A Lad of Grit Part 7

Presently my outstretched hand touched a wall of rock. Turning to the left, I followed the direction of the wall, which, for a cave, was very regular. At length my left hand touched a rock; either I had reached a corner of the cave, or this was a pillar of detached stone.

Carefully feeling with both hands, I discovered that I was standing in an angle, and right in the corner my hand came in contact with an object that, on inspection, proved to be a gun; also, by the smoothness of the barrel I knew that it had recently been in use, there being no rust on the ironwork.

This discovery cheered me, as the cave would before long be visited by the owner of the piece. Taking the musket in my hand I felt the pan, removed the powder from it, then c.o.c.ked the hammer. On pulling the trigger the flash of the flint gave a tolerable illumination. This action I repeated several times, till I could form some idea of the cave.

In the part opposite where I was standing I saw more weapons, several large casks, and bundles of what looked like woollen and silk goods.

Then the truth flashed across my mind: I was in one of the storehouses of the Tilly Whim smugglers!

Replacing the musket where I found it, I made my way cautiously towards the barrels. Here I felt about carefully, till my hand alighted on an opened box of coa.r.s.e biscuits, which served as a meal, as I was wellnigh spent with hunger. Then, after a drink from the water that trickled through the roof of the cave, I resumed my tour of inspection.

Groping on, my knees came in contact with a large wooden box. Its contents were apparently hay and straw, but curiosity prompted me to plunge my hand through the upper surface, and it was no surprise to me to find that underneath was a thick layer of silk. The box or crate was some six or seven feet in length and three in breadth, the depth being about the same as the breadth; so its contents must have been worth several hundreds of pounds.

While engaged in my investigations I heard the sound of footsteps and voices. The smugglers were coming to their storehouse!

There was not a moment to be lost, and rapidly making up my mind, I burrowed underneath the hay and straw, and concealed myself on the layers of silk.

The sound of shuffling feet drew nearer, there was a noise like the throwing back of a curtain, and the cave was flooded with a subdued daylight.

The men feared no interruption, for they were singing a l.u.s.ty song in broad Dorset dialect, the chorus of which ran: "He used to laugh a horrible laugh, His fav'rite cry was 'Priddys', His life he held in his own right arm, His soul was Cap'n Kiddie's!"

Often in my younger days had old Henry Martin and Master Collings told me tales of a buccaneering Captain Kidd and his bloodthirsty henchman, a renegade Scotsman called Angus Priddys, whose career was ended at Execution Dock; so I formed a conclusion that these smugglers were men whose illicit dealings were not the worst of their accomplishments.

Through a knot hole in the side of the box I could see the whole of the rascally crew.

There were about thirty, all well armed and dressed in usual mariner's style, save that two or three wore smocks. Several carried beakers on their shoulders, while two bore between them a small but heavy chest. They had evidently had a successful haul, for all were in high spirits, and the chorus of their gruesome song echoed along the walls of the cavern. The refrain was interrupted by one of the men exclaiming that their stores had been disturbed, and a search commenced which might have ended with my discovery but for the fact that in the far end of the cave, immediately underneath the funnel through which I had fallen, lay the dead body of a fox, whose body had broken my headlong descent. Deeming this a satisfactory explanation for this interruption, the rogues resumed their carousing.

I could now see how near I had been to regaining my freedom, for just beyond the place where my tour of exploration had abruptly terminated was the entrance to the cave, skilfully hidden by a heavy screen of painted canvas that, even at a short distance, would deceive all who were not acquainted with the secret.

For nearly an hour the smugglers devoted themselves to a reckless carouse, till at length their leader called for silence. With a discipline that is rare amongst such people, the gang sat down on barrels and rough stools and awaited their captain's orders.

In the broad Dorset dialect their leader recounted the various successful runs they had made, as if vainglorious of their deeds, and finished by demanding: "Be there any of ye as be not content with his share?"

Their answer, with one voice, was "No". "Then," resumed the speaker, "if so be as that ye are all content, how comes it that one of ye must needs taake bloodmoney from the gaugers? And how comes it that dree[1] of our'n have been stuck wi' a Bridport dagger?"[2]

[1] Dree=three, still used in Wilts and Dorset.

[2] "Stuck wi' a Bridport dagger".--A local witticism meaning to be hanged, Bridport being noted for the manufacture of hempen rope.

The smugglers looked at one another in amazement. Clearly there was a Judas amongst them.

"Stand out, Ned Crocker!"

There was a scuffling in the farther corner of the cavern, and presently a man was roughly hauled out into the centre of the a.s.sembly. I could see him distinctly; he was a little, under-sized apology for a man, with sharp, pointed features, a nose resembling a bird's beak, a loose, weak-natured mouth, and small, s.h.i.+fty eyes. His complexion was dark, almost of a dirty yellow, while his face was covered with blotches and pimples.

In his terror his skin turned almost a greyish white, while his thin legs, which struck me as being too weak for even his undersized body, were bent and shaking like a reed in a March gale.

Several of the rogues hurled imprecations at him, but their leader silenced them by raising his hand.

"I bain't a done nothin'!" cried the miserable wretch.

"I don't know as 'ow ye've been taxed wi' aught," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the captain, "but I'll do it now. Look you, Ned Crocker, have ye at any time been unfairly done by? No? Then why did ye blab on the run we made nigh Dancing Ledge, when Thompson, John Light, and Long Will of Corfe were taken?"

"'Tweren't me, maaster!" answered the rogue st.u.r.dily and doggedly, though his bearing did not fit with his manner of speech.

"Not ye? Ah, now harken! Know'st Jim Harker, the court-leet man and king's officer at Wareham?"

A shake of the head was the only reply, though the accused man shook more violently than before.

"No? Then methinks ye'll know him no more on this earth, for he's dead!"

The speaker paused to mark the effect of his words, then he continued: "An', what's more, we killed him close to Arishmell Gap. 'Twas his own doin'. But on him we found this. Now, being no scholard, I ax Master Fallowfield to read what's on this paaper."

Master Fallowfield, who, as I afterwards learned from the conversation, was the parish clerk of Worth Matravers church on Sabbaths and holydays, and an arrant smuggler at other times, took the paper and read in a sonorous voice a message from a neighbouring justice to the ill-fated James Harker, telling him that the reward due to the informer Crocker would be paid at any time after Martinmas.

A deathly silence, broken only by the short gasps of the doomed wretch, followed this announcement.

"And the sentence is----?"

"Death! Death!" shouted the smugglers with no uncertain voice. Crocker made a desperate effort, shook off the men who advanced to hold him, and, flinging himself down before the captain, clasped his knees and begged for mercy. In a second, however, his executioners sprang upon him and bound him hand and foot, and a scarf was fastened over his eyes. One of the men drew a pistol. I watched the scene, for the moment unmindful of my dangerous position, but drawn by an indescribable feeling to watch the last moments of a doubly-dyed rogue.

Slowly the pistol was raised till its muzzle was level with the doomed man's temple. I could even see the smuggler's finger resting lightly on the trigger, while his eyes were turned towards the leader as if awaiting the signal to fire. The remainder of the rascals looked on impa.s.sively, as if thoroughly used to this kind of rough-and-ready justice.

But the fatal signal never came. The captain signed for the pistol to be lowered, the bandage was removed, and the culprit, already half-dead with fear, was told that he was pardoned conditionally.

Without waiting to hear the conditions, Crocker lurched forward and fell heavily to the ground in a dead faint.

"Hark ye, George Davies! When yon lubber comes to himself, tell him to make hotfoot for Lyme, and put hundreds of leagues of sea betwixt him and us. If he says nay, keep him safely till we return."

Once more the drunken revels were resumed, and again the rollicking chorus, for the men would sing naught else, echoed through the cave: "He used to laugh a horrible laugh, His fav'rite cry was 'Priddys'!"

Gradually the dim light of the cave diminished, and I knew that night was falling. Torches and lanterns were lighted, and still the smugglers kept high carnival.

Suddenly, above the noise of the revellers, came a shrill whistle, and as if by magic the din of merrymaking gave place to an almost oppressive silence.

Again the whistle was repeated--like the cry of some bird of night--and one of the smugglers replied with a sound like the hooting of an owl.

Then came the noise of brushwood being removed, and a block and tackle were lowered through the chimneylike aperture.

"Now, my lads, look alive; casks first."

The smugglers worked with a will. The casks were rolled under the tackle, and whipped up to the open air. Six in all were sent up, and then the men began to handle the bales. At length two of the rogues laid hands on the box of silks wherein I lay concealed. I had a difficulty in restraining myself from springing up; but with a great effort I remained perfectly quiet, though expecting every moment to find a knife pa.s.sed through my body, or a dozen rough hands seize me in their merciless grip.

"Be this one to go?"

"Bide a bit. I'll ax."

The footsteps died away and came again.

"Yes, Charlie, up with it!"

"What a weight!" muttered one man with an oath. "Here, d.i.c.k, come here a moment and bear a hand. Who'd a thought as that silk be so weighty?"

"Is the straw agoin' too?"

My heart was literally in my mouth.

"No; but stop! P'raps it'll save questions being axed, and straw's cheap enow."

I felt myself being lifted with my luxurious bed and carried across the floor of the cave. Then slings were fastened round the crate, the tackle creaked, and I was on my way to the open air, the box rubbing and grinding against the sides of the shaft in its ascent.

CHAPTER XIII.

--The Escape.

Strong hands seized the box and lifted it on to a cart, the rough springs of which shook alarmingly as they felt the weighty load.

Then came a hurried discussion as to the destination of the booty, some, including the parish clerk, Fallowfield, who had gained the upper regions by means of the tackle, urging that it had best be taken and placed in the tower of Worth Church, the others insisting that it would be best to make one journey do, and convey it as close to Wareham as possible, where their accomplices could make arrangements for its distribution.

The latter argument prevailed; a heavy tarpaulin was thrown over the cart, a whip cracked, and we were off. I could hear the sound of the brushwood being replaced and the rough farewell greetings of the smugglers, and, by the jolting of the cart and the m.u.f.fled noise of the wheels, I knew that the route lay across a gra.s.sy down.

Presently I became emboldened sufficiently to clear away the material that prevented an outlook through the hole in the woodwork of the box. But my task was unavailing, for it was night, and the darkness so intense that nothing could be distinguished.

For quite half an hour the cart jolted over the sward, then the wheels struck the hard surface of a road, and the pace became quicker but more even.

There were but two men with the cart, and their conversation was carried on in a series of short sentences spoken in the broadest Dorset dialect.

Presently a low oath came from one of the men, and the cart was dragged off the roadway and hidden in a hollow, or such I thought it to be.

Wondering at the cause of this, I heard the sound of horse's hoofs coming nearer and nearer; then, with a deafening clatter on the stony road, the animal pa.s.sed by, and the sounds died away in the distance.

"It be 'e, sure enow," muttered one of the men.

"Yes, it be. Howsoever 'e bain't seen we, so let's get the cart back to t' roaad."

Who the mysterious "'e" might be I could not discover; one of the king's officers, perchance, though in this lawless district they rarely ride alone.

The task of getting the cart back to the roadway was longer than the men had reckoned upon, and when at length they succeeded, one remarked in a breathless voice that dawn was breaking.

Soon the light was sufficient for me to see out of my spyhole. We were descending a steep hill, and on one side towered a lofty down, round which the white mists of morning still hung like fleecy clouds.

"'Tis no use to go to Wareham," remarked one of the men. "We'd be stopped, sure as faate."

"That's so," replied the other. "There's but one thing to do."

"What's that?"

"Leave the stuff at Carfe and take caart home."

"Where?"

"Where! Why, in the castle, ye dolt!"

Soon the cart was being driven through a village street. I could see the houses distinctly. They were all built of stone, and most of them were roofed with stone as well. This, then, was Corfe, or Carfe, as the inhabitants call it.

Here a thought occurred to me to spring from my hiding place and make a dash for freedom, but the weight of the tarpaulin, which was securely lashed down, prevented me; so I was perforce obliged to remain, though firmly resolved to free myself at the first favourable opportunity.

The cart proceeded on its way, and pa.s.sed through a wide marketplace in the centre of which stood a cross. Then it rumbled over a stone bridge and entered the courtyard of the castle.

Corfe Castle was well known by reason of its stubborn defence against the malignants during the Great Rebellion, Lady Banks having all but successfully withstood a lengthy siege when rank treachery did its fell work.

On the fall of the fortress it was "slighted" by order of Old Noll himself, and the keep and walls were blown up with powder. So strong was the construction of the masonry that the work of destruction was only partially done, though the keep was riven from base to summit, and several of the smaller towers were thrown bodily out of plumb.

This much I had heard from report, and now, in spite of my cramped position, and faintness from want of food, I could not help looking with interest on the shattered walls, which still showed the black marks of the powder, though now, after a lapse of twenty years, their barrenness was beginning to be hidden by a kindly garb of ivy.

The fear of sorcery and witchcraft was firmly fixed in the minds of the Dorset peasantry, and in consequence few would venture amid the grim ruins by day, still less by night, so the smugglers' hiding place was practically free from interruption.

The cart came to a sudden stop in an archway under the keep, and, with a hurried warning: "Look alive; the sun's nearly up", the men proceeded to unfasten the tarpaulin. This was done, the canvas fell in a heap on the ground, and the men began to unload the straw.

The time for action had arrived. With a bound I sprang from the cart, nearly overthrowing the astonished men, who yelled with terror, as if his Satanic Majesty had suddenly appeared.

I did not stop to think in which direction I should run, but started off towards a gap in the walls. Pa.s.sing through this, I found myself on a steep bank, at the bottom of which a white chalky road led towards a town some miles away, the towers of whose churches were plainly visible in the morning light, while away to the right was a large expanse of water which I guessed correctly was the harbour of Poole.

Descending the steep, gra.s.sy mound at a breakneck pace, I gained the road and headed northwards, keeping the sun on my right hand. After running a quarter of a mile or so, and finding no signs of pursuit, I slackened my pace and walked, the effect of my prolonged fast being very evident.

An hour later I was crossing a long causeway close to the town. Here I met a cowherd, who looked at me in astonishment, my clothes being in rags and covered with wisps of straw, while my face, blackened with dirt, was surmounted by a crop of ruffled hair that did duty for a hat.

In answer to my question he told me that I was in Wareham, and a few minutes afterwards I was sitting in a bakery, eagerly devouring a half-loaf and a cup of milk that a kindly baker provided for me.

Seeing that I was utterly exhausted, he allowed me to lie down in front of his oven, and, in spite of the hardness of my couch, I slept soundly till midday, when I was aroused by Greville Drake and some of the late crew of the Gannet, who were being entertained in the town till they could be conveyed to their homes.

I was, however, too ill to be moved; so the kindly baker, hearing my story, and being informed of my rank, had me put to bed in his own house, where later in the day a magistrate attended to take down my depositions as to the gang of smugglers.

That night I got worse, and for three weeks I lay betwixt life and death with an ague brought about by the cold and exposure.

Then one morning I awoke to find my Uncle George sitting by my bedside. The kindly little man had heard of my being ill at Wareham, and had immediately travelled posthaste to my side.

From that day my recovery became rapid, and in less than a fortnight I could sit up.

One afternoon, as the late autumnal sun was sinking in the west, I heard the tramping of feet and the clanking of fetters. My uncle helped me to the window, and on looking out I saw the whole gang of smugglers, save two who had preferred death to capture, being led through the town on the way to Dorchester Jail.