by Oliver Optic
CHAPTER IX.
"A SPLENDID NIGHT'S WORK, TOM!"
"Ah! cruel, hard-hearted, to press him, And force the dear youth from my arms; Restore him, that I may caress him, And shield him from future alarms." DIBDIN'S _Pressgang_.
It was near to the hour of sunset, on an autumn evening about a weekafter the cozy dinner-party in the cabin of Captain Jack Mackenzie ofthe _Tonneraire_. The tree-clad hills and terra-cotta cliffs around TorBay were all ablur with driving mist and rain, borne viciously along onthe wings of a north-east gale. Far out beyond the harbour mouth,betwixt Berry Head and Hope's Nose, the steel-blue waters were fleckedand streaked with foam; while high against the rocks of Corbyn's Headthe waves broke in clouds of spray.
As night fell, the wind seemed to increase; the sky was filled withstorm-riven clouds; and the "white horses" that rode on the bay grewtaller and taller.
Surely on such a night as this every fishing-boat would seek shelter,and vessels near to the land would make good their offing for safety'ssake.
There were those who, gazing out upon the storm from the green plateauabove Daddy's Hole, where the coastguard station now is, thoughtotherwise.
Daddy's Hole is a sort of inlet or indentation in the rock-wall, whichrises so steeply up to the plain above that, though covered with grass,it seems hardly to afford foothold for goats. No man in his senses wouldventure to descend from above in a straight line, nor even by zigzag,were it not for the fact that here and there through the smooth greensurface rocks protrude which would break his fall.
Shading their eyes with their hands in the gathering gloom, with facesseaward, stood two rough-looking men, of the class we might callamphibious--men at home either on the water or on shore.
"It can't be done," said one. "No, capting, it can't."
"Can't?" thundered the other; "and I tells yew, Dan, the skipper o' the_Brixham_ knows no such a word as 'can't.' He's comin'. Yew'll see.Hawkins never hauled 'is wind yet where a bit o' the yellow was tow bemade. Us'll drink wine in France to-morrow, sure's my name isScrivings."
Dan shook his head.
"W'y, yew soft-hearted chap, for tew pins I'd pitch yew ower the cliff."
But as "Capting" Scrivings laughed while he spoke, and shook his friendroughly by the shoulder, there was little chance of the terrible threatbeing fulfilled.
"And min' yew, Dan," he added, "if us lands this un all right, us'll berich, lad--ha! ha! Besides, wot's Hawkins got tow be afear'd of? The_Brixham_ can cut the winkers from the wind's eye, that she can. Tackand 'alf tack though buried in green seas, Dan. Never saw a craft towsail closer tow a wind. Here's tow bold Hawkins and the brave_Brixham_!"
The toast was drunk from a black bottle which the "capting" handed toDan.
"'Ave a pull, chap; yew needs it to brace yewr courage tow thesticking-point."
* * * * *
Captain Butler prided himself on the seaworthiness and fleetness of hiscutter, the saucy little _Moonbeam_. Not that she had been much to lookat, or much to sail either, when he took her over; for in those good oldtimes the Admiralty was not a whit more generous with paint and coppernails than it is now. But One-legged Butler was a man of some means, whomight have driven his coach on shore had he not been so fond of thebrine and the breeze. So he had the _Moonbeam_ seen to at his ownexpense--not without asking and receiving permission, of course, for hewas a strict-service man. Her bows were lengthened and her rig alteredand improved; she was made, in fact, quite a model of.
And Captain Butler was justly proud of the _Moonbeam_. So highly did heregard her that he would not have marked her smooth and spotless deckwith his timber toe to obtain his promotion, and therefore his servanthad orders to always keep the end of that useful limb shod with softestleather.
Nothing that ever sailed got the weather-gauge on the _Moonbeam_.
Except the _Brixham_.
That smuggling sloop landed many a fine bale of silk, hogshead of wine,and tobacco galore, all along the south coast; but never had beencaught. She was a fly-by-night and a veritable phantom. Thrice Butlerhad chased her. He might as well have attempted to overhaul a gull onthe wing.
But to-night One-legged Butler meant to do or die. He knew she was goingto venture into Tor Bay, and lie off at anchor under the lee of thecliffs. He could have boarded her in boats perhaps; but that would nothave suited Butler's idea of seamanship. It must be neck or nothing--afair race and a fair fight.
The _Brixham_ carried a dare-devil crew, however, and Hawkins fearednothing. The _Moonbeam_ would have her work cut out; but then all themore glory to the bold fellows on board of her; for these were the dayswhen adventure was beloved for its own sake alone.
* * * * *
When, on the night previous, twenty brave blue-jackets from the_Tonneraire_ were told off for special service and sent aboard thelittle _Moonbeam_, which sailed a few hours after just as the moon wasrising over the Hoe, they had no idea what was in the wind. From theirarmature of cutlasses and pistols, they "daresayed" there was a littlebit of fighting to be done, and rejoiced accordingly, for Jack dearlyloves a scrimmage. The wind blew high, even then tossing the cutterabout like a cork, although she carried but little sail. By nextforenoon, however, she had passed Tor Bay, and lay in semi-hiding nearHope's Nose. There was the risk of the vessel's presence beingdiscovered and reported to Scrivings and his gang; but there always arerisks in warfare.
As soon as it was dusk a portion of the men were landed. Then the_Moonbeam_, although it blew big guns, set herself to watch for the foe.
Hour after hour flew by, and the moon, glinting now and then through arift in the clouds, whitened the curling waves, but showed no signs ofthe _Brixham_, or of anything else.
It was an anxious time.
At twelve o'clock grog and biscuits were served out. The men never hadtime to swallow a mouthful--of biscuit, I mean. No doubt they drank thegrog, for those were the days of can-tossing, a custom now happily butseldom honoured.
Yes, there she was! It could be none other save daring Hawkins in the_Brixham_.
Small look-out was being kept to-night, however, on the smuggler.
The _Moonbeam_ swept down on her as hawk swoops down on his prey, andalthough Tor Bay is wondrous wide, and the _Brixham_ was nearly in thecentre of it, the cutter was on her in a surprisingly short time.
Fine seamanship, fine steering, to sheer alongside and grapple, despitethe fact that the sea had gone down, and the waves were partially underthe lee of the hills.
If ever man was surprised, that man was Smuggler Hawkins. But heanswered the call to surrender with a shout of defiance.
After this it was all a wild medley of pistols cracking, cutlassesclashing, cries--yes, and, I am sorry to say, a few groans; for bloodwas shed, and one man at least would never sail the salt seas more. Butif blood was shed, the seas washed it off; for the fight took place withthe spray driving over both vessels, white in the moonlight.
A prize crew was left on the _Brixham_, and in less than twenty minutesboth craft were safe at anchor in Torquay harbour.
Meanwhile, the party who had been landed near to Hope's Nose had madetheir way inland, bearing somewhat to the east to make a detour, bothfor the purpose of getting well in the rear of the smugglers'cottage--where Tom Fairlie, who was in command, knew the smugglers wereto be found--and because the night was still young.
When Scrivings left the outlook with Dan on watch, he betook himself tothis cottage, in order to complete arrangements for landing the cargo,every bale and tub of which they had meant to haul up from Daddy's Holeto the plains above, then to cart them away inland.
But he found his ten men ready, and even the horses and carts inwaiting. They were hired conveyances. The smugglers found no difficultyin getting help to secure their booty in those days, when many even ofthe resident gentry of England sympathized with contraband trade. Sothere was nothing to be done but t
o wait.
It was a lonely enough spot where the little cottage stood among rocksand woodland. Lovely as well as lonely and wild; though I fear itsbeauties alone did nothing to recommend the place to the favour of"Capting" Scrivings and his merry men.
The night waned. The moon rose higher and higher. The men in the bothy,having eaten and drunk, had got tired at last of card-playing, andnearly all were curled up and asleep.
The sentry had seated himself on a stone outside, and he too wasnodding, lulled into dreamland by the sough of the wind among the solemnpines.
The wind favoured Fairlie's party, who, as stealthily as Indians, crepttowards the cottage from the rear.
The sentry was neatly seized and quickly gagged, and next moment thelieutenant, sword in hand, his men behind him, had rushed into thedimly-lit bothy.
"Surrender in the king's name! The first who stirs is a dead man!"
It was beautifully done. Not a show of resistance was or could be made,and in less than an hour Tom Fairlie, with his crestfallen prisoners,had reached the harbour, where they were welcomed by a hearty cheer,which awakened the echoes of the rocks and a good many of theinhabitants of the village of Torquay.[A]
[A] The town now shows a bolder front.
And now Captain Jack Mackenzie shook hands right heartily with hisfriend Tom Fairlie.
"Splendid night's work, Tom," he said. "A thousand thanks! Now the saucy_Tonneraire_ may be called ready for sea."
Splendid night's work was it? Well, we now-a-days would think thisimpressment cruel--cruel to take men away from their homes andavocations, perhaps never to see their country more. Yet it must beadmitted that smugglers like these, who had so long defied the law,richly deserved their fate.