Complete works of r m ba.., p.367
Complete Works of R M Ballantyne, page 367
“Brayvo! old feller,” cried Bluenose, “give us your flipper. Water, cold, for ever! say I, as the whale remarked to the porpoise. But let’s go under the lee o’ the boat-’ouse an’ talk it out, for we shan’t nab Long Orrick this night, if we doesn’t go at ‘im like a cat at a mouse.”
“Just listen to that old codfish,” said Tommy Bogey to Peekins, “takin’ credit to his-self for not drinkin’, though he smokes like a steam-tug, an’ chews like — like — I’m a Dutchman if I know what, unless it be like the bo’sun of a seventy-four gun ship.”
“Do bo’suns of seventy-four gun ships chew very bad?” inquired Peekins.
“Oh! don’t they!” exclaimed Tommy, opening his eyes very wide, and rounding his mouth so as to express his utter inability to convey any idea of the terrific powers of bo’suns in that particular line. “But Bluenose beats ’em all. He’d chew oakum, I do believe, if he didn’t get baccy, and yet he boasts of not drinkin’! Seems to me he’s just as bad as the rest of us.”
“D’you think so?” said Peekins, with a doubtful look; “don’t you think the man who does only two nasty things is better off than the one that does three?”
“Nasty things!” exclaimed Tommy in a tone of amazement. “Don’t Bax drink and smoke, and d’ye think he’d do one or t’other if they was nasty? Peekins, you small villian as was a blue spider only a week since, if you ever talks of them things being nasty again, I’ll wop you!”
“You hear that, Bax?” said Guy Foster, who, being only a few paces ahead of the boys, had overheard the remark, spoken as it was in rather a loud key.
Bax nodded his head, and smiled, but made no reply.
It is but just to say that Tommy’s threat was uttered more than half in jest. He would as soon have thought of “wopping” a little girl as of maltreating his meek companion. But Peekins was uncertain how to take his threat, so, not being desirous of a wopping, he held his tongue and humbly followed his comrades.
The party walked for some time at the foot of the cliffs under the lee of a boat-house, engaged in earnest conversation as to the best mode of proceeding in the meditated enterprise. It was evident to all of them that the hour for action could not now be far distant; for the gale increased every moment; the light on the South Foreland was already sending its warning rays far and wide over the angry sea, whence the floating lights that mark the sands sent back their nightly greeting, while dark thunderous clouds mantled over the sky and deepened the shades of night which, ere long, completely overspread land and sea.
Chapter Eleven.
The Smugglers’ Cave — A Surprise, a Deception, a Fight, and an Escape.
The Fiddler’s Cave, alias Canterbury Cave, alias the Smugglers’ Cave, is a cavern of unknown extent situated under the high chalk cliffs at the southern extremity of Saint Margaret’s Bay.
Tradition informs us that its first appellation was bestowed in consequence of a fiddler having gone into it with his dog many years ago, and never having come out again. Four days afterwards the dog crept out in a dying condition. It is supposed that the man must have wandered too far into the cavern, and been overpowered by foul air. Tradition also says that there is a passage from it, underground, all the way to Canterbury, a distance of eighteen miles; hence its second name. No one, however, seems to have verified this report. The Kentish smugglers, from whom the cave derives its last title, have undoubtedly made much use of it in days of old. At the period of our story, the entrance to Fiddler’s Cave was so much obstructed by rubbish and sand that a man had to stoop low on entering the passage which led to the interior. At the present day the entrance is so nearly closed up that a man could not creep along it even on his hands and knees.
Here, on the threatening night of which we are writing, a boatman stood on the watch, close under the rocks that overhung the entrance to the cavern. The man was habited, like most of his brethren of the coast, in rough garments, with long boots, sou’-wester cap, and oiled, tarred, and greased upper garments, suitable to the stormy night in which he had seen fit to hold his vigil.
A feeble ray of light that struggled in the cavern showed that the man clutched a pistol in his right hand, and with a frown on his brow, glanced alternately out to sea where all was darkness, and along shore where the only visible living object was the figure of old Coleman seated on his “donkey.” It need scarcely be added that the sight of the coast-guard-man was the cause of the smuggler’s frown.
The gale was now blowing stiffly, and rolling black clouds so covered the sky that the moon was entirely obscured by them, save when an occasional break permitted a few rays to stream down and reveal the elemental strife that was going on below.
Coleman, regardless of the storm, maintained his position on his one-legged companion, and bending his body to the blast, endeavoured to pierce the gloom that enshrouded everything seaward beyond the large breakers that sent their foam hissing up to his very feet. While he sat there he thought, or muttered, thus: —
“It’s odd, now, I’d ha’ thought he’d have run ashore afore this; seein’ that I’ve sat on this here donkey for more nor an hour, a-purpose to let him see that I’m only watchin’ here, and nowhere else. He can’t but see there’s a goodish lump o’ the coast free to him so long as I sit here. But he’s a sly feller; p’raps he suspects somethin’. An’ yet, I’ll go bound, he don’t guess that there’s six or seven of his worst enemies hidin’ all along the coast, with eyes like needles, and ears on full cock! How’sever, it won’t do to sit much longer. If he don’t come in five minutes, I’ll git up an’ walk along in an easy unsuspectin’ way. Dear me, wot a set o’ hypocrites we’ve got to be in the hexecution of our dooty!”
While Coleman moralised thus, in utter ignorance of the near proximity of an eye-witness, the smuggler at the mouth of the cave, who was no other than Orrick’s friend, Rodney Nick, muttered some remarks between his teeth which were by no means complimentary to the other.
“What are ye sittin’ there for, ye old idiot?” said he savagely. “I do b’lieve ye’ve larned to sleep on the donkey. Ha! there’s two of ye together, an’ the wooden one’s the best. Wouldn’t I just like to be yer leftenant, my boy? an’ I’d come to know why you don’t go on your beat. Why, there may be no end o’ cats and galleys takin’ the beach wi’ baccy an’ lush enough to smother you up alive, an’ you sittin’ there snuffin’ the east wind like an old ass, as ye are.”
The smuggler uttered the last sentence in deep exasperation, for the time appointed for signalising his comrades at sea had arrived, and yet that stolid coast-guard-man sat there as if he had become fastened to the shingle.
“I’ve a good mind to run out an’ hit ye a crack over yer figure-head,” he continued, grasping his pistol nervously and taking a step forward. “Hallo! one would a’most think you’d heard me speak,” he added and shrank back, as Coleman rose from his seat (the five minutes having expired), and sauntered with a careless air straight towards the cave.
On reaching it he paused and looked into it. Rodney Nick crouched in the shadow of a projecting rock, and grasped his pistol tightly for a moment, under the impression that he was about to be discovered. He was one of those fierce, angry men who are at all times ready to risk their lives in order to gratify revenge. Old Coleman had more than once thwarted Rodney Nick in his designs, besides having in other ways incurred his dislike, and there is no doubt that had the coast-guard-man discovered him at that moment, he would have paid for the discovery with his life. Fortunately for both of them Coleman turned after standing a few seconds at the mouth of the cave, and retraced his steps along the beach.
He prolonged his walk on this occasion to the extremity of his beat, but, long before reaching that point his figure was lost to the smuggler’s view in darkness.
“At last!” exclaimed Rodney Nick, taking a dark lantern from his breast, and peering cautiously in every direction. “Now then, Long Orrick, if ye look sharp we’ll cheat ’em again, and chew our quids and drink our grog free of dooty!”
As he muttered his words the smuggler flashed the lantern for an instant, in such a manner that its brilliant bull’s-eye was visible far out at sea. Again he let its light shine out for one instant; then he closed the lid and awaited the result.
Out upon the sea, not far from the wild breakers that thundered and burst in foam on the south end of the Goodwin Sands, a boat, of the size and form styled by men of the coast a “cat,” was tossing idly on the waves. The men in her were employed in the easy task of keeping her head to the wind, and in the anxious occupation of keeping a “bright look-out” on the shore.
“Time’s up,” said one of the men, turning suddenly towards his companions, and allowing the light of a dark lantern to fall on the face of a watch which he held in his hand.
“Dowse the glim, you lubber,” cried the angry voice of Long Orrick, “and keep a sharp look-out for the signal. If it don’t come we’ll run for Old Stairs Bay, an’ if they’re too sharp for us there we’ll make for Pegwell Bay, and drop the tubs overboard with sinkers at ‘em.”
For nearly quarter of an hour the party in the boat watched in silence. It was evident that Long Orrick was becoming impatient from the way in which he turned, now to windward, to scan the threatening sky, and then to land-ward, to look for the expected signal. He felt, on the one hand, that if the gale continued to increase, it would be necessary to run for the nearest place of safety; and he felt, on the other hand, that if he did not succeed in landing the goods at Fiddler’s Cave, there would be small chance of his getting them ashore at all.
“There’s the glim,” cried one of the men.
“All right! up with a bit o’ the sail,” said Long Orrick, seizing the tiller from the man who held it.
In a second or two they were driving before the wind straight for the shore. With such a stiff breeze the boat was soon close to the breakers, and now the utmost care was necessary in order to prevent it from broaching-to and being capsized. No anxiety was felt, however, by the crew of the little craft. Deal boatmen are noted for their expertness in beaching their boats and in putting off to sea in rough weather, and the man who held the tiller of the little boat which danced on the white crests of the waves that night had many and many a time come through such trifling danger scatheless.
“Look out, Bill,” cried Orrick, as the thunder of the waves on the beach sounded in his ears, and the great chalk cliffs rose up, ghostlike and dim, before him. To one unaccustomed to such scenes it might have appeared an act of madness to run ashore on such a night. But the danger was not so great as it seemed.
The man at the bow stood ready with a boat-hook. In a moment the keel grated on the shingle. Instantly the men were over the side, and the boat was hauled up the beach.
“Now, then, for the tubs. Make for the cave straight. Rodney Nick will be here in a minute. Ah, here he comes! Well, Rodney, we’ve done it pretty smart,” said Long Orrick, wading with a keg of brandy towards a figure which approached him from the beach. “Here you are! there’s lots more of ‘em. We’re in luck. Look alive. The coast’s clear, I suppose?”
“Hall right,” said the dark figure in a hoarse whisper, which terminated in a low chuckle, as Long Orrick placed the keg innocently in the arms of old Coleman and returned to the boat for more!
It may be as well to remark here — in order to clear up this mystery — that although Coleman had not observed the flash of Rodney Nick’s lantern, his sharp eye had observed the gleam of the light in the boat, when one of the men, as already mentioned, threw it on the face of his timepiece.
Supposing, erroneously, that this latter was a signal to the shore, Coleman, nevertheless, came to the correct conclusion that some one must be awaiting Long Orrick near at hand, and felt convinced that the Smugglers’ Cave must needs be the rendezvous.
Hastening cautiously to Bax, whose station was not far distant from the cave, he communicated his suspicions, and they went together towards the place.
“I’ll go in first,” said Coleman, “‘cause I know the place better than you do.”
“Very good,” assented Bax, “I’ll stand by to lend a hand.”
Arrived at the cavern, Bax waited outside, and Coleman went in so stealthily that he was at Rodney Nick’s side before that worthy had the smallest suspicion of his presence. Indeed, Coleman would certainly have run against the smuggler in the dark, had not the latter happened to have been muttering savage threats against wind and tide, friends and foes, alike, in consequence of the non-appearance of the boat.
Seizing him suddenly from behind, Coleman placed his knee in the small of his back, forced him almost double, and then laid him flat on the ground.
At the same moment Bax knelt by his side, put one of his strong hands on the smuggler’s right arm — thereby rendering it powerless — and placed the other on his mouth.
So quickly was it all done that Rodney was bound and gagged in less than two minutes. Coleman then ran out just in time to receive the first instalment of the brandy, as already related. Being much the same in build and height with Rodney Nick, he found no difficulty in passing for him in the darkness of the night and violence of the wind, which latter rendered his hoarse whispers almost unintelligible.
In this way several kegs of brandy, boxes of cigars, and bundles of tobacco were landed and conveyed to the cavern by Coleman, who refused to allow Bax to act as an assistant, fearing that his great size might betray him.
On the fifth or sixth trip he found Long Orrick waiting for him somewhat impatiently.
“You might have brought a hand with ye, man,” said the latter, testily.
“Couldn’t git one,” said Coleman, taking the keg that was delivered to him.
“What say?” cried Orrick.
“Couldn’t git one,” repeated the other, as loudly and hoarsely as he could whisper.
“Speak out, man,” cried Long Orrick, with an oath; “you ain’t used to have delicate lungs.”
“I couldn’t git nobody to come with me,” said Coleman, in a louder voice.
The tone was not distinct, but it was sufficient to open the eyes of the smuggler. Scarcely had the last word left his lips when Coleman received a blow between the eyes that laid him flat on the beach. Fortunately the last wave had retired. There was only an inch or so of foam around him. Long Orrick knelt on his foe, and drew a knife from his girdle. Before the next wave came up, Coleman with one hand caught the uplifted arm of his adversary, and with the other discharged a pistol which he had drawn from his breast. In another instant they were struggling with each other in the wave which immediately swept over the beach, and Bax was standing over them, uncertain where to strike, as the darkness rendered friend and foe alike undistinguishable.
The men in the boat at once rushed to the rescue, omitting to take weapons with them in their haste. Seeing this, Bax seized the struggling men by their collars, and exerting his great strength to the utmost, dragged them both high upon the beach. He was instantly assailed by the crew, the first and second of whom he knocked down respectively with a right and left hand blow; but the third sprang on him behind and two others came up at the same moment — one on each side — and seized his arms.
Had Bax been an ordinary man, his case would have been hopeless; but having been endowed with an amount of muscular power and vigour far beyond the average of strong men, he freed himself in a somewhat curious manner. Bending forward, he lifted the man who grasped him round the neck from behind quite off his legs, and, by a sudden stoop, threw him completely over his head. This enabled him to hurl his other assailants to the ground, where they lay stunned and motionless. He then darted at Coleman and Long Orrick, who were still struggling together with tremendous fury.
Seeing his approach, the smuggler suddenly gave in, relaxed his hold, and exclaimed, with a laugh, as Bax laid hold of him —
“Well, well, I see it’s all up with me, so it’s o’ no use resistin’.”
“No, that it ain’t, my friend,” said Coleman, rising and patting his foe on the back. “I can’t tell ye how pleased I am to meet with ye. You’re gettin’ stouter, I think. Smugglin’ seems to agree with ye! — hey?”
He said this with a leer, and Bax laughed as he inspected Long Orrick more narrowly.
The fact was that the smuggler’s clothing was so stuffed in all parts with tobacco that his lanky proportions had quite disappeared, and he had become so ludicrously rotund as to be visibly altered even in a dark night!
“Well, it does agree with me, that’s a fact,” said Long Orrick, with a savage laugh; in the tone of which there was mingled however, quite as much bitterness as merriment.
Just at this moment the rest of Coleman’s friends, including Tommy Bogey and Peekins, appeared on the scene in breathless haste, having been attracted by the pistol-shot.
In the eager question and answer that followed, Long Orrick was for a moment not sufficiently guarded. He wrenched himself suddenly from the loosened grasp of Bax, and, darting between several of the party, one of whom he floored in passing with a left-handed blow, he ran along the shore at the top of his speed!
Bax, blazing with disappointment and indignation, set off in fierce pursuit, and old Coleman, bursting with anger, followed as fast as his short legs and shorter wind would permit him. Guy Foster and several of the others joined in the chase, while those who remained behind contented themselves with securing the men who had been already captured.
Chapter Twelve.
The Storm — The Wreck of the Homeward Bound — The Lifeboat.
A stern chase never was and never will be a short one. Old Coleman, in the course of quarter of a mile’s run, felt that his powers were limited and wisely stopped short; Bax, Guy, and Tommy Bogey held on at full speed for upwards of two miles along the beach, following the road which wound along the base of the chalk cliffs, and keeping the fugitive well in view.
