At seventeen one’s ideas are very different to what they are at fourteen, and matters that seemed of no account in the earlier period looked important at the more mature. For it used to seem to us quite a matter of course that Bigley’s father should have a lugger, and if the people said he went over to France or the Low Countries with the men who came over from Dodcombe, and engaged in smuggling, why, he did. It was nothing to us.
We never troubled about it, for Bigley was our school-fellow, and old Jonas was very civil, though he never would let us have the boat again. But now that we were getting of an age to think and take notice of what was said about us, Bob Chowne began to suggest that he and I ought to make a change.
“You see it don’t seem respectable for me, the son of the doctor, and you of the captain, who is our mine owner, to be such friends with one whose father is a regular smuggler.”
“How do you know he is?” I said.
“How do I know? Oh, everybody says so. Let’s drop him.”
“I sha’n’t,” I said, “unless father tells me to Bigley can’t help it.”
“Then you’ll have to drop—I mean I shall drop you,” said Bob haughtily.
“Very well,” I said, feeling very much amused at the pompous tone in which he spoke. Not that I wanted to be bad friends with Bob Chowne; but I knew that he was only in one of his “stickly” fits, as we used to call them, and that it would soon be over.
“Very well, eh?” exclaimed Bob. “Oh, if you choose to prefer his society to mine, Good morning.”
He walked off with his nose in the air, and, half annoyed, half amused, I went over the hill to the mine, where my father was busily examining some specimens of the lead that had been cut off the corners of some newly-cast ingots.
“Well, Sep,” he said. “Coming to help?”
I replied that I was, somewhat unwillingly, for I had caught sight of Bigley coming up the valley, and I wanted to join him, and try and show that I did not intend to give up an old school friend because his father’s name was often on people’s lips.
“Who’s that you are looking for?” said my father.
“Only young Uggleston, father,” I said.
I looked at him intently and felt troubled, for he frowned a little, and, before I knew what I was saying, the words slipped:
“You don’t mind Bigley Uggleston coming here, do you, father?”
“Yes—no,” he said, sitting up up very stiffly. “I don’t like your giving up old companions, Sep, or seeming to be proud; but there are beginning to be reasons why you should not be quite so intimate with young Uggleston.”
“Oh, father!” I exclaimed dolefully. “Why, I thought that you and old Uggleston were good friends now.”
“Oh, yes; the best of friends,” said my father sarcastically. “He pays his rent regularly, and we always speak civilly to each other when we meet.”
As he spoke there was a look in his face which seemed to say, “We don’t like each other all the same.”
“Look here, Sep,” continued my father. “You are getting a big fellow now, and I am going to speak very plainly to you; of course, you understand that this is in confidence; it is quite private.”
“Yes, father,” I said sadly.
“Then you must understand that, though Jonas Uggleston is my tenant here, he is not a very satisfactory one, for there can be no doubt that he carries on rather a risky trade; but, so long as the authorities do not interfere with him, and he behaves himself, I am not going to take upon myself the task of being his judge.”
“No, father.”
“At the same time I cannot be intimate with him. I don’t like him, and I don’t like the companions who come over from Stinchcombe to man his lugger, and I’ll tell you why. Do you know that, now this little mine is developing itself, I very often have blocks of silver here to a considerable amount.”
“I have often thought you must have, father.”
“You were quite right, and they are stored below this floor in a strong cellar cut and blasted out of the solid rock. I have good doors and keys, and take every precaution; but at the same time I often feel that it is very unsafe, and of course I send it into town as often as I can.”
“But you don’t think, father—”
“That Jonas Uggleston would steal it? I hope not, my boy; but at the same time I feel as if I ought not to expose myself to risks, and I prefer to keep Jonas Uggleston at the same distance as he has before stood. We can be civil.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Sorry?”
“Yes, father,” I replied, “because I like Bigley Uggleston.”
“So do I, my boy. I like his quiet modesty under ordinary circumstances, and the sterling manner in which you have told me that he has come to the front in emergencies. But stop: I don’t ask you to break with him, for he may be useful to us after all. There, let me finish these figures I am setting down, and I’ll talk to you again.”
I sat down and watched him, and then looked round the bare office, with its high up window close to the ceiling, and ladder leading to the two rooms above. Spread over the floor was a large foreign rug that my father had brought from the Mediterranean many years before, and this rug was stretched over the middle of the large office as if it had been brought from the cottage to make the place more homelike and comfortable. But it struck me all at once that the rug had been placed there to hide a trap-door. Then, as I sat looking about, I noticed that the door was very thick and strong, and that there were bars at the window in which the glass was set.
I might have noticed all this before, but it did not seem of any consequence till my father talked of the bars of silver and their value, and as I sat thinking, the place began to look quite romantic, and I thought what a strange affair it would be, and how exciting if robbers or smugglers were to come and attack it, and my father, and Sam, and the men from the mine to have to defend it, and there were to be a regular fight.
Once started thinking in that vein my mind grew busy, and I felt that if I were at the head of affairs I should arrange to have plenty of swords and pistols, and that made me think of old Sam and the cannon down the cliff garden.
I laughed at that, though, as being absurd, and began to think directly after that my father’s sword and pistols that always used to hang over the chimney-piece in the little parlour were not there now.
“Why, I daresay he has brought them down here,” I said to myself; and I looked round, half expecting to see them, but they were not visible, and I came to the conclusion that they must be in the cupboard in the corner.
My heart began to beat, and a curious feeling of excitement took possession of me, as my imagination had a big flight. I began to see myself armed with a sword helping my father, who, being a captain, would be a splendid leader.
“But we ought to have plenty of swords and guns,” I thought, and I determined when my father began to speak to me again, to propose that he should have a little armoury in the cupboard.
Then I began to think about old Jonas, and the possibility of his getting a lot of men and coming and making an attack. There had been a rumour that he and his people had once, many years ago, had a fight with the king’s men; but when Bob Chowne and I talked to him about it, Bigley fired up and said it was all nonsense. But it occurred before he was born.
It had never occurred to me before that this was a strange declaration. For how could it be all nonsense and yet have occurred before he was born?
It seemed now as if it was not all nonsense.
One thought brought up another, and I found myself thinking that, if I was helping my father defend the treasure of silver here in the store, and fighting bravely, as I felt sure I should, Bigley would be helping his father to make the attack, and I saw myself having a terrific cutlass combat with him somewhere out on the slope. Then I should have had a great deal of training from my father, who was an accomplished swordsman, and I should disarm old Big and take him prisoner, and then when night came, for the sake of old school-days, I should unfasten his hands and let him escape.
My thoughts ran very freely, and I was fully determined to grind the sword that I had not seen, and which perhaps had not yet been made, as sharp as a razor. It would be very easy, I thought, when I got it, to make old Sam turn the grindstone at home, while I put on a tremendous edge and tried it on the thin branches of some of the trees.
“What an exciting time it would be!” I thought, and I could not help wishing that I should have to wear some kind of uniform, for a bit of gold lace would go so well with a sword. Then I stopped short, for in all my planning there was no place for Bob Chowne, who was regularly left out of the business.
“Oh, how stupid!” I thought directly after. “He would be the surgeon’s—his father’s—assistant, and bind up everybody’s wounds.”
I’m afraid I was, like a great many more boys, ready to have my imagination take fire at the idea of a fight, and never for a moment realising what the horrors of bloodshed really were.
“Poor Bob!” I thought to myself. “He wouldn’t like that, having to do nothing but tie and sew up wounds.” He was so fond of a fight that he would want to be in it; and I concluded that we would let him fight while the fight was going on, and have a sword and pistols, and afterwards I could help him bandage the wounds.
Then I came back to Bigley, and began to think that, after all, it would be very queer for him to be fighting on one side and me on the other, and it did not seem natural, for we two had never had a serious quarrel, though I had had many a set-to with other lads, and had twice over given Bob Chowne black eyes, the last time when he gave me that terrible punch on the nose, when it bled so long that we all grew frightened, and determined to go to the doctor’s, and it suddenly stopped.
I don’t know how much more nonsense I should have thought if my father had not made a movement as if to get up, and that changed the current of my thoughts.
But he went on writing again, and this time I began watching a large chest that stood in one corner of the room, bound with clamps of iron, and it looked so heavy and strong that I concluded that it must be full of ingots of silver ready to send away.
I grew tired of looking at that box, and as my fancy did not seem disposed to run again upon fighting and defence, I sat listening to the scratching of my father’s pen and the ticking of the clock, and then to the dull roar of the furnace, while mingled with it came the clattering of hammers, the creaking of the great windlass, and the rushing and plashing of falling water.
Just then there was a tap as of some one’s knuckles at the door, and in obedience to a look from my father I got up and opened it, to turn quite red in the face, for there stood my old school-fellow about whom so much had been said—Bigley Uggleston.
“Who is it?” said my father.
“Bigley Uggleston,” I replied, feeling very awkward.
“Oh, come in, my lad,” said my father quietly; and as I held the door back for him to enter, it suddenly struck me what a frank, handsome-looking fellow he had grown.
I felt more awkward still, for it seemed to me that I was going to listen to some very unpleasant remarks about our companionship being broken off; but to my surprise my father said quietly:
“Come after Sep?”
“Yes, sir. I thought if he was not busy—”
“Well, but he is,” said my father smiling. “He was about to unpack that box for me—I was just going to set him the task.”
Bigley drew back, but my father said good-humouredly:
“Why don’t you stop and help him?”
“May I, sir? I should like to.”
“Go on, then, my lads. Take the lid off carefully, Sep. There is a screw-driver in that cupboard.”
I went eagerly to the cupboard and opened it, to give quite a start, for there, hanging upon nails at the back, were the pistols and sword I had remembered were absent from home.
I found the screw-driver in a sort of tool-chest, and as Bigley and I took it in turns to draw the screws, my father cleared the table.
“Be careful,” he said. “You can lay the things out here. I shall soon be back.”
He left us together, and, all eagerness now, I worked away at the screws, which were very tight, and there were four on each side of the lid, and others in the clamps, which had to be removed before the lid could be raised.
“I am glad I came, Sep,” said Bigley. “I was wondering why you hadn’t been down to me.”
“Were you?” I said, feeling very uncomfortable.
“Yes. What’s in the box?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I thought it was blocks of metal, packed to send away.”
I hesitated before I said metal. I was going to say silver; but I felt, after my father’s words, as if I ought to be cautious.
“I believe I know what’s inside,” said my companion.
“Well, what?” I cried, as I tugged at another screw which refused to go round.
“New tools for the mine.”
“Why, of course!” I exclaimed. “Here: you go on. I can’t manage this screw. How stupid of me not to think of it!”
“There he goes!” said Bigley, giving the screw a good wrench. “How many more are there? I see: these two.”
He attacked them one after the other, talking the while.
“I wonder you don’t know what’s in the box,” he said. “I thought your father told you everything—so different to mine, who never says anything to me.”
“He does say a great deal to me, but he didn’t tell me about the box.”
“There, then!” cried Bigley, taking out the last screw and seating himself suddenly upon the chest. “We’ve only got to lift the lid and there we are. Who has first peep?”
“Oh, I don’t care,” I said laughing. “You can.”
“Here goes, then!” cried Bigley. “Take care of the screws.”
I swept them into a heap and placed them on the table as Bigley threw open the lid, which worked upon two great hinges, and then removing some coarse paper he drew back.
“You’d better unpack,” he said. “Don’t make a litter with the shavings.”
For as the paper was removed the box seemed to be full of very fine brown shavings mixed with fine saw-dust.
I swept the shavings away and felt my hands touch a row of long parcels, carefully wrapped in a peculiar-looking paper; and as I took them out, and shook them free of the saw-dust, handing them one by one to Bigley to place upon the table, my heart began to beat, and the blood flushed into my cheeks.
“Why, they’re not mining tools!” cried Bigley excitedly. “Whatever are you going to do? They’re swords.”
“Yes,” I said huskily; “they’re swords—cutlasses.”
“Why, you knew all the time!” cried Bigley.
“No; I did not,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“But how comical!” he cried. “What are you going to do with them?”
I did not answer, for all my thoughts of half an hour before seemed to have rushed back, and I felt that I had been wondering why my father had not done that which he really had; and, though Bigley evidently could not realise the object of the weapons being there, it certainly seemed to me that my father felt that there was danger in the air, and that he meant to be prepared.
“What are you thinking about?” cried my companion. “Why don’t you speak?”
“I was thinking about the cutlasses,” I said.
“Well, it is a surprise!” cried Bigley. “Oh, I know. Your father’s an old sea captain, and they say the French are coming. He’s going to arm some men as volunteers.”
All this time I was handing out the wrapped-up weapons, as we supposed them to be—as we felt they must be—and Bigley was arranging them upon the table side by side.
“That’s the end of those,” I said, and Bigley counted them. Twelve.
“Twelve swords,” he said. “I say, Sep, let’s ask him to make us volunteers too.”
But I was unpacking the next things, and felt in no wise surprised by their weight and shape, to which the brown paper lent itself pretty clearly.
“Pistols!” cried Bigley, as I handed the first. “Oh, I say, Sep, do you think there’ll be any uniforms too?”
“No,” I said, “not in a box like this. Here, catch hold!”
I handed the first pistol to him, and he laid it beneath the swords.
“I know how many there ought to be!” he cried—“twenty-four. A brace of pistols and a cutlass for every man. Here, pitch them and I’ll catch.”
There was nothing to prevent my handing them to him; but, boy-like, it seemed pleasant thus to turn work into play, and I began to pitch one by one the little heavy packages as I drew them out of the chest.
Bigley nearly let one fall, but he saved it, and laughingly placed it in the row he was making, till, counting the while, he exclaimed—
“Twenty-three! Is that next one the last?”
“Yes,” I said, as I pitched it to him and it was placed in the range upon the table. “You were right.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Oh, yes,” I said; “the box isn’t half empty.”
I dived down and brought out next a long sword, more carefully wrapped, and in superior paper to those which had been previously taken out. Then followed a squarish case or box in paper, and for a few moments we were undecided as to what it might be, concluding that it must be a pistol-case with a brace of superior weapons inside.
Still the chest was far from empty, and on continuing the unpacking I found that I was handing out short carbines, such as artillerymen or horse-soldiers would use.
“Twelve!” cried Bigley, who was growing more and more excited. “What next?”
The next thing was a small square box wrapped in something soft, and occupying the bottom corner of the chest, while the rest of the space was occupied by small boxes that were not wrapped in paper, but fastened down with copper nails, and on each was painted the big figures—250.
I handed out eight of these little boxes, and they, being pretty heavy, were placed close beside the wall of the office.
“That’s all,” I said, and, concluding that it was the proper thing to do, we replaced the shavings and saw-dust in the chest, shut down the lid, put the loose screws in a piece of paper, and tied them to one of the clamps before pushing the chest aside and making all tidy.
This done, we hovered, as it were, about the table with longing eyes and itching fingers, ending by looking at each other.
“I say,” said Bigley; “didn’t your father say that we were to unpack the box?”
“Yes, and we’ve done it,” I replied rather sulkily.
“Well, oughtn’t we to take the things out of the paper, and lay the paper all neatly and save the string?”
“Think so?” I said longingly.
Bigley hesitated, took up a packet, turned it over, balanced it in his hand, laid it down again, and rearranged several of the others without speaking, but he heaved a deep sigh.
“Think we ought to unpack them further?” I said.
“No,” said Bigley unwillingly. “I don’t think it would be right. Do you?”
“No,” I said with a sigh; “but I should like to have a look.”
We two lads went on hovering about the table, peering at first one packet and then at another, feeling them up and down, and quite convincing ourselves that certain ones were a little more ornamental than others. There was no doubt about it, we felt. They were swords, pistols, and carbines.
“Here, I know,” I exclaimed.
“Know what, Sep?”
“The boxes, 250.”
“Well, what about ’em?”
“Cartridges,” I said. “Two hundred and fifty in each.”
“So they are,” cried Bigley with his eyes dilating; and, however much we may have been disappointed over the silver mine, the counting-house now seemed to be a perfect treasure cave, such an armoury had it become.
“I say, they won’t go off, will they?” cried Bigley.
“Pshaw! Not they. I say, wouldn’t old Bob like to be here now?”
“Ah, wouldn’t he?” said Bigley. “Why, it’s like being in a real robbers’ cave.”
“No,” I said; “not robbers’,” and I recalled the thoughts I had indulged in earlier in the day.
“No; of course not,” said Bigley thoughtfully; “it isn’t like a robbers’ cave. I say, don’t it look as if there were going to be a fight?”
I nodded, and wondered whether there would be.
“Should you like to be in it if there was?” I said in a curious doubting manner.
Bigley rubbed one ear, and picked up a sword.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes I think I should; but sometimes I feel as if it would be very horrid to give a fellow a chop with a thing like this, just as if he was so much meat. I would, though, if he was going to hurt my father,” he cried with his eyes flashing. “I’d cut his arm right off. Wouldn’t you?”
“Dunno,” I said, and I began wondering whether there would ever be any occasion to use these weapons, and I could not help a shrinking sensation of dread coming over me, for I seemed to see the horror as well as the glory of shooting down human beings, and more than ever it occurred to me that if trouble did come, my old school-fellow might be on one side and I on the other.
“I say,” said Bigley suddenly; “we’ve only undone one box, oughtn’t we to undo the other?”
“What, that?” I said, looking at a shorter smaller box on end in the corner behind the door.
“Yes.”
“Father didn’t say I was to.”
“But that looks as if it came from the same place.”
“Why, Big,” I cried eagerly, “that must have the uniforms in it.”
“Hurray! Yes,” he cried. “Wonder whether they’re scarlet?”
“No,” I said. “They’re sure to be blue, like the sailors’.”
“Oh! I don’t know about that,” he cried. “Marines wear scarlet. I daresay they’re red.”
“Should you open the box if you were me?”
“Well, no,” said Bigley; “perhaps not. He didn’t tell us to. But oh, how I should like to take the paper off one of these pistols!”
“So should I,” was my reply, with a longing look at the array of quaint-looking parcels; “but we mustn’t do that, though I do feel as if I could do it up again just as neatly.”
“No; don’t try,” cried Bigley. “Let ’em be. We can think what’s inside. I shouldn’t wonder if some of them are mounted with brass, and have lions’ heads on the butts.”
“Yes, and the swords too—brass lions’ heads, holding the guards in their mouths.”
“Why, we haven’t seen any belts.”
“No; they would be with the uniforms. I say, I wonder whether the cutlasses are very sharp?”
“And whether they are bright blue half-way up the blade; you said your father’s sword was.”
“Yes,” I replied; “and inlaid with gold. It was given to him when he left his ship.”
“Here, come out!” cried Bigley, laying hold of my hand.
“Come out? What for?” I said.
“Because it’s the best way. I always run off when I see anything very tempting that I want to touch, and ought not to.”
“Get out!” I cried.
“I do, Sep, honour bright, and I feel now as if I should be obliged to undo some of those papers, and try the pistols, and pull the swords out of the sheaths. Let’s go out.”
I laughed, for I felt very much in the same way, only it seemed to be so cowardly to go, and Bigley came to the same way of thinking, the result being that we kept on picking up the different packages and feasting our imaginations by means of touch, till suddenly the door opened, and my father came in.
“Well, boys,” said my father, “unpacked? That’s right, but you might as well have undone them.” We each dashed at a package, whipped out our knives, cut the string, and rapidly unrolled the contents, till Bigley held a pistol, and I a cutlass, of the regular navy pattern both.
My father took the sword from my hand, drew its short broad blade, and made it whiz through the air as he gave a cut, guarding directly, and then giving point.
“Hah!” he said, as we watched him breathlessly, “I used to have two hundred and fifty stout Jack-tars under me, boys, every one of whom handled a cutlass like that.”
“Two hundred and fifty,” I said; “just as many as there are cartridges in those boxes.”
“How did you know that they were cartridges?” he said smiling.
“Well, we guessed that they were, father,” I replied colouring. “It seemed as if there must be cartridges for the pistols.”
“Right, my boy,” he replied.
“And of course cartridges are not wanted for cutlasses,” I continued.
“No,” he said laughing; “you load your cutlasses with muscles.”
“But they want belts,” I ventured to observe.
“To be sure,” said my father. “There they are in that box. You shall unpack them when we’ve undone these. Let me look at that pistol, Uggleston.”
Bigley handed him the pistol, and my father drew the ramrod, thrust it down the barrel, and gave it two or three taps to make sure that it was not loaded. Then replacing the ramrod he cocked it, held it at arm’s length, and drew the trigger.
There was a little scintillation as the flint struck the cover of the pan, and he cocked and drew the trigger again, we two watching him with intense interest, and longing to try the pistol ourselves, but not liking to ask permission.
“There, work away!” he said, “save the string, and lay the brown paper in heaps; it may come in useful.”
We set to work, while my father took a hammer and some large nails from a drawer, and, standing on a stool, drove the nails in a row along a board at one side of the office, and as we unpacked he took the weapons from us and hung them up, a cutlass between two pistols, arranging the nails so that the arms looked ornamental, while at the same time they were quite ready to hand in case they should be wanted.
It took us some little time, but at last the task was done, and the cartridge chests stowed away in a cupboard, but not till each one had been carefully wrenched open, the copper nails taken out, and the lids replaced loose on the top.
“There, Master Bigley,” said my father dryly. “That’s what I call being ready for action.” Bigley nodded.
“If those boxes were put away unopened, the chances are a hundred to one that on the occasion of their being wanted the chisel and hammer would not be in their places. Now, then, we’ll undo that other box.”
I could not help seeing, or thinking I saw, a peculiar meaning in my father’s way of saying all this, but Bigley did not understand it I felt, and we set to at once over the other chest, dragging it into the middle of the room and prising off the lid, for this one was only nailed.
It was not so heavy either, but as we had made up our minds that it contained the uniforms, we were not surprised.
The lid was more tightly nailed down than seemed to be necessary; but we had it off at last, and then drew out a dozen parcels, which, on being opened, proved to be white buckskin belts for the waist, with a frog or pouch to hold and support the cutlasses, and a cross belt of a broader kind, to which was attached a cartouche-box, ready to hold the ball-cartridge when required.
Another row of nails was driven in for the belts, which were hung in pairs, and then we drew out a couple more boxes of cartridges, and that was all.
“Why, what’s the matter, Sep?” said my father, smiling at my disappointed countenance.
“I was wondering where the uniforms were,” I said.
“Uniforms, boy?” said my father. “When my two hundred and fifty lads attacked the Spanish frigate and took her, they wore no uniforms. Every man stripped to his shirt and trousers, put a handkerchief round his waist, threw away his hat, rolled up his sleeves, and tucked up his trousers. They fought the Spaniard bare-armed, bare-headed, bare-footed; and if we have to fight, we can do the same, and drive off our enemies too.”
“The French, father?” I said, feeling quite abashed.
“Ay, my boy, or anyone else. These uniforms look very attractive, but there’s a great deal of vanity in them, and we are too busy to give way to that.”
“Yes, father,” I said meekly, and as I said it I thought about something else.
“There, you lads can go now. Thank you for helping to arrange my little armoury.”
We should both have liked to examine those arms a little more. We should even have liked to try one of the pistols, and shoot at a mark, but this was a regular dismissal, and we went out, going quietly down to the stream, all stained now with the dirty water from the mine, and for some time we preserved silence.
“What are you thinking about, Sep?” said Bigley at last.
“I was thinking how nicely those belts would go with a uniform,” I said.
“Were you? How funny!” said Bigley. “That’s just what I was thinking.”
“What, about a uniform?”
“Yes.”
“Blue?”
“No, scarlet.”
I went down to the shore with Bigley, and we had a good ramble, after which he fetched the glass, and we climbed up to the place on the rocks where his father used to station himself to look out—for fish, Bigley said; but my father often said they were very rum fish—and there we swept the horizon to see if we could make out the lugger, but she was not in sight, and after a time we grew tired of this and lay down in the warm sunshine upon the cliff, where Bigley dropped off to sleep.
I did not feel sleepy, though, but full of thought. Above all, I could not help thinking over my father’s behaviour that day. It was evident that he feared attack by making such preparations, and no doubt I should soon see him drilling the work-people he had gathered around him, and I dwelt a good deal, being tolerably observant, upon the fact of his letting Bigley see all his preparations. I was asking myself why he had done this, and what reason he had for it, when Bigley woke up and said that it was time to go and get something to eat.
I did not answer and say it was, but a silent monitor gave me a hint that he was quite correct, and so we went to the cottage, and Mother Bonnet gave us quite a feast of bread and butter and fried fish, which form no bad refreshment for two hungry boys.
My father’s armoury was a good deal talked about, but when regular drilling was commenced at the Gap it excited no surprise. The grey-beards of Ripplemouth talked it over, and said they were glad that Captain Duncan had woke up and was ready to defend the Gap when the French came to our part of the coast, and they said they expected great things of him.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Bob Chowne one day, as he came over; “heard the news?”
“No,” I said; “have the French come?”
“No, not yet; but the Ripplemouth people are going to ask your father to help them make a fort on the cliff over the harbour, and they’re going to get some guns from Bristol.”
“What nonsense!” I said. “Here, I’m going over to the Gap; will you come?”
“No, I don’t want to come to the old lead pump and see your father’s people make the water muddy. What are you going to do?”
“Sword drill.”
“Oh! I don’t care for sword drill.”
“Bigley’s coming too,” I said; “and we’re going through it all.”
“It’s stupid work standing all in a row swinging your arms about like windmills, chopping nothing, and poking at the air, and pretending that someone’s trying to stab you. I wouldn’t mind if it was real fighting, but yours is all sham.”
“Then we’re going to do some pistol-shooting at a mark with ball-cartridge.”
“Pooh! It’s all fudge!” said Bob yawning. “I wouldn’t mind coming if you were going to do something with real guns.”
“Why, they’re real pistols.”
“Pistols! Yes—pop-guns. I mean big cannons.”
“Ah, well,” I said, “I’m sorry you will not come, but I must go.”
“That’s always the way when a fellow comes away from our old physic-shop and takes the trouble to walk all these miles. You’re always either out or going out.”
“I can’t help it, Bob,” I replied, feeling rather ill-used. “My father expects me. I have to help him now. You know I like a game as well as ever I did.”
“Ah, well, it don’t matter. Be off.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said, glancing at the old eight-day clock; “but I must go now.”
“Well, didn’t I say, Be off?” cried Bob.
“Good-bye, then!”
I offered him my hand, but he did not take it.
“If you’ll walk round by the cliff I’ll come part of the way with you,” he said ill-humouredly.
“Will you?” I cried. “Come along, then.”
I did not let him see it, but I had felt all the time that Master Bob meant to come. He had played that game so many times that I knew him by heart. I knew, too, that he was wonderfully fond of the sword practice, in which he had taken part whenever he could, and to get a shot with a pistol or a gun gave him the greatest pleasure.
“He won’t come away till it’s all over,” I said to myself; and we walked on round by the high track watching the ships going up to Bristol, till all at once, as we rounded the corner leading into the Gap, Bob exclaimed:
“Why, there’s old Jonas’s boat coming in!”
“Where?” I said dubiously.
“Why, out there, stupid!” cried Bob, pointing north-west.
“What! That lugger?” I said. “No, that’s not his. He went out four days ago, and isn’t expected back yet. That’s more like the French lugger we rode in—Captain Gualtière’s.”
“Yah! Nonsense!”
“Well, but it is,” I said. “That has three masts; it’s a chasse marée. Jonas’s boat has only two masts—a regular lugger.”
“You’ve got sand in your left eye and an old limpet-shell over the other,” grumbled Bob. “French boat, indeed! Why, no French boat like that would dare to come near England now. I s’pose that’s a French boat too!”
He pointed to another about a mile behind.
“No,” I said; “that looks like a big yacht or a cutter. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s a revenue cutter.”
“Well, you are a clever chap,” said Bob mockingly—“setting up for a sailor, and don’t know any more about it than an old cuckoo.”
“I know what our old Sam and my father and Binnacle Bill have taught me,” I said quietly.
“No, you don’t—you don’t know anything only how to be surly and disagreeable to your visitors.”
“I say, Bob,” I said, “is it true what people say?”
“I don’t care what people say.”
“Why, that your father gives you so much physic that it makes you sour?”
I repented saying it directly, for Bob stopped short. “Want me to chuck you off the cliff?” he said fiercely.
“No, that I don’t,” I said, pretending to be horribly frightened.
“Because, just you look here—”
“Ahoy—oy!”
“Ahoy—oy! Ahoy—oy!” I shouted back in answer to the faint cry that came from below, where we could see Bigley waving his hat.
It was easier work for us to go down the precipitous slope than for him to climb up; but he did not seem to study that for he came eagerly towards us, while we slipped and scrambled down, ignoring the path, which was a quarter of a mile away.
Bob did not speak as we were scrambling down, and the exertion made him forget his ill-temper, so that he was a little more amiable when we came within speaking distance of Bigley.
“Going to the drill?” he shouted; and then without waiting for an answer, “So am I. Has your father come back, Sep?”
“Come back!” I said. “What do you mean? He came on here.”
“Yes,” said Bigley; “and then he got our boat and went off in her—so Mother Bonnet said. I was not here.”
“Why, where has he gone?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I thought he had rowed round to the Bay.”
I shook my head and began to wonder what it meant.
“Father has been round to Penzance or Plymouth, I think,” said Bigley. “He’ll be back soon, I expect.”
“What’s he gone after?” said Bob shortly.
“I don’t know,” said Bigley, colouring a little. “Fishing or trading or carrying something, I expect.”
“I don’t!” sneered Bob. “I know.”
“That you don’t,” said Bigley quietly; “even I don’t.”
“No!” sneered Bob; “you never know anything. People at Ripplemouth do. He has gone on a jolly good smuggling trip, I know.”
I saw Bigley’s eyes flash, and for a moment I thought that he was going to say something harsh, and that we were going to have a quarrel through Bob Chowne’s propensity for saying disagreeable things; but just then I happened to turn my head and saw a boat coming round the western corner of the entrance to the Gap.
“Why, there’s father!” I cried. “Where can he have been!”
That exclamation changed the conversation from what was a terribly touchy point with Bigley, who always felt it acutely if anyone hinted that his father indulged in smuggling.
“I know,” said Bob Chowne, changing his attack so that it was directed upon me. “Well, if my father was so precious selfish as to get a boat and go out fishing without me, I should kick up a row.”
“Why, you are always making rows without,” I said testily. “My father has not been fishing, I’m sure.”
“There he goes again,” cried Bob in an ill-used tone. “That’s Sep Duncan all over. I say, Big, he was trying to pick a quarrel with me up on the cliff when you came, and I wouldn’t. Now he’s at it again.”
“Well, I sha’n’t stop to quarrel now,” I replied. “Come on down and meet father.”
We were a good three hundred feet above the shore when I spoke, and starting off the others joined me, and we went down over the crumbling slates and then past the pebble ridge to where the little river bubbled up again through the stones before it reached the sea, and then in and out among the rocks, to stand and wait till my father rowed in.
“Ah, boys,” he cried, as the boat grounded, and we dragged it up over a smooth patch of sand, “you are just in time to help.”
“Been fishing, father?” I said.
“No; only on a little bit of investigation along the coast; but I found I had not time as it was drill day. There, make the boat fast to the buoy line, and let’s get up to the mine, and we’ll all go this afternoon when the drill’s over.”
“This afternoon?” I said eagerly.
“Yes; the weather’s lovely and warm, and you fellows can row me.”
I felt ready to toss up my hat and cheer, and I saw that Bigley was ready to do the same; but we both felt that we were getting too old, so we refrained.
“I’m afraid I can’t go, Captain Duncan,” said Bob in an ill-used way. “My father will be at home expecting me.”
“No, he will not, Bob,” said my father smiling; “he will not be back from Barnstaple till quite late. Come along, my lad, and we’ll have some lunch, and then begin drill. Had Sam started with the basket, Sep?”
“No, father,” I replied; “but I saw Kicksey packing it when I came away.”
“Sure to be there,” said my father; and he led the way up the Gap with Bigley, to whom he always made a great point of being kind, partly because he was my old companion, and partly, as I thought, because he wanted to smooth away any ill feeling, and to make up for the break between us that kept threatening to come.
This upset Bob, who hung back and began to growl about not being sure he could stop to drill, and thought that, as we reached the end of the cliff path, he ought to go now, and altogether he required a great deal of coaxing to get him along, or rather he professed to want a great deal, till we reached the mine, where all was going on just as of old, the wheel turning, the water splashing, furnace roaring, and the pump keeping on its regular thump.
Old Sam was standing at the counting-house door with a big basket, the one he always brought over, filled with provisions for our use, as so much time was spent at the mine; and as my father pulled out a big key, Sam took in the basket, cleared the table, and threw over it a white cloth, upon which he spread the provisions.
For a few minutes after we had sat down—Bob Chowne having to be fetched in, after sliding off so that he might be fetched back—we could not eat much for feasting our eyes on the bright swords and pistols; but young appetites would have their way, and we were soon eating heartily till the meat pasty and custard and cream were completely destroyed.
“A very bold attack,” said my father smiling. “Now that ought to make muscle. Off with your coats, my lads, and roll up your sleeves.”
As he spoke he went to the door, and blew an old silver boatswain’s whistle, when work was dropped, and the men came running up quickly from furnace, and out of the pit and stone-breaking sheds, till ten stout work-stained fellows stood in a row, showing the effect of the drill and discipline already brought to bear.
“Like the old days on the quarter-deck,” said my father to Bob Chowne. “Now, Sep, serve out the arms.”
I had done this several times before, and rapidly handed to each man his cutlass and belt, which was as quickly buckled on. Then one each was given to Bob Chowne and Bigley, and I was left without.
“Humph, twelve,” said my father counting, as he saw me unarmed. “You can take that new sword, Sep.”
I could not help feeling pleased, for this was the officer’s sword which had come down with the others; and as I buckled on the lion-headed belt I had hard work to keep from glancing at Bob Chowne, who, I knew, would feel disgusted.
There was no time wasted, for my father at these drills kept up his old sea-going officer ways; and in a few minutes we were formed into two lines before him, opened out, proved distance with our swords, so as to have plenty of room, and not be likely to cut each other; and there for a good hour the sun flashed on the blades, as the sword exercise was gone through, with its cuts, points, and guards, the men taking to it eagerly as a pleasant change from the drudgery of the mine, and showing no little proficiency already.
“There,” said my father at last, after the final order to sheathe swords had been given. “Break off. No pistol practice to-day. Your hands will be unsteady.”
“Always the way!” I heard Bob Chowne grumble. “I stopped on purpose to have a bit of pistol-shooting, and now there’s none. See if I’d have stayed if I had known.”
I had to run to the door of the great stone-built counting-house and receive the swords as the men filed up, and for the next ten minutes I was busy hanging all in their places.
When I had finished the men had all gone back to their work, and after a look round, my father said a few words to a big black-looking Cornishman, who had lately been selected as foreman from his experience about mines, locked up the counting-house, and turned to us.
“Now, boys,” he said, “we’ll go back to the boat.”
Bob Chowne’s lips parted to say that he could not stop; but he had not the heart to speak the words, and we went back to the beach, to enter upon an adventure that proved rather startling to us all, and had a sequel that was more startling, and perhaps more unpleasant still.
“We’re going to take the boat again, Mrs Bonnet,” said my father, as we passed Uggleston’s cottage.
“Oh, I’m sure master would say you’re welcome, sir,” said the rosy-faced old lady. “It’s a beautiful afternoon for a row.”
Ten minutes after we were well afloat, and Bigley and I were pulling, making the water patter under the prow of the boat, as it rose and fell on the beautiful clear sea. Below us were the rocks, which could be seen far enough down, all draped with the brown and golden-looking weed; and we felt as if it was a shame not to have a line over the side for pollack or mackerel on such a lovely afternoon. But there was to be no fishing, for my father evidently had some serious object in hand, telling us how to pull so as to keep regularly along at a certain distance from the mighty wall of rock that was on our left till, about a mile from the Gap, where there were a great deal of piled-up stone in huge fragments that had fallen from the cliff, he suddenly told Bigley to easy, and me to row. Then both together, with the result that we pulled right into a little bay where the cliff not only seemed to go up perpendicularly, but to overhang, while in one place at the bottom a dark patch or two showed where caves ran right in.
As we neared the shore he bade us cease rowing, and taking one of the oars he threw it over the stern, and sculled the boat in and out among the rocks that were half covered by the sea, threading his way carefully, and finally beaching her on a soft patch of sand.
We all leaped out, and the little anchor was thrown ashore to keep the boat safe while we went away.
“For neither of you will care to be boat-keeper,” said my father smiling.
“What are you going to do?” I asked as we walked up together.
“Don’t ask questions, my boy,” he replied quietly. “If I tell you, of course you cannot, without seeming mysterious, refuse to tell your companions, and I do not care to say much at present. It does not matter, but I prefer not to talk.”
We walked up straight to the caves, which were very beautiful, covered as their mouths were with ivy and ferns, while over each a perfect sheet of dripping rain fell like a screen and threatened to soak anyone who attempted to enter.
We did not attempt it, for my father led us away to the west, and soon after, hammer in hand, he was examining the cliff-face and the various blocks of stone that had fallen down in days gone by.
We walked on for a time, but it soon became too monotonous, and we took to something to amuse ourselves, to my father’s great satisfaction, for he evidently now preferred to be alone.
We did not watch him, but to me it seemed evident enough that he was searching for minerals, of which he believed that he had seen some trace.
As for us, we rather enjoyed our ramble, for this was a part of the shore that we had not explored for some time, and the number of pools and hollows among the stones were almost countless, while at every turn we had to lament the absence of our baskets and nets.
Sometimes we climbed on to some difficult-looking pile, at other times we crept in under the cavernous-looking places, where, at high tide, the sea rushed and roared. Wearying of this, we explored the edge where high-water left its marks, to examine the curious shells washed up, and the varieties of sea-weed driven right under the perpendicular wall of rock, that towered up above us fully two hundred feet before it began to slope upwards as a hill.
Then after laughingly saying that if the French came, they would have to bring very long ladders and use them at low tide if they wanted to get into England, we sauntered back towards where we had left my father, but chose our path as nearly as we could close down by the edge of the water.
The tide was coming up fast, but this was all the better, as it was likely to bring in objects worthy of notice; but we found nothing, and at last the time had so rapidly glided away that evening was coming in as it were on the tide.
We looked about us, and found that we were well inside the little bay where we had first landed, its two arms stretching well out as jagged points on either side, among whose rocks the sea was foaming and plashing, although it was quite calm a little way out.
“No getting back, boys, now,” said Bigley, “if it wasn’t for the boat.”
“Yah! Nonsense!” cried Bob. “If the tide was to catch me in a bay like this, I should make a run and a jump at the cliff, catch hold of the first piece of ivy I could see, and then go up like a squirrel.”
“Without a tail,” I added laughing.
“Hark at clever old Sep Duncan,” sneered Bob. “He’d walk up the cliff without touching. It’s a strange thing that we can’t come out without your saying something disagreeable, Sep.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said with mock humility, for I had just caught sight of Bigley’s face, and he was grinning.
“Well, don’t do it again, then,” said Bob pompously, and then we listened, for a voice hailed us from somewhere among the wilderness of piled-up rocks.
“Ahoy, there! Ahoy!”
“Here we are, father!” I shouted, and trudging on we met him coming down from a place where he had evidently been sitting smoking his pipe.
“Didn’t you hear me hail before?” he said as we met.
“No, father.”
“Why, I’ve been shouting at intervals for this last hour, and I should have been uncomfortable if I had not thought you had common sense enough to take care of yourselves.”
“Oh! We minded that, sir,” said Bob importantly. “We are older now than we used to be.”
“Yes,” said my father dryly, “so I supposed. Well, let’s be off; we’ve a long row, and then a walk, and it’s time to feed the animals, eh, Bob Chowne?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bob; “but I’ve got ever so much farther to go before I can get anything to eat.”
“No, you have not,” said my father in his driest way. “I should think there will be enough for us all at the Bay.”
“I—I didn’t mean,” said Bob in a stammering way; but he had turned very red in the face, and then he quite broke down and could get no further, being evidently thoroughly ashamed of the way in which he had spoken.
My father noticed it, and changed the conversation directly. “Found anything very interesting?” he said; “anything good among the rocks?”
“No, father,” I said; “nothing much.”
“Why, you blind puppy!” cried my father; “nothing? Don’t you know that every pool and rock hole teems with wonders that you go by without noticing. Ah! I shall have to go with you, boys, some day, and show you a few of the grand sights you pass over because they are so small, and which you call nothing. Why, how high the tide has risen!”
“Didn’t we leave the boat just beyond those rocks, sir?” said Bigley.
“Yes,” said my father. “One of you will be obliged to strip and wade out to it. No, it couldn’t have been those rocks.”
“No, sir,” said Bob Chowne; “it was round on the other side of this heap.”
He pointed to a mass of rock lying right in the centre of the embayment, a heap which cut off our view on one side.
“I suppose you must be right, Chowne,” said my father; “come along.”
“I feel sure it was here, father,” I said; “just out here.”
“No it wasn’t,” cried Bob pettishly. “I remember coming round here after we left the boat.”
Bigley and I looked at each other, but we said nothing, only followed my father and Bob Chowne as they went round to the other side of the pile of rock, and there lay the sea before us with the tide racing in, and sweeping over the rocks, but no boat.
“It’s very strange,” said my father; “we must have left it in one of these places.”
“Perhaps it was behind the other heap, sir,” said Bob eagerly.
“What heap?” said my father.
“That one, sir,” said Bob, pointing towards the west.
“Impossible!” cried my father, and then he stopped and waited, while Bigley, who had, by getting on my back and shoulders, managed to climb up the highest part of the mass which stood like an island out of the stones and sand, shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked all round.
It was so still that the lapping of the evening tide sounded quite loud, and the querulous call of a gull that swept by was quite startling.
“Well,” said my father, “can you see the boat? No no, don’t look out there, my lad, look in here close.”
“She isn’t in here close,” said Bigley quietly.
“She must be, Big,” cried Bob. “Here, let me come.”
“I see her!” cried Bigley just then. “No. Yes. There she is, sir!” he said, pointing to the east. “She’s broke adrift, and is floating yonder half a mile away towards the Gap.”
“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated my father. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bigley, “I’m quite sure. I was quite sure before that we left her where we looked first, but I didn’t like to say so.”
“Here, give me your hand,” said my father. “You, Sep, let me try and get up over you. Bob Chowne, you had better stand by him to strengthen him. I’m heavy. Reach down, Bigley, and give me your hand.”
My father was active enough, and with our help scrambled up on to the top of the rock, where he gave one glance at the speck Bigley pointed out, and then uttered an impatient ejaculation.
“Come down,” he said. “You’re quite right, my lad. But how can that boat have got away? The grapnel was good.”
“I’m afraid I know,” said Bigley sadly. “I don’t think anyone looked to see if the painter was made fast to the ring. I didn’t.”
“And as I’m an old sailor, who ought to have known better, I confess that I did not,” said my father. “Well, boys, it’s of no use to cry over spilt milk. If the boat is not recovered unhurt, Mr Jonas Uggleston will have a new one, and I must apologise for my carelessness. Now, then, we must walk home.”
Bigley looked at him in rather a curious way; and as I divined what he meant I glanced at the two points which projected and formed the bay, and saw that they were being swept by the waves to such an extent that it would have been madness to attempt to get round either wading or swimming.
“Yes,” said my father, speaking as if someone had made this remark to him, “it would be impossible to get round there. Come along, boys, help me down; I can’t jump. Let’s see for a place to climb the cliff.”
We helped him down by standing with our heads bent upon our arms, as if we were playing at “Saddle my nag,” then he lowered himself till he could rest his feet upon our shoulders, and the rest was easy.
“We mustn’t lose time,” he said, as he stood on the rough shingle; “the tide is running in very fast.”
It was quite true, and before long it would certainly completely fill the bay.