came closer to him.
"Do you not remember then--what she has said to you?
what she wrote to you in cold blood--the coward--in the very moment when you were staking your life for love of her?
I remember, if you do not--'You have deceived me,' she wrote, and her hand never trembled, for the words ran as neatly and primly as ever they did in her convent copy books.
'You are not what you represented yourself to be--You have taken advantage of the inexperience of an ignorant girl, I have been deluded and deceived.
I never wish to see you, to hear of you again.'"
"For Heaven's sake, Lady Landale----" cried the man fiercely.
Molly laughed--one of those laughs that have the ring of madness in them.
"Do I not remember?
Ah, that is not all!
She knows you now for what you are, knows what your 'mission' is--but you must not believe she writes in anger.
No, she----" Captain Jack's patience could bear no further strain.
"Be silent," he commanded fiercely, and wrenched his arm away to face her with menacing eyes.
"Ah, does it rouse so much anger in you even to hear repeated what she did not hesitate to write, did not hesitate to allow me to read?
And yet you love her?
If you had seen her, if you knew her as I do!
I tell you she means it; when she wrote that she was not angry; it was the truth--she did it in cold blood.
She loved you, you think, and yet she believed you a liar; she loved you, and she thinks you a traitor to all she holds dear.
She believes that of _you_, and you ... you love her still!"
"Lady Landale!"
"Listen--she could never love you, as you should be loved.
She was not born your kin.
Between you and her there is nothing--nothing but your own fancy.
Do not risk your life again for her--your life!"
She stopped, drew her breath with a long gasp, the spray from a turbulent wave came dashing across the bows into her face, and as once the blood of Cécile de Savenaye had been roused by the call of the wild waters to leave safety and children and seek her doom, so now the blood she had transmitted to her child, leaped to the same impulse and bore her onwards with irresistible force.
"When," she pursued, "in the darkness you took me in your arms and kissed me; what did the touch of my lips bring to you?
My lips, not Madeleine's....
Were you not happy then?
Oh, you were, do not deny it, I felt, I knew our souls met!
My soul and yours, not yours and Madeleine's.
And I knew then that we were made for each other.
The sea and the wide free life upon it: it draws me as it draws you; it was that drew me to you before I had ever seen you.
Listen, listen.
Do not go to Scarthey--you have your beautiful ship, your faithful crew--there are rich and wonderful worlds, warm seas that beckon.
You can have life, money, adventure--and love, love if you will.
Take it, take me with you!
What should I care if you were an adventurer, a smuggler, a traitor?
What does anything matter if we are only together?
Let us go, we have but one life, let us go!"
Bereft of the power of movement he stood before her, and the sweat that had gathered upon his brow ran down his face.
But, as the meaning of her proposition was borne in upon him, a shudder of fury shook him from head to foot.
No man should have offered dishonour to Jack Smith and not have been struck the next instant at his feet.
But a woman--a woman, and Adrian's wife!
"Lady Landale," he said, after a silence during which the beating of her heart turned her sick and cold, and all her fever heat fell from her, leaving nothing but the knowledge of her shame, her misery, her hopeless love.
"Lady Landale, let me bring you back to your cabin--it is late."
She went with him as one half-conscious.
At the door she paused.
The light from within fell upon his face, deeply troubled and white, but upon the lips and brows, what scorn!
He was a god among men.... How she loved him, and he scorned her!
Poor Murthering Moll!
She looked up.
"Have you no word for me?"
she cried passionately.
"Only this, Lady Landale: I will forget."
* * * * * Back towards the distant northern light the schooner clove her valiant way in spite of adverse winds and high seas.
The return journey was slower than the outward, and since the second day of it the lady kept much to her cabin, while the captain would pace the deck till far into the night, with unwonted uneasiness.
To him the white wings of his _Peregrine_ were bearing him all too slowly for endurance, while to the stormy woman's heart that beat through the night watches in passionate echo to his restless tread, every instant that passed but brought nearer the prospect of a future so intolerable that she could not bring herself to face it.
A gloom seemed to have come over the tight little craft, and to have spread even to the crew, who missed the ring of their captain's jolly laugh and the sound of his song.
When, within a day's sail of the goal, the planned disguise was finally carried out upon the schooner's fair sides and rigging, her beautiful stretch of sail curtailed, and her name (final disgrace), superseded by the unmeaning title of _The Pretty Jane_, open murmurs broke out which it required all Curwen's severity--and if the old martinet did not execute the summary justice he had threatened he was quite equal to the occasion nevertheless--and all Jack's personal influence to quell.
The dawn of the next day crept gloomily upon a world of rain; with long faces the men paddled about the deck, doing their duty in silence; Curwen's old countenance, set into grimmer lines than ever, looked as if it had just been detached from the prow of some vessel after hard experience of stress and storm.
The spirits of the captain alone seemed to rise in proportion as they drew nearer land.
"The moon sets at half-past eleven," he said to Curwen, "but we need not fear her to-night.
By half-past twelve I reckon on your having those twenty-five damned casks safe in the cave you took them from; it is a matter of three journeys.
And then the nose of the _Pretty Jane_ must be pointed for the Orkneys.
All's going well."
* * * * * Night had fallen.
"The gaudy bubbling and remorseful day" had "crept into the bosom of the sea."
From the cross-trees the look-out man had already been able to distinguish through the glass the faint distant glimmer of Scarthey beacon, when Captain Jack knocked for admittance at Lady Landale's cabin for the last time, as he thought, with a sigh of relief.
"In the course of an hour, Madam," he said in a grave tone, "I hope to restore you to land.
As for me, I shall have again to hide in the peel, though I hope it will not be for long.
My fate--and by my fate I mean not only my safety, but my honour, which, as you know, is now bound up in the safety of the treasures--will be in your hands.
For I must wait at Scarthey till I can see Adrian again, and upon your return to Pulwick I must beg you to be the bearer of a message to ask him to come and see me."
She replied in a voice that trembled a little: "I will not fail you."
But her great eyes, dark circled, fixed upon him with a meek, sorrowful look, spoke dumbly the troublous tale of her mind.
In her subdued mood the likeness to Madeleine was more obtrusive than it had ever yet been.
He contemplated her with melancholy, and drew a heavy sigh.
Molly groaned in the depths of her soul, though her lips tight set betrayed no sound.
Oh, miserable chaos of the human world, that such pent up love should be wasted--wasted; that they, too, young and strong and beautiful, alone together, so near, with such glorious happiness within their reach, should yet be so perversely far asunder!
There was a long silence.
They looked into each other's eyes; but he was unseeing; his mind was far away, dwelling upon the memory of that last meeting with his love under the fir trees of Pulwick only ten days ago, but now as irrevocably far as things seem that may never again be.
At length, she made a movement which brought him back to present reality--a movement of her wounded arm as if of pain.
And he came back to Lady Landale, worn with the fatigue of these long days in the cramped discomfort of a schooner cabin, thinned by pain and fevered thinkings, shorn of all that daintiness of appearance which can only be maintained in the midst of luxury, and yet, by the light of the flickering lamp, more triumphantly beautiful than ever.
His thoughts leaped to his friend with a pang of remorse.
"You are suffering--you are ill," he said.
"Thus do I bring you back to him who last saw you so full of strength....
But you will recover at Pulwick."
"Suffering, ill!
Ah, my God!"
As if suffocating, she pressed her hand upon her heart, and bowed her head till it rested on the table.
And then he heard her murmur in a weary voice: "Recover at Pulwick!
My God, my God!
The air at Pulwick will stifle me, I think."
He waited a moment in silence and saw that she was weeping.
Then he went out and closed the door behind him with gentle hand.
Nearly all the lights of the ship were now extinguished, and in a gloom as great as that in which they had started upon their unsuccessful venture, the _Peregrine_ and her crew returned to the little island which had already been so fateful to them.
Captain Jack had taken the helm himself, and Curwen stood upon his right hand waiting patiently for his commands.
For an hour or so they hung off the shore.
The rain fell close and fine around them; it was as if sea and sky were merging by slow imperceptible degrees into one.
The beacon light looming, halo encircled, through the mist, seemed, like a monster eye, to watch with unmoved contempt the restlessness of these pigmies in the grand solitude of the night.
Who shall say with what conflict of soul Molly, in her narrow seclusion, saw the light of Scarthey grow out of the dimness till its rays fell across the darkened cabin and glimmered on her wedding ring?
At last the captain drew his watch, and by the faint rays upon the binnacle saw the hour had come.
"Boat loaded, Curwen?"
he asked in a low voice.
"This hour, sir."
"Ready to cast?"
"Right, sir."
"Now, Curwen."
Low, from man to man, the order ran through the ship, and the anchor was dropped, almost within a musket shot of the peel.
It was high tide, but no hand but Captain Jack's would have dared risk the vessel so close.
She swung round, ready to slip at a moment's notice.
He left the helm; and in the wet darkness cannoned against the burly figure of his mate.
"You, Curwen?
Remember we have not a moment to lose.
Remain here--as soon as the men are back from the last run, sheer off."
He grasped the horny hand.
Curwen made an inarticulate noise in his big throat, but the grip of his fingers upon his master's was of eloquence sufficient.
"Let some one call the lady."
A couple of men ran forward with dark lanterns.
The rest gathered round.
"Now, my lads, brisk and silent is the word."
The cabin door opened, and Molly came forth, the darkness hid the pallor of her face, but it could not hide the faltering of her steps.
Captain Jack sprang forward and gave her his arm, and she leant upon it without speaking, heavily.
For one moment she stopped as if she could not tear her feet from the beloved planks, but Curwen caught her by the other arm; and then she was on the swinging ladder.
And so she left the _Peregrine_.
* * * * * The gig was almost filled with barrels; there was only room for the four oarsmen selected, besides the captain and herself.
The boat shoved off.
She looked back and saw, as once before, the great wall of the ship's side rise sheer above the sea, saw the triangle of light again slide down to lie a span above the water-line.
With what a leaping heart she had set forth, that black night, away from the hateful lighthouse beam to that glimmer of promise and mystery!
And now!
She felt herself grow sick at the thought of that home-coming; at the vision of the close warm rooms, of her husband's melancholy eyes.
Yet, as she sat, the sleeve of the captain's rough sailor coat touched her shoulder, and she remembered she was still with him.
It was not all death yet.
In less than three minutes they touched ground.
He jumped into the water, and stretched out his arms for Molly.
She rose giddily, and his embrace folded her round.
The waves rolled in with surge and thud and dashed their spray upon them; and still the rain fell and beat upon her head, from which she had impatiently pushed her hood.
But her spirit had no heed for things of the body this night.
Oh, if the sea would open sudden deeps before them!
if even the quicksand would seize them in its murderous jaws, what ecstasy the hideous lingering death might hold for her, so that only she lay, thus, in his arms to the end!
It was over now; his arms had clasped her for the last time.
She stood alone upon the dry sand, and her heart was in hell.
He was speaking; asking her pardon for not going at once with her to see her into the keep, but he dared not leave the beach till his cargo was landed, and he must show the men the way to the caves.
Would she forgive him, would she go with him?
Forgive him!
Go with him!
She almost laughed aloud.
A few poor moments more beside him; they would be as the drops of water to the burning tongue of Dives.
Yes, she would go with him.
One by one the precious caskets were carried between a couple of men, who stumbled in the darkness, close on their captain's heels.
And the lady walked beside him and stood beside him without a word, in the falling rain.
The boat went backwards and forwards twice; before the hour had run out, the luckless cargo was all once more landed, and the captain heard with infinite relief the last oar-strokes dwindling away in the distance, and saw the lights suddenly disappear.
"You have been very patient," he said to Molly then, with a gentle note in his voice.
But she did not answer.
Are the souls of the damned patient?
* * * * * "My Lady and Mr. the Captain!
My God--my God!
so wet--so tired!
Enter--enter in the name of heaven.
It is good, in verity, to have My Lady back, but, Mr. the Captain, is it well for _him_ to be here?
And Madam is ill?
She goes pale and red by turns.
Madam has the fever for sure!
And her arm is hurt, and she is as wet as the first time she came here.
Ah, Lord God, what are we coming to?
Fire we must have.
I shall send the wife."
"Ay, do so, man," cried Captain Jack, looking with concern at Lady Landale, who in truth seemed scarcely able to stand, and whose fluctuating colour and cracked fevered lips gave painful corroboration to René's surmise, "your mistress must be instantly attended to."
But Molly arrested the servant as he would have hurried past upon his errand.
"Your master?"
she said in a dry whisper, "is he at Pulwick?"
"His honour!
My faith, I must be but half-awake yet.
Imbecile that I am, his honour--where is he?
Is he not with you?
No, indeed, he is not at Pulwick, My Lady; he has gone to St. Malo to seek you.
Nothing would serve him but that he must go.
And so he did not reach in time to meet you?
Ah, the poor master--what anxiety for him!"
Captain Jack glanced in dismay at his friend's wife, met her suddenly illumined gaze and turned abruptly on his heel, with a grinding noise.
"See to your mistress," he said harshly, "I hear your women folk are roused overhead; hurry them, and when Lady Landale no longer requires you, I must speak with you on an urgent business of my own.
You will find me in my old room."
"Go with the captain at once, René, since he wants you," interposed Molly quickly, "here comes Moggie.
She will take care of me.
Leave me, leave me.
I feel strong again.
Good-night, Captain Smith, I shall see you to-morrow?"
There was a wistful query in her voice and look.
Captain Smith bowed distantly and coldly, and hastened from the room, accompanied by René, while open-mouthed and blinking, rosy, blowsy, and amazed, Mrs. Potter made her entry on the scene and stared at her mistress with the roundest of blue eyes.
* * * * * "My good Renny," said the captain, "I have no time to lose.
I have a hard hour's work to do, before I can even think of talking.
I want your help.
Your light will burn all safe for the time, will it not?
Hark ye, man, you have been so faithful a fellow to my one friend that I am going to trust to you matters which concern my own honour and my own life.
Ask no question, but do what I tell you, if you would help one who has helped your master long ago; one whom your master would wish you to help."
Thus adjured, René repressed his growing astonishment at the incomprehensible development of events.
And having, under direction, provided the sailor with a lantern, and himself with a wide tarpaulin and sundry carpenter's tools, he followed his leader readily enough through the ruinous passages, half choked up with sand, which led from the interior of the ruins to one of the sea caves.
Before reaching the open-mouthed rocky chamber, the captain obscured the light, and René promptly barked his shins against a barrel.
"_Sacrebleu_," he cried, feeling with quick hands the nature of the obstruction, "more kegs?"
"The same, my friend!
Now hang that tarpaulin against the mouth of the cave and be sure it is close; then we may again have some light upon the matter.
What we must do will not bear interference, and moving glimmers on a dark night have told tales before this."
As soon as the beach entrance was made secure, the captain uncovered his lantern; and as the double row of kegs stood revealed, his eyes rapidly scanned their number.
Yes, they were all there: five and twenty.
"Now, to work, man!
We have to crack every one of these nuts, and take the kernels out."
Even as he spoke, he turned the nearest cask on end, with a blow of chisel and mallet stove in the head and began dragging out quantities of loose tow.
In the centre of the barrel, secured in position on to a stout middle batten, was a bag of sailcloth closely bound with cord.
This he lifted with an effort, for it was over a hundred-weight, and flung upon the sand in a corner.
"That's the kernel you see," he said to René, who had watched the operation with keen interest.
"And when we have shelled them all I will show you where to put them in safety.
Now carry on--the quicker the better.
The sooner we have it all upstairs, the freer I shall breathe."
Without another word, entering into the spirit of haste which seemed to fill his companion, and nobly controlling his seething curiosity, René set to work on his side, with his usual dexterousness.
Half an hour of speechless destructive labour completed the first part of the task.
Then the two men carried the weighty bags into the room which had been Captain Jack's in the keep.
And when they had travelled to and fro a dozen times with each heavy load, and the whole treasure was at length accumulated upstairs, René, with fresh surprise and admiration, saw the captain lift the hearthstone and disclose a recess in the heavy masonry--presumably a flue, in the living days of Scarthey peel--which, although much blocked with stony rubbish, had been evidently improved by the last lodger during his period of solitary residence into a convenient and very secure hiding-place.
Here was the precious pyramid now heaped up; the stone was returned to its place, and the two stood in front of each other mopping their faces.
"Thank goodness, it is done," said Jack Smith.
"And thank you too, Renny.
To-morrow, break up these casks and add the staves to your firewood stack; then nobody but you, in this part of the world, need be any the wiser about our night's work.--A smart piece of running, eh?--Phew, I am tired!
Bring me some food, and some brandy, like a good fellow.
Then you can back to your pillow and flatter yourself that you have helped Jack Smith out of a famous quandary."
René grinned and rushed to execute the order.
He had less desire for his pillow than for the gratification of his hyper-excited curiosity.
But although pressed to quaff one cup of good fellowship and yet another, he was not destined to get his information, that night, from the captain, who had much ado to strangle his yawns sufficiently to swallow a mouthful or two of food.
"No one must know, Renny," was all he said, at last, between two gapes, kicking the hearthstone significantly, and stretching his arms, "not even the wife."
Then he flung himself all dressed upon his bed.
"And my faith," said René, when he sought his wife a moment later, "he was fast asleep before I had closed the door."
CHAPTER XXVIII THE END OF THE THREAD Madeleine had appeared greatly distressed at the thought that, through her, her sister was now in so doubtful and precarious a situation.
It was part of her punishment, she told herself for her sins of deceit and unmaidenliness in encouraging and meeting a clandestine lover.
She had gone through some very bitter hours since her tryst at the ruins.
The process of cutting off a malignant growth that has become part of oneself is none the less painful because the conviction is clear that it is for one's health to do so, and the will is firm not to falter.
Not the less is the flesh mangled, do nerves throb, and veins bleed.
But Madeleine was determined that nobody should even guess her sufferings.
Rupert had counted upon Sophia's old habit of obedience to him, and upon her superstitious terrors not to betray to the young girl the part he had played in the unmasking of her lover; but he had an unexpected, and even more powerful ally in Madeleine's own pride.
When Miss Sophia had tremblingly endeavoured to falter out a few words of sympathy and sorrow, upon the distressing subject, Madeleine quickly interrupted her.
"Never speak even his name again, Sophia; all that is finished for me."
There was such a cold finality in her voice, that the poor confidant's expansiveness withered up within her beyond even the hope of blossoming again.
When Rupert heard of Captain Jack's latest doings, and especially of his sister-in-law's disappearance, he thought that the fates were propitious indeed.
In his wildest schemes he could not have planned anything that would have suited his game more perfectly.
Though he thought it incumbent upon him to pull a face of desperate length whenever the subject was touched, in his innermost soul he had hardly ever enjoyed so delightful a joke as this dénouement to his brother's marriage and to his cousin's engagement.
And, strange to say, though he would most gravely protest against any interpretation of his kinswoman's disappearance save the one which must most redound to her credit, the story, started by the gossips in the village upon the return of the revenue men, that Lady Landale had bolted with the handsome smuggler, grew and spread apace all over the county, more especially from such houses as Rupert was wont to visit.
That all his hints and innuendoes should fail, apparently, to make Madeleine put upon the case the interpretation he would have liked, was at once a matter of secret sneering and of admiration to his curiously complicated mind.
The days went by, to all appearance placidly enough, for the trio at Pulwick.
Madeleine shunned none of the usages of life in common, worked and talked with Sophia of a morning, rode or walked out with Rupert of an afternoon; and passed the evening at her embroidery frame meeting his efforts to entertain her as amiably as before.
Rupert thought he knew enough of the human heart, and more especially the feminine, to draw satisfactory conclusions from this behaviour.
For a girl to bear no malice to the man who had taken it upon himself to demonstrate to her the unworthiness of her lover, argued, to his mind, that her affections could not have been very deeply engaged in that quarter.
It was clear that she felt gratitude for a timely rescue.
Nay, might he not go further, and lay the flattering unction to his soul that she would not be unwilling to transfer these same blighted feelings to a more suitable recipient?
A slight incident which took place a few nights later, tended still more to increase the kindness of Madeleine's manner to him upon the next day; but this was for a reason that he little suspected.
It had been an anniversary with Sophia--none less indeed than that of the lamented Rector's demise.
When her young cousin had retired to her room, the desire to pursue her thither with a packet of old letters, and other treasures exhumed from the depths of her cupboards, had proved too strong for a soul burning for congenial sympathy; and Sophia had spent a couple of very delightful hours pouring forth reminiscences and lamentations into the bosom of one who, as she said, she knew could understand her.
Madeleine a little wearied, stifling a sigh or a yawn as the minutes ticked by, was too gentle, too kind-hearted to repel the faithful, if loquacious mourner; so she had sat and listened, which was all that Sophia required.
Upon the stroke of twelve, Miss Landale rose at length, collected her relics, and mopping her swollen eyes, embraced her cousin, and bade her good-night with much effusion, while with cordial alacrity the latter conducted her to the door.
But here Sophia paused.
Holding the flat silver candlestick with one hand, with the other clasping to her bosom her bundle of superannuated love letters, she glanced out into the long black chasm of corridor with a shudder, and vowed she had not the courage to traverse it alone at such an hour.
She cast as she spoke such a meaning glance at Madeleine's great bed, that, trembling lest her next words should be a proposal to share it for the night, the young girl hurriedly volunteered to re-conduct her to her own apartment.
Half way down the passage they had to pass the door of the picture gallery, which was ajar, disclosing light within.
At the sight of Rupert standing with his back to them, looking fixedly at the picture upon the opposite wall, Sophia promptly thought better of the scream she was preparing, and seized her cousin by the arm.
"Come away, come away," she whispered, "he will be much displeased if he sees us."
Madeleine allowed herself to be pulled onward, but remembering Molly's previous encounter upon the same spot, was curious enough to demand an explanation of Rupert's nocturnal rambles when they had reached the haven of Sophia's bedroom.
It was very simple, but it struck her as exceedingly pathetic and confirmed her in her opinion of the unreasonableness of her sister's dislike to Rupert.
He was gazing at his dead wife's picture.
He could not bear, Sophia said, for any one to find him there; could not bear the smallest allusion to his grief, but at night, as she had herself discovered quite by accident, he would often spend long spells as they had just seen him.
There was something in Madeleine's own nature, a susceptible proud reserve which made this trait in her cousin's character thoroughly congenial; moreover, what woman is not drawn with pity towards the man who can so mourn a woman.
She met him therefore, the next day, with a softness, almost a tenderness, of look and smile which roused his highest hopes.
And when he proposed, after breakfast, that they should profit by the mild weather to stroll in the garden while Sophia was busy in the house, she willingly consented.
Up the gravel paths, between the gooseberry bushes, to the violet beds they went.
It was one of those balmy days that come sometimes in early spring and encourage all sorts of false hopes in the hearts of men and vegetables.
"A growing day," the farmers call them; indeed, at such times you may almost hear the swelling and the bursting of the buds, the rising of the sap, the throbbing and pushing of the young green life all around.
Madeleine grew hot with the weight of her fur tippet, the pale face under the plumy hat took an unusual pink bloom; her eyes shone with a moist radiance.
Rupert, glancing up at her, as, bent upon one knee, he sought for stray violets amid the thick green leaves, thought it was thus a maiden looked who waited to be won; and though all of true love that he could ever give to woman lay buried with his little bride, he felt his pulses quicken with a certain æsthetic pleasure in the situation.
Presently he rose, and, after arranging his bunch of purple sweetness into dainty form, offered it silently to his companion.
She took it, smiling, and carried it mechanically to her face.
Oh, the scent of the violets!
Upon the most delicate yet mighty pinions she was carried back, despite all her proud resolves to that golden hour, only five days ago, when she lay upon her lover's broad breast, and heard the beating of his heart beneath her ear.
Again she felt his arm around her, so strong, yet so gentle; saw his handsome face bent towards her, closer--ever closer--felt again the tide of joy that coursed through her veins in the expectation of his kiss.
No, no, she must not--she would not yield to this degrading folly.
If it were not yet dead, then she must kill it.
She had first grown pale, but the next moment a deep crimson flooded her face.
She turned her head away, and Rupert saw her tremble as she dropped the hand that held the flowers close clenched by her side.
He formed his own opinion of what was passing within her, and it made even his cold blood course hotly in his veins.
"Madeleine," he said, with low rapid utterance; "I am not mistaken, I trust, in thinking you look on me as a good friend?"
"Indeed, yes;" answered the girl, with an effort, turning her tremulous face towards him; "a good friend indeed."
Had he not been so five days ago?
Aye, most truly, and she would have it so, in spite of the hungry voice within her which had awaked and cried out against the knowledge that had brought such misery.
He saw her set her little teeth and toss her head, and knew she was thinking of the adventurer who had dared aspire to her.
And he gained warmer courage still.
"Nothing more than a friend, sweet?"
"A kind cousin; almost a brother."
"No, no; not a brother, Madeleine.
Nay, hear me," taking her hands and looking into her uncomprehending eyes, "I would not be a brother, but something closer, dearer.
We are both alone in the world, more or less.
Whom have you but a mad-cap sister, a poor dreamer of a brother-in-law, an octogenarian aunt, to look to?
I have no one, no one to whom my coming or my going, my living or my dying makes one pulse beat of difference--except poor Sophia.
Let us join our loneliness and make of it a beautiful and happy home.
Madeleine, I have learned to love you deeply!"
His eyes glowed between their narrowing eyelids, his voice rang changes upon chords of most exquisite tenderness; his whole manner was charged with a courtly reverence mingled with the subtlest hint of passion.
Rupert as a lover had not a flaw in him.
Yet fear, suspicion, disgust chased each other in Madeleine's mind in quick succession.
What did he mean?
How could it be that he loved her?
Oh!
if _this_ had been his purpose, what motive was prompting him when he divided her from her deceiving lover?
Was no one true then?
Was this the inconsolable widower whose grief she had been so sympathetically considering all the morning; for whose disinterested anxiety and solicitude on her behalf her sore heart had forced itself to render gratitude?
Oh!
how terrible it all was ... what a hateful world!
"Well, Madeleine?"
he pressed forward and slid his arm around her.
All her powers of thought and action restored by the deed, she disengaged herself with a movement of unconscious repulsion.
"Cousin Rupert, I am sure you mean kindly by me, but it is quite impossible--I shall never marry."
He drew back, as nonplussed as if she had struck him in the face.
"Pshaw, my dear Madeleine."
"Please, Cousin Rupert, no more."
"My dear girl, I have been precipitate."
"Nothing can make any difference.
That I could never marry you, so much you must believe; that I shall never marry at all you are free to believe or not, as you please.
I am sorry you should have spoken."
"Still hankering after that beggarly scoundrel?"
muttered Rupert, a sneer uncovering his teeth betrayed hideously the ungenerous soul within.
He was too deeply mortified, too shaken by this utter shattering of his last ambitions to be able to grasp his usual self-control.
Madeleine gave him one proud glance, turned abruptly away, and walked into the house.
She went steadily up to her room, and, once there, without hesitation proceeded to unlock a drawer in her writing-table and draw from it a little ribbon-tied parcel of letters--Jack's letters.
Her heart had failed her, womanlike, before the little sacrifice when she had unshrinkingly accomplished the larger one.
Now, however, with determined hand, she threw the letters into the reddest cavern of her wood-fire and with hard dry eyes watched them burn.
When the last scrap had writhed and fluttered and flamed into grey ash, she turned to her altar, and, extending her arm, called out aloud: "I have done with it all for ever----" And the next instant flinging herself upon her bed, she drew her brown ringlets before her face, and under this veil wept for her broken youth and her broken heart, and the hard cold life before her.
* * * * * There is a kind of love a man can give to woman but once in his lifetime: the love of the man in the first flush of manhood for the woman he has chosen to be his mate, untransferable and never to be forgotten: love of passion so exquisite, of devotion so pure, born of the youth of the heart and belonging to an existence and personality lost for ever.
A man may wed again, and (some say) love again, but between the boards of the coffin of his first wife--if he has loved her--lie secrets of tenderness, and sweetness, and delight, which, like the spring flowers, may not visit the later year.
But, notwithstanding this, a second wooing may have a charm and an interest of its own, even the wooing which is to precede a marriage of convenience.
So Rupert found.
The thought of an alliance with Madeleine de Savenaye was not only engrossing from the sense of its own intrinsic advantages, but had become the actual foundation-stone of all his new schemes of ambition.
Nay, more: such admiration and desire as he could still feel for woman, he had gradually come to centre upon his fair and graceful cousin, who added to her personal attractions the other indispensable attributes, blood, breeding and fortune.
Mr. Landale was as essentially refined and fastidious in his judgment as he was unmeasured in his ambition.
His error of precipitancy had been pardonable enough; and mere self-reproach for an ill-considered manoeuvre would not have sufficed to plunge him into such a depth of bitter and angry despondency as that in which he now found himself.
But the rebuff had been too uncompromising to leave him a single hope.
He was too shrewd not to see that here was no pretty feminine nay, precursor of the yielding yea, not to realise that Madeleine had meant what she said and would abide by it.
And, under the sting of the moment betrayed into a degradingly ill-mannered outburst, he had shown that he measured the full bearings of the position.
So, the wind still sat in that quarter!
Failing the mysterious smuggler, it was to be nobody with the Savenaye heiress--and least of all Rupert Landale.
And this, though the scoundrel had been thoroughly shown up; though he had started upon his illegal venture and was gone, never to return if he valued his neck, after murdering four officers of the crown and sinking a king's vessel; though he had carried away with him (ah!
there was consolation in that excellent jest which had so far developed into Sir Adrian's wild goose chase to France and might still hold some delicate dénouement), had carried with him no less a person than Lady Landale herself (the fellow had good taste, and either of the sisters was a dainty morsel), he still left the baneful trail of his influence behind him upon the girl he had deluded and beguiled!
Rupert Landale, who, for motives of his own had pleased himself by hunting down Madeleine's lover, had felt, in the keenness of his blood-hound work, something of the blood-hound instinct of destruction and ferocity spring up within him before he had even set eyes on his quarry.
And the day they had stood face to face this instinctive hatred had been intensified by some singular natural antagonism.
Added to this there was now personal injury and the prey was out of reach.
Impotence for revenge burned into the soul of him like a corrosive poison.
Oh, let him but come within his grip again and he should not escape so easily.
Sits the wind still in that quarter?
The burthen droned in his head, angry conclusion to each long spell of inconclusive thought, as he still paced the garden, till the noon hour began to wane.
And it was in this mood, that, at length, returning to his study, he crossed in one of the back passages a young woman enveloped in a brilliant scarlet and black shawl, who started in evident dismay on being confronted with him.
Rupert knew by sight and name every wench of kitchen and laundry, as well as every one of the buxom lasses or dames whom business brought periodically to the great hall.
That this person was neither of the household nor one of the usual back-door visitors, he would have seen at a glance, even had not her own embarrassment drawn his closer attention.
He looked keenly and recognised the gatekeeper's daughter Moggie.
Having married Sir Adrian's servant and withdrawn to take up her abode in the camp of the enemy, so to speak, she was not one whom Mr. Landale would have regarded with favour in any case; but now, concentrating his thoughts from their aimless whirl of dissatisfaction upon the present encounter, he was struck by the woman's manner.
Yes, she was most undoubtedly frightened.
He examined her with a malevolent eye which still discountenanced her.
And, though he made no inquiry, she forthwith stammered out: "I--I came, sir, to see if there be news of her Ladyship ... or of Sir Adrian, sir--Renny can't leave the island, you know, and he be downright anxious."
"Well, my good woman, calm yourself.
Nothing wrong; nothing to hide in this very laudable anxiety of you and your good man!
No, we have no news yet--that is quickly told, Mrs.
Potter."
He kept her for a moment quailing and scared under his cruel gaze, then went on his way, working upon the new problems she had brought him to solve.
No matter was too small for Rupert's mind, he knew how inextricably the most minute and apparently insignificant may be connected with the most important events of life.
The woman was singularly anxious to explain, reflected he, pausing at his chamber door, singularly ready with her explanation--too ready.
She must have lied.
No doubt she lied.
Liar was written upon every line of the terrified face of her.
What was that infernal little French husband of hers hatching now?
He had been in the Smith plot, of course.
Ah, curse that smuggling fellow: he cropped up still on every side!
Pray the fates he would crop up once too often for his own safety yet; who knew!
Meanwhile Mrs. Potter, the innocent news-gatherer, must not be allowed to roam unwatched at her own sweet will about the place.
Hark!
what clumping, creaking, steps!
These could only be produced by René's fairy-footed spouse: the house servants had been too well drilled by his irritable ear to venture in such shoe leather within its range.
He closed his door, and gently walked back along the corridor.
As he passed Molly's apartment, he could hear the creaking of a wardrobe door; and, a startling surmise springing into his brain, he quietly slipped into an opposite room and waited, leaving the door slightly ajar.
As he expected, a few minutes later, Moggie re-appeared loaded with a bulky parcel, glancing anxiously right and left.
She tiptoed by him; but, after a few steps, suddenly turning her head once more, met his eyes grimly fixed upon her through the narrow aperture.
With a faint squeal she paddled off as though a fiend were at her heels.
"Something more than anxiety for news there, Mrs. Potter," said Mr. Landale, apostrophising the retreating figure with a malignant, inward laugh!
Then, when the last echo of her stout boots had faded away, he entered his sister-in-law's room, looked around and meditatively began to open various presses and drawers.
"You visited this one at any rate, my girl," thought he, as he recognised the special sound of the hinges.
"And, for a lady's maid, you have left it in singular disorder.
As for this," pulling open a linen drawer half-emptied, and showing dainty feminine apparel, beribboned and belaced, in the most utter disorder--"why, fie on you, Mrs. Potter!
Is this the way to treat these pretty things?"
He had seen enough.
He paused a moment in the middle of the room with his nails to his lips, smiling to himself.
"Ah, Mrs. Potter, I fancy you might have given us a little news, yourself!
Most unkind of my Lady Landale to prefer to keep us in this unnatural anxiety--most unkind indeed!
She must have singularly good reasons for so doing.... Captain Smith, my friend, Mr. Cochrane, or whatever may be your name, we have an account to settle.
And there is that fool of an Adrian scurrying over the seas in search of his runaway wife!
By George!
my hand is not played out yet!"
Slowly he repaired to his study.
There he sat down and wrote, without any further reflection, an urgent letter to the chief officer of the newly established Preventive Service Station.
Then he rang the bell.
"One of the grooms will ride at once to Lancaster with this," he said to the servant, looking at the missive in his hand.
But instead of delivering it he paused: a new idea had occurred.
How many of these servants might not be leagued in favour of that interloper, bribed, or knowing him, perhaps, to have been a friend of Sir Adrian, or yet again out of sheer spite to himself?
No; he would leave no loop-hole for treachery now.
"Send the groom to me as soon as he is ready," he continued, and when the footman had withdrawn, enclosed the letter, with its tale-telling superscription, in another directed to a local firm of attorneys, with a covering note instructing them to see that the communication, on His Majesty's Service, should reach the proper hands without delay.
When the messenger had set forth, Mr. Landale, on his side, had his horse saddled and sallied out in the direction of Scarthey sands.
As from the top of the bluff he took a survey of the great bay, a couple of figures crossing the strand in the distance arrested his attention; he reined in his horse behind a clump of bushes and watched.
"So ho!
Mrs. Potter, your careful husband could not leave the island?"
muttered he, as he marked the unmistakable squat figure of the one, a man carrying a burden upon his shoulder, whilst, enveloping the woman who walked briskly by his side, flared the brilliant-hued shawl of Moggie.
"That lie alone would have been sufficient to arouse suspicion.
Hallo, what is the damned _crapaud_ up to?"
The question was suggested by the man's movements, as, after returning the parcel to his consort at the beginning of the now bare causeway, he turned tail, while she trudged forward alone.
"The Shearman's house!
I thought as much.
Out he comes again, and not by himself.
I have made acquaintance with those small bare legs before.
I should have been astonished indeed if none of the Shearman fellows had been mixed up with the affair.
I shall be even yet with those creditable friends of yours, brother Adrian.
So, it's you again, Johnny, my lad; the pretty Mercury.... Can it be possible that Captain Smith is at his old games once more?"
Mr. Landale's eyes shone with a curious eager light; he laughed a little mirthless laugh, which was neither pleasant to hear nor to give.
"Dear me," he said aloud, as he watched the pair tramp together towards Scarthey, "for plotters in the dark, you are particularly easy to detect, my good friends!"
Then he checked himself, realising what a mere chance it had been, after all--a fortuitous meeting in the passage--that had first aroused his suspicions, and placed between his fingers the end of the thread he now thought it so simple to follow up.
But he did hold the thread, and depended no longer upon chance or guess-work, but on his own relentless purpose to lay the plotters by the heels, whatever their plot might be.
In the course of an hour and a half, Johnny Shearman, whistling, light-hearted, and alone, was nearing his native house once more, when the sight of a horseman, rapidly advancing across the sands, brought him to a standstill, to stare with a boy's curiosity.
Presently, however, recognising Mr. Landale--a person for whom he had more dread than admiration--he was starting off homeward again at a brisk canter, when a stern hail from the rider arrested him.
"Johnny!"
The boy debated a moment, measured the distance between the cottage and himself, and shrewdly recognised the advisability of obeying.
"Johnny, my boy, I want you at the Hall; take hold of my stirrup, and come along with me."
The boy, with every symptom of reluctance, demurred, pleading a promise to return to his mother.
Then he suddenly perceived a look in the gentleman's eye, which gave him a frantic, unreasoned desire to bolt at once, and at any cost.
But the horseman anticipated the thought; bending in the saddle, he reached out his arm and seized the urchin by the collar.
"Why, you little devil, what is the matter with you?"
he asked, grinning ominously into the chubby, terrified face.
"It strikes me it is time you and I should come to a little understanding.
Any more letters from the smuggler to-day, eh?
Ah, would you, you young idiot!"
and Mr. Landale's fingers gave a sudden twist to the collar, which strangled the rising yell.
"Listen, Johnny," tightening his grasp gradually until the brown face grew scarlet, then purple, and the goggling eyes seemed to start out of their sockets; "that is what it feels like to be hanged.
They squeeze your neck so; and they leave you dangling at the end of a rope till you are dead, dead, dead, and the crows come and eat you.
Do you want to be hanged?"
For some moments more he kept the writhing lad under the torture; then loosening his grip, without however relinquishing his hold, allowed him to taste once more the living air.
"Do you want to be hanged, Johnny Shearman?"
he asked again gravely.
The lad burst into gasping sobs, and looked up at his captor with an agony of fear in his bloodshot eyes.
"No," continued Mr. Landale, "I am sure you don't, eh?"
with a renewed ominous contraction of the hand.
"It's a fearful thing, is hanging.
And yet many a lad, hardly older than you, has been hanged for less than you are doing.
Magistrates can get people hanged, and I am a magistrate, you know.
_Stop that noise!_" "Now," continued the gentleman, "there are one or two little things I want to know myself, Johnny, and it's just possible I might let you off for this time if by chance you were able to tell them to me.
So, for your sake, I hope you may be."
He could see that the boy's mind was now completely turned with fright.
"If you were to try to run away again I should know you had secrets to keep from me, and then, Johnny Shearman, it would go hard with you indeed!
Now come along beside me, up to the Hall."
Quite certain of his prey, he released him, and, setting his horse to a trot, smiled to note the desperate clutch of the lad upon his stirrup leather, as, with the perspiration dripping from his face, and panting breath, he struggled to keep up the pace alongside.
Marched with tremendous ceremony into the magistrate's study and directed to stand right opposite the light, while Mr. Landale installed himself in an arm-chair with a blood-curdling air of judicial sternness, Johnny Shearman, at most times as dare-devil a pickle of a boy as ever ran, but now reduced to a state of mental and physical jelly, underwent a terrible cross-examination.
It was comparatively little that he had to say, and no doubt he wished most fervently he had greater revelations to make, and could thus propitiate the arbiter of the appalling fate he firmly believed might lie in store for him.
Meagre as his narrative was, however, it quite sufficed for Mr. Landale.
"I think, Johnny," he said more pleasantly, well knowing the inducement that a sudden relaxation from fear offers to a witness's garrulity, "I think I may say you will not hang this time--that is," with a sudden hardening of his voice, and making a great show of checking the answers with pen and ink in his most magisterial manner, "that is if you have really told me _all_ you know and it be all _true_.
Now let us see, and take care.
You saw no one at the peel to-day but Renny Potter, Mrs. Potter and Mrs.
Crackenshaw?"
"No, sir."
"But you heard other voices in the next room--a man's voice--whilst you were waiting?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then Renny Potter came back and gave you a message for your brothers.
This message they made you repeat, over and over again.
How did it go?"
And as Mr. Landale frowningly looked at his paper, the boy tremblingly repeated: "I mun tell brothers Will an' Rob, that one or t'other mun watchen the light o' nights, to-night, to-morrow night, an' ontil woord coom again.
If light go out they mun setten forth in they ketch thot moment, fettled op for a two-three days' sailing.
If wind is contrairy like, they mun take sweeps.
This for the master's service--for Sir Adrian's service!"
--amending the phrase with a sharp reading of the blackness of Mr. Landale's swift upward look.
"Yes," murmured the latter after a pause.
"And you were to tell no one else.
You were to keep it above all from getting to my ears.
Very good, Johnny.
If you have spoken the truth, you are safe."
There was a special cell, off the official study, with high windows, bolts and bars, and a wooden bench, for the temporary housing of such desperate criminals as might be brought to the judgment of Rupert Landale, Esquire, J.P.
There he now disposed of the young offender who snivelled piteously once more; and having locked the door and pocketed the key, returned to his capacious arm-chair, where, as the twilight waned over the land, he fell to co-ordinating his scheme and gloating upon this unexpected turn of Fortune's wheel.
* * * * * At that hour Madeleine, alone in her chamber, knelt before her little altar, wrestling with the rebellion of her soul and besieging the heavens with a cry for peace.
* * * * * Sir Adrian having failed to hear aught of the _Peregrine_ at St. Malo, filled with harassing doubt about its fate but clutching still at hope--as men will, even such pessimists as he--stood on the deck of his homeward bound ship, straining his eyes in the dusk for the coast line.
* * * * * In the peel, the beacon had just been lighted by René, in whose company, up in his secluded turret, sat Captain Jack, smoking a pipe, but so unusually silent as to have reduced even the loquacious Frenchman to silence too.
Below them Lady Landale, torn between the dread of a final separation from the loadstar of her existence and the gnawing anxiety roused in her bosom by Moggie's account of Mr. Landale's watchfulness, was pacing the long book-lined room with the restlessness of a caged panther.
* * * * * On the road from Lancaster to Pulwick a posse of riding officers and a carriage full of hastily gathered preventive men were trotting on their way to the Priory.
CHAPTER XXIX THE LIGHT GOES OUT The light of Scarthey had not been shining for quite an hour over the wilderness, when Lady Landale, suddenly breaking the chain of her restless tramp, ran to the door and called for Moggie.
There was so shrill a tone of anguish in the summons that the young woman rushed into the room in trembling expectancy: yet it was to find her mistress alone and the place undisturbed.
"Moggie," said Lady Landale, panting and pressing her hands upon her side as if in the endeavour to control the beating of her heart, "something is going to happen; I know it, I feel it!
Tell Captain Smith that I must speak to him, here, at once."
Infected by the terror upon her mistress's face, Madame Lapôtre flew upon her errand; a moment later, Captain Jack entered the room and stood before Lady Landale with a look of impatient inquiry.
"Oh, it is wicked, it is mad!"
cried she passionately; "it is tempting God to remain here!"
"Of whom are you speaking?"
he asked, with an involuntary glance of contempt at the distracted figure.
"If it is of yourself, I entirely concur.
How often these last days, and how earnestly have I not begged of you to return to Pulwick?
Was not the situation you placed me in with regard to Adrian already odious enough that it needed this added folly?
Oh, I know--I know what you would say: spare it me.
My safety?
You fear for me?
Ah, Lady Landale, that you could have but left me in peace!"
He had waxed hot with anger from his first would-be calmness, as he spoke.
This dismal life of close but inharmonious proximity, started upon the seas and continued under his absent friend's own roof had tried his impetuous temper to the utmost.
Upon the morrow of their return he had, indeed, exercised all his powers of persuasion to induce Lady Landale to proceed to the Priory; but, impelled by her frantic dread of the separation, and entrenching herself behind the argument that her mysterious re-appearance would awaken suspicion where people would otherwise believe the _Peregrine_ still in foreign parts, she had declared her irrevocable determination not to quit the island until she knew him to be safe.
And he had remained, actuated by the dual desire, first to exonerate himself personally in her husband's eyes from any possible suspicion of complicity in Molly's flight--the bare thought of which had become a horrible torment to him--then to encompass through that good friend's means an interview and full explanation with Madeleine, which not only the most ordinary precaution for his life, but likewise every instinct of pride forbade him now to seek himself.
Thus began a state of affairs which, as the days succeeded each other without news of Sir Adrian, became every moment more intolerable to his loyalty.
The inaction, the solitary hours of reflection; the maddening feeling of unavailing proximity to his heart's dearest, of impotency against the involving meshes of the present false and hateful position; all this had brought into the young man's soul a fever of anger, which, as fevers will, consumed him the more fiercely because of his vigour and strength.
It was with undisguised hatred and with scorn immeasurable that he now surveyed the woman who had degraded him in his own eyes.
At another time Molly might have yielded before his resentment, but at this hour her whole being was encompassed by a single thought.
"It is for you--for you!"
she repeated with ashen lips; "you must go before it is too late."
"And is it not too late?"
stormed he.
"Too late, indeed, do I see my treachery to Adrian, my more than brother!
Upon my ship I could not avoid your company, but here--Oh, I should have thought of him and not of myself, and done as my honour bade me!
You are right; since you would not go, I should have done so.
It was weak; it was mad; worse, worse--dishonourable!"
But she had no ears for his reproaches, no power to feel the wounds he dealt her woman's heart with such relentless hand.
"Then you will go," she cried.
"Tell René, the signal."
He started and looked at her with a different expression.
"Have you heard anything; has anything happened?"
he asked, recovering self-restraint at the thought of danger.
"Not yet," she replied, "not yet, but it is coming."
Her look and voice were so charged with tragic force that for the moment he was impressed, and, brave man though he was, felt a little cold thrill run down his spine.
She continued, in accents of the most piercing misery: "And it will have been through me--it will have been through me!
Oh, in mercy let me make the signal!
Say you will go to-night."
"I will go."
There followed a little pause of breathless silence between them.
Then as, without speaking, he would have turned away, a loud, peremptory knock resounded upon the door of the keep and echoed and re-echoed with lugubrious reverberation through the old stone passages around them.
At first, terror-stricken, her tongue clave to her palate, her feet were rooted to the ground; then with a scream she flung herself upon him and would have dragged him towards the door.
"They have come--hide--hide!"
He threw up his head to listen, while he strove to disengage himself.
The blood had leaped to his cheek, and fire to his eye.
"And if it be Adrian?"
he cried.
Another knock thundered through the still air.
"It is but one man," cried René from his tower down the stairs.
"You may open, Moggie."
"No--no," screamed Molly beside herself, and tighter clasped her arms round Captain Jack's neck.
"Adrian, it is Adrian!"
said he.
"Hush, Madam, let me go!
Would you make the breach between me and my friend irreparable?"
Both his hands were on her wrists in the vain endeavour to disengage himself from her frenzied grip; the door was flung open and Rupert Landale stood in the opening, and looked in upon them.
"Damnation!"
muttered Jack between his teeth and flung her from him, stamping his foot.
Rupert gazed from one to the other; from the woman, who, haggard and dishevelled, now turned like a fury upon him, to the sailor's fierce erect figure.
Then he closed the door with an air of grave deliberation.
"What do you want?"
demanded Molly--"you have come here for no good purpose.
What do you want?"
As she spoke she strove to place herself between the two men.
"I came, my dear sister-in-law," said Rupert in his coldest, most incisive voice, "to learn why, since you have come back from your little trip, you choose to remain in the ruins rather than return to your own house and family.
The reason is clear to see now.
My poor brother!"
The revulsion of disappointment had added to the wrath which the very sight of Rupert Landale aroused in Jack Smith's blood; this insinuation was the culminating injury.
He took a step forward.
"Have a care, sir," he exclaimed, "how you outrage in my presence the wife of my best friend!
Have a care--I am not in such a hurry to leave you as when last we met!"
Mr. Landale raised his eyebrows, and again sent a look from Molly back to the sailor, the insolence of which lashed beyond all control the devils in the sailor's soul.
"We have an account to settle, it seems to me, Mr. Landale," said he, taking another step forward and slightly stooping his head to look the other in the eye.
Crimson fury was in his own.
"I doubt much whether it was quite wise of you, assuming that you expected to find me here, to have come without that pistolling retinue with which you provided yourself last time."
Rupert smiled and crossed his arms.
Cowardice was no part of his character.
He had come in advance of his blood-hounds, in part to assure himself of the correctness of his surmises, but also to feast upon the discomfiture of this man and this woman whom he hated.
To have found them together, and thus, had been an unforeseen and delicious addition to his dish of vengeance, and he would linger over it while he could.
"Well, Captain Smith, and about this account?
Lady Landale, I beg of you, be silent.
You have brought sufficient disgrace upon our name as it is.
Nay, sir," raising his voice, "it is useless to shake your head at me in this furious style; nothing can alter facts.
_I saw._ Who has an account to demand then--you, whose life is already forfeit for an accumulation of crimes; you, screened by a conspiracy of bribed servants and ... your best friend's wife, as you dare call your paramour; or I, in my brother's absence the natural guardian of his family, of his honour?
But I am too late.
One sister I saved from the ignominy you would have brought upon her.
The other I could not save."
With a roar Jack Smith would have sprung at the speaker; but, once more, his friend's wife rushed between.
"Let him speak," she cried, "what matter what he says?
But you--remember your promise.
I will make the signal."
The signal!
The mask of Rupert's face, sternly and sadly rebuking, was not proof against the exquisite aptness of this proposal.
His men outside were waiting for the signal, surrounding the island from land and seaward, (for the prey was not to be allowed to escape them again); but how to make it without creating suspicion had not yet suggested itself to his fertile brain.
Now, while he held her lover in play, Molly would herself deliver him to justice.
Excellent, excellent!
Truly life held some delightful jokes for the man of humour!
The light of triumph came and went upon his countenance like a flash, but when the life hangs upon the decision of a moment the wits become abnormally sharp.
Jack Smith saw it, halted upon his second headlong onslaught, and turned round.--Too late: Molly was gone.
He brought his gaze back upon his enemy and saw he had been trapped.
Their gleams met like duelling blades, divining each other's purpose with the rapidity of thrust answering thrust.
Both made a leap for the door.
But Rupert was nearest; he first had his hand on the key and turned it, and, with newly-born genius of fight, suddenly begotten of his hatred, quickly stooped, eluded the advancing grasp, was free for one second, and sent the key crashing through the window into the darkness of the night.
Baffled by the astounding swiftness of the act, the sailor, wheeling round, had already raised his fist to crush his feebler foe, when, in the midst of his fury, a glimmer of the all-importance of every second of time stayed his hand.
He threw himself upon the heavy ladder that rested against Sir Adrian's rows of books, and, clasping it by the middle, swung it above his head.
The battering blow would, no doubt, have burst panel, lock, and hinges the next instant, but again Rupert forestalled him, and charged him before the door could be reached.
Overbalanced by the weight he held aloft, Captain Jack was hurled down headlong beneath the ladder, and lay for a moment stunned by the violence of the fall.
When the clouds cleared away it was to let him see Rupert's face bending over him, his pale lips wreathed into a smile of malignant exultation.
"Caught!"
said Mr. Landale, slowly, pausing over each word as though to prolong the savour of it in his mouth, "caught this time!
And it is your mistress's hand that puts the noose round your neck.
That is what I call poetical justice."
The prostrate man, collecting his scattered wits and his vast strength, made a violent effort to spring to his feet.
But Rupert's whole weight was upon him, his long thin fingers were gripping him by each shoulder, his face grinned at him, close, detested, infuriating.
The grasp that held him seemed to belong to no flesh and blood, it was as the grasp of skeleton hands, the grinning face became like a death's head.
"I shall come to your hanging, Captain Jack Smith, or rather, Mr. Hubert Cochrane of the Shaws."
These were the last words of Rupert Landale.
A red whirl passed through the sailor's brain, his hands fell like lashes round the other's neck and drew it down.
_If Hubert Cochrane dies so does Rupert Landale: that throat shall never give sound to that name again._ Over and over they roll like savage beasts, but yet in deathly silence.
For the pressure of the fingers on his gullet, fingers that seem to gain fresh strength every moment and pierce into his very flesh, will not allow even a sigh to pass Rupert's lips, and Jack can spare no atom of his energy from the fury of fight: not one to spare even for the hearing of the frantic knocks at the door, the calls, the hammering at the lock, the desperate efforts without to prise it open.
_But if Rupert Landale must die so shall Hubert Cochrane, and by the hangman's hand, treble doomed by this._ The same thought fills both these men's heads; the devil of murder has possession of both their souls.
But, true to himself to the last, it is with Rupert a calculating devil.
The officers must soon be here: he will hold the scoundrel yet with the grasp of death, and his enemy shall be found red-handed--red-handed!
His hatred, his determination of vengeance, the very agony of the unequal struggle for life gave him a power that is almost a match for the young athlete in his frenzy.
The dying efforts of his victim tax Jack's strength more than the living fight; but his hands are still locked in their fatal clutch when at last, with one fearful and spasmodic jerk, Rupert Landale falls motionless.
Then exhaustion enwraps the conqueror also, like a mantle.
He, too, lies motionless with his cheek on the floor, face to face with the corpse, dimly conscious of the voluptuousness of victory.
But the dead grasp still holds him by the wrists, and it grows cold now, and rigid upon them.
It is as if they were fettered with iron.
* * * * * Lady Landale's dread of her once despised kinsman, now that she knew what a powerful weapon he held in his hands, this night, was almost fantastic.
As she darted from the room, she fell against René, who, with a white face and bent ear, stood at the door, eavesdropping, ready to rush to the help of Sir Adrian's friend upon the first hint of necessity.
But he had heard more than he bargained for.
The scared, well-nigh agonised look of inquiry with which he turned to his mistress was lost upon her.
In her whirlwind exit, she seized upon him and dragged him with her to the ladder that led to the tower.
"Quick, René, the signal!"
And with the birdlike swiftness of a dream flight she was up the steps before him.
Panting in her wake, ran the sturdy fellow, his brain seething in a chaos of conflicting thought.
Mr. the Captain must be helped, must be saved: this one thing was clear at any rate.
His honour would wish it so--no matter what had happened.
Yes, he would obey My Lady and make the signal.
But, what if Mr. Landale were right?
Not indeed in his accusation of Mr. the Captain, René knew, René had seen enough to trust him: he was no false friend; but as regarded My Lady?
Alas!
My Lady had indeed been strange in her manner these days; and even Moggie, as he minded him now, even Moggie had noticed, had hinted, and he had not understood.
The man's fingers fumbled over the catch of the great lantern, he shook as if he had the palsy.
Goodness divine, if his master were to come home to this!
Impatiently Lady Landale pushed him upon one side.
What ailed the fellow, when every second was crucial, life or death bringing?
Medusa-like for one second her face hung, white-illumined, set into terrible fixity, above the great flame, the next instant all was blackness to their dazzled eyes.
The light of Scarthey was out!
She groped for René; her hot fingers burnt upon his cold rough hand for a second.
"I will go down to the sands," she said, whispering as if she feared, even here, the keenness of Rupert's ear, "and you--hurry to him, stop with him, defend him, your master's friend!"
She flitted from him like a shadow, the ladder creaked faintly beneath her light footfall, and then louder beneath his weighty tread.
His master's friend!
Ay, he would stand by him, for his master's sake and for his own sake too--the good gentleman!--And they would get him safe out of the way before his honour's return.
* * * * * Out upon the beach ran Molly.
It was a mild still night; through veils of light mist the moon shone with a tranquil bride-like grace upon the heaving palpitating waters and the mystery of the silent land.
A very night for lovers, it seemed; for sweet meetings and sweeter partings; a night that mocked with its great passionless calm at the wild anguish of this woman's impatience.
Yet a night upon which sound travelled far.
She bent her ear--was there nothing to hear yet, nothing but the lap of the restless waters?
Were those men false?
She rushed to and fro, from one point to another along the sands in a delirium of impotent desire.
Oh, hurry, hurry, hurry!
And as she turned again, there, upon the waters out in the offing, glimmered a light, curtseying with the swell of the waves; the sails of a ship caught the moonbeams.
She could see the vessel plainly and that it was bearing full for the island.
Alas!
This might scarcely be the little Shearman boat manned by two fishermen only; even she, unversed in sea knowledge could tell that.
It was as large as the _Peregrine_ itself--certainly as large as the cutter.
The _cutter_!
She caught her breath, and clapped her hands to her lips to choke down the wild scream of fear that rose to them.
At the same instant, a dull thud of oars, a subdued murmur of a deep voice rose from the other side of the island.
They were coming, coming from the landward, these rescuers of her beloved.
And yonder, with swelling canvas, came the hell ship from out the open sea, sent by Rupert's infernal malice and cleverness, to make their help of no avail; to seize him, in the very act of flight.
She ran in the direction of the sound, and with all her strength called upon the new-comers to speed.
"Here--here, for God's sake!
Hasten or it will be too late!"
Her voice seemed to her, in the midst of the endless space, weak as a child's; but it was heard.
"Coming!"
answered a gruff shout from afar.
And the oar beat came closer, and fell with swifter rhythm.
Stumbling, catching in her skirts, careless of pool or stone beneath her little slippered feet, Lady Landale came flying round the ruins: a couple of boats crashed in upon the shingle, and the whole night seemed suddenly to become alive with dark figures--men in uniform, with gleams upon them of brass badges and shining belts, and in their hands the gleam of arms.
For the moment she could not move.
It was as if her knees were giving way, and she must fall.
None of them saw her in the shadow; but as they passed, she heard them talking to each other about the signal, the signal which they had been told to look for, which had been brought to them ... the signal _she_ had made.
Then with a wave of rage, the power of life returned to her.
This was Rupert's work!
But all was not lost yet.
The other boat was coming, the other boat must be the rescue after all; the Shearman's boat, or--who knows?--if there was mercy in Heaven, the _Peregrine_, whose crew might have heard of their captain's risk.
Back she raced to the seaward beach, hurling--unknowing that she spoke at all--invectives upon her husband's brother.
"Serpent, blood-hound, devil, devil, you shall not have him!"
As she reached the landing-place, breathless, a boat was landing in very truth.
Even as she came up a tall figure jumped out upon the sand, and crunched towards her with great strides.
She made a leap forward, halted, and cried out shrilly: "Adrian!"
"Molly--wife!
Thank God!"
His arms were stretched out to her, but he saw her waver and shudder from him, and wring her hands.
"My God, what has happened?
The light out, too!
What is it?"
She fastened on him with a sudden fierceness, the spring of a wild cat.
"Come," she said, drawing him towards the peel, "if you would save him, lose not a second."
He hesitated a moment, still; she tugged at him like one demented, panting her abjurations at him, though her voice was failing her.
Then, without a word, he fell to running with her towards the keep, supporting her as they went.
The great door had swung back on its hinges, and the men were pressing, in a dark body, into the dim-lit recesses, when Sir Adrian and his wife reached the entrance.
The sight of the uniforms only confirmed the homecomer in his own forebodings anent the first act of the drama that was being enacted upon his peaceful island.
He needed no further pushing from the frantic woman at his side.
Lost in bringing her back, perhaps, his only friend!
Lost by his loyalty and his true friendship!
They dashed up the stone stairs just as the locked door of the living-room burst with a crash, under the efforts of many stalwart shoulders; they saw the men crush forwards, and fall back, and herd on again, with a hoarse murmur that leaped from mouth to mouth.
And René came running out from the throng with the face of one that has seen Death.
And he caught his mistress by the arm, and held her by main force against the wall.
He showed no surprise at the sight of his master--there are moments in life that are beyond surprise--but cried wildly: "She must not see!"
She fought like a tigress against the faithful arms, but still they held her, and Sir Adrian went in alone.
A couple of men were dragging Captain Jack to his feet, forcing his hands from the dead man's throat; it seemed as if they had grown as rigid and paralysed in their clasp like the corpse hands that had now, likewise, to be wrenched from their clutch of him.
He glanced around, as though dazed, then down at the disfigured purple face of his dead enemy, smiled and held out his hands stiffly for the gyves that were snapped upon them.
And then one of the fellows, with some instinctive feeling of decency, flung a coat over the slain man, and Captain Jack threw up his head and met Adrian's horror-stricken, sorrowful eyes.
At the unexpected sight he grew scarlet; he waved his fettered hands at him as they hustled him forth.
"I have killed your brother, Adrian," he called out in a loud voice, "but I brought back your wife!"
Some of the men were speaking to Sir Adrian, but drew back respectfully before the spectacle of his wordless agony.
But, as Molly, with a shriek, would have flung herself after the prisoner, her husband awoke to action, and, pushing René aside, caught her round the waist with an unyielding grip: his eyes sought her face.
And, as the light fell on it, he understood.
Aye, she had been brought back to him.
But how?
And René, watching his master's countenance, suddenly burst out blubbering, like a child.
CHAPTER XXX HUSBAND AND WIFE Tout comprendre-c'est tout pardonner.
Staring straight before her with haggard, unseeing eyes, her hands clasped till the delicate bones protruded, her young face lined into sudden agedness, grey with unnatural pallor, framed by the black masses of her dishevelled hair, it was thus Sir Adrian found his wife, when at length he was free to seek her.
He and René had laid the dead man upon the bed that had been occupied by his murderer, and composed as decently as might be the hideous corpse of him who had been the handsomest of his race.
René had given his master the tale of all he knew himself, and Sir Adrian had ordered the boat to be prepared, determined to convey Lady Landale at once from the scene of so much horror.
His own return to Pulwick, moreover, to break the news to Sophia, to attend to the removal of the body and the preparation for the funeral was of immediate necessity.
As he approached his wife she raised her eyes.
"What do you want with me?"
she asked, with a stony look that arrested him, as he would gently have taken her hand.
"I would bring you home."
"Home!"
the pale lips writhed in withering derision.
"Yes, home, Molly," he spoke as one might to a much-loved and unreasonable sick child--with infinite tenderness and compassion--"your own warm home, with your sister.
You would like to go to Madeleine, would not you?"
She unclasped her hands and threw them out before her with a savage gesture of repulsion.
"To Madeleine?"
she echoed, with an angry cry; and then wheeling round upon him fiercely: "Do you want to kill me?"
she said, between her set teeth.
Sir Adrian's weary brow contracted.
He paused and looked at her with profoundest sorrow.
Then she asked, hoarsely: "Where have they taken him to?"
"To Lancaster, I believe."
"Will they hang him?"
"I pray God not."
"There is no use of praying to God, God is merciless.
What will they do to him?"
"He will be tried, Molly, in due course, and then, according to the sentence of the judges.... My poor child, control yourself, he shall be defended by the best lawyers that money can get.
All a man can do for another I shall do for him."
She shot the sombre fire of her glance at him.
"You know that I love him," she said, with a terrible composure.
A sudden whiteness spread round Sir Adrian's lips.
"Poor child!"
he said again beneath his breath.
"Yes, I love him.
I always wanted to see him.
I was sick and tired of life at Pulwick, and that was why I went on board his ship.
I went deliberately because I could not bear the dulness of it all.
He mistook me for Madeleine in the dark--he kissed me.
Afterwards I told him that I loved him.
I begged him to take me away with him, for ever.
I love him still, I would go with him still--it is as well that you should know.
Nothing can alter it now.
But he did not want me.
He loves Madeleine."
The words fell from her lips with a steady, cruel, deliberateness.
She kept her eyes upon him as she spoke, unpityingly, uncaring what anguish she inflicted; nay, it seemed from some strange perversity, glad to make him suffer.
But hard upon a man as it must be to hear such a confession from his wife's lips, doubly hard to such a one as Adrian, whose heart bled for her pain as well as for his own, he held himself without departing for a second from his wonted quiet dignity.
Only in his earnest gaze upon her there was perhaps, if possible, an added tenderness.
But she, to see him so unmoved, was moved herself to a sudden scorn.
What manner of man was this, that not love, nor jealousy, nor anger had power to stir?
"And now what will you do with me?"
she asked him again, with superb contempt on eye and lip.
"For a guilty wife I am to you, as far as the will could make me, and I have no claim upon you any more."
"No claim upon me!"
he repeated, with a wonder of grief in his voice.
"Ah, Molly, hush child!
You are my wife.
The child of the woman I loved--the woman I love for her own sake.
You can no more put yourself out of my life now than you can out of my heart; had you been as guilty in deed as you may have been in purpose my words would be the same.
Your husband's home is your home, my only wish to cherish and shelter you.
You cannot escape my care, poor child, and some day you may be glad of it.
My protection, my countenance you will always have.
God!
who am I that I should judge you?
Is there any sin of human frailty that a human being dare condemn?
Guilty?
What is your guilt compared to mine for bringing you to this, allying my melancholy age with your bright youth?"
He fell into the chair opposite to her and covered his face with his hands.
As, for a minute's space, his self-control wavered, she watched him, wearily.
Her heat of temper had fallen from her very quickly; she broke into a moan.
"Oh, what does it matter?
What does anything matter now?
I love him and I have ruined him--had it not been for me he would be safe!"
After a little silence Sir Adrian rose.
"I must leave you now, I must go to Pulwick," he said.
His heart was yearning to her, he would have gathered her to his arms as a father his erring child, but he refrained from even touching her.
"And you--what would you do?
It shall be as you like."
"I would go to Lancaster," she said.
"The carriage shall be sent for you in the morning and Renny and his wife shall go with you.
I will see to it.
After Rupert's funeral--my God, what a night this has been!--I will join you, and together we shall work to save his life."
He paused, hesitated, and was about to turn away when suddenly she caught his hand and kissed it.
He knew she would as readily have kissed René's hand for a like promise; that her gratitude was a pitiable thing for him, her husband, to bear; and yet, all the way, on his sad and solitary journey to Pulwick, the touch of her lips went with him, bringing a strange sweetness to his heart.
* * * * * There was a vast deal of wonder in the county generally, and among the old friends of his father's house in particular, when it became known that Sir Adrian Landale had engaged a noted counsel to defend his brother's murderer and was doing all he could to avert his probable doom.
In lowered tones were whispered strange tales of Lady Landale's escapade.
People wagged wise and virtuous heads and breathed scandalous hints of her power upon her infatuated husband; and then they would tap their foreheads significantly.
Indeed it needed all the master of Pulwick's wide-spread reputation for mental unsoundness to enable him to carry through such proceedings without rousing more violent feelings.
As it was, it is to be doubted whether his interference had any other effect than that of helping to inflame the public mind against the prisoner.
The jury's verdict was a foregone conclusion; and though the learned lawyer duly prepared a very fine speech and pocketed some monstrous fees with a great deal of complaisance, he was honest enough not to hold out the smallest hope of being able to save his client.
The conviction was too clear, the "crimes" the prisoner had committed were of "too horrible and bloody a character, threatening the very foundations of society," to admit of a merciful view of the case.
As the trial drew near, Sir Adrian's despondency increased; each day seemed to bring a heavier furrow to his brow, an added weight to his lagging steps.
He avoided as much as possible all meetings with his wife, who, on the contrary, recovered stronger courage with the flight of time, but whose feverish interest in his exertions was now transferred to some secret plans that she was for ever discussing with René.
The prisoner himself showed great calmness.
"They will sentence me of course," he said quietly to Adrian, "but whether they will hang me is another question.
I don't think that my hour has come yet or that the cord is twisted which will hang Jack Smith."
In other moods, he would ridicule Sir Adrian's labours in his cause with the most gentle note of affectionate mockery.
But, from the desire doubtless to save one so disinterested and unworldly from any accusation of complicity, he was silent upon the schemes on which he pinned his hopes of escape.
The first meeting of the friends after the scene at Scarthey had been, of course, painful to both.
When he entered the cell, Adrian had stretched out his hand in silence, but Captain Jack held his own pressed to his side.
"It is like you to come," he said gloomily, "but you cannot shake the hand that stifled your brother's life out of him.
And I should do it again, Adrian!
Mark you, I am not repentant!"
"Give me your hand, Jack," said Adrian steadfastly.
"I am not of those who shift responsibility from the dead to the living.
You were grievously treated.
Oh, give me your hand, friend, can I think of anything now but your peril and your truth to me?"
For an instant still the younger man hesitated and inquiringly raised his eyes laden with anxious trouble, to the elder man's face.
"My wife has told me all," said Sir Adrian, turning his head to hide his twitching lip.
And then Jack Smith's hand leaped out to meet his friend's upon an impulse of warm sympathy, and the two faced each other, looking the words they could not utter.
* * * * * The year eighteen hundred and fifteen which delivered England at last from the strain of outlandish conflict saw a revival of official activity concerning matters of more homely interest.
The powers that were awoke to the necessity, among other things, of putting a stop by the most stringent means to the constant and extensive leakage in the national revenue proceeding from the organisation of free traders or smugglers.
After twenty years of almost complete supineness on the part of the authorities, the first efforts made towards a systematic "Preventive" coast service, composed of customs, excise and naval officials in proportion varied according to the localities, remained singularly futile.
And to the notorious inability of these latter to cope with the experience and the devilish daring of the old established free traders, was due no doubt to the ferocity of the inquisitional laws presently levelled against smuggling and smugglers--laws which ruthlessly trenched upon almost every element of the British subjects' vaunted personal freedom, and which added, for the time, several new "hanging cases" to the sixty odd already in existence.
That part of the indictment against Captain Jack Smith and the other criminals still at large, which dealt with their offences against the smuggling act, would in later times have broken down infallibly from want of proper evidence: not a tittle of information was forthcoming which could support examination.
But a judge of assizes and a jury in 1815, were not to be baulked of the necessary victim by mere circumstantiality when certain offences against society and against His Majesty had to be avenged; and the dispensers of justice were less concerned with strict evidence than with the desirability of making examples.
Strong presumption was all that was required to them to hang their man; and indeed the hanging of Captain Jack upon the other and more serious counts than that of unlawful occupation, was, as has been said, a foregone conclusion.
The triple charge of murder being but too fully corroborated.
Every specious argument that could be mooted was of course put forward by counsel for the defence, to show that the death of the preventive men and of Mr. Landale on Scarthey Island and the sinking of the revenue cutter must be looked upon, on the one hand, as simple manslaughter in self-defence, and as the result of accidental collision, on the other.
But, as every one anticipated, the charge of the judge and the finding of the jury demanded strenuously the extreme penalty of the law.
Besides this the judge deemed it advisable to introduce into the sentence one of those already obsolete penalties of posthumous degradation, devised in coarser ages for the purpose of making an awful impression upon the living.
"Prisoner at the bar," said his lordship at the conclusion of the last day's proceedings, "the sentence of the law which I am about to pass upon you and which the court awards is that you now be taken to the place whence you came, and from thence, on the day appointed, to the place of execution, there to be hanged by the neck until you be dead, dead, dead.
And may God have mercy on your soul!"
Captain Jack, standing bolt upright, with his eyes fixed upon the speaker, calm as he ever had been when awaiting the enemy's broadside, hearkened without stirring a muscle.
But when the judge, after pronouncing the last words with a lingering fulness and impressiveness, continued through the heavy silence: "And that, at a subsequent time, your body, bound in irons, shall be suspended upon a gibbet erected as near as possible to the scenes of your successive crimes, and shall there remain as a lasting warning to wrong-doers of the inevitable ultimate end of such an evil life as yours," a wave of crimson flew to the prisoner's forehead, upon which every vein swelled ominously.
He shot a glance of fury at the large flabby countenance of the righteous arbiter of his doom, whilst his hands closed themselves with an involuntary gesture of menace.
Then the tide of anger ebbed; a contemptuous smile parted his lips.
And, bowing with an air of light mockery to the court, he turned, erect and easy, to follow his turnkey out of the hall.
CHAPTER XXXI IN LANCASTER CASTLE All that his friendship for the condemned man, all that his love and pity for his almost distracted wife, could suggest, Sir Adrian Landale had done in London to try and avert Captain Jack's doom.
But it was in vain.
There also old stories of his peculiar tenets and of his well-known disaffection to the established order of things, had been raked up against him.
Unfavourable comparisons had been drawn between him and Rupert; surprise and disapproval had been expressed at the unnatural brother, who was displaying such energy to obtain mercy for his brother's murderer.
Finally an influential personage, whom Sir Adrian had contrived to interest in the case, in memory of an old friendship with his father, informed the baronet that his persistence was viewed with extreme disfavour in the most exalted quarter, and that His Royal Highness himself had pronounced that Captain Jack was a damned rascal and richly deserved his fate.
From the beginning, indeed, the suppliant had been without hope.
Though he was resolved to leave no stone unturned, no possibility untried in the effort to save his friend, well-nigh the saddest part of the whole business to him was the realisation that the prisoner had not only broken those custom laws (of which Sir Adrian himself disapproved as arbitrary) but also, as he had been warned, those other laws upon which depend all social order and security; broken them so grievously that, whatever excuses the philosopher might find in heat of blood and stress of circumstances, given laws at all, the sentence could not be pronounced otherwise than just.
And so, with an aching heart and a wider horror than ever of the cruel world of men, and of the injustices to which legal justice leads, Sir Adrian left London to hurry back to Lancaster with all the speed that post-horses could muster.
The time was now drawing short.
As the traveller rattled along the stony streets of the old Palatine town, and saw the dawn breaking, exquisite, primrose tinted, faintly beautiful as some dream vision over the distant hills, his soul was gripped with an iron clutch.
In three more days the gallant heart, breaking in the confinement of the prison yonder, would have throbbed its last!
And he longed, with a desire futile but none the less intense, that, according to that doctrine of Vicarious Atonement preached to humanity by the greatest of all examples, he could lay down his own weary and disappointed life for his friend.
Having breakfasted at the hotel, less for the necessity of food than for the sake of passing the time till the morning should have worn to sufficient maturity, he sought on foot the quiet lodgings where he had installed his wife under René's guard before starting on his futile quest.
Early as the hour still was--seven had but just rung merrily from some chiming church clock--the faithful fellow was already astir and prompt to answer his master's summons.
One look at the latter's countenance was sufficient to confirm the servant's own worst forebodings.
"Ah, your honour, and is it indeed so.
_Ces gredins!_ and will they hang so good a gentleman?"
"Hush, Renny, not so loud," cried the other with an anxious look at the folding-doors, that divided the little sitting-room from the inner apartment.
"Oh, his honour need have no fear.
My Lady is gone, gone to Pulwick.
His honour need not disquiet himself; he can well imagine that I would not allow her to go alone--when I had been given a trust so precious.
No, no, the old lady, Miss O'Donoghue, your honour's aunt and her ladyship's, she has heard of all these terrible doings, and came to Lancaster to be with My Lady.
_Ma foi_, I know not if she be just the person one would have chosen, for she has scolded a great deal, and is as agitated--as agitated as a young rabbit.
But, after all, she loves the poor young lady with all her heart, and I think she has roused her a little.
His honour knows," said the man, flushing to the roots of his hair, whilst he shifted nervously from one foot to another, "that My Lady has been much upset about the poor captain.
After his honour went, she would sit, staring out of the window there, just where the street turns up to the castle, and neither ate nor slept, nor talked to speak of.
Of course, as I told the old Demoiselle, I knew it was because My Lady had taken it to heart about the signal that she made--thinking to save him--and which only brought the gabelous on him, that his honour's infernal brother (God forgive me, and have mercy on his soul) had set to watch.
And My Lady liked to see me coming and going, for she sent me every day to the prison; she did not once go herself."
Sir Adrian drew a long breath.
With the most delicate intuition of his master's thoughts, René avoided even a glance at him while he continued in as natural a tone as he could assume: "But the day after the old miss came, she, My Lady, told me to find out if he would see her.
He said no; but that the only kindness any one could do him now would be to bring him Mademoiselle Madeleine, and let him speak to her once more.
And My Lady, when she heard this, she started off that day with the old one to fetch Mademoiselle herself at Pulwick.
And she left me behind, your honour, for I had a little plan there."
René faltered and a crestfallen look crept upon his face.
Sir Adrian remembered how before his departure for London his servant had cheerily assured him that Mr. the Captain would be safe out of the country long before he returned, "faith of him, René, who had already been in two prisons, and knew their ways, and how to contrive an escape, as his honour well knew."
A sad smile parted his lips.
"And so you failed, Renny," he said.
"Ah, your honour, those satanic English turnkeys!
With a Frenchman, the job had been done; but it is a bad thing to be in prison in England.
His honour can vouch I have some brains.
I had made plans--a hundred plans, but there was ever something that did not work.
The captain, he too, was eager, as your honour can imagine.
My faith, we thought and we thought, and we schemed and contrived, and in the end, there was only one thing to complete our plot--to bribe the jailer.
Would your honour believe--it was only that one little difficulty.
My Lady had given me a hundred guineas, I had enough money, your honour sees.
But the man--I had smoked with him, drunk with him, ay, and made him drunk too, and I thought all was going well, but when I hinted to him what we wanted--Ah!
he was a brute--I tell you I had hard work to escape the prison myself, and only for my leaving him with some of the money, I should now be pinched there too.
I hardly dare show my face in the place any more.
And my poor Lady builds on the hope, and Mr. the Captain--I had to tell him, he took it like an angel.
Ah, the poor gentleman!
He looked at me so brave and kind!
'I am as grateful, my poor friend, as if you had done it,' said he, 'and perhaps it is all for the best.'
All for the best--ah, your honour!"
René fairly broke down here, and wept on his sleeve.
But Sir Adrian's eyes, circled and worn with watching and thought, shone dry with a far deeper grief, as, a few moments later, he passed along the street towards the walls of the castle.
* * * * * There was in those days little difficulty in obtaining admission to a condemned prisoner; and, in the rear of the red-headed, good-tempered looking jailer--the same, he surmised, whose sternness in duty had baffled the Breton's simple wiles--he stepped out of the sweet morning sunshine into the long stone passages.
The first tainted breath of the prison brought a chill to his blood and oppression to his lungs, and the gloom of the place enveloped him like a pall.
With a rattle of keys a door dismally creaking on its hinges was swung back at last, and the visitor was ushered into the narrow cell, dark for all its whitewashed walls, where Captain Jack was spending his last hours upon earth.
The hinges groaned again, the door slammed, and the key once more grated in the lock.
Sir Adrian was alone with his friend.
For a moment there was silence; the contraction of the elder man's heart had brought a giddiness to his brain, a dimness of his eyes, through which he was ill able to distinguish anything.
But then there was a clank of fetters--ah, what a sound to connect with lucky Jack Smith, the gayest, freest, and most buoyant of men!
And a voice cried: "Adrian!"
It had a joyful ring, well-nigh the old hearty tones.
It struck Adrian to the soul.
He could have borne, he thought, to find his friend a broken man, changed out of all recognition, crushed by his misfortunes; but to find him the same, a little pale, indeed, and thinner, with a steady earnestness in the sea-blue eyes instead of the old dancing-light, but still gallant and undaunted, still radiating vigorous life and breezy energy by his very presence, this was a cruelty of fate which seemed unendurable.
"I declare," the prisoner had continued, "I declare I thought you were only the incorruptible jailer taking his morning survey.
They are desperately careful of me, Adrian, and watch me with maternal solicitude lest I should strangle myself with my chains, these pretty bracelets which I have had to wear ever since poor Renny was found out, or swallow my pillow--dash me!
it's small enough--and spoil the pretty show for Saturday!
Why, why, Adrian, old friend?"
There was a sudden change of tone to the warmest concern, for Sir Adrian had staggered and would have fallen had not Jack, as nimbly as his fetters would allow him, sprung to support him and conduct him to the bed.
A shaft of light struck through the tiny barred window on to the elder man's face, and showed it against the surrounding darkness deathly white and wet with anguish.
"I have done all I could, Hubert," he murmured, in an extinguished voice, "but to no avail."
"Ay, man, I guessed as much.
But never fret for me, Adrian: I have looked death too often in the face to play the poltroon, now.
I don't say it's the end I should have chosen for myself; but it is inevitable, and there is nothing, as you know, my friend, that a man cannot face if he knows it must be faced."
The grasp of his strong warm hands, all manacled as they were, upon the other's nerveless clammy fingers, sent, more than the words, something of the speaker's own courage to his friend's wrung heart.
And yet that very courage was an added torment.
That from a community, so full of evil, feeble, harmful wretches, this noble soul, no matter how it had sinned, should be banished at the bidding of justice--what mockery of right was this?
The world was out of joint indeed.
He groaned aloud.
"Nay, I'll have none of it," cried Jack.
"Our last talk, Adrian, must not be spoiled by futile regrets.
Yes, our last talk it is to be, for"--the prisoner's face became transfigured with a tenderness so exquisite that Adrian stared at its beauty, amazed--"I have begged her, Madeleine, to come and see me once more.
I think she can be here to-day, at latest to-morrow.
And after that I would not see any of those I love again, that I may fit myself to meet my God."
He spoke with the utmost simplicity.
Adrian bowed his head silently.
Then averting his eyes, he said: "My wife has gone to Pulwick to fetch her."
Captain Jack crimsoned.
"That is kind," he answered, in a low voice; and, after a pause, pursued: "I hope you do not think it wrong of me to wish to see her.
But you may trust me.
I shall distress her as little as is possible in the circumstances.
It is not, as you can fancy"--his face flushed again as he spoke--"to indulge in a pathetic parting scene, or beg from her sweet lips one last kiss--that would be too grossly selfish, and however this poor body of mine, so soon to be carrion, may yearn to hold her once more closely, these lips, so soon to touch death, shall touch hers no more.
I have risen so far above this earthliness, that in so many hours I am to shake off for ever, that I can trust myself to meet her soul to soul.
She must believe me now, and I would tell her, Adrian, that my deceit was not premeditated, and that the man she once honoured with her love is not the base wretch she deems.
I think it may comfort her.
If she does mourn for me at all--she has so proud a spirit, my princess, as I used to call her--it may comfort her to know that I was not all unworthy of the love she once gave me, of the tears she may yet give to its memory and mine."
Sir Adrian pressed his hand, but again could not speak, and Captain Jack went on: "You will give her a happy home, will you not, till she has one of her own?
You and your old dragon of an aunt, whose bark is so much worse than her bite, will watch and guard her.
Ah, poor old lady!
she is one of those that will not weep for Jack Smith, eh, Adrian?
Well, well, I have had a happy life, barring one or two hard raps of fate, and when only I have seen Madeleine once more, I'll feel all taut for the port, though the passage there be a rough one."
Sir Adrian turned his gaze with astonishment upon him.
The sailor read his thoughts: "Don't think," he said, while a sudden shadow crossed his face, "don't think that I don't realise my position, that I have not had to fight my battle.
In the beginning I had hopes; never in the success of your mission, but, absurd as it was, in Renny's scheme.
The good fellow's own hopefulness was infectious, I believe.
And when that fell through--well then, man, I just had to make up my mind to what was to be.
It was a battle, as I told you.
I have been in danger of death many a time upon the brave old _St.
Nicholas_, and my _Cormorant_--death from the salt sea, from musket ball and cannon shot, fearful deaths of mangling and hacking.
But death on the gallows, the shameful death of the criminal; to be hung; to be executed--Pah!
Ay!
it was a battle--two nights and one day I fought it.
And I tell you, 'tis a hard thing to bring the living flesh and the leaping blood to submit to such as that.
At first I thought indeed, it could not be borne, and I must reckon upon your or Renny's friendship for a secret speed.
I should have had the pluck to starve myself if need be, only I am so damned strong and healthy, I feared it could not have been managed in the time.
At any rate, I could have dashed my brains out against the wall--but I see it otherwise now.
The prison chaplain, a good man, Adrian, has made me realise that it would be cowardly, that I should accept my sentence as atonement, as deserved--I _have_ deserved to die."
It had been Sir Adrian's own thought; but he broke out now in inarticulate protest.
It seemed too gross, too monstrous.
"Yes, Adrian, I have.
You warned me, good friend, in your peaceful room--ah, how long ago it seems now!
that night, when all that could make life beautiful lay to my hand for the taking.
Oh, man, why did I not heed you!
You warned me: he who breaks one law will end by breaking many.
You were right.
See the harm I wreaked--those poor fellows, who were but doing their duty bravely, whose lives I sacrificed without remorse!
Your brother, too, whose soul, with the most deliberate vindictiveness, I sent before its Maker, without an instant's preparation!
A guilty soul it was; for he hounded me down, one would almost think for the sport of it.... God!
when I think that, but for him, for his wanton interference--but there, the devils are loose again!
I must not think on him.
Do I not deserve my fate, if the Bible law be right?
'He who sheds blood, his blood shall be shed.'
Never was sentence more just.
I have sinned, I have repented; I am now ready to atone.
I believe the sacrifice will be accepted."
He laid his hand, for a minute, upon the Bible on the table, with a significant gesture.
But Sir Adrian, the philosopher, though he could find no words to impeach the logic of his friend's reasoning, and was all astir with admiration for a resignation as perfect as either Christian or Stoic could desire, found his soul rising in tumultuous rebellion against the hideous decree.
The longing that had beset him in the dawn, now seized upon him with a new passion, and the cry escaped his lips almost unwittingly: "Oh, if I could die for you!"
"No, no," said Jack, with his sweet smile, "your life is too valuable, too precious to the world.
Adrian, believe me, you can still do much good with it.
And I know you will be happy yet."
It was the only allusion he had made to his friend's more personal sorrows.
Before the latter had time to reply, he hastened to proceed: "And now to business.
All the gold entrusted to me lies at Scarthey and, faith, I believe it lies as weightily on my mind as if it was all stored there instead!
Renny knows the secret hiding-place.
Will you engage to restore it to its owners, in all privacy?
This is a terribly arduous undertaking, Adrian, and it is asking much of your friendship; but if I know you, not too much.
And it will enable my poor bones to lie at rest, or rather," with a rueful laugh, "hang at rest on their gibbet; for you know I am to be set up as a warning to other fools, like a rat on a barn door.
I have, by the kindness of the chaplain, been able to write out a full schedule of the different sums, and to whom they are due.
He has taken charge of the closed packet directed to you, and will give it to you intact, I feel sure.
He is a man of honour, and I trust him to respect the confidence I have placed in him.... Egad!
the poor old boys will be right glad to get their coin back in safety.
A couple of them have been up here already, to interview me, in fear and trembling.
They were hard set to credit me when I assured them that they would be no losers in the end, after all--barring the waiting.
You see, I counted upon you."
"I shall never rest until it is done," said Sir Adrian, simply.
And Captain Jack as simply answered: "Thank you.
Among the treasure there is also £10,000 of my own; the rest of my laboriously acquired fortune is forfeit to the Crown, as you know--much good may it do it!
But this little hoard I give to you.
You do not want it, of course, and therefore it is only to be yours that you may administrate it in accordance to my wishes.
Another charge--but I make no apology.
I wish you to divide it in three equal shares: two to be employed as you see best, for the widows and families of those poor fellows of the preventive service, victims of my venture; the third, as well as my beautiful _Peregrine_, I leave to the mate and men who served me so faithfully.
They have fled with her, and must avoid England for some time.
But Renny will contrive to hear of them; they are bound to return in secret for tidings, and I should like to feel that the misery I have left behind me may be mitigated.... And now, dear Adrian, that is all.
The man outside grows impatient.
I hear him shuffling his keys.
Hark!
there he knocks; the fellow has a certain rude feeling for me.
An honest fellow.
Dear Adrian, good-bye."
"My God!
this is hard--is there nothing else--nothing--can indeed all my friendship be of no further help?--Hubert!"
"Hush, hush," cried Jack Smith hastily, "Adrian, you alone of all living beings now know me by that name.
Never let it cross your lips again.
I could not die in peace were it not for the thought that I bring no discredit upon it.
My mother believes me dead--God in His mercy has spared me the crowning misery of bringing shame to her white hairs--shame to the old race.
Hubert Cochrane died ten years ago.
Jack Smith alone it is that dies by the hangman's hand.
One other," his voice softened and the hard look of pain left his face, "one other shall hear the secret besides you--but I know she will never speak of it, even to you--and such is my wish."
It was the pride of race at its last and highest expression.
There was the sound, without, of the key in the lock.
"One last word--if you love me, nay, as you love me--do not be there on Saturday!
This parting with you--the good-bye to her--that is my death.
Afterwards what happens to this flesh," he struck at himself with his chained hands, "matters no more than what will happen to the soulless corpse.
I know you would come to help me with the feeling of your love, your presence--but do not--do not--and now good-bye!"
Adrian seized his friend by the hands with a despairing grip, the door rolled back with its dismal screech.
The prisoner smiled at him with tender eyes.
This man whom, all unwillingly he had robbed of his wife's heart, was broken with grief that he could not save the life that had brought him misery.
Here was a friend to be proud of, even at the gate of death!
"God be with you, dear Adrian!
God bless you and your household, and your children, and your children's children!
Hear my last words: _From my death will be born your happiness, and if its growth be slow, yet it will wax strong and sure as the years go by_."
The words broke from him with prophetic solemnity; their hands fell apart, and Adrian, led by the jailer, stumbled forth blindly.
Jack Smith stood erect, still smiling, watching them: were Adrian to turn he should find no weakness, no faltering for the final remembrance.
But Adrian did not turn.
And the door closed, closed upon hope and happiness and life, shut in shame and death.
Out yonder, with Adrian, was the fresh bright world, the sea, the sunshine, the dear ones; here the prison smells, the gloom, the constraint, the inflicted dreadful death.
All his hard-won calm fled from him; all his youth, his immense vitality woke up and cried out in him again.
He raised his hands and pulled fiercely at his collar as if already the rope were round his neck strangling him.
His blood hammered in his brain.
God--God--it was impossible--it could not be--it was a dream!
Beyond, from far distant in the street came the cry of a little child: "Da-da--daddy."
The prisoner threw up his arms and then fell upon his face upon the bed, torn by sobs.
Yes, Adrian would have children; but Hubert Cochrane, who, from the beautiful young brood that was to have sprung from his loins would have grafted on the old stock a fresh and noble tree, he was to pass barren out of life and leave no trace behind him.
CHAPTER XXXII THE ONE HE LOVED AND THE ONE WHO LOVED HIM On the evening of the previous day Lady Landale and her Aunt had arrived at Pulwick.
The drive had been a dismal one to poor Miss O'Donoghue.
Neither her angry expostulations, nor her tender remonstrances, nor her attempts at consolation could succeed in drawing a connected sentence from Molly, who, with a fever spot of red upon each cheek only roused herself from the depth of thought in which she seemed plunged to urge the coachman to greater speed.
Miss O'Donoghue tried the whole gamut of her art in vain, and was obliged at last to desist from sheer weariness and in much anxiety.
Madeleine and Sophia were seated by the fireside in the library when the unexpected travellers came in upon them.
Sophia, in the blackest of black weeds, started guiltily up from the volume of "The Corsair," in which she had been plunged, while Madeleine, without manifesting any surprise, rose placidly, laid aside her needlework--a coarse flannel frock, evidently destined for charity--and bestowed upon her sister and aunt an affectionate though unexpansive embrace.
She had grown somewhat thinner and more thoughtful-looking since Molly and she had last met, on that fatal 15th of March, but otherwise was unchanged in her serene beauty.
Molly clutched her wrist with a burning hand, and, paying not the slightest attention to the other two, nor condescending to any preamble, began at once, in hurried words to explain her mission.
"He has asked for you, Madeleine," she cried, her eyes flaming with unnatural brilliance as they sought her sister's mild gaze.
"He has asked for you, I will take you back with me, to-morrow, not later than to-morrow.
Don't you understand?"
shaking her impatiently as she held her, "he is in prison, condemned to death, he has asked for you, he wants to see you.
On Saturday--on Saturday----" Something clicked in her throat, and she raised her hand to it with an uneasy gesture, one that those who surrounded her had grown curiously familiar with of late.
Madeleine drew away from her at this address, the whole fair calm of her countenance troubled like a placid pool by the casting of a stone.
Clasping her hands and looking down: "I saw that the unfortunate man was condemned," she said.
"I have prayed for him daily, I trust he repents.
I am truly sorry for him.
From my heart I forgive him the deception he practised upon me.
But----" a slight shudder shook her, "I could not see him again--surely you could not wish it of me."
She spoke with such extreme gentleness that for a minute the woman before her, in the seething turmoil of her soul, failed to grasp the meaning of her words.
"You could not go!"
she repeated in a bewildered way, "I could not wish it of you--!"
then with a sort of shriek which drew Tanty and Miss Sophia hurriedly towards her, "Don't you understand--on Saturday--if it all fails, they will hang him?"
"A-ah!"
exclaimed Madeleine with a movement as if to ward off the sound--the cry, the gesture expressive, not of grief, but of shrinking repugnance.
But after a second, controlling herself: "And what should that be now, sister, to you or to me?"
she said haughtily.
Lady Landale clapped her hands together.
"And this is the woman he loves!"
she cried with a shrill laugh.
And she staggered, and sank back upon a chair in an attitude of utter prostration.
"Molly, Molly," exclaimed her sister reprovingly, while she glanced in much distress at Miss O'Donoghue, "you are not yourself; you do not know what you are saying."
"Remember," interposed Sophia in tragic tones, "that you are speaking of the murderer of my beloved brother."
Then she dissolved in tears, and was obliged to hide her countenance in the folds of a vast pocket-handkerchief.
"Killing vermin is not murder!"
cried Molly fiercely, awakening from her torpor.
Miss O'Donoghue, who in the most unwonted silence had been watching the scene with her shrewd eyes, here seized the horrified Sophia by the elbow and trundled her, with a great deal of energy and determination, to the door.
"Get out of this, you foolish creature," she said in a stern whisper, "and don't attempt to show your nose here again till I give it leave to walk in!"
Then returning to the sisters, and looking from Molly's haggard, distracted face to Madeleine's pale one: "If you take my advice, my dear," she said, a little drily, to the latter, "you will not make so many bones about going to see that poor lad in the prison, and you'll stop wrangling with your sister, for she is just not able to bear it.
We shall start to-morrow, Molly," turning to Lady Landale, and speaking in the tone of one addressing a sick child, "and Madeleine will be quite ready as early as you wish."
"My dear aunt," said Madeleine, growing white to the lips, "I am very sorry if Molly is ill, but you are quite mistaken if you think I can yield to her wishes in this matter.
I could not go; I could not; it is impossible!"
"Hear her," cried the other, starting from her seat.
"Oh, what are you made of?
Is it water that runs in your veins?
you that he loves"--her voice broke into a wail--"you who ought to be so proud to know he loves you even though your heart be broken!
You refuse to go to him, refuse his last request!...
Come to the light," she went on, seizing the girl's wrists again; "let me look at you.
Bah!
you never loved him.
You don't even understand what it is to love....
But what could one expect from you, who abandoned him in the moment of danger.
You are afraid; afraid of the painful scene, the discomfort, the sight of the prison, of his beautiful face worn and changed--afraid of the discredit.
Oh!
I know you, I know you.
But mind you, Madeleine de Savenaye, he wishes to see you, and I swore you would go to him, and you shall go, if I have to drag you with these hands of mine."
Her grip was so fierce, her eyes so savage, the words so strange, that Madeleine screamed faintly, "She is mad!"
and was amazed that Miss O'Donoghue did not rush to the rescue!
But Miss O'Donoghue, peering at her from the depths of her arm-chair, merely said snappishly: "Ah, child, can't you say you will go, and have done!
Oughtn't you to be ashamed to be so hard-hearted?"
and mopped her perspiring and agitated countenance with her kerchief.
Then upon the girl's bewildered mind dawned a glimmer of the truth; and, blushing to the roots of her hair, she looked at her sister with a growing horror.
"Oh, Molly, Molly!"
she said again, with a sort of groan.
"Will you go?"
cried Molly from between her set teeth.
Again the girl shuddered.
"Less than ever--now," she murmured.
And as Molly threw her from her, almost with violence, she covered her face with her hands and fell, weeping bitter tears, upon the couch behind her.
Lady Landale, with great steps, stormed up and down the room, her eyes fixed on space, her lips moving; now and again a word escaped her then, sometimes hurled at her sister, sometimes only in desperate communing with herself.
"Base, cowardly, mean!
Oh, my God, cruel--cruel!
To go back without her."
After a little, with a sudden change of mood, she halted and stood a while, as if in deep reflection, holding her hand to her head, then crossing the room hurriedly, she knelt down, and flung her arms round the weeping figure.
"_Ma petite Madeleine_," she said in a voice of the most piteous pleading, "thou and I, we were always good friends; thou canst not have the heart to be so cruel to me now.
See, my darling, he must die, they say--oh, Madeleine, Madeleine!
And he asked for you.
The one thing, he told René, the only thing we could do for him on earth was to let him see you once more.
My little sister, you cannot refuse: he loves you.
What has he done to offend you?
Your pride cannot forgive him for being what he is, I suppose; yet such as he is you should be proud of him.
He is too noble, too straightforward to have intentionally deceived you.
If he did wrong, it was for love of you.
Madeleine, Madeleine!"
Her tones trailed away into a moan.
Miss O'Donoghue sobbed loudly from her corner.
Madeleine, who had looked at her sister at first with repulsion, seemed moved; she placed her hands upon her shoulders, and gazed sadly into the flushed face.
"My poor Molly," she said hesitatingly, "this is dreadful!
But I too--I too was led into deceit, into folly."
She blushed painfully.
"I would not blame you; it was not your fault that you were carried away in his ship.
You went only for my sake: I cannot forget that.
Yet that he should have this unhappy power over you too, you with your good husband, you a married woman, oh, my poor sister, it is terrible!
He is a wicked man; I pray that he may yet repent."
"Heavens," interrupted Molly, her passion up in arms again, loosening as she spoke her clasp upon her sister, and rising to her feet to look down on her with withering scorn, "have I not made myself clear?
Are you deaf, stupid, as well as heartless?
It is you--you--_you_ he loves, _you_ he wants.
What am I to him?"
with a curious sob, half of laughter, half of anguish.
"Your pious fears are quite unfounded as far as he is concerned--the wicked man, as you call him!
Oh, he spurns my love with as much horror as even you could wish!"
"Molly!"
"Ay--Molly, and Molly--how shocked you are!
Yes, I love him, I don't care who hears it.
I love him--Adrian knows--he is not as virtuous as you, evidently, for Adrian pities me.
He is doing all he can, though they say it is in vain, to get a reprieve for him--though I _do_ love him!
While you--you are too good, too immaculate even to soil your dainty foot upon the floor of his prison, that floor that I could kiss because his shoe has trod it.
But it is impossible!
no human being could be so hard, least of all you, whom I have seen turn sick at the sight of a dead worm--Madeleine----!"
Crouching down in the former imploring manner, while her breast heaved with dry tearless sobs: "It cannot hurt you, you who loved him."
And then with the old pitiful cry, "it is the only thing he wants, and he loves you."
Madeleine disengaged herself from the clinging hands with a gesture almost of disgust.
"Listen to me," she said, after a pause, "try and compose yourself and understand.
All this month I have had time to think, to realise, to pray.
I have seen what the world is worth, that it is full of horror, of sin, of trouble, of dreadful dissensions--that its sorrow far outweighs its happiness.
I _have_ suffered," her pretty lips quivered an instant, but she hardened herself and went on, "but it is better so--it was God's will, it was to show me where to find real comfort, the true peace.
I have quite made up my mind.
I was only waiting to see you again and tell you--next week I am going back to the convent for ever.
Oh, why did we leave it, Molly, why did we leave it!"
She broke down, and the tears gushed from her eyes.
Lady Landale had listened in silence.
"Well--is that all?"
she said impatiently, when her sister ceased speaking, while in the background Tanty groaned out a protest, and bewailed that she was alive to see the day.
"What does it matter what you do afterwards--you can go to the convent--go where you will then; but what has that to say to your visit to _him_ now?"
"I have done with all human love," said Madeleine solemnly, crossing her hands on her breast, and looking upward with inspired eyes.
"I did love this man once," she answered, hardening herself to speak firmly, though again her lips quivered--"he himself killed that love by his own doing.
I trusted him; he betrayed that trust; he would have betrayed me, but that I have forgiven, it is past and done with.
But to go and see him now, to stir up in my heart, not the old love, it could not be, but agitation, sorrow--to disturb this quietness of soul, this calm which God has given me at last after so much prayer and struggle--no, no--it would not be right, it cannot be!
Moreover, if I would, I could not, indeed I could not.
The very thought of it all, the disgrace, that place of sin and shame, of him in chains, condemned--a criminal--a murderer!..."
A nervous shudder shook her from head to foot, she seemed in truth to sicken and grow faint, like one forced to face some hideous nauseating spectacle.
"As for him," she went on in low, feeble tones, "it will be the best too.
God knows I forgive him, that I am sorry for him, that I regret his terrible fate.
But I feel it would be worse for him to see me--if he must die, it would be wrong to distract him from his last preparations.
And it would only be a useless pain to him, for I could not pretend--he would see that I despise him.
I thought I loved a noble gentleman, not one who was even then playing with crime and cheating."
The faint passionless voice had hardly ceased before, with a loud cry, Molly sprang at her sister as if she would have strangled her.
"Oh, unnatural wretch," she exclaimed, "you are not fit to live!"
Tanty rushed forward and dragged the infuriated woman away.
Madeleine rose up stiffly--swayed a moment as she stood--and then fell unconscious to the ground.
* * * * * Next day in the dawn Lady Landale came into her sister's bedroom.
Her circled eyes, her drawn face bespeaking a sleepless night.
Madeleine was lying, beautiful and white, like a broken lily, in the dim light of the lamp; Sophia, an unlovely spectacle in curl papers, wizened and red-eyed from her night's watch, looked up warningly from the arm-chair beside her.
But Molly went unhesitatingly to the window, pulled the curtains, unbarred the shutters, and then walked over to the bed.
As she approached, Madeleine opened her blue eyes and gazed at her beseechingly.
"There is yet time," said Molly in a hollow voice.
"Get up and come with me."
The wan face upon the pillow grew whiter still, the old horror grew in the uplifted eyes, the wan lips murmured, "I cannot."
There was an immense strength of resistance in the girl's very feebleness.
Molly turned away abruptly, then back again once more.
"At least you will send him a message?"
Madeleine drew a deep breath, closed her eyes a moment and seemed to whisper a prayer; then aloud she said, while, like a shadow so faint was it, a flush rose to her cheeks: "Tell him that I forgive him, that I forgive him freely--that I shall always pray for him."
The flush grew deeper.
"Tell him too that I shall never be any man's bride, now."
She closed her eyes again and the colour slowly ebbed away.
Molly stood, her black brows drawn, gazing down upon her in silence.--Did she love him after all?
Who can fathom the mystery of another's heart?
"I will tell him," she answered at last.
"Good-bye, Madeleine--I shall never see you or speak to you again as long as I live."
She left the room with a slow, heavy step.
Madeleine shivered, and with both hands clasped the silver crucifix that hung around her neck; two great tears escaped from her black lashes and rolled down her cheeks.
Miss Sophia moaned.
She, poor soul, had had tragedy enough, at last.
* * * * * When the jailer brought in the mid-day meal after Adrian's departure, he found the prisoner seated very quietly at his table, his open Bible before him, but his eyes fixed dreamily upon the space of dim whitewashed wall, and his mind evidently far away.
Upon his guardian's entrance he roused himself, however, and begged him, when he should return for the dish, to restore neatness to the bed and to assist him in the ordering of his toilet which he wished to be spick and span.
"For I expect a visitor," said Captain Jack gravely.
When in due course the fellow had carried out these wishes with the surly good-nature characteristic of him, Jack set himself to wait.
The square of sky through his window grew from dazzling white to deepest blue, the shadows travelled along the blank walls, the street noises rose and fell in capricious gusts, the church bells jangled, all the myriad sounds which had come to measure his solitary day struck their familiar course upon his ear; yet the expected visitor delayed.
But the captain, among other things, had learnt to possess his soul in patience of late; and so, as he slowly paced his cell after his wont, he betrayed neither irritation nor melancholy.
If she did not come to-day, then it would be to-morrow.
He had no doubt of this.
The afternoon had waned--golden without, full of grey shadows in the prison room--when light footfalls mingled with the well-known heavy tread and jangle of keys, along the echoing passage.
There was the murmur of a woman's voice, a word of gruff reply, and the next moment a tall form wrapped in a many-folded black cloak and closely veiled, advanced a few steps into the room, while, as before, the turnkey retired and locked the door behind him.
His heart beating so thickly that for the moment utterance was impossible, Captain Jack made one hurried pace forward with outstretched hands, only to check himself, however, and let them fall by his side.
He would meet her calmly, humbly, as he had resolved.
The woman threw back her veil, and it was Molly's dark gaze, Molly's brown face, flushed and haggard, yet always beautiful, that looked out of the black frame.
An ashen pallor spread over the prisoner's countenance.
"Madeleine?"
he asked in a whisper; then, with a loud ring of stern demand, "_Madeleine!_" "I went for her, I went for her myself--I did all I could--she would not come."
_She would not come!_ It is a sort of unwritten law that the supremely afflicted have the right, where possible, to the gratification of the least of their wishes.
That Madeleine could refuse to come to him in his last extremity, had never once crossed her lover's brain.
He stood bewildered.
"She is not ill?"
"Ill!"
Lady Landale's red lips curved in scorn, "No--not ill--but a coward!"
She spat the word fiercely as if at the offender's face.
There fell a minute's silence, broken only by a few labouring deep-drawn breaths from the prisoner's oppressed lungs.
Then he stood as if turned to stone, not a muscle moving, his eyes fixed, his jaw set.
Molly trembled before this composure, beneath which she divined a suffering so intense that her own frail barriers of self-restraint were well-nigh broken down by a torrent of passionate pity.
But she braced herself with the feeling of the moment's urgency.
She had no time to lose.
"Hear me," she cried in low hurried tones, laying a hand upon his folded arm and then drawing it away again as if frightened by the rigid tension she felt there.
"Waste no more thought on one so unworthy--all is not lost--I bring you hope, life.
Oh, for God's sake, wake up and listen to me--I can save you still.
Captain Smith, Jack--_Jack!_" Her voice rose as high as she dare lift it, but no statue could be more unhearing.
The woman cast a desperate look around her; hearkened fearfully, all was silent within the prison; then with tremulous haste she cast off her immense cloak, pulled her bonnet from her head, divested herself of her long full skirt and stood, a strange vision, lithe, unconscious, unashamed, her slender woman's figure clad in complete man's raiment, with the exception of the coat.
Her dark head cropped and curly, her face, with its fever-bloom, rising flower-like above the folds of her white shirt.
With anxious haste she compared herself with the prisoner.
"René told me well," she said; "with your coat upon me none would tell the difference in this dark room.
I am nearly as tall as you too.
Thanks be to God that he made me so.
_Jack_," calling in his ear, "don't you see?
Don't you understand?
It is all quite easy.
You have only to put on these clothes of mine, this cloak, the bonnet comes quite over the face; stoop a little as you go out and hold this handkerchief to your face as if in tears.
The carriage waits outside and René.
The rest is planned.
I shall sit on the bed with your coat on.
It is a chance--a certainty.
When I found René had failed, I swore that I would save you yet.
Ever since I came from Pulwick this morning he and I have worked together upon this last plan.
There is not a flaw; it must succeed.
Oh, God, he does not hear me!
Jack--Jack!"
She shook him with a sort of fury, then, falling at his feet, clasped his knees.
"For God's sake--for God's sake!"
He sighed, and again came the murmur: "She would not come----" He lifted his hand to his forehead and looked round, then down at her, as if from a great height.
She saw that he was aroused at last, sprang to her feet, and poured out the details of the scheme again.
"I run no risk, you see.
They would not dare to punish me, a woman--Lady Landale--even if they could.
Be quick, the precious moments are going by.
I gave the man some gold to leave us as long as he could, but any moment he may be upon us."
"Poor woman," said Jack, and his voice seemed as far off as his gaze; "see these chains."
She staggered back an instant, but the next, crying: "The file--the file--that was why René gave it to me."
She seized the skirt as it lay at her feet, and, striving with agonised endeavours to control the trembling of her hands, drew forth from its pocket a file and would have taken his wrist.
But he held his hands above his head, out of her reach, while a strange smile, almost of triumph, parted his lips.
"The bitterness of death is past," he said.
She tore at him in a frenzy, but, repulsed by his immobility, fell again broken at his feet.
In a torrent of words she besought him, for Adrian's sake, for the sake of the beautiful world, of his youth, of the sweetness of life--in her madness, at last, for her own sake!
She had ruined him, but she would atone, she would make him happy yet.
If he died it was death to her....
When at length her voice sank away from sheer exhaustion, he helped her to rise, and seated her on the chair; then told her quietly that he was quite determined.
"Go home," said he, "and leave me in peace.
I thank you for what you would have done, thank you for trying to bring Madeleine," he paused a moment.
How purely he had loved her--and twice, twice she had failed him.
"Yet, I do not blame her," he went on as if to himself; "I did not deserve to see her, and it has made all the rest easy.
Remember," again addressing the woman whom hopelessness seemed for a moment to have benumbed, "that if you would yet do me a kindness, be kind to her.
If you would atone--atone to Adrian."
"To Adrian?"
echoed Molly, stung to the quick, with a pale smile of exceeding bitterness.
And with a rush of pride, strength returned to her.
"I leave you resolved to die then?"
she asked him, fiercely.
"You leave me glad to die," he replied, unhesitatingly.
She spoke no more, but got up to replace her garments.
He assisted her in silence, but as his awkward bound hands touched her she shuddered away from him.
As she gathered the cloak round her shoulders again, there was a noise of heavy feet at the door.
The jailer thrust in his rusty head and looked furtively from the prisoner to his visitor as they stood silently apart from each other; then, making a sign to some one whose dark figure was shadowed behind him without, entered with a hesitating sidelong step, and, drawing Captain Jack on one side, whispered in his ear.
"The blacksmith's yonder.
He's come to measure you, captain, for them there irons you know of--best get the lady quietly away, for he wunnut wait no longer."
The prisoner smiled sternly.
"I am ready," he said, aloud.
"I'll keep him outside a minute or two," added the man, wiping his brow, evidently much relieved by his charge's calmness.
"I kep' him back as long as I could--but happen it's allus best to hurry the parting after all."
He moved away upon tiptoe, in instinctive tribute to the lady's sorrow, and drew the door to.
Molly threw back her veil which she had lowered upon his entrance, her face was livid.
"What is it?"
she asked, articulating with difficulty.
"Nothing--a fellow to see to my irons."
He moved his hands as he spoke, and she understood him, as he had hoped, to refer only to his manacles.
She drew a gasping breath.
How they watched him!
Yet all was not lost after all.
"I will leave the file," she said, in a quick whisper; "you will reflect; there is yet to-morrow," and rushed to hide it in his bed.
But he caught her by the arm, his patience worn out at length.
"Useless," he answered, harshly.
"I shall not use it.
Moreover, it would be found, and I am sure it is not your wish to bring unnecessary hardship upon my last moments.
I should lose the only thing that is left to me, the comfort of being alone.
And to-morrow I shall see no one."
The door groaned apart: "Very sorry, mum," came the husky voice in the opening, "Time's up."
She turned a look of agony upon Captain Jack's determined figure.
Was this to be the end?
Was she to leave him so, without even one kind word?
Alas, poor soul!
All her hopes had fallen to this--a parting word.
He was unpitying; his arms were folded; he made no sign.
She took a step away and swayed; the turnkey came forward compassionately to lead her out.
But the next instant she wheeled round and stood alone and erect, braced up by the extremity of her anguish.
"I _have_ a message," she cried, as if the words were forced from her.
"I could not make her come, but I made her send you a message.
She told me to say that she forgave you, freely; that she would always pray for you.
She bade me tell you too that she would never be any man's bride now."
It had been like the rending of body and soul to tell him this.
As she saw the condemned man's face quiver and flush at last out of its impassiveness, she thought hell itself could hold no more hideous torment.
He extended his arms: "Now welcome death!"
he exclaimed.
And she turned and fled down the passage as though driven upon this last cry.
* * * * * "E-h, he be a strange one!"
said the jailer afterwards to his mate.
"If ye'd heard that poor lady sob as she went by!
I've seen many a one in the same case, but I was sore for her, I was that.
And he--as cool--joking with Robert over the hanging irons the next minute.
'New sort of tailor I've got,' says he.
'Make them smart,' he says, 'since I'm to wear them in so exalted a position.'
So exalted a position, that's what he says.
'And they've got to last me some long time, you know,' says he."
"He'll be something worth looking at on Saturday.
I could almost wish he could ha' got off, only that it's a fine sight to see a real gentleman go through it.
Ah, it's they desperate villains has the proper pluck!"
CHAPTER XXXIII LAUNCHED ON THE GREAT WAVE Sir Adrian made, at first personally, then through Miss O'Donoghue, two attempts to induce his wife to return to Pulwick, or at any rate to leave Lancaster on the next day.
But the contempt, then the fury, which she opposed to their reasoning rendered it worse than useless.
The very sight of her husband, indeed, seemed to exasperate the unfortunate woman to such a degree that, in spite of his anxiety concerning her, he resolved to spare her even to the consciousness of his presence, and absented himself altogether from the house.
Miss O'Donoghue, unable to cope with a state of affairs at once so distressing and so unbecoming, finally retired to her own apartment with a book of piety and some gruel, and abandoned all further endeavour to guide her unruly relations.
So that Molly found herself left to her own resources, in the guardianship of René, the only company her misery could tolerate.
Three times she went to the castle, to be met each time with the announcement that, by the express wish of the prisoner, no visitors were to be admitted to him again.
Then in restless wandering about the streets--once entering the little chapel where the silent tabernacle seemed, with its closed door, to offer no relenting to the stormy cry of her soul, and sent her forth uncomforted in the very midst of René's humble bead-telling, to pace the flags anew--so the terrible day wore to a close for her; and so that night came, precursor of the most terrible day of all.
The exhaustion of Lady Landale's body produced at last a fortunate torpor of mind.
Flung upon her bed she fell into a heavy sleep, and Tanty who announced her intention of watching her, when René's guardianship had of necessity to cease, had the satisfaction of informing Adrian, as he crept into the house, like one who had no business there, of this consoling fact before retiring herself to the capacious arm-chair in which she heroically purposed to spend the night.
The sun was bright in the heavens, there was a clatter and bustle in the street, when Molly woke with a great start out of this sleep of exhaustion.
Her heart beating with heavy strokes, she sat up in bed and gazed upon her surroundings with startled eyes.
What was this strange feeling of oppression, of terror?
Why was she in this sordid little room?
Why was her hair cut short?
Ah, my God!
memory returned upon her all too swiftly.
It was for to-day--_to-day_; and she was perhaps too late.
She might never see him again!
The throbbing of her heart was suffocating, sickening, as she slipped out of bed.
For a moment she hardly dared consult the little watch that lay ticking upon her dressing table.
It was only a few minutes past seven; there was yet time.
The energy of her desire conquered the weakness of her overwrought nerves.
Noiselessly, so as to avoid awakening the slumbering watcher in the arm-chair, but steadily, she clothed herself, wrapt the dark mantle round her; and then, pausing for a moment to gaze with a fierce disdain at the unconscious face of Miss O'Donoghue, which, with snores emerging energetically and regularly from the great hooked nose, presented a weird and witchlike vision in the frame of a nightcap, fearfully and wonderfully befrilled, crept from the room and down the stairs.
At René's door she paused and knocked.
He opened on the instant.
From his worn face she guessed that he had been up all night.
He put his finger to his lips as he saw her, and glanced meaningly towards the bed.
The words she would have spoken expired in a quick-drawn breath.
Her husband, with face of deathlike pallor and silvered hair abroad upon the pillow, lay upon the poor couch, still in his yesterday attire, but covered carefully with a cloak.
His breast rose and fell peacefully with his regular breath.
The scorn with which she had looked at Miss O'Donoghue now shot forth a thousand times intensified from Molly's circled eyes upon the prostrate figure.
"Asleep!"
she cried.
And then with that incongruity with which things trivial and irrelevant come upon us, even in the supremest moments of life, the thought struck her sharply how old a man he was.
Her lip curved.
"Yes, My Lady--asleep," answered René steadily--it seemed as if the faithful peasant had read her to her soul.
"Thank God, asleep.
It is enough to have to lose one good gentleman from the world this day.
If his honour were not sleeping at last, I should not answer for him--I who speak to you.
I took upon myself to put some of the medicine, that he has had to take now and again, when his sorrows come upon him and he cannot rest, into his soup last night.
It has had a good effect.
His honour will sleep three or four hours still, and that, My Lady, must be.
His honour has suffered enough these last days, God knows!"
The wife turned away with an impatient gesture.
"Look, Madame, at his white hairs.
All white now--they that were of a brown so beautiful, all but a few locks, only a few months past!
Well may he look old.
When was ever any one made to suffer as he has been, in only forty years of life?
Ah, My Lady, we were at least tranquil upon our island!"
There was a volume of reproach in the quiet simplicity of the words, though Lady Landale was too bent on her own purpose to heed them.
But she felt that they lodged in her mind, that she would find them there later; but not now--not now.
"It is to be for nine o'clock, you know," she said, with desperate calmness.
"I must see him again.
I must see him well.
Alone I shall not be able to get a good place in the crowd.
Oh, I would see all!"
she added, with a terrible laugh.
René cast a glance at his master's placid face.
"I am ready to come with My Lady," he said then, and took his hat.
A turbulent, tender April day it was.
Gusts of west wind, balmy and sweet with all the sweet budding life of the fields beyond, came eddying up the dusty streets and blowing merrily into the faces of the holiday crowd that already pressed in a steady stream towards the castle courtyard to see the hanging.
In those days there were hangings so many after assizes that an execution could hardly be said to possess the interest of novelty.
But there were circumstances enough attending the forthcoming show to give it quite a piquancy of its own in the eyes of the worthy Lancastrian burghers, who hurried with wives and children to the place of doom, anxious to secure sitting or standing room with a good view of the gallows-tree.
It was not every day, indeed, that a _gentleman_ was hanged.
So handsome a man, too, as the rumours went, and so dare-devil a fellow; friend of the noble family of Landale, and a murderer of its most respected member.
Could justice ever have served up a spicier dish whereon to regale the multitude?
First the courtyard, then, the walls, the roofs of the adjoining houses, swarmed with an eager crowd.
Every space of ground and slate and tile, every ledge and window, was occupied.
As thick as bees they hung--men, women, and children; a sea of white faces pressed together, each still, yet all as instinct with tremulous movement as a field of corn in the wind; while the hoarse, indescribable murmur that seizes one with so strange and fearsome an impression, the voice of the multitude, rose and fell with a mighty pulsation, broken here and there by the shriller cry of a child.
Overhead the sky, a delicious spring blue sky, flecked with tiny white clouds, looked down like a great smile upon the crowd that laughed and joked beneath.
No pity in heaven or on earth.
But as the felon came out into the air, which, warm and fickle, puffed against his cheek, he cast one steady glance around upon the black human hive and then looked up into the white flecked ether, without the quiver of a nerve.
He drew the spring breath into his lungs with a grateful expansion of his deep chest.
How fresh it was!
And the sky, how fair and blue!
As the eagerly expected group emerged from the prison door and was greeted by a roar that curdled the blood in at least one woman's heart there, an old Irish hag, who sat in a coign of vantage, hugging her knees and crooning, a little black pipe held in her toothless jaws, ceased her dismal hum to concentrate all her attention upon the condemned man.
The creature was well known for miles around as a constant attendant at such spectacles, and had become in the course of time a privileged spectator.
No one would have dreamt of disputing the first place to old Judy.
Since the day when, still a young woman, she had seen her two sons, mere lads, hanged, the one for sheep-stealing, the other for harbouring the booty, she had, by a strange freak of nature, taken a taste for the spectacle of justice at work, and what had been the cause of her greatest sorrow became the only solace of her life.
Judy and her pipe had become as familiar a figure at the periodical entertainment as the executioner himself--more so, indeed, for she had seen many generations of these latter, and could compare their styles with the judgment of a connoisseur.
But as Captain Jack advanced, the pallor of his clean shorn, handsome face illumined not so much by the morning sun without it seemed as by the shining of the bright spirit within; as gallantly clad as he had ever been, even in the old Bath days when he had been courting fair Madeleine de Savenaye; his head proudly uplifted, his tread firm, strong of soul, strong of body--some chord was struck in the perverted old heart that had so long revelled in unholy and gruesome pleasure.
She drew the pipe from her lips, and broke out into screeching lamentations.
"Oh, me boy, me boy, me beautiful boy!
Is it hang him they will, and he so beautiful and brave?
The murthering villains, my curse on them--a mother's curse--God's curse on them--the black murtherers!"
She scrambled to her feet, and shook her fist wildly in the face of one of the sheriff's men.
A woman in the crowd, standing rigid and motionless, enveloped in mourning robes, here suddenly caught up the words with a muttering lip.
"Murderers, who said murderers?
Don't they know who murdered him?
Murdering Moll, Murdering Moll!"
"For heaven's love, Madam," cried a man beside her, who seemed in such anxiety concerning her as to pay little heed to the solemn procession which was now attracting universal attention, "let me take you away!"
But she looked at him with a distraught, unseeing eye, and pulled at the collar of her dress as if she were choking.
Old Judy's sudden expression of opinion created a small disturbance.
The procession had to halt; a couple of officials good-naturedly elbowed her on one side.
But she thrust a withered hand expanded in protest over their shoulders, as the prisoner came forward again.
"God bless ye, honey, God bless ye: it's a wicked world."
He turned towards her; for the last time the old sweet smile sprang to lip and eye.
"Thank you, mother," he said, and raised his hand to his bare head with courteous gesture.
The crowd howled and swayed.
He passed on.
And now the end!
There is the cart; the officers draw back to make way for the man who is to help him with his final toilet.
The chaplain, too, falls away after wringing his hand again and again.
Good man, he weeps and cannot speak the sacred words he would.
Why weep?
We must all die!
How blue the sky is: he will look once more before drawing down the cap upon his eyes.
His hands are free, for he is to die as like a gentleman as may be.
Just the old blue that used to smile down at him upon his merry _Peregrine_, and up at him from the dancing waves.
He had always thought he would have liked to die upon the sea, in the cool fresh water ... a clean, brave death.
It is hard to die in a crowd.
Even the very beasts would creep into cave or bush to die decently--unwatched.
A last puff of sweeping wind in his face; then darkness, blind, suffocating.... Ah, God is good!
Here is the old ship giving and rising under his feet like the living creature he always thought her, and here is dazzling brilliant sunshine all around, so bright he scarce can see the free white-crested waves that are dashing down upon him; but he is upon the sea indeed, upon the sea alone, and the waves are coming.
Hark how they roar, see how they gather!
The brave _Peregrine_ she dips and springs, she will weather the breakers with him at the helm no matter how they rear.
On, on they come, mountain high, overwhelming, bitter drenching.
A great wave in very truth, it gathers and breaks and onward rolls, and carries the soul of Hubert Cochrane with it.
The woman in the black cloak falls as if she had been struck, and as those around her draw apart to let her companion and another man lift her and carry her away, they note with horror that her face is dark and swollen, as if the cord that had just done its evil work yonder had been tightened also round her slender throat.
CHAPTER XXXIV THE GIBBET ON THE SANDS Woman!
take up thy life once more Where thou hast left it; Nothing is changed for thee, thou art the same, Thou who didst think that all things Would be wholly changed for thee.
_Luteplayer's Song._ Pulwick again.
The whirlwind of disaster that upon that fatal fifteenth of March had burst upon the house of Landale has passed and swept away.
But it has left deep trace of its passage.
The restless head, the busy hand, the scheming brain of Rupert Landale lie now mouldering under the sod of the little churchyard where first they started the mischief that was to have such far reaching effects.
Low, too, lies the proud head of the mistress of Pulwick, so stricken, indeed, so fever-tortured, that those who love her best scarce dare hope more for her than rest at last under the same earth that presses thus lightly above her enemy's eternal sleep.
There is a great stillness in the house.
People go to and fro with muffled steps, the master with bent white head; Miss O'Donoghue, indefatigable sick nurse; Madeleine, who may not venture as far as the threshold of her sister's room, and awaits in prayer and tears the hour of that final bereavement which will free her to take wing towards the cloister for which her soul longs; Sophia, crushed finally by the sorrows she has played at all her days.
Seemingly there is peace once more upon them all, but it is the peace of exhaustion rather than that of repose.
And yet--could they but know it, as the sands run down in the hour-glass of time there are golden grains gathering still to drop into the lives of each.
But meanwhile none may read the future, and Molly fights for her life in the darkened room, the gloom of which, to the souls of the dwellers at Pulwick, seems to spread even to the sunny skies without.
* * * * * When Lady Landale was brought back to her home from Lancaster, it was held by every one who saw her that Death had laid his cold finger on her forehead, and that her surrender to his call could only be a matter of hours.
The physician in attendance could point out no reasonable ground for hope.
Such a case had never come within his experience or knowledge, and he was with difficulty induced to believe that it was not the result of actual violence.
"In every particular," said he, "the patient's symptoms are those of coma resulting from prolonged strangulation or asphyxia.
These spectacles are very dangerous to highly sensitive organisations.
Lady Landale no doubt felt for the miserable wretch in the benevolence of her heart.
Imagination aiding her, she realised suddenly the horror of his death throes, and this vivid realisation was followed by the actual simulacrum of the torture.
We have seen hysterical subjects simulate in the same manner diverse diseases of which they themselves are organically free, such as epilepsy, or the like.
But Lady Landale's condition is otherwise serious.
She is alive; more I cannot say."
According to his lights, he had bled the patient, as he would have bled, by rote, to recall to life one actually cut down from the beam.
But, although the young blood did flow, bearing testimony to the fact that the heart still beat in that deathlike frame, the vitality left seemed so faint as to defy the power of human ministration.
The flame of life barely flickered; but the powers of youth were of greater strength in the unconscious body than could have been suspected, and gradually, almost imperceptibly, they asserted themselves.
With the return of animation, however, came a new danger: fever, burning, devastating, more terrible even than the almost mortal syncope; that fever of the brain which wastes like the rack, before which science stands helpless, and the watcher sinks into despair at his impotence to screen a beloved sufferer from the horrible, ever-recurring phantoms of delirium.
Had not Sir Adrian intuitively known well-nigh every act of the drama which had already been so fatal to his house, Molly's frenzied utterances would have told him all.
Every secret incident of that storm of passion which had desolated her life was laid bare to his sorrowing heart:--her aspirations for an ideal, centred suddenly upon one man; her love rapture cruelly baulked at every step; the consuming of that love fire, resisting all frustration of hope, all efforts of conscience, of honour; how her whole being became merged into that of the man she loved and whom she had ruined, her life in his life, her very breath in his breath.
And then the lamentable, inevitable end: the fearful confrontation with his death.
Again and again, in never ceasing repetition, was that fair, most dear body, that harrowed soul, dragged step by step through every iota of the past torture, always to fall at last into the same stillness of exhaustion--appalling image of final death that wrung Adrian with untold agonies of despair.
For many days this condition of things lasted unaltered.
In the physician's own words it was impossible that life could much longer resist such fierce onslaughts.
But one evening a change came over the spirit of the sufferer's vision.
There had been a somewhat longer interval between the paroxysms; Sir Adrian seated as usual by the bed, waiting now with a sinking heart for the wonted return of the frenzy, clamouring in his soul to heaven for pity on one whom seemingly no human aid could succour, dared yet draw no shadow of hope from the more prolonged stillness of the patient.
Presently indeed, she grew restless, tossed her arms, muttered with parched lips.
Then she suddenly sat up and listened as if to some deeply annoying and disquieting sound, fell back again under his gentle hands, rolling her little black head wearily from side to side, only however to start again, and again listen.
Thus it went on for a while until the haunted, weary eyes grew suddenly distraught with terror and loathing.
Straining them into space as if seeking something she ought to see but could not, she began to speak in a quick yet distinct whisper: "How it creaks, creaks--creaks!
Will no one stop that creaking!
What is it that creaks so?
Will no one stop that creaking!"
And again she placed her cheek on the pillow, covering her ear with her little, wasted hand, and for a while remained motionless, moaning like a child.
But it was only to spring up again, this time with a cry which brought the physician from the adjacent sleeping room in alarm to her bedside.
"Ah, God," she shrieked, her eyes distended and staring as if into the far distance through walls and outlying darkness.
"I see it!
They have done it, they have done it!
It is hanging on the sands--how it creaks and sways in the wind!
It will creak for ever, for ever.... Now it spins round, it looks this way--the black face!
It looks at _me_!"
She gave another piercing cry, then her frame grew rigid.
With mouth open and fixed eyeballs she seemed lost in the frightful fascination of the image before her brain.
As, distracted by the sight of her torments, Adrian hung over her, racking his mind in the endeavour to soothe her, her words struck a chill into his very soul.
He cast a terrified glance at the doctor who was ominously feeling her pulse.
"There is a change," he faltered.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"I have told you before," he retorted irritably, "that you should attach no more importance to the substance of these delirious wanderings than you would to the ravings of madness.
It is the fact of the delirium itself which must alarm us.
She is less and less able to bear it."
The patient moaned and shuddered, resisting the gentle force that would have pressed her down on her pillow.
"Oh the creaking, the creaking!
Will no one stop that creaking!
Must I hear it go on creak, creak, creak for ever, and see it sway and sway.... Will no one ever stop it!"
Sir Adrian took a sudden resolution.
"I will," he said, low and clear into her ear.
She sank down on the instant and looked at him, back from her far distance, almost as if she understood him and the pitiful cry for the help he would have given his heart's blood to procure for her, was silent for the moment upon her lips.
"I will prepare an opiate," said the physician in a whisper.
"And I," said Sir Adrian to him, with a strange expression upon his pale face, "am going to stop that creaking."
The man of medicine gazed after him with a look of intense astonishment which rapidly changed to one of professional interest.
"It is evident that I shall soon have another mentally deranged patient to see to," he remarked to himself as he rose to seek the drugs he meant to administer.
Downstairs, Sir Adrian immediately called for René, and being informed that he had left for the island early in the afternoon and had announced his return before night, cast a cloak over his shoulders and hurried forth in the hope of meeting him upon his homeward way.
His pulses were beating well-nigh as wildly as those of the fever stricken woman upstairs in the house.
He dared not pause to reflect on his purpose, or seek to disentangle the confusion of his thoughts, for fear of being confronted with the hopelessness of their folly.
But the exquisite serenity of the night sky, where swam the moon, "a silver splendour;" the freshness of the sweeping breeze that dashed, keen from the east, over the sea against his face; all the glorious distance, the unconsciousness and detachment of nature from the fume and misery of life, brought him unwittingly to a calmer mood.
He had reached the extreme confine of the pine wood, when, across the sands that stretched unbroken to the lips of the sea, a figure advanced towards him.
"Renny!"
called Sir Adrian.
"Your honour!"
cried the man, breaking into a run to meet him.
O God!
how ghostly white looked the master's face in the moon-flood!
"My Lady----?"
"Not worse; yet not better--and that means worse now.
But there is a change.
Renny," sinking his voice and clasping the man's sturdy arm with clammy hand, "is it true they have placed him on the sands to-day?"
The man stared.
"How did your honour know?
Yes--they have done so.
It is true: the swine!
not more than an hour, in verity.
How could it have come so soon to your honour's ears?
This morning, indeed, they came from the town in a cart, and planted the great gibbet on Scarthey Point, at low water.
And to-night they brought the body, all bound in irons, and from a boat, for it was high tide, they riveted it on the chain.
And it is to remain for ever, your honour--so they say."
"Strange," murmured Sir Adrian to himself, gazing seaward with awestruck eyes.
"And did you," he asked, "hear its creaking, Renny, as it swayed in the wind?"
Again René cast a quick glance of alarm at his master.
The master had a singular manner with him to-night!
Then edging closer to him he whispered in his ear: "They say it is to hang for ever.
There is a warning to those who would interfere with this justice of theirs.
But, your honour, there came one to the island to-day, I do not know if your honour knows him, the captain's second on that vessel of misfortune.
And I believe, your honour, the dawn will never see that poor, black body hanging over yonder like a scarecrow, to spoil our view.
This man, this brave mariner, Curwen is his name, he is mad furious with us all!
He has just but come from hearing of his captain's fate, and he is ready to kill us, that we let him be murdered without breaking some heads for him.
Faith, if it could have done any good, it is not I that would have balanced about it!
But, as I told him, there was no use running one's own head into a loop of rope when that would please nobody but Mr. the Judge.
But he is not to be reasoned with.
He is like a wild animal.
When I left him," said René, dropping his voice still lower, "he was knocking a coffin together out of the old sea wood on Scarthey.
He said his captain would rest better in those boards that were seasoned with salt water.
And when I went away, your honour, and left him hammering there--faith, I thought that the coffin was like to be seasoned by another kind of salt water too."
His face twitched and the ready tears sprang to his own eyes which, unashamed, he now wiped with his sleeve after his custom.
But Sir Adrian's mind was still drifting in distant ghastly companionship.
"How the wind blows!"
he said, and shuddered a little.
"How the poor body must sway in the wind, and the chains creak."
"If it can make any difference to the poor captain he will lie in peace to-night, please God," said René.
"Ay," said Sir Adrian, "and you and I, friend, will go too, and help this good fellow in his task.
I hope, I believe, that I should have done this thing of my own thought, had I had time to think at all.
But now, more hangs upon those creaking chains than you can dream of.
This is a strange world--and it is full of ghosts to-night.
But we must hurry, Renny."
* * * * * Bound even to the tips of her burning little fingers by the spell of the opiate, Lady Landale lay in the shadowed room as one dead, yet in her sick brain fearfully awake, keenly alive.
At first it was as if she too was manacled in chains till she could not move a muscle, could not breathe or cry because of the ring round her breast; and she was hanging with the black figure, swaying, while the rusty iron links went creak, creak, creak, with every swing to and fro.
Then suddenly she seemed to stand, as it were, out of herself and to be seeing with the naked soul alone.
And what she saw was the great stretch of beach and sea, white, white, white, in the moonlight and spreading, it seemed, for leagues and leagues, spreading till all the world was only beach and sea.
But close to her in the whitest moonlight rose the great gibbet, gaunt and black, cutting the pale sky in two and athwart; and hanging from it was the black figure that swayed and swung.
And though the winds muttered and the waves growled, she could not hear them with the ears of the soul, for that the whole of this great world of sea and sand was filled with the creaking of the chains.
But now, across the bleak and pallid spaces came three black figures.
And, as she looked and watched and they drew nearer, the dreadful burthen of the gibbet swung round as if to greet them, and she too, felt in her soul that she knew them all three, though not by names, as creatures of earth know each other, but by the kinship of the soul.
This man with hair as white as the white beach, hair that seemed to shine silver as he came; and him yonder who followed him as a dog his master; and yonder again the third, in the seaman's dress, with hard face hewn into such rugged lines of grief and fury--she knew them all.
And next they reached the gibbet: and one swarmed up the black post, and hammered and filed and prised, and then, oh merciful God!
the creaking stopped at last!
Now she could hear the wash of the waves, the rush of the wholesome wind!
A mist came across her vision; faintly she saw the stiffened disfigured corpse which yet she felt had once been something she had loved with passion, laid reverently upon a stretcher, its irons loosened and cast away, and then covered with a great cloak.
Then the sea, the beach, the white moon faded and waved and receded.
Molly's soul went back to her body again, while blessed tears fell one by one from her hot eyes.
She breathed; her limbs relaxed; round the tired brain came, with a soft hush like that of gentle wings, dark oblivion.
Bending over her, for he was aware that for good or evil the crisis was at hand, the physician saw moisture bead upon the suddenly smoothed brow, heard a deep sigh escape the parted lips.
And then with a movement like a weary child's she drew her arms close and fell asleep.
* * * * * Having laid his friend to his secret rest, deep in the rock of Scarthey, where the free waves that his soul had revelled in would beat till the world's end, Sir Adrian returned to Pulwick in the early morning, spent with the long and heavy night's toil--for it had taxed the strength of even three men to hollow out a grave in such a soil.
On the threshold he was greeted by the physician.
"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messengers of glad tidings!"
From afar, by the man's demeanour, he knew that the tidings were glad.
And most blessed they were indeed to his ears, but to them alone not strange.
Throughout every detail of his errand his mind had dwelt rather with the living than the dead.
What he had done, he had done for her; and now, the task achieved, it seemed but natural that the object for which it had been undertaken should have been achieved likewise.
But, left once more with her, seeing her once more wrapt in placid sleep, whom he had thought he would never behold at rest again save in the last sleep of all, the revulsion was overpowering.
He sat down by her side, and through his tears gazed long at the lovely head, now in its pallor and emaciation so sadly like that of his dead love in the sorrowful days of youth; and he thanked heaven that he was still of the earth to shield her with his devotion, to cherish her who was now so helpless and bereft.
And with such tears and such thoughts came a forgetfulness of that anguish which in him, as well as in her, had for so long been part of actual existence.
When Tanty entered on tiptoe some hours later, she saw her niece motionless upon her pillow, sleeping as easily and reposefully as a child.
And close to her head, Sir Adrian, reclining in the arm-chair, asleep likewise.
His arm was stretched limply over the bed and, on its sleeve still stained with the red mud of the grave in Scarthey, rested Lady Landale's little, thin, ivory-white fingers.
* * * * * Thus ended Molly's brief but terrible madness.
"Then you have hope, real hope?"
asked Sir Adrian, of the physician as they met again that day in the gallery.
"Every hope," replied the man of science with the proud consciousness of having, by his wisdom, pulled his patient out of the very jaws of death.
"Recovery is now but a question of a time; of a long time, of course, for this crisis has left her weaker than the new-born babe.
Repose, complete repose, sleep: that is almost everything.
And she will sleep.
Happily, as usual in such cases, Lady Landale seems to have lost all memory.
But I must impress upon you, Sir Adrian, that the longer we can keep her in this state, the better.
If you have reason to believe that even the sight of _you_ might recall distressing impressions, you must let me request of you to keep away from the sick room till your wife's strength be sufficiently restored to be able to face emotions."
This was said with a certain significance which called the colour to Sir Adrian's cheek.
He acquiesced, however, without hesitation; and, banished from the place where his treasure lay, fell to haunting the passages for the rest of the day and to waylaying the privileged attendants with a humble resignation which would have been sorrowful but for the savour of his recent relief from anguish.
But the next morning, Lady Landale, though too weak of body to lift a finger, too weak of mind to connect a single coherent phrase, nevertheless took the matter into her own hands, and proved that it is as easy to err upon the side of prudence as upon its reverse.
Miss O'Donoghue, emerging silently from the room after her night's vigil, came upon her nephew at his post, and, struck to her kind heart by his wistful countenance, bade him with many winks and nods enter and have a look at his wife.
"Don't make a sound," she whispered to him, "and then she won't hear you.
But, faith she's sleeping so well, it's my belief if you danced a jig she would not stir a limb.
Go in, child, go in.
It's beautiful to see her!"
And Adrian, pressed by his own longing, was unable to resist the offer.
Noiselessly he stepped across the forbidden threshold and stood for a long time contemplating the sleeper in the dim light.
As he was about to creep out at length, she suddenly opened her eyes and fixed them wonderingly upon him.
Fearful of having done the cruel deed against which he had been warned, he felt his heart contract and would have rushed away, in an agony of self-accusation, when there occurred what seemed to him a miracle.
A faint smile came upon the pale lips, and narrowed ever so little the large sunken eyes.
Yes; by all that was beautiful, it was a smile--transient and piteous, but a smile.
And for him!
As he bent forward, almost incapable of believing, the lips relaxed again and the lids drooped, but she shifted her hands upon the bed, uneasily, as if seeking something.
He knelt, trembling, by her side, and as with diffident fingers he clasped the wandering hands he felt them faintly cling to his.
And his heart melted all in joy.
The man of science had reasoned astray; there need be no separation between the husband who would so dearly console, and the wife who needed help so sorely.
For a long while he remained thus kneeling and holding her hands.
It seemed as though some of the life strength he longed to be able to pour from himself to her, actually passed into her frame: as though there were indeed a healing virtue in his all encompassing tenderness; for, after a while, a faint colour came to the sunken cheeks.
And presently, still holding his hand, she fell once more into that slumber which was now her healing.
After this it was found that the patient actually became fretful and fevered again when her husband was too long absent from her side; and thus it came to pass that he began to supersede all other watchers in her room.
Tanty in highest good humour, declared that her services were no longer necessary, and volunteered to conduct Madeleine to the Jersey convent, whither (her decision being irrevocable) it was generally felt that it would be well for the latter to proceed before her sister's memory with returning strength should have returned likewise.
This memory, without which the being he loved would remain afflicted and incomplete, yet upon the working of which so much that was still uncertain must hinge--Sir Adrian at once yearned for, and dreaded it.
Many a time as he met the sweet and joyful greeting in those eyes where he had grown accustomed to find nought but either mockery or disdain, did he recall his friend's prophetic words: "Out of my death will grow your happiness."
Was there happiness indeed yet in store in the future?
Alas, happiness for them dwelt in oblivion; and, some day, "remembrance would wake with all her busy train, and swell at _her_ breast," and then---Meanwhile, however, the present had a sweetness of its own.
There was now free scope for the passion of devotedness which almost made up the sum of this man's character--a character which, to the Molly of wayward days, to the hot-pulsed, eager, impatient "Murthering Moll," had been utterly incomprehensible and uncongenial.
And to the Molly crushed in the direst battle of life, whom one more harshness of fate, even the slightest, would have straightaway hurled back into the grave that had barely been baulked of its prey, it gave the very food and breath of her new existence.
Week after week passed in this guise, during which her natural healthiness slowly but surely re-established itself; weeks that were happy to him, in later life, to look back upon, though now full of an anxiousness which waxed stronger as recovery drew nearer.
There was little talking between them, and that kept by him studiously on subjects of purely ephemeral, childish interest.
Her mind, by the happy dispensation of nature which facilitates healing by all means when once healing has begun, was blank to any impressions save the luxury of rest, of passive enjoyment, indifferent to ought but the passing present.
She took pleasure in flowers, in the gambols of pet animals, in long listless spells of cloud-gazing when the heavens were bright, in the presence of her husband in whom she only saw a being whose eyes were always beautiful with the light of kindness, whose touch invariably soothed her when fatigue or irritation marred the even course of her feelings.
She had ever a smile for him, which entered his soul like the radiance of sunshine through a stormy sky.
Thus the days went by.
Like a child she ate and slept and chattered--irresponsible chatter that was music to his ear.
She laughed and teased him too, as a child would; till sad, as it was, he hugged the incomplete happiness to his heart with a dire foreboding that it might be all he was to know in life.
But one evening, in sudden freak, she bade him open the shutters, pull the curtains, and raise the window that she might, from her pillow, look forth upon the night, and smell the sweet night air.
She had been unusually well that day, and on her face now filling out once more into its old soft oval, bloomed again a look of warm life and youth.
Unsuspecting, unthinking Sir Adrian obeyed.
It was a dim, close night, and the blush-roses nodded palely into the room from the outer darkness as he raised the sash.
There was no moon, no stars shone in the mist hung sky; there was no light to be seen anywhere except one faint glimmer in the distance--the light upon Scarthey Island.
"Is that a star?"
said Molly, after a moment's dreamy silence.
Sir Adrian started.
A vision of all that might hang upon his answer flashed through his brain.
With a trembling hand he pulled the curtain.
It was too late.
Molly sat up in bed, with a contracted brow and hands outstretched as one who would seize a tantalising escaping memory.
"I used to watch it then, at night, from this window," she whispered.
"What was it?
The light of Scarthey?"
Then suddenly, with a scream; "The light of Scarthey!"
Adrian sprang to her side but she turned from him, shrank from him, with a look of dread which seared him to the soul.
"Do not come near me, do not touch me," she cried.
And then he left her.
* * * * * Miss O'Donoghue was gone upon her journey with Madeleine.
There was none in whom he might confide, with whom seek counsel.
But presently, listening outside the door in an agony of suspense, he heard a storm of sobs.
In time these gradually subsided; and later he learnt from Moggie, whom he had hurriedly ordered to her mistress's side, that his wife was quiet and seemed inclined to rest.
On the next day, she expressed no desire to see him and he dared not go to her unsought.
He gathered a great dewy bunch of roses and had them brought to her upon her breakfast tray instead of bringing them himself as had been his wont.
She had taken the roses, Moggie told him, and laid them to her cheek.
"The master sent them, said I," continued the sturdy little matron, who was far from possessing the instinctive tact of her spouse; "an' she get agate o'crying quiet like and let the flowers fall out of her hands on the bed--Eh, what ever's coom to her, sin yesterday?
Wannut you go in, sir?"
"Not unless she sends for me," said Sir Adrian hastily.
"And remember, Moggie, do not speak my name to her.
She must not be worried or distressed.
But if she sends for me, come at once.
You will find me in the library."
And in the library he sat the long, long day, waiting for the summons that did not come.
She never sent for him.
She had wept a good deal during the day, the faithful reporter told him in the evening, but always "quiet like;" had spoken little, and though of unwonted gentleness of manner had persistently declined to be carried to the garden as usual, or even to leave her room.
Now she had gone back to bed, and was sleeping peacefully.
An hour later Sir Adrian left his home for Scarthey once again.
It is to be doubted whether, through all the vicissitudes of his existence he ever carried into the sheltering ruins a heart more full of cruel pain.
When Tanty returned to Pulwick from her travels again, it was to find in Miss Landale the only member of the family waiting to greet her.
The old lady's displeasure on learning the reason of this defection, was at first too intense to find relief in words.
But presently the strings of her tongue were loosened under the influence of the usual feminine restorative; and, failing a better listener, she began to dilate upon the situation with her wonted garrulity.
"Yes, my good Sophia, I will thank you for another cup of tea.
What should we do without tea in this weary world?
I declare it's the only pleasure left to me now--for, of all the ungrateful things in life, working for your posterity is the most ungrateful.
Posterity is born to trample on one.... And now, sit down and tell me exactly how matters stand.
My niece is greatly better, I hear.
The doctor considers her quite convalescent?
At least this is very satisfactory.
Very satisfactory indeed!
Just now she is resting.
Quite so.
I should not dream of disturbing her; more especially as the sight of me would probably revive painful memories, and we must not risk her having a bad night--of course not.
Ah, my dear, memory, like one's teeth, is a very doubtful blessing.
Far more trouble than pleasure when you have it, and yet a dreadful nuisance when you have not--But what's this I hear about Adrian?
Gone back to that detestable island of his again!
I left him and Molly smiling into each other's eyes, clasping each other's hands like two turtle-doves.
Why, she could not as much as swallow a mouthful of soup, unless he was beside her to feed her--And now I am told he has not been near her for four days.
What is the meaning of this?
Oh, don't talk to me, Sophia!
It's more than flesh and blood can bear.
Here am I, having been backward and forward over nine hundred miles, looking after you all, at my age, till I don't know which it is, Lancashire or Somerset I'm in, or whether I'm on my head or my heels, though I'm sure I can count every bone of my body by the aching of them;--and I did think I was coming back to a little peace and comfort at length.
That island of his, Sophia, will be the death of me!
I wish it was at the bottom of the sea: that is the only thing that will bring your brother to his senses, I believe.
Now he might as well be in his grave at once, like Rupert, for all the good he is; though, for that matter it's more harm than good poor Rupert ever did while he was alive----" "Excuse me, Aunt Rose," here exclaimed Sophia, heroically, her corkscrew ringlets trembling with agitation, "but I must beg you to refrain from such remarks--I cannot hear my dear brother...." But Miss O'Donoghue waved the interruption peremptorily away.
"Now it's no use your going on, Sophia.
_We_ don't think a man flies straight to heaven just because he's dead.
And nothing will ever make me approve of Rupert's conduct in all this dreadful business.
Of course one must not speak evil of those who can't defend themselves, but for all that he is dead and buried, Rupert might argue with me from now till doomsday, and he never would convince me that it is the part of a gentleman to act like a Bow Street runner.
I _hope_, my dear, he has found more mercy than he gave.
I _hope_ so.
But only for him my poor dear grand-niece Molly would never have gone off on that mad journey, and my poor grand-niece Madeleine would not be buried alive on that other island at the back of God's speed.
Ah, yes, my dear, it has been a very sad time!
I declare I felt all the while as if I were conducting a corpse to be buried; and now I feel as if I had come back from the dear girl's funeral.
We had a dreadful passage, and she was _so_ sick that I'm afraid even if she wanted to come out of that place again she'd never have the courage to face the crossing.
She was a wreck--a perfect wreck, when she reached the convent.
Many a time I thought she would only land to find herself dead.
_I_ wanted her to come to the hotel with me, where I should have popped her into bed with a hot bottle; but nothing would serve her but that she must go to the convent at once.
'I shall not be able to rest till I am there,' she said.
'And it's precious little rest you will get there,' said I, 'if it's rest you want?--What with the hard beds, and all the prayers you have to say, and the popping out of bed, as soon as you are asleep, to sing in the middle of the night, and those blessed little bells going every three minutes and a half.
There is no rest in a convent, my dear.'
But I might as well have talked to the wall.
"When I went to see her the next day, true enough, she declared that she was more content already, and that her soul had found what it yearned for--peace.
She was quite calm, and sent you all messages to say how she would pray for you and for the repose of the souls of those you loved--Rupert, your rector and all--that they may reach eternal bliss."
"God forbid!"
exclaimed the pious Protestant, in horrified tones.
"God forbid?--You're a regular heathen, Sophia.
Oh, I know what you mean quite well.
But would it not have been better for you to have been praying for that poor fellow who never lived to marry you, all these years, than to have been wasting your time weeping over spilt milk?
Tell me _that_, miss.
Please to remember, too, that you could not have come to be the heretic you are, if your great grandfather had not been the time-server he was.
Any how, you need not distress yourself.
I don't think Madeleine's prayers will do any one any harm, even Rupert; though, honestly, I don't think they are likely to be of much good in _that_ quarter.
However, there, there, we won't discuss the subject any more.
Poor darling; so I left her.
I declare I never liked her so much as when I said good-bye, for I felt I'd never see her again.
And the Reverend Mother--oh!
she is a very good, holy woman--a Jerningham, and thus, you know, a connection of mine.
She was an heiress but chose the cloister.
And I saw the buckles sable on a memorial window in the chapel erected to another sister--also a nun--they are a terribly pious family.
I knew them at once, for they are charges I also am entitled to bear, as you know, or, rather, don't know, I presume; for you have all the haziest notion of what sort of blood it is that runs in your veins.
Well, as I said, she is a holy woman!
She tried to console me in her pious way.
Oh, it was very beautiful, of course:--bride of heaven and the rest of it.
But I had rather seen her the bride of a nice young man.
Many is the time I have wished I had not been so hasty about that poor young Smith.
I don't believe he _was_ purely Smith after all.
He must have had some good blood in his veins!
Oh, of course, of course, he was dreadfully wicked, I know; but he was a fine fellow, and all these complications would have been avoided.
But, after all, it was Rupert's fault if everything ended in tragedy ... there, there, we won't speak another word about your brother; we must leave him to the Lord--and," added Miss O'Donoghue, piously under her breath, "if it's not the devil, He is playing with him, it's a poor kind of justice up there!--Alas, my poor Sophia, such is life.
One only sees things in their true light when they're gone into the darkness of the past.
And now we must make the best of the present, which, I regret to find, seems disposed to be peculiarly uncomfortable.
But I have done what I could, and now I owe it myself to wash my hands of you and look after my own soul.--I'll take no more journeys, at any rate, except to lay my bones at Bunratty; if I live to reach it alive."
CHAPTER XXXV THE LIGHT REKINDLED Look not upon the sky at eventide, For that makes sorrowful the heart of man; Look rather here into my heart, And joyful shalt thou always be.
_Luteplayer's Song._ It was on the fifth day after Sir Adrian's return to his island home.
Outwardly the place was the same.
A man had been engaged to attend to the lighthouse duties, but he and his wife lived apart in their own corner of the building and never intruded into the master's apartments or into the turret-room which had been Captain Jack's.
From the moment that Sir Adrian, attended by René, had re-entered the old rooms, the peel had resumed its wonted aspect.
But the peace, the serenity which belonged to it for so many years, had fled--fled, it seemed to Sir Adrian, for ever.
Still there was solitude and, in so far, repose.
It was something to have such a haven of refuge for his bruised spirit.
The whole morning of this day had been spent in counting out and securing, in separate lots, duly docketted and distinguished, a portion of that unwieldy accumulation of wealth, the charge of which he had accepted, against the time when it should be called for and claimed by its depositors.
The task was by no means simple, and required all his attention; but there is a blessing even in mere mechanical labour, that soothes the torment of the mind.
In the particular occupation upon which he had been engaged there was, moreover, a hidden touching element.
It was work for the helpless dead, work for that erring man but noble soul who had been his loyal friend.
As Sir Adrian tied up each bag of gold and labelled it with the name of some unknown creditor who had trusted Jack, dimly the thought occurred that it would stand material proof, call for recognition that this Captain Smith, who had died the death of a felon, had been a true man even in his own chosen lawless path.
On the table, amid the papers and books, a heap of gold pieces yet untold, remainder of his allotted day's task, awaited still his ministering hand.
But he was tired.
It was the dreamy hour of the day when the shadows grow long, the shafts of light level; and Sir Adrian sat at his open window, gazing at the distant view of Pulwick, while his thoughts wandered into the future, immediate and distant.
With the self-detachment of his nature these thoughts all bore upon the future of the woman whom he pictured to himself lying behind those sunlit windows yonder, framed by the verdure of leafy June, gathering slowly back her broken strength for the long life stretching before her.
Unlike the musings which in the lonely days of old had ever drifted irresistibly towards the past and gathered round the image of the dead, all the power of his mind was now fixed upon what was to come, upon the child, still dearer than the mother, who had all her life to live.
What would she do?
What could _he_ do for her, now that she required his helping hand no more?
Life was full of sorrow past and present; and in the future there lurked no promise of better things.
The mind of man is always fain, even in its darkest hour, to take flight into some distant realm of hope.
To those whom life has utterly betrayed there is always the hope of approaching death--but this, even, reason denied to him.
He was so strong; illness had never taken hold of him; he came from such long-lived stock!
He might almost outlive her, might for ever stand as the one ineluctable check upon her peace of mind.
And his melancholy reflections came circling back to their first starting-point--that barren rock of misery in a vast sea of despondency--there was nothing to be done.
The barriers raised between them, on his side partly by the poisonous words of his brother, partly by the phantom of that old love of which the new had at first been but an eluding reflex, and on hers, by the chilly disillusion which had fallen so soon upon her ardent nature; these sank into insignificance, contrasted to the whirl of baulked passion which had passed over her life, to leave it utterly blasted, to turn her indifference to hate.
Yes, that was the burden of his thoughts: she hated and dreaded him.
His love, his forbearance, his chivalrousness had been in vain.
All he had now to live upon was the memory of those few days when, under the spell of oblivion the beloved child had smiled on him in the unconscious love born of her helplessness and his care.
But even this most precious remembrance of the present was now, like that of the past, to be obscured by its abrupt and terrible end.
Death had given birth to the first and last avowal of love in her who had perished between his arms under the swirling waters of the Vilaine--but it was Life itself, returning life and health of mind, which had changed looks of trust and affection into the chilly stare of dread in the eyes of her whom with all the strength of his hoarded manhood he now loved alone.
The past for all its sorrows had held sweetness: the present, the future, nothing but torment.
And now, even the past, with its love and its sorrow was gone from him, merged in the greater love and sorrow of the present.
How long could he bear it?--Useless clamour of the soul!
He must bear it.
Life must be accepted.
Sir Adrian rose and, standing, paused a moment to let his sight, wandering beyond the immense sands, seek repose for a moment in the blue haze marking the horizon of the hills.
The day was pure, exquisite in its waning beauty; the breeze as light and soft as a caress.
In the great stillness of the bay the sisters sea and land talked in gentle intermittent murmurs.
Now and then the cries of circling sea-fowl brought a note of uncanny joy into the harmony that seemed like silence in its unity.
A beautiful harmonious world!
But to him the very sense of the outer peace gave a fresh emphasis to the discordance of his own life.
He brought his gaze from afar and slowly turned to resume his work.
But even as he turned a black speck upon the nearer arm of sea challenged his fleeting attention.
He stood and watched--and, as he watched, a sensation, the most poignant and yet eerie he had ever known clutched him by the heart.
A boat was approaching: a small row-boat in which the oars were plyed by a woman.
By the multi-coloured, glaring shawl (poor Jack's appreciated gift) he knew her, but without attaching name or personality to his recognition; for all his being was drawn to the something that lay huddled, black and motionless, in the stern.
He felt to the innermost fibre of him that this something was a woman too--this woman Molly.
But the conviction seized him with a force that was beyond surprise.
And all the vital heat in him fled to his heart, leaving him deadly cold.
As her face grew out of the distance towards him, a minute white patch amid the dark cloud of silk and lace that enwrapt it, it seemed as though he had known for centuries that she was thus to come to him.
And the glow of his heart spread to his brain.
When the boat was about to land, he began, like one walking in his sleep, to move away; and, slowly descending the stairs of the keep, he advanced towards the margin of the sea.
He walked slowly, for the body was heavy whilst the soul trembled within its earthly bounds.
Molly had alighted and was toiling, with her new born and yet but feeble strength upon the yielding sand, supported between René and Moggie.
She halted as she saw him approach, and, when he came close, looked up into his face.
Her frail figure wavered and bent, and she would have fallen on her knees before him, but that he opened his arms wide and caught her to him.
An exclamation rose to Moggie's lips, to die unformed under an imperious glance from René who, with shining eyes and set mouth, had stood apart to watch the momentous issue.
Adrian felt his wife nestle to him as he held her.
And then the tide of his long-bound love overflowed.
And gathering her up in his arms as if she were a child, he turned to carry the broken woman with him into the shelter, the silence of the ruins.
At the foot of the outer wall, just out of reach of high water, yet within reach of its salt spray, a little mound of red stony soil rose very slightly above the green turf; at its head, a small stone cross, roughly hewn, was let into the masonry itself.
The grave of Hubert Cochrane was not obtrusive: in a few months it would have merged again into the greensward, and its humble memorial symbol would be covered with moss and lichen like the matrix of stone which encompassed it.
Involuntarily as he passed it, the man, with his all too light burden, halted.
A flame shot through him as Molly turned her head to gaze too: he shook with a brief agony of jealousy--jealousy of the dead!
The next instant he felt her recoil, look up pleadingly and cling to him again, and he knew into the soul of his soul that the words spoken by those loyal lips--now clay beneath that clay--were coming true, that, out of his house laid desolate to him was to rise a new and stately mansion.
Grasping her closer he hurried into the sanctuary of the old room, where he had first seen her bright young beauty.
At the door he gently suffered her to stand, still supporting her with one arm about her waist.
As they entered, she cast a rapid glance around: her eyes, bedewed with rising tears, fell upon the heap of gold glinting under the rays of the sinking sun, and she understood the nature of the task her coming had interrupted.
Her tears gushed forth; catching his hand between hers, and looking up at him with a strange, wonderful humility, she pressed it to her lips.
What need for words between them, then?
He stood a little while motionless in front of her, entranced yet still almost incredulous, as one suddenly freed from long intolerable pain, when there rose once more, for the last time, before his mind's eye the ideal image that had been the companion of twenty years of his existence.
It was vivid almost as life.
He saw Cécile de Savenaye bend over her child with grave and tender look, then turn and smile upon him with the old exquisite sweetness that he had adored so madly in that far off past.
And then, it was as if she had merged into Molly.
Behold, she was gone!
there was no Cécile, only Molly the woman he loved.
Molly, whom now he seized to his heart, who smiled at him through her tears as he bent to kiss her lips.
Twilight was waning and the light of Scarthey beamed peacefully over the yellow sands; and the waves receded dragging away sand and shingle from the foot of the hidden grave.