The Project Gutenberg EBook of Cutlass and Cudgel, by George Manville Fenn This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Cutlass and Cudgel Author: George Manville Fenn Illustrator: J Schonberg Release Date: May 4, 2007 [EBook #21297] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CUTLASS AND CUDGEL *** Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England George Manville Fenn "Cutlass and Cudgel" Chapter One. “Heigh-Ho-Ha-Hum! Oh dear me!” “What’s matter, sir?” “Matter, Dirty Dick? Nothing; only, heigh-ho-ha! Oh dear me, how sleepy I am!” “Well, sir, I wouldn’t open my mouth like that ’ere, ’fore the sun’s up.” “Why not?” “No knowing what you might swallow off this here nasty, cold, foggy, stony coast.” “There you go again, Dick; not so good as Lincolnshire coast, I suppose?” “As good, sir? W hy, how can it be?” said the broad, sturdy sailor addressed. “Nothin’ but great high stony rocks, full o’ beds of great flat periwinkles and whelks; nowhere to land, nothin’ to see. I am surprised at you, sir. Why, there arn’t a morsel o’ sand.” “For not praising your nasty old flat sandy shore, with its marsh beyond, and its ague and bogs and fens.” “W ish I was ’mong ’em now, sir. W ild ducks there, as is fit to eat, not iley fishy things like these here.” “Oh, bother! W ish I could have had another hour or two’s sleep. I say, Dirty Dick, are you sure the watch wasn’t called too soon?” “Nay, sir, not a bit; and, beggin’ your pardon, sir, if you wouldn’t mind easin’ off the Dirty—Dick’s much easier to say.” “Oh, very well, Dick. Don’t be so thin-skinned about a nickname.” “That’s it, sir. I arn’t a bit thin-skinned. W hy, my skin’s as thick as one of our beasts. I can’t help it lookin’ brown. Washes myself deal more than some o’ my mates as calls me dirty. Strange and curious how a name o’ that kind sticks.” “Oh, I say, don’t talk so,” said the lad by the rough sailor’s side; and after another yawn he began to stride up and down the deck of His Majesty’s cutter White Hawk, lying about a mile from the Freestone coast of Wessex. It was soon after daybreak, the sea was perfectly calm and a thick grey mist hung around, making the deck and cordage wet and the air chilly, while the coast, with its vast walls of perpendicular rocks, looked weird and distant where a peep could be obtained amongst the wreaths of vapour. “Don’t know when I felt so hungry,” muttered the lad, as he thrust his hands into his breeches pockets, and stopped near the sailor, who smiled in the lad’s frank-looking, handsome face. “Ah, you always were a one to yeat, sir, ever since you first came aboard.” “You’re a noodle, Dick. W ho wouldn’t be hungry, fetched out of his cot at this time of the morning to take the watch. Hang the watch! Bother the watch! Go and get me a biscuit, Dick, there’s a good fellow.” The sailor showed his white teeth, and took out a brass box. “Can’t get no biscuit yet, sir. Have a bit o’ this. Keeps off the gnawin’s wonderful.” “Yah! W ho’s going to chew tobacco!” cried the lad with a look of disgust, as he buttoned up his uniform jacket. “Oh, hang it all, I wish the sun would come out!” “Won’t be long, sir; and then all this sea-haar will go.” “Why don’t you say mist?” cried the lad contemptuously. “’Acause it’s sea-haar, and you can’t make nowt else on it, sir!” “They haven’t seen anything of them in the night, I suppose?” “No, sir; nowt. It scars me sometimes, the way they dodges us, and gets away. Don’t think theer’s anything queer about ’em, do you?” “Queer? Yes, of course. They’re smugglers, and as artful as can be.” “Nay, sir, bad, I mean—you know, sir.” “No, I don’t, Dick,” cried the young officer pettishly. “How can I know? Speak out.” “Nay, I wean’t say a word, sir; I don’t want to get more scarred than I am sometimes now.” “Get out! What do you mean? That old Bogey helps them to run their cargoes?” “Nay, sir, I wean’t say a word. It’s all werry well for you to laugh, now it’s daylight, and the sun coming out. It’s when it’s all black as pitch, as it takes howd on you worst.” “You’re a great baby, Dick,” cried the midshipman, as he went to the side of the cutter and looked over the low bulwark toward the east. “Hah! Here comes the sun.” His eyes brightened as he welcomed the coming of the bright orb, invisible yet from where he stood; but the cold grey mist that hung around was becoming here and there, in patches, shot with a soft delicious rosy hue, which made the grey around turn opalescent rapidly, beginning to flash out pale yellow, which, as the middy watched, deepened into orange and gold. “Lovely!” he said aloud, as he forgot in the glory of the scene the discomfort he had felt. “Tidy, sir, pooty tidy,” said the sailor, who had come slowly up to where he stood. “And you should see the morning come over our coast, sir. Call this lovely? W hy, if you’d sin the sun rise there, it would mak’ you stand on your head.” “Rather see this on my feet, Dick,” cried the lad. “Look at that! Hurrah! Up she comes!” Up “she”—otherwise the sun—did come, rolling slowly above the mist-covered sea, red, swollen, huge, and sending blood-tinted rays through and through the haze to glorify the hull, sails, and rigging of the smart cutter, and make the faces of the man at the helm and the other watchers glow as with new health. The effect was magical. Just before all was cold and grey, and the clinging mist sent a shiver through those on deck; now, their eyes brightened with pleasure, as the very sight of the glowing orb seemed to have a warming—as it certainly had an enlivening—effect. The great wreaths of mist yielded rapidly as the sun rose higher, the rays shooting through and through, making clear roads which flashed with light, and, as the clouds rolled away like the grey smoke of the sun’s fire, the distant cliffs, which towered up steep and straight, like some titanic wall, came peering out now in patches bright with green and golden grey. Archibald Raystoke—midshipman aboard His Majesty the king’s cutter, stationed off the Freestone coast, to put a stop to the doings of a smuggler whose career the Government had thought it high time to notice—drew in a long breath, and forgot all about hunger and cold in the promise of a glorious day. It was impossible to think of such trifling things in the full burst of so much beauty, for, as the sun rose higher, the sea, which had been blood-red and golden, began to turn of a vivid blue deeper than the clear sky overhead; the mist wreaths grew thinner and more transparent, and the pearly glistening foam, which followed the breaking of each wave at the foot of the mighty cliffs, added fresh beauty to the glorious scene. “Look here, Dirty Dick,” began the middy, who burst out into a hearty fit of laughter as he saw the broad-shouldered sailor give his face a rub with the back of his hands, and look at them one after the other. “Does it come off, Dick?” he said. “Nay, sir; nothin’ comes off,” said the man dolefully. “’Tis my natur too, but it seems werry hard to be called dirty, when you arn’t.” “There, I beg pardon, Dick, and I will not call you so any more.” “Thankye, sir; I s’pose you mean it, but you’ll let it out again soon as you forget.” “No, I will not, Dick. But, I say, look here: you are a cheat, though, are you not?” “Me, sir? No!” cried the man excitedly. “I mean about the Lincolnshire coast. Confess it isn’t half so beautiful as this.” “Oh, yes it is, sir. It’s so much flatter. W hy, you can’t hardly find a place to land here, without getting your boat stove in.” “If all’s true, the smugglers know how to land things,” said Archibald, as he gazed thoughtfully at the cliffs. “Oh, them! O’ course, sir, they can go up the cliffs, and over ’em like flies in sugar basins. They get a spar over the edge, with a reg’lar pulley, and lets down over the boats, and then up the kegs and bales comes.” “Ah, well, we must catch them at it some day, Dick, and then there’ll be lots o’ prize-money for you all.” “And for you too, sir; officers comes first. But we arn’t got the prize yet, and it’s my belief as we shan’t get it.” “Why?” “Because it seems to me as there’s something not all right about these here craft.” “Of course there is, they are smugglers.” “Yes, sir, and worse too. If they was all right, we shouldn’t ha’ been cruising ’bout here seven weeks, and never got a sight o’ one of ’em, when we know they’ve been here all the time.” “I don’t understand you, Dick,” said the middy, as he watched the going and coming of the rock pigeons which flew straight for the cliff, seemed to pass right in, and then dashed out. “Well, sir, I can’t explain it. Them there’s things as you can’t explain, nor nobody else can’t.” He wrinkled up his face and shook his head, as if there were a great deal more behind. “Now, what are you talking about, Dick?” cried the lad. “You don’t mean that the smuggler’s a sort of ghost, and his lugger’s all fancy?” “Well, not exactly, sir, because if they was, they couldn’t carry real cargoes, which wouldn’t be like the smuggler and his lugger, sir, and, of course, then the kegs and lace wouldn’t be no good. But there’s a bit something wrong about these here people, and all the men thinks so too.” “More shame for them!” said the middy quickly. “Hi! Look there, Dick; what’s that?” He seized the sailor by the shoulder, and pointed where, some five hundred yards away, close under the cliff, but on the rise of the line of breakers, there was something swimming slowly along. Dick shaded his eyes, for no reason whatever, the sun being at his back, and gazed at the object in the water. “’Tarnt a porpus,” he said thoughtfully. “As if I didn’t know that,” cried the lad; and, running aft, he descended into the cabin, and returned with a glass, which he focussed and gazed through at the object rising steadily and falling with the heave of the sea. “See her, sir?” “Yes,” answered the middy, with his glass at his eye. “It’s a bullock or a cow.” “Werry like, sir. There is sea-cows, I’ve heared.” “Oh, but this isn’t one of them. I believe it’s a real cow, Dick.” “Not she, sir. Real cows lives in Lincolnshire, and feeds on grass. I never see ’em go in the sea, only halfway up their legs in ponds, and stand a-waggin’ their tails to keep off the flies. This here’s a sea- cow, sir, sartin.” “It’s a cow, Dick; and it has tumbled off the cliff, and is swimming for its life,” said the lad, closing the glass. The sailor chuckled. “What are you laughing at?” “At you, sir, beggin’ your pardon. But you don’t think as how a cow would be such a fool as to tumble off a cliff. Humans might, but cows is too cunning.” “I don’t believe you would be,” cried the lad smartly. “Put you up there in such a fog as we’ve had, and where would you be?” “Fast asleep in the first snug corner I could find,” said the sailor, as the midshipman ran aft, and descended into the cabin, to go to the end and tap on a door. There was no answer, and he tapped again. “Hullo!” “Beg pardon, sir,” began the midshipman. “Granted! Be off, and don’t bother me again.” There was a rustling sound, and a deep-toned breathing, that some rude people would have called a snore. The midshipman looked puzzled, hesitated, and then knocked again. There came a smothered roar, like that of an angry beast. “Beg pardon, sir.” “Who’s that?” “Raystoke, sir.” “What do you want? Am I never to have a night’s rest again?” All this in smothered tones, as if the speaker was shut up in a cupboard with a blanket over his head. “Wouldn’t have troubled you, sir, but—” “Smugglers in sight?” “No, sir; it’s a cow.” “A what?” “Cow, sir, overboard.” “Quite right. Milk and water,” came in muffled tones. “Beg pardon, sir, what shall I do?” “Go and milk her, and don’t bother me.” “But she’s swimming under the cliff, sir.” “Go and ask her on board, then. Be off!” Archy Raystoke knew his commanding officer’s ways, and after waiting a few moments, he said softly, after giving a tap or two on the panel— “Shall I take the boat and get her aboard?” There was a loud rustle; a bang as if some one had struck the bulkhead with his elbow, and then a voice roared— “Look here, sir, if you don’t be off and let me finish my sleep, I’ll let go at you through the door. You’re in charge of the deck. Go and do what’s right, and don’t bother me.” Bang! Another blow on the bulkhead, and rustling noise, and, as well as if he had seen it all, Archy knew that his officer had snuggled down under the clothes, and gone to sleep. But he had the permission, and calling to a couple of the crew, he soon had the small boat in the water, with Dick and another man pulling towards where the cow was slowly swimming here and there, with its wet nose and two horns a very short distance above the surface. “Now, then, Dick, is it a sea-cow?” cried Archy, as they drew nearer. “Well, sir, what else can it be?” “Ah, you obstinate!” cried the lad. “Now, then, what are we going to do? We can’t land her,” he continued, looking up at the towering cliff, “and, of course, we can’t take her in the boat.” “I’ll soon manage that,” said Dick, leaving his rowing to take up a coil of rope he had thrown into the boat, and make a running noose. “Yes, but—” “It’s all right, sir. Get this over her horns, and we can tow her alongside, and hyste her on deck in no time.” The cow proved that she was accustomed to man, for, as the boat approached, she swam slowly to meet it, raising her nose a little to utter a loud bellow, as if glad to welcome the help. So quiet and gentle was the poor creature, that there was no difficulty in passing the noose over her horns, making the line fast to a ring-bolt, so as to keep her head well above the surface, and then Dick resumed his oar; and after a glance round to make sure that there was no place where the poor beast could be landed, Archie gave the order for them to row back to where the cutter lay in the bright sunshine, five hundred yards from the shore. He looked in vain, for at the lowest part the green edge of the cliff was a couple of hundred feet above the level of the sea, and right and left of him the mighty walls of rock rose up, four, five, and even six hundred feet, and for the most part with a sheer descent to the water which washed their feet. The cow took to her journey very kindly, helping the progress by swimming till they were alongside the cutter, where the men on deck were looking over the low side, and grinning with amusement. “Pull her horns off, sir!” said Dick, in answer to a question, as he proceeded to pass the rope through a block, “not it.” “But hadn’t we better have a line round her?” “If you want to cut her ’most in two, sir. We’ll soon have her on board.” Dick was as good as his word, for the task was easy with a vessel so low in the water as the cutter; and in a few minutes the unfortunate cow was standing dripping on deck. Chapter Two. “Can any one of you men milk?” said Lieutenant Brough, a little plump-looking man, of about five and thirty, as he stood in naval uniform staring at the new addition to His Majesty’s cutter White Hawk, a well-fed dun cow, which stood steadily swinging her long tail to and fro, where she was tethered to the bulwarks, after vainly trying to make a meal off the well holystoned deck. There was no reply, the men grinning one at the other, on hearing so novel a question. “Do you men mean to say that not one amongst you can milk?” cried the lieutenant. No one had spoken; but now, in a half-shrinking foolish way, Dick pulled his forelock, and made a kick out behind. “You can?” cried the lieutenant, “that’s right; get a bucket and milk her. I’ll have some for breakfast.” “Didn’t say as I could milk, sir,” said Dick. “Seen ’em milk, though, down in Linkyshire, and know how it’s done.” “Then, of course, you can do it,” said the lieutenant shortly; “look sharp!” The men grinned, and Dirty Dick by no means looked sharp, but exceedingly blunt and foolish as he shuffled along the deck, provided himself with a bucket, and then approached the cow, which had suddenly began chewing the cud. “Look at her, mate,” said one of the sailors. “What for?” said the man addressed. “Some one’s been giving her a quid o’ bacca.” “Go on.” “But some one has. Look at her chewing.” “W hy, so she is!” said the sailor, scratching his head, as he watched the regular actions of the cow’s jaw, as she stood blinking her eyes, and swinging her tail to and fro, apparently quite content; the more so, that the sun was shining upon her warmly, and the sea water rapidly quitting her skin for the deck, where it made a rivulet into one of the scuppers. Jack the sailor is easily pleased, for the simple reason that anything is a relief from the tedium of life on ship-board; consequently the coming of the cow was like a half-holiday to them at the wrong end of the day, and they stood about nudging each other, as Dirty Dick trotted up with his bucket, Archy looking on as much amused as the men. The cow blinked her eyes, and turned her head to smell at the bucket which Dick set down on the deck, and stood scratching his head. “Well, sir, go on,” said the lieutenant—“Seems to me, now, Mr Raystoke, that we ought to have cream and fresh butter. Capital prize you’ve taken.—Do you hear, sir? Go on.” “Yes, sir. Beg pardon, sir, but you see I wants something to sit on. ’Nother bucket.” “You, sir, fetch another bucket,” said the lieutenant sharply; and another was brought, turned upside down, and, taking the first bucket, amidst the titterings of the men, Dick seated himself, leaned his head against the cow’s side, placed the vessel between his legs, and began to operate in true dairyman style upon the cow. Whack! Bang! Clatter! There was a tremendous roar of laughter from every one on board except from Dirty Dick, who was down on his back a couple of yards away, staring at the cow as if wondering how she could have gone off as she did. For the quiet-looking, inoffensive beast was standing perfectly still again, blinking her eyes and chewing her cud, but writhing and twisting her tail about as if it were an eel, after, at Dick’s first touch, raising one of her hind legs and sending the pail flying across the deck and the would-be milker backwards. “Come, come,” said the lieutenant, wiping his eyes and trying to look very important and stern, “that’s not the right way, my man. Try again.” Dick rose unwillingly, planted the upturned bucket once more in its place, and took the milking bucket from one of the men who had picked it up. Then, sitting down again rather nervously, he once more placed the vessel between his legs, stuck his head against the cow’s side, and prepared to milk. Whack! The bucket flew along the deck again, and Dick bounded away, saving himself from falling this time as he was prepared, and made a sudden leap backwards to stand wiping the perspiration from his forehead. There was another roar of laughter, and the lieutenant bade Dick try again. The man gave his officer an appealing look which seemed to say, “Tell me to board the enemy, sir, and I’ll go, but don’t ask me to do this.” “Come; be smart!” Dick turned, glanced wistfully at Archy, shaking his head at him reproachfully, sighed, and, taking the bucket again, he looked into it with his rugged brown face full of despair. “It’s quite empty, Dick,” said the middy, laughing. “Yes, sir; there’s nowt in it, and,” he added to himself, “not like to be.” Again he settled himself into his place in as businesslike a way as a farm lad would who was accustomed to the cow-shed, but the moment he began the cow gave her tail a swing, lifted her leg, and planted it in the bucket, holding it down on the deck. “Pail’s full,” cried Archy; and the men yelled with delight, their officer vainly trying to control his own mirth as Dick began to pat and apostrophise the cow. “Coom, coom! Coosh, cow, then,” he said soothingly. “Tak’ thy leg oot o’ the boocket, my bairn;” and to the astonishment of all present the cow lifted her leg and set it down again on deck. “Well done, my lad,” cried the lieutenant. “Now, then, look sharp with the milk.” Dick sighed, wiped his hands down the sides of his breeches, and began once more, but at the first touch of the big strong hands accustomed to handle capstan-bars and haul ropes, the cow gave a more vigorous kick than ever; away flew the bucket, and over went Dick on his back. He sprung up angrily now in the midst of the laughter, and touched his forehead to his commanding officer. “It arn’t no good, sir; she’s a beef cow, and not a milker.” “You don’t know your business, my lad,” said the lieutenant. “But she’s such a savage one, sir. Don’t go anigh her, sir.” “Nonsense!” said the lieutenant, going up to the cow, patting her and handling her ears and horns; to all of which attentions the animal submitted calmly enough, blinking her eyes, and gently swinging her tail. “I think I could milk her, sir,” said Archy. “Think so, Raystoke?” said the lieutenant. “I was just thinking I should have liked some new milk.” “So was I, sir. Shall I try?” “Yes,” said the lieutenant. “I believe I could do it myself. It always looks so easy. But no; won’t do,” he said firmly, as he drew himself up and tried to look stern and tall and big, an impossibility with a man of five feet two inches in height, and whose physique had always been against his advance in the profession. For as a short energetic little man he might have gained promotion; as a little fat rosy fellow the Lords of the Admiralty thought not; and so, after endless disappointments regarding better things, he had been appointed commander of the little White Hawk, and sent to cruise off the south coast and about the Channel, to catch the smugglers who were always too clever to be caught. “No,” he said shortly, as he drew himself up; “won’t do, Raystoke, though you and I are condemned to live in this miserable little cutter, and on a contemptible kind of duty, we must not forget that we are officers and gentlemen in His Majesty’s service. Milking cows won’t do. No; we must draw the line at milking cows. But I should have liked a drop for my breakfast.” “Ahoy!” cried one of the men loudly. “Ahoy yourself!” cried a voice from off the sea on the shore side, and all turned to see a boat approaching rowed by a rough-looking fisherman, and with a lad of about sixteen sitting astern, who now rose up to answer the man who shouted. “Where did he come from?” said the lieutenant. “Anybody see him put off?” “No, sir! No, sir!” came from all directions; and the lieutenant raised his glass to sweep the coast. “W hat do you want?” cried the man at the side as the boat came on, and the lieutenant bade the man ask. “Want?” shouted the lad, a sturdy-looking fellow with keen grey eyes and fair close curly hair all about his sunburned forehead. “I’ve come after our cow!” Chapter Three. “How do, Sir Risdon?” The speaker was a curious-looking man of fifty, rough, sunburned, and evidently as keen as a well- worn knife. He was dressed like a farmer who had taken to fishing or like a fisherman who had taken to farming, and his nautical appearance seemed strange to a man who was leading a very meditative grey horse attached to a heavy cart, made more weighty by the greatcoat of caked mud the vehicle wore. He had been leading the horse along what was called in Freestone a road, though its only pretensions to being a road was that it led from Shackle’s farm to the fields which bordered the cliff, and consisted of two deep channels made by the farm tumbril wheels, and a shallow track formed by horses’ hoofs, the said channels being more often full of water than of mud, and boasting the quality of never even in the hottest weather being dry. The person Blenheim Shackle—farmer and fisher, in his canvas sailor’s breeches, big boots, striped shirt, and red tassel cap—had accosted, was a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking gentleman, in a broad- skirted, shabby brown velvet coat, who was daintily picking his way, cane in hand, over the soft turf of the field, evidently deep in thought, but sufficiently awake to what was around to make him stoop from time to time to pick up a glistening white-topped mushroom, and transfer it to one of his pockets with a satisfied smile. “Ah, Master Shackle,” he said, starting slightly on being addressed. “Well, thank you. A lovely morning, indeed.” “Ay, the morning’s right enough, Sir Risdon. Picking a few mushrooms, sir?” “I—er—yes, Master Shackle. I have picked a few,” said the tall thin gentleman, colouring slightly. “I— beg your pardon, Master Shackle, for doing so. I ought to have asked your leave.” “Bah! Not a bit,” said the fisher-farmer, with a chuckle. “You’re welcome, squire.” “I thank you, Master Shackle—I thank you warmly. You see her ladyship is very fond of the taste of a fresh gathered mushroom, and if I see a few I like to take them to the Hoze.” “Ay, to be sure,” said Shackle, as he thought to himself “And precious glad to get them, you two poor half-starved creatures, with your show and sham, and titles and keep up appearances.” “I—er—I have not got many, Master Shackle. Would you like to see?” continued the tall thin gentleman, raising the flap of one of his salt-box pockets. “I don’t want to see,” growled the other, as he stood patting the neck of his old grey horse. “Been to the cliff edge?” “I—yes, Master Shackle.” “See the cutter?” “I think I saw a small vessel lying some distance off, with white sails.” “That’s the White Hawk, Luff Brough. And I wanted to speak to you, Sir Risdon.” The gentleman started. “Not about—about that—” he stammered. “Tchah! Yes. It was about that, man,” said the other. “Don’t shy at it like a horse at a blue bogey in a windy lane.” “But I told you, man, last time, that I would have no more to do with that wretched smuggling.” “Don’t call things by ugly names.” “My good man, it is terrible. It is dishonourable, and the act is a breaking of the laws of our country.” “Tchah! Not it, Sir Risdon,” cried the other so sharply, that the grey horse started forward, and had to be checked. “Not the king’s laws, but the laws of that Dutchman who has come and stuck himself on the throne. W hy, sir, you ought to take a pleasure in breaking his laws, after the way he has robbed you, and turned you from a real gentleman, into a poor, hard-pressed country squire, who—” “Hush! Hush, Master Shackle!” said the tall gentleman huskily. “Don’t rake up my misfortunes.” “Not I, Sir Risdon. I’m full o’ sorrow and respect for a noble gentleman, who has suffered for the cause of the real king, who, when he comes, will set us all right.” “Ah, Master Shackle, I’m losing heart.” “Nay, don’t do that, Sir Risdon; and as to a few mushrooms, why, you’re welcome enough; and I’d often be sending a chicken or a few eggs, or a kit o’ butter, or drop o’ milk, all to the Hoze, only we’re feared her ladyship might think it rude.” “It’s—it’s very good of you, Master Shackle, and I shall never be able to repay you.” “Tchah! W ho wants repaying, Sir Risdon? We have plenty at the farm, and it was on’y day ’fore yes’day as I was out in my little lugger, and we’d took a lot o’ mackrel! ‘Ram,’ I says to my boy Ramillies, ‘think Sir Risdon would mind if I sent him a few fish up to the Hoze?’ “‘Ay, father,’ he says, ‘they don’t want us to send them fish. My lady’s too proud!’” Sir Risdon sighed, and the man watched him narrowly. “It’s a pity too,” the latter continued, “specially as we often have so much fish we puts it on the land.” “Er—if you would be good enough to send a little fish—of course very fresh, Master Shackle, and a few eggs, and a little butter to the Hoze, and let me have your bill by and by, I should be gratified.” “On’y too glad, Sir Risdon, I will.—Think any one’s been telling tales?” “Tales?” “’Bout us, Sir Risdon.” “About us!” “You see the revenue cutter’s hanging about here a deal, and it looks bad.” “Surely no one would betray you, Master Shackle?” “Hope not, Sir Risdon; but it’s okkard. There’s a three-masted lugger coming over from Ushant, and she may be in to-night. There’s some nice thick fogs about now, and it’s a quiet sea. Your cellars are quite empty, I s’pose?” The last remark came so quickly, that the hearer started, and made no reply. “You see, Sir Risdon, we might run the cargo, and stow it all up at my place, for we’ve plenty o’ room; but if they got an idea of it aboard the cutter, she’d land some men somehow, and come and search me, but they wouldn’t dare to come and search you. I’ve got a bad character, but you haven’t.” “No, no, Master Shackle; I cannot; I will not.” “The lads could run it up the valley, and down into your cellar, Sir Risdon,” whispered the man, as if afraid that the old grey horse would hear; “nobody would be a bit the wiser, and you’d be doing a neighbour a good turn.” “I—I cannot, Master Shackle; it is against the law.” “Dutchman’s law, not the laws of Bonnie Prince Charlie. You will, Sir Risdon?” “No—no, I dare not.” “And it gives a neighbour a chance to beg your acceptance of a little drop o’ real cognac, Sir Risdon— so good in case o’ sickness. And a bit of prime tay, such as would please her ladyship. Then think how pleasant a pipe is, Sir Risdon; I’ve got a bit o’ lovely tobacco at my place, and a length or two of French silk.” “Master Shackle! Master Shackle!” cried the tall thin baronet piteously, “how can you tempt a poor suffering gentleman like this?” “Because I want to do you a bit of good, Sir Risdon, and myself too. I tell you it’s safe enough. You’ve only to leave your side door open, and go to bed; that’s all.” “But I shall be as guilty as you.” “Guilty?” the man laughed. “I never could see a bit o’ harm in doing what I do. Never feel shamed to look my boy Ramillies in the face. If a bit o’ smuggling was wrong, Sir Risdon, think I’d do it? No, sir; I think o’ them as was before me. My father was in Marlborough’s wars, and he called me Blenheim, in honour of the battle he was in; and I called my boy Ramillies, and if ever he gets married, and has a son, he’s to be Malplackey. I arn’t ashamed to look him in the face.” “But I shall be afraid to look in the face of my dear child.” “Mistress Denise, Sir Risdon? Tchah! Bless her! I don’ believe she’d like her father to miss getting a lot of things that would be good for him, and your madam. There, Sir Risdon; don’t say another word about it. Leave the door open, and go to bed. You shan’t hear anybody come or go away, and you’re not obliged to look in the cellars for a few days.” “But, my child—the old servant—suppose they hear?” “What? The rats? Tell ’em to take no notice, Sir Risdon. Good day, Sir Risdon. That’s settled, then?” “Ye–es—I suppose so. This once only, Master Shackle.” “Thank ye, Sir Risdon,” said the man. “Jee, Dutchman!” The horse tugged at the tumbril, and Sir Risdon went thoughtfully along the field, toward a clump of trees lying in a hollow, while Master Shackle went on chuckling to himself. “Couldn’t say me nay, poor fellow. Half-starved they are sometimes. Wonder he don’t give up the old place, and go away. Hope he won’t. Them cellars are too vallyble. Hallo! What now?” This to the fair curly-headed lad, who came trotting up across the short turf. “Been looking at the cutter, father?” “Oh, she don’t want no looking at. Who brought those cows down here?” “Jemmy Dadd.” “He’s a fool. We shall be having some of ’em going over the cliff. Go home and tell mother to put a clean napkin in a basket, and take two rolls of butter, a bit of honey, and a couple of chickens up to the Hoze.” “Yes, father.” “And see if there’s any eggs to take too.” “Yes, father. But—” “Well?” “Think the lugger will come to-night?” “No, I don’t think anything, and don’t you. W ill you keep that rattle tongue of yours quiet? Never know me go chattering about luggers, do you?” “No, father.” “Then set your teeth hard, or you’ll never be a man worth your salt. Want to grow into a Jemmy Dadd?” “No, father.” “Then be off.” The boy went off at a run, and the fisher-farmer led his horse along the two rutted tracks till he came down into the valley, and then went on and on, towards where a couple of men were at work in a field, doing nothing with all their might. Chapter Four. Ramillies—commonly known by his father’s men as Ram—Shackle trotted up over the hill, stopping once to flop down on the grass to gaze at the cutter, lying a mile out now from the shore, and thinking how different she was with her trim rigging and white sails to the rough lugger of his father, and the dirty three-masted vessels that ran to and fro across the Channel, and upon which he had more than once taken a trip. He rose with a sigh, and continued his journey down into the hollow, and along a regular trough among the hills, to the low, white-washed stone building, roofed with thin pieces of the same material, and gaily dotted and splashed with lichen and moss. He was met by a comfortable-looking, ruddy-faced woman, who shouted,—“W hat is it, Ram?” when he was fifty yards away. The boy stated his errand. “Father says you were to take all that?” “Yes.” “Then there’s a cargo coming ashore to-night, Ram.” “Yes, mother, and the cutter’s lying a mile out.” “Oh, dear, dear, dear!” cried the woman; “I hope there won’t be no trouble, boy.” She stood wiping her dry hands upon her apron, and gazed thoughtfully with wrinkled brow straight before her for a minute, as if conjuring up old scenes; then, taking down a basket as she moved inside, she began to pack up the various things in the dairy, while Ram looked on. “Father didn’t say anything about a bottle of cream, mother,” said the boy, grinning. “Then hear, see, and say nothing, my lad,” cried his mother. “And I don’t think he said you was to send that piece of pickled pork, mother.” “He said chickens, didn’t he?” “Said a chickun.” “Chicken means chickens,” cried Mrs Shackle, “and you can’t eat chicken without pork or bacon. ’Tisn’t natural.” “Father said two rolls of butter.” “Yes, and I’ve put three. There, these are all the eggs I’ve got, and you mind you don’t break ’em!” “Oh, I say, mother,” cried Ram, “aren’t it heavy!” “Nonsense! I could carry it on my finger; there, run along like a good boy, and you must ask for her ladyship, and be very respectful, and say, Mother’s humble duty to you, my lady, and hopes you won’t mind her sending a bit o’ farm fare.” “But she ought to be thankful to us, mother?” “And so she will be, Ram?” “But you make me speak as though we were to be much obliged to her for taking all these good things.” “You take the basket, and hold your tongue. Father’s right, you chatter a deal too much.” Ram took the basket, grunted because it was so heavy, and then set off up the hill-slope towards where the patch of thick woodland capped one side of the deep valley, and at last came in sight of a grim-looking stone house, with its windows for the most part covered by their drawn-down blinds. Under other circumstances, with fairly kept gardens and trim borders, the old-fashioned building, dating from the days of Henry the Seventh, would have been attractive enough, with its background of trees, and fine view along the valley out to the far-stretching blue sea; but poverty seemed to have set its mark upon the place, and the boy was so impressed by the gloomy aspect of the house, that he ceased whistling as he went across the front, outside the low wall, and round to the back, where his progress was stopped by the scampering of feet, and a dog came up, barking loudly. “Get out, or I’ll jump on you—d’ye hear?” said Ram fiercely. “Down, Grip, down!” cried a pleasant voice, and a girl of fifteen came running out, looking bright and animated with her flushed cheeks and long hair. “Don’t be afraid of him, Ram; he will not bite.” “I’m not afraid of him, Miss Celia; if he’d tried to bite me, I’d have kicked him into the back-garden.” “You would not dare to,” cried the girl indignantly. “Oh yes, I would,” said Ram, showing his white teeth. “Wouldn’t do for me to be ’fraid of no dogs.” The girl half turned away, but her eye caught the basket. “What’s that you came to sell?” she said. “Sell? I don’t come to sell. Father and mother sent this here. It’s butter, and chickuns, and pork, and cream, and eggs.” “Oh!” cried the girl joyously, “my mother will be so—” She stopped short, remembering sundry lessons she had received, and the tears came up into her eyes as she felt that she must be proud and not show her delight at the receipt of homely delicacies to which they were strangers. “Take your basket to the side door, and deliver your message to Keziah,” she said distantly. “Yes, miss,” said Ram, beginning to whistle, as he strode along with his basket, but he turned back directly and followed the girl. “I say, Miss Celia,” he cried. “Yes, Ram.” “You like Grip, don’t you?” “Yes, of course.” “Then I won’t never kick him, miss. Only I arn’t fond on him. Here, mate,” he continued, dropping on one knee, “give us your paw.” The dog, a sturdy-looking deerhound, growled, and closed up to his mistress. “D’ye hear? Give’s your paw. What yer growling about?” The dog didn’t say, but growled more fiercely. “Grip, down! Give him your paw,” cried the girl. The dog turned his muzzle up to his mistress, and uttered a low whine. “Says he don’t like to shake hands with a lad like me,” said Ram, laughing. “But I say he is to, sir,” cried the girl haughtily. “Give him your paw, Grip.” She took the dog by the ear and led him unwillingly toward the boy, whose eyes sparkled with delight while the hound whimpered and whined and protested, as if he had an unconquerable dislike to the act he was called upon to perform. “Now,” cried the girl, “directly, sir. Give him your paw.” W hat followed seemed ludicrous in the extreme to the boy, for, in obedience to his mistress’s orders, the dog lifted his left paw and turned his head away to gaze up at his mistress. “The wrong paw, sir,” she cried. “Now, again.” “Pow how!” howled the dog, raising his paw now to have it seized by the boy, squeezed and then loosened, a termination which seemed to give the animal the most profound satisfaction. For now it was over, he barked madly and rushed round and round the boy in the most friendly way. “There, miss,” said Ram with a grin; “we shall be friends now. Nex’ rats we ketch down home, I’ll bring up here for him to kill. Hey, Grip! Rats! Rats!” The dog bounded up to the boy, rose on his hind legs and placed his forepaws on the lad’s chest, barking loudly. “Good dog, then. Good-bye, miss; I must get back.” “Oh!” “You call, miss?” cried the boy, turning as he went whistling away. “Yes, yes, Ram,” said the girl hesitatingly, and glancing behind her, then up at the house where all was perfectly still. “Do you remember coming up and bringing a basket about a month ago?” “Yes, miss, I r’member. That all, miss?” “No,” said the girl, still hesitating. “Ram, are the men coming up to the house in the middle of the night?” “Dunno what you mean, miss.” “You do, sir, for you were with them. I saw you and ever so many more come up with little barrels slung over their shoulders.” Ram’s face was a study in the comic line as he shook his head. “Yes you were, sir, and it was wicked smuggling. I order you to tell me directly. Are they coming up to-night?” “Mustn’t tell,” said the boy slowly. “Then they are,” cried the girl, with her handsome young face puckering up with the trouble which oppressed her, and after standing looking thoughtful and anxious for a few moments, she went away toward the front of the house, while Ram went round to the side and delivered his basket. “Course we are,” he said to himself, as he went down the hill again. “But I warn’t going to blab. W hat a fuss people do make about a bit o’ smuggling! How pretty she looks!” and he stopped short to admire her—the she being the White Hawk, which lay motionless on the calm sea. “W ish I could sail aboard a boat like that, and be dressed like that young chap with his sword. I would like to wear a sword. I told father so, and he said I was a fool.” He threw himself down on the short turf, which was dotted with black and grey, as the rooks, jackdaws, and gulls marched about feeding together in the most friendly way, where the tiny striped snails hung upon the strands of grass by millions. “It’ll be a fog again to-night,” he said thoughtfully, “and she’s sure to come. Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed, as he made a derisive gesture towards the cutter; “watch away. You may wear your gold lace and cocked hats and swords, but you won’t catch us, my lads; we’re too sharp for that.” Chapter Five. Shackle was quite right; the fog did begin to gather over the sea soon after sundown, and the depressing weather seemed to have a curious effect on Farmer Shackle, who kept getting up from his supper to go and look out through the open door, and come back smiling and rubbing his hands. Mrs Shackle was very quiet and grave-looking and silent for a time, but at last she ventured a question. “Did you see her at sundown?” “Ay, my lass. ’Bout eight mile out.” “But the cutter?” “Well, what about the cutter?” “Will it be safe?” “Safe? Tchah! I know what I’m ’bout.” That being so, Mrs Shackle made no remark, but went on cutting chunks of bread and butter for her son, to which the boy added pieces of cold salt pork, and then turned himself into a mill which went on slowly grinding up material for the making of a man, this raw material being duly manipulated by nature, and apportioned by her for the future making of the human mill. “Now, Ram,” said his father, “ready?” “Yes, father,” said the boy, after getting his mouth into talking trim. “Lanthorns! Off with you.” “Lanthorns won’t be no good in the fog.” “Don’t you be so mighty clever,” growled Shackle. “How do you know that the fog reaches up far?” “Did you signal s’afternoon, father?” “Lanthorns! And look sharp, sir.” The boy went into the back kitchen, took down from a shelf three horn-lanthorns, which had the peculiarity of being painted black save in one narrow part. Into these he glanced to see that they were all fitted with thick candles before passing a piece of rope through the rings at the top. This done he took down a much smaller lanthorn, painted black all round, lit the candle within, and, taking this one in his hand, he hung the others over his shoulder, and prepared to start. “Mind and don’t you slip over the cliff, Ram,” said his mother. “Tchah! Don’t scare the boy with that nonsense,” said the farmer angrily; “why should he want to slip over the cliff? Put ’em well back, boy. Stop ’bout half an hour, and then come down.” Ram nodded and went off whistling down along the hollow for some hundred yards toward the sea, and then, turning short off to the right, he began to climb a zigzag path which led higher and higher and more and more away to his left till it skirted the cliff, and he was climbing slowly up through the fog. The lad’s task was robbed of the appearance of peril by the darkness; but the danger never occurred to Ram, who had been up these cliff-paths too often for his pleasure to heed the breakneck nature of the rough sheep-track up and up the face of the cliff, leading to where it became a steep slope, which ran in and on some four hundred feet, forming one of the highest points in the neighbourhood. “It’s plaguey dark,” said Ram to himself. “Wonder what they’re going to bring to-night?” He whistled softly as he climbed slowly on. “Fog’s thicker than it was last night. They won’t see no lanthorns, I know.” “Dunno, though,” he muttered a little higher up. “Not quite so thick up here. How old Grip growled! But he had to do it. Aren’t afraid of a dog like him. Look at that!” He had climbed up the zigzag track another fifty feet, and stopped short to gaze away at the bright stars of the clear night with the great layer of fog all below him now. “Father was right, but I dunno whether they’ll be able to see from the lugger. Don’t matter. They know the way, and they’d see the signal s’afternoon.” He whistled softly as he went on higher, laughing all at once at an idea which struck him. “Suppose they were to row right on to the cutter! Wouldn’t it ’stonish them all? I know what I should do. Shove off directly into the fog. They wouldn’t be able to see, and I wouldn’t use the sweeps till I was out of hearing, and then—oh, here we are up atop!” For the sheep-track had come to an end upon what was really the dangerous part of the journey. The zigzag and the cliff-path had been bad, but a fall there would not have been hopeless, for the unfortunate who lost his footing would go down to the next path, or the next, a dozen places perhaps offering the means of checking the downward course, but up where the boy now stood was a slope of short turf with long dry strands which made the grass terribly slippery, and once any one had fallen here, and was in motion, the slope was at so dangerous an elevation that he would rapidly gather impetus, and shoot right off into space to fall six hundred feet below on to the shore. This danger did not check Ram’s cheery whistle, and he climbed on, sticking his toes well into the short grass, and rising higher and higher till he reached some ragged shale with the grass, now very thin, and about a hundred feet back from the sea, in a spot which he felt would be well out of the sight of the cutter if those on board could see above the fog. He set down his lanthorns, two about five feet apart, lit them all, and held the third on the top of his head as he stood between the others, so that from seaward the lights would have appeared like a triangle. It seemed all done in such a matter of course way that it was evident that Ram was accustomed to the task, and supporting the lanthorn on his head, first with one and then with the other hand, he went on whistling softly an old west country air, thinking the while about Sir Risdon and Lady Graeme, and about how poor they were, and how much better it was to live at a farmhouse where there was always plenty to eat, and where his father could go fishing in the lugger when he liked, and how he could farm and smuggle, and generally enjoy life. “That’s good half an hour,” said Ram, lowering his lanthorn, opening the door, and puffing out the candle, afterwards serving the others the same. Whew—whew—whew—whew! A peculiar whishing of wings from far overhead, as a flock of birds flew on through the darkness of the night, following the wonderful instinct which made them take flight to other lands. “Wasn’t geese; and I don’t think it was ducks,” said the lad to himself, as he slung his darkened lanthorns together, and began to descend as coolly as if he had been provided by nature with wings to guard him against a fall down the cliff. “Wonder whether they saw the lights,” he said to himself. “Not much good showing them, if they were in the fog.” He went on, gradually approaching the mist which lay below him, and at last was descending the zigzag path with the stars blotted out, and the tiny drops of moisture gathering on his eyelashes, finding his way more by instinct than sight. “Come in with the tide ’bout ’leven,” said Ram, as he still descended the face of the cliff, then the path, and at last was well down in the little valley, whose mouth seemed to have been filled up in some convulsion of nature by a huge wall of cliff, under which the streamlet which ran from the hills had mined its way. As soon as he was down on level ground, the boy started for home at a trot, gave the lanthorns into his mother’s hands, and, after a brief inquiry as to his father’s whereabouts, he started off once more. The part of the cliff for which he made was exactly opposite Sir Risdon’s old house, and to a stranger about the last place where it would be deemed possible for a smuggler to land his cargo. Hence the successful landing of many a boat-load, which had been scattered the country through. For there, at the foot of the cliff, lay a natural platform or pier, almost as level as if it had been formed for a landing stage. The deep water came right up to its edge, and here, at a chosen time of tide, a lugger could lie close in, and her busy crew and their helpmates land keg and bale upon the huge ledge,—a floor of intensely hard stone, full of great ammonites, many a couple of feet across, monsters of shell-fish, which had gradually settled down and died, when the stone in which they lay had been soft mud. Revenue boats had of course, from time to time, as they explored the coast, noted this natural landing-place, but as there was only a broad step twenty feet above this to form another platform, and then the cliffs ran straight up two hundred feet slightly inclined over toward the sea, and the existence of even a moderate surf would have meant wreck, it was never even deemed likely that there was danger here, and consequently it was left unwatched. The smugglers had a different opinion of the place, and on Ram reaching the spot he was in nowise surprised to find a group of about thirty men on the cliff, clustered about the end of a spar, whose butt was run down into a hole in the rock, which lay a foot beneath the turf, and at whose end, as it rose at an angle, was a pulley block and rope run through ready for use should the lugger come....