Chapter Thirty Five.
Bigley does not Think his Father is a Dog.
We went up to the cottage two or three times, to find Mother Bonnet keeping up the fire and the table laid for a second supper; and then we went back to the beach.
Everything was perfectly still. The mine people had long before gone to bed, but we watched on, feeling sure that something was going to happen; and so it was that about half-past twelve we heard oars, and soon after made out a boat which was being pulled by four men, while as soon as we were seen a voice cried from the boat:
“Ahoy! Who’s there?”
“Father!” cried Bigley excitedly.
“Hush! Who’s there?” said old Jonas as we felt quite stunned with surprise.
“Only Bob Chowne and Sep Duncan, father.”
“No one else?”
“No one.”
“Pull, my lads!” cried old Jonas; and as the boat grated on the beach he leaped ashore.
“I shall not be a quarter of an hour,” he said. “Keep her afloat. Here, Bigley.”
He caught his son’s arm and they went up to the cottage together at a trot, and in less than a quarter of an hour they were back again, and old Jonas clapped me on the shoulder.
“Look here, Duncan,” he said, “I always liked you, my boy, because you and Bigley were such mates.”
“Are you going to take Big away, sir?” I said.
“No, boy, but I’m going to ask you to be a true mate to him still. He’s going to stay with Mother Bonnet.”
“I will, sir,” I said.
“That you will, my lad,” he cried, shaking hands. “Now, Bigley, no snivelling—be a man! Good-bye! I’ll write.”
He shook hands with his son, seized a bag they had brought down between them, and the next minute he was on board the boat and they disappeared into the darkness.
“How came he back again, Big?” I whispered as we listened to the beat of the oars which came from out of the gloom.
“Doubled back along with the French boat La Belle Hirondelle. They saw her about ten miles away.”
“Was it the Hirondelle we saw last night!” I said.
“Yes,” said Bigley shortly. “Be quiet.”
“I think your father might have said good-bye to me, Bigley Uggleston,” said Bob Chowne shortly. “I’ve done nothing to offend him. But it don’t matter. Never mind.”
There seemed to be nothing to wait for, but we hung about the beach till daylight, and then went in and had some breakfast, which Mother Bonnet, who was red-eyed with weeping, had ready for us, and then we went down to the beach again.
By this time the mine people were out once more, and they came and had a look, but there was nothing to see, and no one told the sturdy fellows or their families that Jonas Uggleston had been back. As for me, I only meant to tell my father when he returned.
So the mining people went to work, and we lads stood gazing out to sea, till suddenly Bob Chowne shouted:
“I can see the cutter.”
He was quite right, for it proved to be the cutter, but there was no prize coming slowly behind; and when at last she came close in, the boat was lowered, and we saw my father step in and come ashore with the lieutenant, we were ready to meet them.
I wanted to speak to my father about what had happened in the night, but I had no opportunity, and it seemed that he had only been brought ashore so that he could go up to the mine, give some orders, and then return, when he was to show the lieutenant where the cave lay to which the smugglers had taken their cargo of contraband goods.
The lieutenant walked up to the mine works with my father, and as he evidently wished me to stop, I remained by the cutter’s boat with my companions, and, boy-like, we began to joke the sailors for not catching the lugger.
They took it very good-temperedly, and laughed and said no one had been much hurt.
“He was too sharp for us,” the coxswain said grinning; “and—my! How he did do the skipper over getting away. He’s a cunning old fox, and no mistake.”
“How did you lose the lugger?” I said.
“Oh, it was too dark to do any more, and she went right in among the rocks about Stinchcombe, where we were obliged to lie to and wait for daylight. He’s a fine sailor, I will say that of him.”
“What, your lieutenant?” I said.
“Oh, he’s right enough. I meant smuggler Uggleston. He’s got away, and it don’t matter; we’re bound to have a lot o’ prize-money out of the cargo we’re going to seize.”
“Are you going to seize it this morning?” I asked.
“Yes, my lad; and here comes the skipper back along o’ the old cappen.”
They were close upon us already, and we boys looked eagerly at the lieutenant, longing to go with them, but not being invited of course.
It was too much for Bob Chowne though, who spoke out.
“I say, officer,” he cried, “we three saw the cargo landed night before last.”
“You three boys?”
“Yes,” said Bob, “we were all there.”
“Jump in then, all of you,” said the lieutenant.
We wanted no further asking, and the men pushed off and rowed straight for the little bay, where in due time we arrived in face of the caves.
“And a good snug place too,” said the lieutenant. “Good sandy bottom for running the lugger ashore. Nice game must have been carried on here. Come, Captain Duncan,” he continued in a jocular tone, “you knew of this place years ago.”
“I give you my word of honour, sir,” replied my father coldly, “that I was quite unaware of even the existence of the caverns till a few days ago; and even then I did not know that they were applied to this purpose.”
“Humph! And you so near!”
“You forget, sir, that my house is two miles and a half along the coast, and I have only lately purchased the Gap.”
My father was evidently very much annoyed, but as a brother officer he felt himself bound in duty to put up with his visitor’s impertinences, and accordingly he said very little that was resentful.
The men rowed on steadily, and as my father grew more reserved in his answers the officer turned to Bob Chowne.
“So you were there when the cargo was landed, were you?” he said.
“Yes,” replied Bob coolly.
“Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant sharply, “recollect that you are addressing an officer.”
“Doctors don’t say sir to everybody they meet,” retorted Bob quickly.
“Doctors?”
“Well, my father’s a doctor, and I’m going to be one, so it’s all the same. I can make pills.”
The lieutenant frowned and looked terribly fierce; but his men had burst into a hearty laugh at the idea of Bob making pills, so he turned it off with a contemptuous “Pooh!”
“Well,” he said, “how came you to be there when the cargo was landed?”
“Thought you knew,” said Bob; “we were shut in by the tide. Our boat had drifted away.”
“You three boys?”
“Yes, and Captain Duncan,” replied Bob.
“And what did the smuggler say to you?” said the lieutenant, turning sharply on me.
“Say to us, sir?” I replied.
“Yes, answer quickly, and don’t repeat my words.”
“I didn’t know smugglers spoke to people they could not see. Hasn’t my father told you that we were in hiding?”
The lieutenant was about to say something angry; but we were coming alongside of the bay, and my father stood up, very unwillingly as I could see by his manner, and guided the men so that they might avoid the rocks.
“I suppose we could almost run the cutter in here, Captain Duncan, eh?”
“Oh, yes, I think so,” said my father, “on a very calm day. There is deep water all along, and a way could be found with ease.”
“Such as the lugger people knew, of course. Steady, my lads, steady; that’s it, on that wave.”
The men followed his instructions, and the boat was beached pretty close to the entrance to one cavern, the water being high, and we all jumped out.
“Get the lantern!” cried the lieutenant; “and light it now, coxswain.”
This was done, and two men being left in charge, the officer gave the order, swords were drawn, and he led the way in.
As he reached the mouth he placed two men as sentries at the entrance of the other hole where the water rained down, and turned to my father.
“You need not enter unless you like, captain. We may have a brush, for some of the scoundrels are perhaps still here. By the way, where’s the ledge where you people were hidden?”
“Up there,” said Bob promptly, and I saw the officer scan the place.
“What, coming?” said the lieutenant.
“Yes,” replied my father; “but I think these lads ought to stand aside in case of danger.”
“Yes,” was the short response. “Here, boys, you stop here. You are not armed,” he added with a sneering laugh.
“I only wish we had your father’s cutlasses here, Sep,” whispered Bob, “and we’d show them.”
We stood back as the man went first with the lantern, closely followed by the lieutenant with his drawn sword; and we waited as the last disappeared in the opening, fully expecting to hear shots fired.
But all was perfectly still, and Bigley was creeping slowly nearer and nearer to the opening when Bob Chowne made a rush.
“Here, you chaps get all the fun,” he exclaimed. “I shall go in and see.”
The two sentries laughed, for they were big brown good-tempered looking fellows, and in we all three went, to find ourselves in quite a long rugged passage, running upward and opening into a big hollow at the end, where the lantern was being used to peer in all directions, till it was evident that nothing was there.
“We’re in the wrong hole,” said the officer. “Now, my lads, forward!”
He went sharply out into the daylight again, to where the two sentries were on guard, and entered quickly, passing through the dripping water closely followed by his men.
But there was not room for all, and he backed out directly.
“There’s nothing here,” he cried angrily.
“Try the other hole,” said Bob, running to where we had found the narrow opening behind an outlying buttress of rock.
Bob stepped in first this time, the lieutenant following, and then the man with the lantern.
“Bravo, boy!” cried the lieutenant; “this is the place. Rather awkward, but here we are. Come along, my lads.”
The sailors scrambled in as quickly as they could, and we all followed rather slowly down what was a jagged crack in the rock about two feet wide and sloping, so that one had to walk with the body inclined to the right.
This at the end of about twenty feet opened out into quite a large rough place, which contained some old nets and tins, along with about a dozen half rotten lobster-pots, but nothing more.
“There must be another place somewhere,” cried the lieutenant after convincing himself that there was no inner chamber. “Lead on, coxswain, with the light.”
The man went on, and we were left to the last, hearing one of them whisper to his mate:
“This here’s a rum game, Jemmy; don’t look like much prize-money after all.”
By the time we boys were out the lieutenant had disappeared with the coxswain in the first cavern, and his men followed, leaving my father outside.
“Sep,” he said, as I joined him, “where do you think the men went in?”
“That first place,” I said decisively.
“Yes,” said Bob Chowne; “that’s the hole.”
“So I felt certain,” said my father; and Bigley stood aside looking on, with his forehead full of wrinkles.
Another minute and the lieutenant was out with his men, the officer furious with rage.
“Captain Duncan, are you in league with these smuggling dogs, or are you not?”
“What do you mean, sir?” cried my father haughtily.
“Well, look here, sir,” cried the officer moderating his tone. “You’ve brought us here on a fool’s errand. Where’s this cargo that you saw landed?”
“How can I tell, sir? You appealed to me as an officer to show you where it was landed. It was here. The men were going in and out of that cave for two or three hours.”
“Then there must be an inner place,” cried the lieutenant, stamping his foot with rage. “Come and search again, my lads.”
They disappeared for another ten minutes or so, and then came back with the officer fuming with passion.
“Fooled!” he exclaimed aloud, “fooled! Here, back to the boat.”
Everybody embarked again, and the boat was rowed back in silence to the Gap, where we landed, and the lieutenant stepped out afterwards leaving his men afloat.
“Now, then, Captain Duncan,” he said, “before I go let me tell you that I shall report your conduct at headquarters. I consider that I have been fooled, sir, fooled.”
“I had thought of doing the same by you, sir,” retorted my father coldly; “but I do not think it worth while to quarrel with an angry disappointed man, nor yet to take further notice of your hasty words.”
“What do you mean, sir? What do you mean?” blustered the lieutenant.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I see! Here’s a game!” roared Bob Chowne, dancing about in the exuberance of his delight.
“What do you mean, sir? How dare you!” roared the officer turning upon Bob.
“Why, I know,” cried Bob. “What a game! Don’t you see how it was?”
“Will you say what you mean, you young idiot?” cried the lieutenant.
“Oh, I say, it wasn’t me who was the idiot,” cried Bob bluntly. “Why, you let smuggler Uggleston dodge back in the night. He was here about twelve or one, and he and his men must have been and fetched all the stuff away again, while you and your sailors were miles away in the dark.”
“Sep,” cried my father, as the lieutenant stood staring with wrath, “was Jonas Uggleston back here in the night?”
“Yes, father,” I replied.
“And you did not tell me?”
“I have had no opportunity, father; and I did not think anything of it. He was here about one.”
“That’s it, then,” cried my father. “Lieutenant, he has been too sharp for you. I noted that the sand was a good deal trampled. He has been back with his men and cleared out the place in your absence.”
The lieutenant stood staring as if he could not comprehend it all for a minute or two, and then flushing with rage he stamped about.
“The scoundrel! The hound! The thief!” he roared. “I’ll have him yet, though, and when I do catch him I’ll hang him to the yard-arm, like the dog he is.”
“Dog yourself,” cried a fierce voice that we did not recognise, it was so changed; and Bigley struck the lieutenant full in the face with the back of his hand. “My father is a better man than you.”
Chapter Thirty Six.
The Lugger’s Return.
The lieutenant staggered back from the effects of the blow. But recovering, he whipped out his sword and made at Bigley, who hesitated for a moment and then dashed up the cliff-side, dodging in and out among the rocks, and he was twenty yards away before the lieutenant had gone ten, and gaining at every leap.
Seeing that he could not catch him, the lieutenant drew a pistol from his belt and would have fired, but my father caught his arm.
“Stop, sir,” he cried; “he is but a boy.”
By this time the coxswain and four men had leaped ashore and run to their leader’s side.
“Up and bring him back,” shouted the lieutenant fiercely, and wresting his arm free he fired at Bigley, but where the bullet went nobody could say, it certainly did not go very near Bigley, who knew every rock and crevice on the side of the headland, and wound his way in and out, and higher and higher, leaving his pursuers far behind.
“Forward! Quick!” roared the lieutenant; but it did not seem to me that the sailors got on very quickly, for they kept on losing ground, and it was so hopeless an affair at last that they were called off, and descended to follow their officer to the boat.
He did not come near us where we stood in a group, and we saw him spring into the gig; but all at once he leapt out again and walked swiftly to us.
“Here,” he said authoritatively, as if he had forgotten something, and he pointed to the cottage. “Whose house is that?”
“Mine,” said my father promptly.
The lieutenant looked disappointed, and turned sharply back again.
“It is my house,” said my father as soon as the officer was out of hearing, and as if speaking to himself. “If he had said, ‘who lives there?’ it would have been a different thing. He would have burnt and destroyed everything.”
We stood watching the gig as the lieutenant returned and it was pushed off. It was not long reaching the cutter, whose sails were hoisted rapidly, and, filling as they were sheeted home, the graceful vessel began to glide away from the shore, and soon afterwards was careening over and heading for the west in pursuit of the lugger or luggers, whichever it might be.
“There, my lads,” said my father, “you may go and look for your companion. He can come down safely now.”
“Will the cutter come back, father?” I said.
“I daresay it will, to see if Uggleston’s lugger returns; but I don’t think the lugger will, and certainly Uggleston will not dare to return here to live for some time to come.”
“Then what’s to become of Bigley?” cried Bob Chowne.
“His father must settle that, my lad.”
“But till he does, father?” I said. “Will he stay here?”
“Certainly, my boy. Why not? His father rents the cottage, and his son has a perfect right there.”
“You will not turn him out, then, because his father is a smuggler?”
“I always try to be a just man, Sep,” replied my father quietly.
“Ahoy!” came from high up over our heads, and, looking up there, we could see Bigley standing on the highest part of the headland waving his cap.
“Come down!” shouted Bob and I in a breath, and he heard us, gave his cap another wave, and disappeared.
He was not long in scrambling down to us, my father stopping till he came up looking very much abashed.
“Well, sir,” said my father sternly. “What have you to say for yourself for striking one of his majesty’s officers?”
Bigley’s manner changed directly, his face flushed and he set his teeth as he raised his head boldly.
“He called my father a dog and a thief,” cried Bigley fiercely, “and—and—I don’t want to offend you, Captain Duncan, but I couldn’t stand by and hear him without doing something.”
“And you did do something, my lad,” said my father, holding out his hand—“a very risky something. But there, I’m not going to say any more about it. Now, tell me; your father has given you some instructions, I suppose?”
Bigley hesitated a moment.
“Yes, sir; he said that he should not be able to come back here, but he would write to me.”
“Yes; go on.”
“And that I was to stay with Mother Bonnet as long as you would let me, and when you turned us out, we were to take lodgings in Ripplemouth.”
“When I turned you out!” said my father angrily. “Pish! Ah, well, stop till I turn you out then. There, I must go now, Sep; this will be a broken day for you. Bring your two friends over to the Bay, and we’ll have tea and dinner all together.”
He turned off and left us, but I saw him give Bigley a very friendly nod and smile as he went away, and I felt sure that he rather admired what Bigley had done, though he kept up the idea of being very fierce and indignant with him for striking an officer of the royal navy.
As soon as we were well alone Bob Chowne threw himself on the ground and began to laugh and wipe his eyes.
“Oh, what a game!” he cried, as he rolled about. “Didn’t old Big run?”
“Enough to make anybody run when a bullet was after him,” I said.
“But how he did go up the rocks. Just like a big rabbit. I say, Big, you were frightened.”
“Yes, that I was,” said Bigley frankly; “I don’t know when I felt so scared. Made sure he would hit me, and then that the sailors would cut me down with their swords.”
This disappointed Bob, who had fully expected to hear a denial of the charge of fear, and he sat up and stared at the speaker, who turned to me then.
“Why, Sep,” he said, “they must have worked hard in the night to get all those things away. Do you know, I’m sure that must have been the Hirondelle. I wonder how they managed to get off.”
“I know,” I said suddenly.
“Yah! Not you,” cried Bob. “Hark at old cock Solomon, who knows everything.”
“I don’t care what you say,” I replied. “I’m sure this is how they’ve got away.”
“Well, let’s hear,” said Bob, and Bigley’s eyes flashed with eagerness.
“Why, they haven’t got away at all,” I said. “They wouldn’t dare to go down Channel after getting the cargo out of the cave, for fear of meeting the cutter just at daybreak.”
“And you think they’ve gone up towards Bristol?” cried Bigley excitedly.
“Yes,” I said; “and they are lying up somewhere over yonder on the Welsh coast till to-night, when they’ll be off again.”
“That’s it,” said Bigley. “I’m sure that’s it.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Bob sharply. “And if it is true, I’m ashamed of you both. Here’s Sep Duncan taking part with the smugglers, and old Big hitting the officers in the eye, and bragging about his father. I shall look out for some fresh mates, that’s what I shall do.”
“Come and have some tea and dinner first, Bob,” I said mockingly.
“Yes, I’ll have some food first, for I’m getting hungry. My, what a game, though! How old Big did run when the lieutenant was going to give him a pill! Ha, ha, ha!”
We strolled about the shore, and then went into the cottage for a bit, and that afforded Bob another opportunity for a few sneers about this being Bigley’s home now, addressing him as the master of the house, bantering him about being stingy with his cider, and finally jumping up as he saw my father coming down from the mine, and then we all went over to the Bay to our evening meal.
That night Bigley and I went part of the way home with Bob, and then I walked part of the way home with Bigley in the calm and solitude of the summer darkness.
We walked along the cliff path, and were about half-way to the Gap when Big caught me by the arm and pointed down below, about a quarter of a mile from the cliff, where, stealing along in the gloom, I caught sight of the sails of a small vessel, and directly after of those of another gliding on close at hand. They were so indistinct at first that I could see but little. Then I could make out that they were both luggers by their rig, and that one of them had three masts and the other only two.
Chapter Thirty Seven.
Suspicions of Danger.
Like all bits of excitement the coming of the cutter was followed by a time of calm. Bigley seemed to have settled down to a regular life at the cottage, spending part of his days looking out to sea, and the other part up at the mine, where my father seemed now to give him always a very warm welcome.
We saw the revenue cutter off the Gap now and then, and we had reason to believe that the crew had landed and thoroughly examined the caves again, but we saw nothing of them; it was only from knowing that one evening the little vessel lay off the shore about a mile to the west of the Gap, and Bigley went along the shore at next low tide, and said afterwards that he thought he could make out footprints, but the tide had washed over everything so much that he was not sure.
He heard no news of his father as week after week rolled by, till all at once came a letter from Dunquerque, inclosing some money, and telling him that he had got away safely, and was quite well.
“He said,” Bigley told me in confidence, for he did not show me the letter; “he said that if your father behaved badly to me I was to go away at once with Mother Bonnet and take lodgings at Ripplemouth, just as he told me; but I don’t think I shall have to do that.”
I laughed as he told me this, and then asked him if he was going to write back to his father.
“No,” said Bigley; “he says I am not to write, because it might give people a clue to where he is. I don’t care, now I know that he is quite well.”
Then the time glided on, with everybody at the mine leading the busiest of busy lives. I was there every day, and the men won the lead, others smelted it and cast it into pigs, then the pigs were remelted and the silver extracted and ingots cast, which were stored up, after being stamped and numbered, down in the strong cellar beneath the counting-house floor.
I did a great deal: sometimes I was down in the mine, whose passages began to grow longer; sometimes I was entering the number of pigs of lead that were taken over to Ripplemouth, and shipped at the little quay for Bristol; sometimes I was watching the careful process by which the silver was obtained from the lead, and learning a good deal about the art, while Bigley seemed to be growing more and more one of us, and worked with the greatest of earnestness over the various tasks I had to undertake.
“No news of old Jonas, father?” I said one day as we were walking along the cliff path to the mine, a lugger in the offing having brought him to my mind.
“No, Sep,” said my father; “but I’m afraid that we shall have a visit from him some day, and a very unpleasant one.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because he will never forgive me about that cave business. I saw the look he gave me, my boy. He does not seem to have any very great ideas of the meaning of the word honour, and he evidently could not see then that I was bound to state what I had seen.”
“But do you think he will owe you a grudge for that, father?”
“I am sure of it, my boy. He never forgave me for buying the Gap, and now I’m afraid this exposure of his smuggling tricks has made matters ten times worse.”
“Oh, I hope not, father,” I said eagerly.
“So do I, my boy; but I have very little faith in him, and I always dwell in expectation that some day or other, or some night or another, he will land with a strong party, and come up here to work all the mischief he can—perhaps carry off all our silver.”
“But, father,” I exclaimed, “that would be acting like a pirate.”
“Well, Sep, there is not much difference between a pirate and a smuggler. They are both outlaws, and not very particular about what they do.”
“Oh, but I hope we shall have no trouble of that sort, for Bigley’s sake.”
“So do I, Sep, but I feel this, that we are not safe, for we have made a dangerous enemy—one who can descend upon us at any time, and then get away by sea. What can we do if he makes such an attack?”
“Fight,” I said bluntly. “We have plenty of arms, and the men will do just what they are bid.”
“Yes,” said my father; “but I should be deeply grieved for there to be any bloodshed. I’ve known what it is in my early days, Sep, and in spite of all that has been said about honour and glory there is always an unpleasant feeling afterwards, when in cool blood you think about having destroyed your fellow-creatures’ lives.”
“Yes, father,” I said; “there must be, and we don’t want to do it; but if anyone comes breaking into the mine premises to steal, they must take the consequences.”
“Yes, Sep,” said my father sternly, “they must, for I have enough of the old fighting-man left in me to make me say that I should not give up quietly if I was put to the proof.”
I thought a good deal about my father’s words, but though I regularly made Bigley my confidant, and told him pretty well everything, I did not tell him that, for I knew it would make him very uncomfortable, and besides it seemed such a horrible idea for us to have to be fighting against his father—our men against his.
The time went on, and we kept on hearing about the French war, but we seemed to be, away there in our quiet Devon combe, far from all the noise and turmoil, and very little of the news excited us.
We knew when there was a big fight, and when one side got the better of the other; but to read the papers we always appeared to get the victory. But, as I say, it did not seem to concern us much, only when the country traffic was a bit disturbed, and our lead began to accumulate for want of the means of sending it away.
“I don’t so much mind the lead, Sep,” my father used to say; “what I mind is the silver.”
This was when the store beneath the counting-house became charged with too valuable a collection of ingots; and the second time this happened my father suddenly altered his arrangements.
“I can’t rest satisfied that all is safe,” he said, “when I am away at the Bay, and this place is only depending upon locks and keys.”
“What shall you do then, father?” I asked. “Have a watchman!”
He nodded.
“Who? Old Sam?”
“No,” he said; “ourselves, Sep, my lad. It will not be so comfortable, but while the country is so disturbed we will come and live over here.”
No time was lost, and in two days the upper rooms of the counting-house and store had been filled with furniture, and Kicksey came over for the day, and went back at night, after cooking and cleaning for us.
As my father said, it was not so comfortable as being at home, but we were ready enough to adapt ourselves to circumstances; and any change was agreeable in those days.
Bigley was delighted, for it robbed his rather lonely life of its dulness, and he never for a moment realised why the change had been made.
But though we were always on the spot, my father relaxed none of his old preparations. Every other day there was an hour’s drill or sword practice. Sometimes an evening was taken for the use of the pistols; and, by degrees, under my father’s careful instructions, the little band of about twelve men had grown into a substantial trustworthy guard of sturdy fellows, any one of whom was ready to give a good account of himself should he be put to the test.
At first my father had been averse to Bigley drilling with us, but he raised no obstacle, for he said to me, “We can let him learn how to use the weapons, Sep, but it does not follow that he need fight for us.”
“And I’m sure he would not fight against us, father,” I said laughing.
So Bigley grew to be as handy with the cutlass as any of the men, and no mean shot with the pistol.
As for Bob Chowne, he came over and drilled sometimes, and he was considered to be our surgeon—that is, by Bigley and me—but he was not with us very often, for his father kept him at work studying medicine, meaning him to be a doctor later on; but, as Bob expressed it, he was always washing bottles or making pills, though as a fact neither of these tasks ever came to his share.
Four months—five months—six months had gone by since the adventure with the cutter, and Bigley had only had two or three letters sending him money, and saying that his father was quite well, but there was not a word of returning; and it struck me old Jonas must have had means of knowing that his son was still in the old cottage, or he would not have gone on sending money without having an answer back.
The rumours about the war seemed to affect us less than ever, and I was growing so accustomed to my busy life that I thought little of my old amusements, save when now and then I went out for an evening’s fishing with Bigley, the old boat having been brought over from Ripplemouth, none the worse for its trip.
The mine went on growing more productive, and, in spite of the great expenses, it seemed as if my father would become a wealthy man. Lead was sent one way, silver another, and when the latter accumulated, as we were on the spot, my father dismissed his anxiety, and we were gradually becoming lulled into a feeling of repose, save when Bigley talked about his father, and then once more a little feeling of doubt and insecurity would slip in, as might have been the case in the olden times when the people near shore learned that some Saxon or Danish ship was hovering about the coast.
Chapter Thirty Eight.
The Landing of the French.
It was nine months now since the scene, at the little bay, when one soft spring evening Bigley and I were walking slowly back to the Gap, after seeing Bob Chowne part of the way home to Ripplemouth. The feeling of coming summer was in the air, the birds were singing in the oak woods their last farewell to the day, and from time to time we startled some thrush and spoiled his song.
Every now and then a rabbit gave us a glance at his furry coat as he sprang along, but soon it grew so dark that all we saw after each rustle was the speck of white which indicated his cottony tail, and soon even that was invisible.
The thin sharp line of the new moon hung low in the west, and the sea had quite a steely gleam in the dying day, while the stars were peeping out and beginning to look at themselves in the glassy surface of the sea.
Here and there we could see the coasting vessels going up and down the Channel, and just beneath the sinking moon there was a larger vessel coming up with the tide, but it was getting too dark to make out what it was. We kept along by the cliff path, and as we came to the descent that led to the cottage Bigley and I parted, little thinking what an eventful night it was to prove.
“You’ll come up by and by,” I shouted, when he was about half-way down; and he sent back a cheery reply that he would, as I went on along the Gap.
I found my father seated before his books entering some statement by the light of a candle, and as I came in he thrust the book from him wearily.
“Oh, there you are, then,” he said good-humouredly. “Look here, young fellow, I don’t see why I should go on worrying and toiling over this mine just to make you well off. I was happy and comfortable enough without it, and here am I wearing myself out, getting no pleasure and no change, and all for you.”
“Sell it then, father,” I said. “I don’t want you to work so hard for me. I don’t want to be rich. Give it up.”
“No,” he said smiling; “no, Sep. It gives me a great deal of care and anxiety, but I do not mind. The fact is, Sep, I was growing fat and rusty, and loosing my grip on the world. A do-nothing life is a mistake, and only fit for a pet dog, and him it kills. I wanted interesting work, and here it is, and I am making money for you at the same time.”
“But I don’t think I want much money, father,” I said.
“Maybe you will when you grow older.”
“I wish I could help you better,” I said.
“Help me? Why, I am quite satisfied with you, my boy. You help me a great deal. There, put away those books, and let us have some supper. I find we have nearly eight thousand ounces of silver down below here, and it’s far too much to have in our charge. We must get it away, Sep, as soon as we can.”
“What would eight thousand ounces be worth?” I said.
“Somewhere about two thousand pounds, my lad. But there, let’s have some supper, and then I should like to have a pipe for half an hour in the soft fresh air.”
A tray was already waiting upon a side-table, and bringing it to occupy the place where the books had lain, we sat down and ate a hearty meal before we had done, after which I lifted the tray aside, and handed my father the tobacco jar.
In a few minutes he began to fill his pipe, and when he had lit it, I sat watching him and noticed how the soft thin smoke began to curl about his face, and float up between me and the row of cutlasses and pistols with the belts that were arranged along the wall.
“Now, let’s have ten minutes’ fresh air before we go to bed,” he said rising. “You don’t want to come, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll come,” I replied, and I stepped out with him into the soft transparent night.
“Ah, that’s delicious!” he exclaimed as we walked a little way down the Gap, and then struck up the path leading to the high cliff track.
It was very dark, but at the same time clear; and as we paused after a time there were the lights below us in the new cottages, while above the stars shone out brilliantly and twinkled as if it was about to be a frost.
“What a calm peace there is over everything!” said my father thoughtfully. “Why, Sep, my very weariness seems to be a pleasure, it is so full of the promise of rest.”
“I’m tired too,” I said. “I’ve been walking a good way to-day. How plainly you can hear the sea!”
“Yes, the wind must be from the north. But how soft, and sweet, and gentle it is! What is that?”
“What?” I replied listening, for I had not detected a sound.
“That noise of trampling feet. Don’t you hear?”
I listened.
“Yes, it is as if some people were coming along from the beach.”
“What people should be coming along from the beach?” exclaimed my father in an excited manner.
“Or is it the murmur of the waves, father?” I said.
“No,” he whispered after listening; “there are people coming, and that was a sharp quick order. Run down to the cottages and warn the foreman. Follow out the regular orders. You know. If it is a false alarm it will not matter, for it will be exercise for getting the men together against real trouble.”
“Right, father,” I said, and I was just about to run off to give the alarm to the foreman, who would alarm another man while I went to a fresh house. Then there would be four of us to alarm four more, who would run up to the rendezvous while we alarmed four more, and so the gathering would be complete, and the men at the counting-house and armed in a very few minutes.
I say I was just about to rush off, when a dark figure made a rush at us, and caught hold of my father’s arm.
“Quick, captain!” he whispered. “The French. Landed from a big sloop. Coming up the Gap.”
“Are you sure?” said my father in a low voice.
The answer came upon the soft breeze, and I stopped for no more, but ran down the slope as hard as I could go, dashed into the foreman’s cottage, gave the alarm, and he leaped up, his wife catching up her child and following to go along the Gap, as already arranged, the woman knowing that the others would follow her so as to get to a place of safety in case of the enemy getting the upper hand.
It proved, as my father had trusted, but a matter of very few minutes before four men were running to the counting-house to receive the weapons ready for them, and for eight to follow, while the women and children were being hurried from the cottages and away inland.
The foreman and I were in front of the six men we were bringing, and as we ran and neared the dim grey-looking building that was to be our fort, we could hear the coming of what seemed to be quite a large body of men, who were talking together in a low voice, while from time to time a sharp command was uttered.
Then, all at once, and just as we reached the counting-house, there was a fresh order, and the sounds ceased, not a voice to be heard, and the tramp completely hushed.
“What did it mean?” I asked myself, as a curious sensation of excitement came over me, for it seemed that the strangers, whoever they were, perhaps the French, as Bigley had said, had halted to fire at us as we rushed to the counting-house door, and I fully expected to see the flashes of their muskets, and hear the reports and the whistling of the bullets.
But no, all remained still, and we paused at the door to let the others pass in first, and then, with a wonderful sense of relief, I leaped in, and heard the door closed behind quickly, but with hardly a sound.
It was a curious sensation. The moment before I felt in terrible danger. Now I felt quite safe, for I was behind strong walls, though in reality I was in greater danger than before.
There was no confusion, no hurry. The drilling had been so perfect, and my father had been for so long prepared for just such an emergency as this, that everything was done with a matter-of-fact ease.
Already as we reached the door the four first comers had been armed; now as the men entered they crossed over to the other side, and cutlass, pistols, and a well-filled cartouche-box were handed to each, and he took them, strapped on his belt, and then fell in, standing at ease.
“All armed?” said my father then, as we stood in the dark.
There was no answer—a good sign that everyone was supplied.
“The women and children gone?” said my father then.
No answer again.
“Load!” said my father.
Then there was a rustling noise, the clicking of ramrods, a dull thudding, more clicking, and silence.
“Now,” said my father, “no man to fire until I give the word. Trust to your cutlasses, and I daresay we can beat them off. Ready?”
There was a dead silence.
“I would light the candles,” said my father in a low firm voice, “but it would be helping the enemy, if enemy they are. Who’s that?”
“It is I, sir, Bigley,” said a familiar voice.
“I had forgotten you. What is it?”
“I have no weapons, sir.”
“No, of course not. Boy, you cannot fight.”
“Why not, sir?”
“Because—because—” I was close to them, and they were speaking in a low tone; “because—” said my father again.
“Because you think I should be fighting against my father,” said Bigley sharply; “but I’m sure, sir, that it is not so.”
“How do I know that?” said my father.
Rap, rap, rap, came now at the door, and a voice with a decided French accent, a voice that sounded familiar to me, said:
“Ees any boady here?”
“There, sir, it is the French.”
“I don’t know that,” said my father. Then: “Stand fast, my lads.”
“Ees any boady here?” said the same voice.
“Yes. Who’s there?” said my father.
“Aha, it is good,” came from outside. “My friends and bruders have make great meestakes and lose our vays. Can you show us to ze Ripplemouts towns?”
“Straight down to the sea and along by the cliff path east,” said my father shortly.
“Open ze doors; I cannot make myselfs to hear.”
My father repeated his instructions; there was a low murmur outside; and then there was a sharp beating on the door, as if from the hilt of a sword.
“What now?” cried my father.
“Le Capitaine Dooncane,” cried a sharp fierce voice.
“Well?” said my father. “I am Captain Duncan.”
“Open this door,” said the same voice, speaking in French.
“What if I refuse?” said my father in the same tongue.
“If you refuse it will be broken down—directly.”
“Is it the war?” said my father mockingly.
“It is the war,” was the reply. “Open, and no harm will be done to you. Resist, and there will be no quarter. Is it surrender?”
“Monsieur forgets that he is talking to an English officer,” said my father. “Stand back, sir; we are well-armed and prepared.”
There was a low murmur of voices outside, and my father exclaimed:
“Sep, Bigley, upstairs with you and six men. Two of you to each window, and beat down with your cutlasses all who try to board. Well keep the doors here. Now, my lads, tables and chairs against the doors. You’ll find the wickets handy. I thought so; they’re at the back door already.”
He darted to the back room, helped place a table against the door, mounted upon it, and as the blows of a crowbar were heard, he placed a pistol to the little wicket in the panel high up, and fired a shot to alarm the attacking party.
The blows of the crowbar ceased, and a low suppressed yell from many voices broke out from all round the little stone-built place.
“That has quieted them for the moment,” said my father; and, applying his eye to an aperture made for the purpose, he inspected the attacking force.
“French marines,” he said quietly. “Well, my lads, they’re outside and we are in. If they leave us alone we will not injure them, if they attack they must take the consequences. It is war time; they have landed, and we are fighting for our homes and all belonging to us. Will you fight?”
There was a low dull growl at this, uttered it seemed by every man present, and as my father’s words had been distinctly heard upstairs, the men with Bigley and me joined in.
“That’s good,” said my father. “I thought so. Now once more trust to your strong aims and cutlasses. A couple of shots and then swords. They don’t want loading again. If they break in we must retreat upstairs. If they prove too much for us and force their way up, we must hold out as long as we can, and then retreat by the north window and back up the west side of the valley among the big stones; but no retreat till I give the word. Now, my lads, do you want anything to make you fight?”
“Only the orders, captain,” said the foreman, “or the French beggars to come on.”
“All in good time. What are they doing?” said my father. “One shot can’t have scared them off. Ah, the cowards! I expected as much.”
For just then a dull light shone in through the window, and made every bar clear. The dull light became brighter, and the Frenchmen set up a cheer.
“They’ve fired the big shed roof, sir,” said the foreman.
“Father,” I cried down the stairs, “they have fired Sanders’s cottage.”
“Curse ’em,” growled the foreman. “I’ll make pork crackling of somebody’s skin for that.”
“Now they’ve gone on to the next cottage,” cried Bigley.
“They’re firing all the cottages,” cried another of the men, and now the growl that rose from our little force was furious and fierce, and full of menace against the enemy, who had done this to give them ample light as I suppose.
“Never mind, my lads, they have forgotten that it will make it easier for us,” said my father. “But hold your fire. It will be wanted here.”
We could see each other plainly now, and it became necessary to look out cautiously, for fear of offering ourselves as targets for the Frenchmen’s shots.
We could see that about a dozen well-armed men were in front, and another group of as many at the back of the house; but they were paying little heed to us for the moment, being engaged in watching their companions, who were running from cottage to cottage, firing them by thrusting torches under the thatch, and shouting and chattering to each other, as if these acts of wanton destruction were so much amusement in which they had delight.
Over and over again men made their pistols click, and were ready in their rage to send bullets flying amongst the wreckers of their homes; but my father uttered a low warning.
“Stand fast. Not till I say fire. Never mind your homes, my lads, we’ll soon raise better ones, and your wives and children are all safe. Wait.”
There was a low growl as if so many bull-dogs were being held back from their prey, and once more all was silent within.
Then there was a good deal of chattering and rushing, and the firing parties came back to where their companions were waiting, and we knew by the next order given that our time had come.
Chapter Thirty Nine.
Desperate Times.
In my heat and excitement I wondered that my father did not order his little company of men to begin firing at a time when every shot would tell, for there was a feeling of rage within me, roused by the wanton destruction of the cottages and every portion of the works that would burn; but I had not learned all my lessons then, and how a just and brave man, whether soldier or sailor, shrinks from destroying life until absolutely obliged.
My father came upstairs for a minute about the time when I was thinking this the most, and I could see a peculiarly hard stern look in his eyes as the fire flashed through the window upon his face.
“Mind: no firing,” he said, “until they attack, and I give the word.”
I felt afterwards how right he was, but then it seemed almost cowardly.
I soon altered my opinion, for all at once the French leader came up to the door and struck it with the hilt of his sword, as he exclaimed in French:
“Now, Captain Duncan, surrender!”
No reply was given.
“Open this door and pass out the whole of the silver bars you have there,” was the next command, and this time my father answered:
“Come and take them if you can—si vous osez,” he added in French.
There was no more delay. A couple of men were ordered to the front with iron bars, and they began to batter the door heavily, but without any further effect than to chip off splinters and make dints.
The men were called off, the rest standing ready to fire at anyone who should show a face at the windows, but we gave them no opportunity, for my father whispered:
“They are sixty. We are only just over a dozen. Wait, men, wait.”
“What are they doing, Big?” I whispered to my companion, for he was in a better post for observations than myself.
“I can’t quite see,” he whispered back. “They’ve got a bag of something, and they’re bringing it to the door.”
I looked out quickly.
“Powder!” I exclaimed, and then I ran to the head of the stairs and called down to my father: “They are going to blow in the door with powder.”
“Good!” said my father coolly, and issuing an order or two he drew all his men together into the back room. “Stay where you are, Sep,” he whispered; “the explosion will not touch you, only, if we are hard pressed afterwards, come down with your men and take the enemy in the rear.”
I felt my heart swell with pride at being treated like this, and the nervous sensation of dread grew less.
“Sooner the better, Master Sep,” said one of the workmen. “Better keep away from the window, sir.”
“No,” I replied, “I must see what they are doing.”
I felt that I must, and going to the window I stood upon a chair, and, keeping out of sight, looked down from the upper corner just in time to see a man run back from the door to join his companions, several of whom held rough torches of oakum steeped in tar.
“What are they doing, Big?” I whispered.
“That fellow has just laid a powder-bag by the door. But, Sep, you can’t see any Englishmen there, can you?”
“No,” I said hastily; “but I’m sure that’s the French skipper Gualtière standing to the left of the French captain.”
“So it is,” whispered Bigley. “I thought I knew the face. Look out!”
“What are they going to do?”
“The men are being drawn back, all but the fellows with the lights, and one of them is coming forward to light the powder. Yes; now all the others are retiring.”
“I can see,” I whispered. “Now I can see the man with the torch. I say, will it blow the place up?”
“I don’t know,” said Bigley in a low whisper; “but I feel horribly frightened.”
“So do I,” I whispered back; “but don’t let’s show it, Big.”
“I won’t,” he said sturdily.
Just then the man who had approached slowly made a dash in close to the house, and I was thinking that somebody ought to have shot him down when he dashed back again, and his friends received him with a loud shrill cheer.
As the cheer died away there was a low hissing noise from outside, and I knew it was the fuse burning, and then we all shrank together to the farthest corner of the room, waiting in the most painful suspense for the explosion, which we knew must follow, but which seemed as if it would never come.
It was only a matter of so many seconds, but they seemed to be minutes of terrible suspense, before there was a flash, the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room, and then, in the midst of a terrific roar, the floor was lifted up, and one end then fell, so that we all slid down into the room below in the midst of splinters, plaster, dust, and broken joists, just as the Frenchmen uttered a yell, and came dashing towards the open door.
What followed was one scene of wild confusion. It seemed that my father and his men came dashing out of the back room, and we were seized and dragged over the heap of broken wood-work and plaster, to be placed behind it, where we struggled to our feet, and then, in the midst of the clouds of blinding dust and choking gunpowder smoke, everybody made a breast-work of the damaged wood, and received the charge of the French sailors with pistol-shots and blows from the cutlasses.
This proved so effective that they fell back, running out as fast as they came in, and my father took advantage of the lull to have a few pieces of furniture dragged forward, and laid upon the heap of refuse so as to give us a better breast-work to fight behind.
“Hurt, Sep?” cried my father.
“No,” I replied, “only shaken.”
“That’s well. Keep more back, my boy. Now, lads, cutlasses; here they come!”
There was a yell and a rush, the clashing of steel, with shouts and groans, and the Frenchmen were beaten back again.
“Time for breathing, my lads,” cried my father, as we stood there in the darkness with the light full upon our enemies as they gathered at a short distance from the shattered doorway. “Who’s hurt?”
“No one much, captain,” growled the foreman. “A few chops and scratches. Here they are!”
For just then there was a yell, and the enemy rushed at us, coming in a little column, and this time led by an officer.
They could only come in two at a time; but, as they darkened the doorway and made their rush, they spread out as they entered like a fan right and left, and once more the groans, yells, and blows rang out.
It was clearer now, for the smoke and dust had floated out, and I could see something of the desperate fight that was going on, with men falling, and others of the Frenchmen from behind filling their places, for they kept on thronging in through the open doorway, till the counting-house was densely packed, and those behind literally drove their companions forward, till the rough breast-work was beaten and trampled down, and our little party forced back towards the wall that separated us from the inner room, in which there was a doorway leading into a back place, opening on to the cliff slope.
I can’t pretend to describe what took place accurately. All I know is, that in the midst of a scene of shouting, yelling, and clashing cutlasses, I found myself crushed against the back wall with my sword above my head, and my ribs seeming to give way, as I was pinned there helplessly, till all at once there was a tremendous crash, and we were all driven backwards in a heap, friends and enemies together.
For the wood-work partition, already damaged by the force of the explosion, had given way, and we were precipitated into the back room.
What followed I hardly know, for as the men struggled up from the ruin the fight began again, and the result was that I found myself with my father and five men in the little back place of all, where the door opened out into the valley; but of course it was locked and barricaded inside, and the door into the back room was held by my father, the foreman, and two others, who were keeping about a dozen Frenchmen at bay, yelling and cutting and thrusting at them.
“Sep! Here! Quick!” my father shouted, without turning his head, for the enemy kept him occupied parrying their cuts and points.
“I am here, father,” I said, getting close behind him.
“Right. Stand firm, my lads!” said my father. “We’re beaten, but we must retreat in order. Ah, would you?”
This last was to a Frenchman who dashed in at him, but only to have his thrust parried, and to go down with an upward cut which disabled his sword arm.
“Sep,” he whispered then, “open the back door. Be ready. We must now make a dash for the rocks. You lead; I’ll keep the rear. Mind, my lads,” he said to the stanch group about him, “keep together. If you separate you are lost. You’ll be cut down or prisoners before you can raise a hand.”
These words were all said in a jerky way in the midst of plenty of cutting and foining; for, though the Frenchmen did not attempt to pass the doorway, they kept on making fierce thrusts at us, though with little result.
I crept back and unfastened the door silently, so as not to draw the enemy’s attention, and, holding my sword ready, I peered out, the noise going on drowning that I made with the lock and bolts.
To my dismay I saw that there were three of the enemy on guard, and, closing the door softly, I took a couple of steps back, and told my father.
“Only three!” he said coolly. “Oh, that’s nothing. Now, then, to the door! Hold it ready. In a few moments you will see us make a dash and drive these fellows back. Then we shall turn and follow you. Dash out with a good shout, and strike right and left. The men there are sure to run. Then all for the rocks, and don’t look back; we shall follow.”
I obeyed him exactly. Just as I had the door ready to fling open, my father, the foreman, and the others suddenly sprang forward, as if about to drive the Frenchmen out of the counting-house, and they fell back.
Then open went the door. I saw our fellows turn round, and, sword in hand and feeling as if I was going to my death, I dashed right at the three men guarding the back, shouting “Hurrah!” at the top of my voice.
I felt sure that they would run me through, but my father was right. One ran to the left, another to the right, and the other straight on up the steep slope, and, as I cut at him desperately, down he went untouched, save by a stone over which he tripped, and we all went over him as we rushed up the valley side to the shelter of the rocks, and with the enemy swarming out and after us.
It was rough work, but we knew our way. The enemy were strange, and before we had toiled up a hundred yards they began to tail off. In another hundred we were some way up, and panting behind a clump of rocks that formed quite a little fort, while below us we could see the enemy gathered together in a group, and evidently about to return.