The Second G.A. Henty

by G. A. Henty

  The two magistrates put their heads together for a short time. Then the chairman said: “The bench is of opinion that the charge of attempted murder is altogether without foundation, and that of abusive language and the use of threats should never have been brought, seeing that they were the result of what we cannot but consider the very ill-judged and improper conduct of the plaintiff. You are therefore discharged, Mr. Wyatt; but my colleague and myself cannot but again express a hope that this and the preceding charge may prove a lesson to you to avoid taking part, even as a spectator, in such breeches of the law as those which led to this very regrettable occurrence.”

  As the magistrate concluded, a roar of applause rose in the court. In vain the constables shouted for silence. The chairman at once ordered the room to be cleared, and at the same time motioned to Julian not to leave the court, as he was preparing to do. When the court was cleared, he called Julian up to him.

  “I think, Mr. Wyatt,” he said, “it would be as well for you to remain here for a time, and then go out by the back way. It would be very unfortunate if any demonstration took place. Enough harm has been done already; do not let us make it any worse.”

  “Certainly not, sir. I am heartily sorry for what has occurred,” and beckoning to Frank, who was still seated at the solicitors’ table, he retired with him to a waiting-room.

  “Thank goodness, Julian, you have got out of that scrape.”

  “Thank goodness, indeed, Frank. I behaved like an awful fool, but I never dreamt that anything like this would come of it. I have been to see cargoes run several times. It was very good fun. I never helped in any way, and had always made up my mind that I would make myself scarce if the revenue people should turn up, but it all happened so suddenly that I was a prisoner before I knew what was going on. As to the other affair, no doubt it would have been better for me to have said nothing, but of course I knew that he had no right to say what he did, and I had not the least idea that he would hit me; when he did, I went at him in a fury, and I don’t mind acknowledging that I did intend to chuck him in the fire—not with any idea of killing him, you know, though I did think he would be burnt a bit.”

  “It was lucky you sent for Probert, Julian; I had never thought of it.”

  “No more did I, Frank. I was perfectly astonished when he got up and said that he appeared for me, but I supposed that Aunt or you had sent for him.”

  “I am sure Aunt didn’t, or she would have told me.”

  “I should not be surprised, Frank, if it were Captain Downes. In the first place, he was a friend of Father’s, and in the next place, because he is heartily sick of Faulkner’s constant interference and the way he goes on. I expect that if Mr. Moorsby had got up he would have said just the same things.”

  “I will leave you here for a few minutes, Julian. I must run round and tell Aunt; she is in a fearful stew about you.”

  Frank ran out at the main entrance. A number of fishermen were hanging about outside. Bill came up to him:

  “Isn’t Mr. Julian coming out, Master Frank?”

  “Not at present. The magistrates don’t want any fuss in the streets, no more does my brother, and he will stay there till every one has cleared off, so the best thing you can do, Bill, is to persuade the others to go off home. Julian knows well enough that you are all pleased that he has got off, but you see if there were a fuss got up about it in the streets it would do him harm and not good.”

  “All right, sir, I will get them off. They just wanted to give him a cheer.”

  “Well, they did that in Court, Bill, and you know that he appreciates their good intentions. Well, I must be off.”

  Mrs. Troutbeck was still on the watch. However, she did not come to the door. Frank opened it, and ran into the parlour. His Aunt had dropped into a chair, with her handkerchief to her eyes.

  “So he has not come back with you, Frank. It is dreadful. What are they going to do with him?”

  “They are not going to do anything, Aunt. He has been acquitted. Only he did not come home with me because there are a lot of sailors waiting outside to cheer him, and the magistrates did not want a row over him, nor did Julian either. I have just run home to tell you that it is all right, and now I am going back for him. I expect by the time I get there they will all have gone, and we may be home in a quarter of an hour, so I think, Aunt, the best thing you can do is to get tea ready, for I don’t expect he has had much to eat there, or any appetite to eat it.”

  It was good advice, for Mrs. Troutbeck was on the point of going into hysterics from joy and relief. However, the thought of the necessity for getting a good meal to welcome Julian on his arrival turned her thoughts into another channel, and, wiping her eyes hastily, she rose and gave directions, while Frank started again for the court-house. The fishermen had left, but there were still a number of boys about the place. The private entrance was, however, free from observers, and the brothers started at once, keeping to the back streets until they neared the house.

  “My dear Julian,” Mrs. Troutbeck exclaimed as she threw her arms round his neck, “what a relief it is to have you back again. It has been terrible for you.”

  “It hasn’t been very pleasant, Aunt,” he replied cheerfully, “but it is all right now, and certainly I ought not to grumble. I have had better luck than I deserved. I was a fool to go there, but I did not think that there was any real chance of the revenue people coming down upon us. It was thought they had been thrown off the scent altogether.”

  “What a dreadful face you have got, Julian!”

  “Oh, that is nothing, Aunt; it will go off in a few days, and until it has I must either stay indoors or keep out of the town altogether.”

  “I am afraid tea won’t be ready for a few minutes, Julian. You see I have had such a very short notice.”

  “I can hold on comfortably, Aunt; besides, I have got to have a change and a wash. That is of more importance than tea just at present.”

  After the meal was over, Frank gave the details of the examination, the narrative being very frequently stopped by exclamations and questions on the part of Mrs. Troutbeck.

  “I have never heard of such a wicked thing. The idea of that man charging you with attempting to murder him! Julian, he ought to be punished for it.”

  “I fancy he has been punished, Aunt. I don’t see how he is to keep his commission as a justice after what was said in court. Still, it is a bad thing for me. I was discharged, but it will always be against me. If I ever get into any sort of trouble again, people will say: ‘Ah, yes; he was charged with attempting murder when he was a young fellow, and although he was lucky enough to get off then, there must have been something in it. He is evidently a man of ungovernable temper.’”

  “But, my dear Julian, everyone knows that you have a very sweet temper.”

  “I was not in a sweet temper then at any rate, Aunt.”

  “Of course not, Julian. I should not have been so myself if anyone had hit me such a terrible blow as that in the face.”

  Her nephews both laughed, for they had never seen her ruffled out of her usual serenity.

  “Well, Aunt, don’t let us talk any more about it,” Julian said. “I would give a good deal if it hadn’t happened. As it is, one must make the best of it, and I hope that it will be forgotten in time. I wish now that I had gone into the army, but it is too late for that. I shall think over what I had best take to. I should certainly like to get away from here until it has blown over altogether.”

  On the following morning Frank met Captain Downes, and learned that he was right in his conjecture, and that it was he who had retained Mr. Probert’s services in Julian’s behalf before the magistrates.

  For the next few days Julian kept in the house, except that after nightfall he went out for a long walk. The report of the proceedings in the court had caused a great sensation in Weymouth, and the feeling was so strong against Mr. Faulkner that he was hooted in the streets when he rode into the town. The general expectation wa
s that he would resign his position on the bench; and when at the end of a week he did not do so, a private meeting of the other magistrates was held, and it was whispered in the town that a report of the proceedings at the court had been sent to the Home Secretary, with an expression of opinion that Mr. Faulkner’s brother magistrates felt that they could not sit again with him on the bench after what had taken place.

  Ten days after the affair Julian started early one morning for a day’s rabbit-shooting at the house of a friend who lived some six miles up the valley. Some snow fell in the course of the afternoon and put a stop to shooting, and he started to walk home. When he was within a few hundred yards of Mr. Faulkner’s place he heard a horse coming along behind him. The snow that had fallen had deadened the sound of the hoofs on the road, and, looking round, he saw Mr. Faulkner riding fast, at a distance of but fifty yards away. Had he caught sight of him sooner Julian would have left the road and entered the wood to avoid him, but it was too late now, and he hoped that at any rate the man would pass on without speaking. The horseman had apparently not recognized Julian until he came abreast of him, when, with a sudden exclamation, he reined in his horse.

  “So it is you, Julian Wyatt?” he said, in a tone of suppressed fury.

  “It is I, Mr. Faulkner,” Julian replied quietly; “and as I don’t want to have anything to say to you, I think that you had better go on your way without interfering with me.”

  “Mark my words, you young scoundrel, I will be even with you yet.”

  “The debt is not all on your side, Mr. Faulkner. I, too, have got a debt to pay; and perhaps some day we may square matters up, when you have not got a score of coast-guardsmen at your back. However, I am content to leave matters as they are so long as you do the same. As to your owing a debt to me, it is yourself you have to thank for the trouble you have got into; it was no doing of mine. However, I warn you that you had better abstain from insulting me again. I did not strike you back when you hit me last time, but if you call me scoundrel again you shall see that I can hit as hard as you can, and I will teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  “You mark my words,” Mr. Faulkner repeated. “I will have you watched, and I will hunt you down, and if I am not mistaken I will put a rope round your neck one of these days.” So saying, he struck spurs into his horse and galloped on.

  Julian stood looking after him until he saw him turn in at his gate. The drive to the house led, as he knew, diagonally through the wood, and as he walked forward he heard the horse’s galloping hoofs grow louder and louder. Suddenly there was the report of a gun some seventy or eighty yards away. It was mingled with that of a sudden cry, and Julian heard the horse galloping on even faster than before. With an exclamation of “Good heavens! something has happened!” he broke through the hedge and ran in the direction of the sound. As he approached it he thought that he caught sight of a man running through the trees, but he kept straight on until he came upon the drive. Twenty yards away Mr. Faulkner lay stretched on the ground. He went up to him, and stooped over him. His eyes were closed, and as he lay on his back Julian saw blood oozing through a bullet-hole in his coat high up on the left side of the chest.

  Feeling sure that Mr. Faulkner was dead he started up, and without a moment’s hesitation ran into the wood again, in the direction where he had thought that he had seen a figure. A minute later he came upon some footprints on a bare spot between the trees, where the snow had fallen lightly. Noting the direction they took, he followed at once. He saw no more signs of footprints, but followed the direction as nearly as he could until he came to the farthest side of the wood; then he leaped out into the field beyond, and followed the edge of the wood until he again reached the road. He then turned and went back again, and fifty yards from the point where he had first run out he came upon the footprints again.

  “He was going to take to the hills, he muttered,” as he set off along the track. He ran at a trot, and as he went, loaded both barrels of his gun. “Very likely the villain will show fight,” he said to himself; “I must take him by surprise if I can.”

  After a quarter of a mile’s run he reached the foot of the hill, and near its crest, three-quarters of a mile away, caught sight of the figure of a man. A moment later he had passed over the crest. Julian started at full speed up the hill. There was no need to follow the footprints now; indeed the strong wind that was blowing had swept the snow into the hollows, and the face of the hill was bare. When he reached the top of the hill he had decreased his distance considerably. He saw to his surprise that the man was bearing to the right, a course that would ere long bring him to the edge of the cliff. The run up the hill had left him breathless, and for some time the man, who was also running, fully maintained his lead. Then Julian began to gain upon him. The man had again changed his course, and was now going parallel with the line of cliffs. Three miles from the point where he had reached the top Julian was within a quarter of a mile of him. He would have caught him before this, had he not been obliged at times to make detours so as to avoid passing high ground, where the man, if he looked back, would have perceived him. By this time he was almost sure that the fugitive was a poacher, who had been recently released from a term of two years in prison for poaching in Mr. Faulkner’s preserves. At last he saw him turn sharp to the right again. “Where on earth is he going?” Julian said to himself. “The cliffs are not many hundred yards away.”

  Hitherto he had supposed that the man was keeping away from the cliff to avoid meeting any of the coast-guards who would be on duty there, but this change of direction puzzled him completely. Keeping his eye on the poacher, he saw him enter a small clump of bushes, from which he did not emerge. Julian at once slackened his pace down to a walk. It was likely enough that the man had noticed that he was being pursued, and had determined to rid himself of the pursuer. It was not a pleasant idea, that the fellow might now be kneeling among the bushes with his gun at his shoulder.

  “It could hardly be that either,” he said to himself, “for if he intended to shoot me he would have turned the other way; for the sound of his gun would be probably heard by some of the coast-guard, and they could not fail to see him running away. At any rate,” he muttered, “I am not going to turn back after such a chase as I have had.”

  Standing still and looking at the spot, he saw that the clump of bushes grew in a slight hollow, and that by turning to the right he would be able to approach within twenty or thirty yards of it without exposing himself to view. This he did, and in a short time lost sight of the bushes. Moving with great caution, he made his way towards them, and when he approached the slope into the hollow, lay down and crawled along, keeping his gun in front of him. As he neared the spot he lay down on his stomach in the short turf and wound himself along until he could see down into the bushes. With his gun at his shoulder, and his finger on the trigger, he gazed down into the hollow. To his surprise he could see no signs of the fugitive. The leafless boughs afforded but slight shelter, and after gazing fixedly at them for two or three minutes, he became convinced that the man was no longer there. As soon as he came to this conclusion he stood up and looked over the surrounding country. It was bleak and bare, and entirely destitute of hedges or any other shelter.

  It was but for five or six minutes at the utmost that he had lost sight of the bushes, and in that time the man could not have got far. “Where on earth has he hidden himself?” Julian muttered.

  He went down to the clump of bushes, still holding his gun in readiness for instant use. The patch was but some thirty feet long by half as wide. He walked backwards and forwards among the low bushes, but the fugitive was certainly not there. Going to the end of the patch he could see plainly enough the track where the man had entered, for although there was little snow on the top of the ground it lay among the tufts of grass. He walked round the clump, but there were no signs of any footsteps leaving it. “This is the rummest thing I ever saw,” he muttered; “the fellow can’t have flown away; yet,
he certainly has not walked off.”

  Thinking it over, an idea suddenly occurred to him. When sailing along the coast with Bill, the latter had one day pointed out to him a hole in the cliff some twenty feet above high-water mark. “Do you see that hole, Mr. Julian?”

  “Yes, I see it plain enough. What of it?”

  “Well, sir, if I owned all the goods that have been taken into that hole on dark still nights I should be a rich man.”

  “Do you mean to say that they run cargoes there, Bill?”

  “Not kegs—they are too heavy and too awkward to get away—but laces, and silks, and such like. Many a lugger when she comes from abroad lands all them sorts of things here, and then sails away and takes her chance of running the rest of the cargo somewhere else.”

  “But how can anyone get up there? I see nothing like a path.”

  “There ain’t no path, sir. The revenue men would have found it out long ago if there had been. The boat comes along, as I said, of a dark night, when there is no swell on, and the chaps inside show a tiny light to guide them to the spot. When the boat comes, they lower a rope down and haul the bales up; and then the boat goes back to the lugger, and she ups sail, and no one is the wiser.”

  “But what do they do with the stuff? I don’t mean, where do they stow it, but how do they get it away?”

  “There is a passage somewhere,” Bill replied. “I don’t know where it goes out. I reckon there ain’t half a dozen men in Weymouth who do know. I should say, except the men whose business it is to take the goods inland and forward them to London, there is only one chap who is in the secret; and he is not in Weymouth now—he is in jail. That is Joe Markham. He is in for poaching. But for a good many years he sailed in one of those French luggers. Then, as I have heard, he was keeper of the cave for a bit; but he had to give it up—he was too well known to the coast-guard, and they kept too sharp an eye on him for him to venture to go out. He had had enough of the sea, and no doubt he had got some money laid by; anyhow, he took a cottage by the river, and took to poaching, more for devilment, I should say, than because he wanted the money. I expect he was well paid by the smugglers, for he used to get up half the stories to put them off the scent, and never missed being present when a run was made.”