Moonfleet

by John Meade Falkner

  Produced by Riikka Talonpoika, Mary Meehan and the Online DistributedProofreading Team

  MOONFLEET

  J. MEADE FALKNER

  1898

  We thought there was no more behindBut such a day tomorrow as todayAnd to be a boy eternal.

  Shakespeare

  TO ALL MOHUNESOF FLEET AND MOONFLEETIN AGRO DORCESTRENSILIVING OR DEAD

  CONTENTS

  1 IN MOONFLEET VILLAGE

  2 THE FLOODS

  3 A DISCOVERY

  4 IN THE VAULT

  5 THE RESCUE

  6 AN ASSAULT

  7 AN AUCTION

  8 THE LANDING

  9 A JUDGEMENT

  10 THE ESCAPE

  11 THE SEA-CAVE

  12 A FUNERAL

  13 AN INTERVIEW

  14 THE WELL-HOUSE

  15 THE WELL

  16 THE JEWEL

  17 AT YMEGUEN

  18 IN THE BAY

  19 ON THE BEACH

  Says the Cap'n to the Crew,We have slipped the Revenue, I can see the cliffs of Dover on the lee:Tip the signal to the _Swan_,And anchor broadside on, And out with the kegs of Eau-de-Vie, Says the Cap'n: Out with the kegs of Eau-de-Vie.Says the Lander to his men,Get your grummets on the pin, There's a blue light burning out at sea.The windward anchors creep,And the Gauger's fast asleep, And the kegs are bobbing one, two, three, Says the Lander: The kegs are bobbing one, two, three.

  But the bold Preventive manPrimes the powder in his pan And cries to the Posse, Follow me.We will take this smuggling gang,And those that fight shall hang Dingle dangle from the execution tree, Says the Gauger:Dingle dangle with the weary moon to see.

  CHAPTER 1

  IN MOONFLEET VILLAGE

  So sleeps the pride of former days--_More_

  The village of Moonfleet lies half a mile from the sea on the right orwest bank of the Fleet stream. This rivulet, which is so narrow as itpasses the houses that I have known a good jumper clear it without apole, broadens out into salt marshes below the village, and loses itselfat last in a lake of brackish water. The lake is good for nothing exceptsea-fowl, herons, and oysters, and forms such a place as they call in theIndies a lagoon; being shut off from the open Channel by a monstrousgreat beach or dike of pebbles, of which I shall speak more hereafter.When I was a child I thought that this place was called Moonfleet,because on a still night, whether in summer, or in winter frosts, themoon shone very brightly on the lagoon; but learned afterwards that 'twasbut short for 'Mohune-fleet', from the Mohunes, a great family who wereonce lords of all these parts.

  My name is John Trenchard, and I was fifteen years of age when this storybegins. My father and mother had both been dead for years, and I boardedwith my aunt, Miss Arnold, who was kind to me in her own fashion, but toostrict and precise ever to make me love her.

  I shall first speak of one evening in the fall of the year 1757. It musthave been late in October, though I have forgotten the exact date, and Isat in the little front parlour reading after tea. My aunt had few books;a Bible, a Common Prayer, and some volumes of sermons are all that I canrecollect now; but the Reverend Mr. Glennie, who taught us villagechildren, had lent me a story-book, full of interest and adventure,called the _Arabian Nights Entertainment_. At last the light began tofail, and I was nothing loth to leave off reading for several reasons;as, first, the parlour was a chilly room with horse-hair chairs and sofa,and only a coloured-paper screen in the grate, for my aunt did not allowa fire till the first of November; second, there was a rank smell ofmolten tallow in the house, for my aunt was dipping winter candles onframes in the back kitchen; third, I had reached a part in the _ArabianNights_ which tightened my breath and made me wish to leave off readingfor very anxiousness of expectation. It was that point in the story ofthe 'Wonderful Lamp', where the false uncle lets fall a stone that sealsthe mouth of the underground chamber; and immures the boy, Aladdin, inthe darkness, because he would not give up the lamp till he stood safe onthe surface again. This scene reminded me of one of those dreadfulnightmares, where we dream we are shut in a little room, the walls ofwhich are closing in upon us, and so impressed me that the memory of itserved as a warning in an adventure that befell me later on. So I gave upreading and stepped out into the street. It was a poor street at best,though once, no doubt, it had been finer. Now, there were not two hundredsouls in Moonfleet, and yet the houses that held them straggled sadlyover half a mile, lying at intervals along either side of the road.Nothing was ever made new in the village; if a house wanted repair badly,it was pulled down, and so there were toothless gaps in the street, andoverrun gardens with broken-down walls, and many of the houses that yetstood looked as though they could stand but little longer.

  The sun had set; indeed, it was already so dusk that the lower orsea-end of the street was lost from sight. There was a little fog orsmoke-wreath in the air, with an odour of burning weeds, and that firstfrosty feeling of the autumn that makes us think of glowing fires andthe comfort of long winter evenings to come. All was very still, but Icould hear the tapping of a hammer farther down the street, and walkedto see what was doing, for we had no trades in Moonfleet save that offishing. It was Ratsey the sexton at work in a shed which opened on thestreet, lettering a tombstone with a mallet and graver. He had beenmason before he became fisherman, and was handy with his tools; so thatif anyone wanted a headstone set up in the churchyard, he went to Ratseyto get it done. I lent over the half-door and watched him a minute,chipping away with the graver in a bad light from a lantern; then helooked up, and seeing me, said:

  'Here, John, if you have nothing to do, come in and hold the lantern forme, 'tis but a half-hour's job to get all finished.'

  Ratsey was always kind to me, and had lent me a chisel many a time tomake boats, so I stepped in and held the lantern watching him chink outthe bits of Portland stone with a graver, and blinking the while whenthey came too near my eyes. The inscription stood complete, but he wasputting the finishing touches to a little sea-piece carved at the top ofthe stone, which showed a schooner boarding a cutter. I thought it finework at the time, but know now that it was rough enough; indeed, you maysee it for yourself in Moonfleet churchyard to this day, and read theinscription too, though it is yellow with lichen, and not so plain as itwas that night. This is how it runs:

  SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF DAVID BLOCK

  Aged 15, who was killed by a shot fired from the _Elector_ Schooner,21 June 1757.

  Of life bereft (by fell design), I mingle with my fellow clay.On God's protection I recline To save me in the Judgement Day.

  There too must you, cruel man, appear, Repent ere it be all too late;Or else a dreadful sentence fear, For God will sure revenge my fate.

  The Reverend Mr. Glennie wrote the verses, and I knew them by heart, forhe had given me a copy; indeed, the whole village had rung with the taleof David's death, and it was yet in every mouth. He was only child toElzevir Block, who kept the Why Not? inn at the bottom of the village,and was with the contrabandiers, when their ketch was boarded that Junenight by the Government schooner. People said that it was MagistrateMaskew of Moonfleet Manor who had put the Revenue men on the track, andanyway he was on board the _Elector_ as she overhauled the ketch. Therewas some show of fighting when the vessels first came alongside of oneanother, and Maskew drew a pistol and fired it off in young David's face,with only the two gunwales between them. In the afternoon of Midsummer'sDay the _Elector_ brought the ketch into Moonfleet, and there was a posseof constables to march the smugglers off to Dorchester Jail. Theprisoners trudged up through the village ironed two and two together,while people stood at their doors or followed them, the men greetin
g themwith a kindly word, for we knew most of them as Ringstave and Monkburymen, and the women sorrowing for their wives. But they left David's bodyin the ketch, so the boy paid dear for his night's frolic.

  'Ay, 'twas a cruel, cruel thing to fire on so young a lad,' Ratsey said,as he stepped back a pace to study the effect of a flag that he waschiselling on the Revenue schooner, 'and trouble is likely to come tothe other poor fellows taken, for Lawyer Empson says three of them willsurely hang at next Assize. I recollect', he went on, 'thirty years ago,when there was a bit of a scuffle between the _Royal Sophy_ and the_Marnhull_, they hanged four of the contrabandiers, and my old fathercaught his death of cold what with going to see the poor chaps turned offat Dorchester, and standing up to his knees in the river Frome to get asight of them, for all the countryside was there, and such a press therewas no place on land. There, that's enough,' he said, turning again tothe gravestone. 'On Monday I'll line the ports in black, and get a brushof red to pick out the flag; and now, my son, you've helped with thelantern, so come down to the Why Not? and there I'll have a word withElzevir, who sadly needs the talk of kindly friends to cheer him, andwe'll find you a glass of Hollands to keep out autumn chills.'

  I was but a lad, and thought it a vast honour to be asked to the WhyNot?--for did not such an invitation raise me at once to the dignity ofmanhood. Ah, sweet boyhood, how eager are we as boys to be quit of thee,with what regret do we look back on thee before our man's race ishalf-way run! Yet was not my pleasure without alloy, for I feared even tothink of what Aunt Jane would say if she knew that I had been at the WhyNot?--and beside that, I stood in awe of grim old Elzevir Block, grimmerand sadder a thousand times since David's death.

  The Why Not? was not the real name of the inn; it was properly the MohuneArms. The Mohunes had once owned, as I have said, the whole of thevillage; but their fortunes fell, and with them fell the fortunes ofMoonfleet. The ruins of their mansion showed grey on the hillside abovethe village; their almshouses stood half-way down the street, with thequadrangle deserted and overgrown; the Mohune image and superscriptionwas on everything from the church to the inn, and everything that bore itwas stamped also with the superscription of decay. And here it isnecessary that I say a few words as to this family badge; for, as youwill see, I was to bear it all my life, and shall carry its impress withme to the grave. The Mohune shield was plain white or silver, and borenothing upon it except a great black 'Y. I call it a 'Y', though theReverend Mr. Glennie once explained to me that it was not a 'Y' at all,but what heralds call a _cross-pall. Cross-pall_ or no _cross-pall,_ itlooked for all the world like a black 'Y', with a broad arm ending ineach of the top corners of the shield, and the tail coming down into thebottom. You might see that cognizance carved on the manor, and on thestonework and woodwork of the church, and on a score of houses in thevillage, and it hung on the signboard over the door of the inn. Everyoneknew the Mohune 'Y' for miles around, and a former landlord having calledthe inn the Why Not? in jest, the name had stuck to it ever since.

  More than once on winter evenings, when men were drinking in the WhyNot?, I had stood outside, and listened to them singing 'Ducky-stones',or 'Kegs bobbing One, Two, Three', or some of the other tunes thatsailors sing in the west. Such songs had neither beginning nor ending,and very little sense to catch hold of in the middle. One man would cronethe air, and the others would crone a solemn chorus, but there was littlehard drinking, for Elzevir Block never got drunk himself, and did notlike his guests to get drunk either. On singing nights the room grew hot,and the steam stood so thick on the glass inside that one could not seein; but at other times, when there was no company, I have peeped throughthe red curtains and watched Elzevir Block and Ratsey playing backgammonat the trestle-table by the fire. It was on the trestle-table that Blockhad afterwards laid out his son's dead body, and some said they hadlooked through the window at night and seen the father trying to wash theblood-matting out of the boy's yellow hair, and heard him groaning andtalking to the lifeless clay as if it could understand. Anyhow, there hadbeen little drinking in the inn since that time, for Block grew more andmore silent and morose. He had never courted customers, and now hescowled on any that came, so that men looked on the Why Not? as ablighted spot, and went to drink at the Three Choughs at Ringstave.

  My heart was in my mouth when Ratsey lifted the latch and led me into theinn parlour. It was a low sanded room with no light except a fire ofseawood on the hearth, burning clear and lambent with blue salt flames.There were tables at each end of the room, and wooden-seated chairs roundthe walls, and at the trestle table by the chimney sat Elzevir Blocksmoking a long pipe and looking at the fire. He was a man of fifty, witha shock of grizzled hair, a broad but not unkindly face of regularfeatures, bushy eyebrows, and the finest forehead that I ever saw. Hisframe was thick-set, and still immensely strong; indeed, the countrysidewas full of tales of his strange prowess or endurance. Blocks had beenlandlords at the Why Not? father and son for years, but Elzevir's mothercame from the Low Countries, and that was how he got his outland name andcould speak Dutch. Few men knew much of him, and folks often wondered howit was he kept the Why Not? on so little custom as went that way. Yet henever seemed to lack for money; and if people loved to tell stories ofhis strength, they would speak also of widows helped, and sick comfortedwith unknown gifts, and hint that some of them came from Elzevir Blockfor all he was so grim and silent.

  He turned round and got up as we came in, and my fears led me to thinkthat his face darkened when he saw me.

  'What does this boy want?' he said to Ratsey sharply.

  'He wants the same as I want, and that's a glass of Ararat milk to keepout autumn chills,' the sexton answered, drawing another chair up to thetrestle-table.

  'Cows' milk is best for children such as he,' was Elzevir's answer, as hetook two shining brass candlesticks from the mantel-board, set them onthe table, and lit the candles with a burning chip from the hearth.

  'John is no child; he is the same age as David, and comes from helping meto finish David's headstone. 'Tis finished now, barring the paint uponthe ships, and, please God, by Monday night we will have it set fair andsquare in the churchyard, and then the poor lad may rest in peace,knowing he has above him Master Ratsey's best handiwork, and the parson'sverses to set forth how shamefully he came to his end.'

  I thought that Elzevir softened a little as Ratsey spoke of his son, andhe said, 'Ay, David rests in peace. 'Tis they that brought him to his endthat shall not rest in peace when their time comes. And it may comesooner than they think,' he added, speaking more to himself than to us. Iknew that he meant Mr. Maskew, and recollected that some had warned themagistrate that he had better keep out of Elzevir's way, for there was noknowing what a desperate man might do. And yet the two had met since inthe village street, and nothing worse come of it than a scowling lookfrom Block.

  'Tush, man!' broke in the sexton, 'it was the foulest deed ever mandid; but let not thy mind brood on it, nor think how thou mayest getthyself avenged. Leave that to Providence; for He whose wisdom letssuch things be done, will surely see they meet their due reward."Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord".' And he took hishat off and hung it on a peg.

  Block did not answer, but set three glasses on the table, and then tookout from a cupboard a little round long-necked bottle, from which hepoured out a glass for Ratsey and himself. Then he half-filled the third,and pushed it along the table to me, saying, 'There, take it, lad, ifthou wilt; 'twill do thee no good, but may do thee no harm.'

  Ratsey raised his glass almost before it was filled. He sniffed theliquor and smacked his lips. 'O rare milk of Ararat!' he said, 'it issweet and strong, and sets the heart at ease. And now get thebackgammon-board, John, and set it for us on the table.' So they fell tothe game, and I took a sly sip at the liquor, but nearly choked myself,not being used to strong waters, and finding it heady and burning in thethroat. Neither man spoke, and there was no sound except the constantrattle of the dice, and the rubbing of the pieces
being moved across theboard. Now and then one of the players stopped to light his pipe, and atthe end of a game they scored their totals on the table with a bit ofchalk. So I watched them for an hour, knowing the game myself, and beinginterested at seeing Elzevir's backgammon-board, which I had heard talkedof before.

  It had formed part of the furniture of the Why Not? for generations oflandlords, and served perhaps to pass time for cavaliers of the CivilWars. All was of oak, black and polished, board, dice-boxes, and men, butround the edge ran a Latin inscription inlaid in light wood, which I readon that first evening, but did not understand till Mr. Glennie translatedit to me. I had cause to remember it afterwards, so I shall set it downhere in Latin for those who know that tongue, _Ita in vita ut in lusualae pessima jactura arte corrigenda est_, and in English as Mr. Glennietranslated it, _As in life, so in a game of hazard, skill will makesomething of the worst of throws_. At last Elzevir looked up and spoketo me, not unkindly, 'Lad, it is time for you to go home; men say thatBlackbeard walks on the first nights of winter, and some have met himface to face betwixt this house and yours.' I saw he wanted to be rid ofme, so bade them both good night, and was off home, running all the waythither, though not from any fear of Blackbeard, for Ratsey had oftentold me that there was no chance of meeting him unless one passed thechurchyard by night.

  Blackbeard was one of the Mohunes who had died a century back, and wasburied in the vault under the church, with others of his family, butcould not rest there, whether, as some said, because he was alwayslooking for a lost treasure, or as others, because of his exceedingwickedness in life. If this last were the true reason, he must have beenbad indeed, for Mohunes have died before and since his day wicked enoughto bear anyone company in their vault or elsewhere. Men would have itthat on dark winter nights Blackbeard might be seen with an old-fashionedlanthorn digging for treasure in the graveyard; and those who professedto know said he was the tallest of men, with full black beard, copperyface, and such evil eyes, that any who once met their gaze must diewithin a year. However that might be, there were few in Moonfleet whowould not rather walk ten miles round than go near the churchyard afterdark; and once when Cracky Jones, a poor doited body, was found thereone summer morning, lying dead on the grass, it was thought that he hadmet Blackbeard in the night.

  Mr. Glennie, who knew more about such things than anyone else, told methat Blackbeard was none other than a certain Colonel John Mohune,deceased about one hundred years ago. He would have it that ColonelMohune, in the dreadful wars against King Charles the First, had desertedthe allegiance of his house and supported the cause of the rebels. Sobeing made Governor of Carisbrooke Castle for the Parliament, he becamethere the King's jailer, but was false to his trust. For the King,carrying constantly hidden about his person a great diamond which hadonce been given him by his brother King of France, Mohune got wind ofthis jewel, and promised that if it were given him he would wink at HisMajesty's escape. Then this wicked man, having taken the bribe, playstraitor again, comes with a file of soldiers at the hour appointed forthe King's flight, finds His Majesty escaping through a window, has himaway to a stricter ward, and reports to the Parliament that the King'sescape is only prevented by Colonel Mohune's watchfulness. But how true,as Mr. Glennie said, that we should not be envious against the ungodly,against the man that walketh after evil counsels. Suspicion fell onColonel Mohune; he was removed from his Governorship, and came back tohis home at Moonfleet. There he lived in seclusion, despised by bothparties in the State, until he died, about the time of the happyRestoration of King Charles the Second. But even after his death he couldnot get rest; for men said that he had hid somewhere that treasure givenhim to permit the King's escape, and that not daring to reclaim it, hadlet the secret die with him, and so must needs come out of his grave totry to get at it again. Mr. Glennie would never say whether he believedthe tale or not, pointing out that apparitions both of good and evilspirits are related in Holy Scripture, but that the churchyard was anunlikely spot for Colonel Mohune to seek his treasure in; for had it beenburied there, he would have had a hundred chances to have it up in hislifetime. However this may be, though I was brave as a lion by day, andused indeed to frequent the churchyard, because there was the widestview of the sea to be obtained from it, yet no reward would have taken methither at night. Nor was I myself without some witness to the tale, forhaving to walk to Ringstave for Dr. Hawkins on the night my aunt brokeher leg, I took the path along the down which overlooks the churchyard ata mile off; and thence most certainly saw a light moving to and fro aboutthe church, where no honest man could be at two o'clock in the morning.