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Cutlass and Cudgel

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<h3>Chapter Three.</h3> “How do, Sir Risdon?” The speaker was a curious-looking man of fifty, rough, sunburned, and evidently as keen as a well-worn knife. He was dressed like a farmer who had taken to fishing or like a fisherman who had taken to farming, and his nautical appearance seemed strange to a man who was leading a very meditative grey horse attached to a heavy cart, made more weighty by the greatcoat of caked mud the vehicle wore. He had been leading the horse along what was called in Freestone a road, though its only pretensions to being a road was that it led from Shackle’s farm to the fields which bordered the cliff, and consisted of two deep channels made by the farm tumbril wheels, and a shallow track formed by horses’ hoofs, the said channels being more often full of water than of mud, and boasting the quality of never even in the hottest weather being dry. The person Blenheim Shackle—farmer and fisher, in his canvas sailor’s breeches, big boots, striped shirt, and red tassel cap—had accosted, was a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking gentleman, in a broad-skirted, shabby brown velvet coat, who was daintily picking his way, cane in hand, over the soft turf of the field, evidently deep in thought, but sufficiently awake to what was around to make him stoop from time to time to pick up a glistening white-topped mushroom, and transfer it to one of his pockets with a satisfied smile. “Ah, Master Shackle,” he said, starting slightly on being addressed. “Well, thank you. A lovely morning, indeed.” “Ay, the morning’s right enough, Sir Risdon. Picking a few mushrooms, sir?” “I—er—yes, Master Shackle. I have picked a few,” said the tall thin gentleman, colouring slightly. “I—beg your pardon, Master Shackle, for doing so. I ought to have asked your leave.” “Bah! Not a bit,” said the fisher-farmer, with a chuckle. “You’re welcome, squire.” “I thank you, Master Shackle—I thank you warmly. You see her ladyship is very fond of the taste of a fresh gathered mushroom, and if I see a few I like to take them to the Hoze.” “Ay, to be sure,” said Shackle, as he thought to himself “And precious glad to get them, you two poor half-starved creatures, with your show and sham, and titles and keep up appearances.” “I—er—I have not got many, Master Shackle. Would you like to see?” continued the tall thin gentleman, raising the flap of one of his salt-box pockets. “I don’t want to see,” growled the other, as he stood patting the neck of his old grey horse. “Been to the cliff edge?” “I—yes, Master Shackle.” “See the cutter?” “I think I saw a small vessel lying some distance off, with white sails.” “That’s the White Hawk, Luff Brough. And I wanted to speak to you, Sir Risdon.” The gentleman started. “Not about—about that—” he stammered. “Tchah! Yes. It was about that, man,” said the other. “Don’t shy at it like a horse at a blue bogey in a windy lane.” “But I told you, man, last time, that I would have no more to do with that wretched smuggling.” “Don’t call things by ugly names.” “My good man, it is terrible. It is dishonourable, and the act is a breaking of the laws of our country.” “Tchah! Not it, Sir Risdon,” cried the other so sharply, that the grey horse started forward, and had to be checked. “Not the king’s laws, but the laws of that Dutchman who has come and stuck himself on the throne. Why, sir, you ought to take a pleasure in breaking his laws, after the way he has robbed you, and turned you from a real gentleman, into a poor, hard-pressed country squire, who—” “Hush! Hush, Master Shackle!” said the tall gentleman huskily. “Don’t rake up my misfortunes.” “Not I, Sir Risdon. I’m full o’ sorrow and respect for a noble gentleman, who has suffered for the cause of the real king, who, when he comes, will set us all right.” “Ah, Master Shackle, I’m losing heart.” “Nay, don’t do that, Sir Risdon; and as to a few mushrooms, why, you’re welcome enough; and I’d often be sending a chicken or a few eggs, or a kit o’ butter, or drop o’ milk, all to the Hoze, only we’re feared her ladyship might think it rude.” “It’s—it’s very good of you, Master Shackle, and I shall never be able to repay you.” “Tchah! Who wants repaying, Sir Risdon? We have plenty at the farm, and it was on’y day ’fore yes’day as I was out in my little lugger, and we’d took a lot o’ mackrel! ‘Ram,’ I says to my boy Ramillies, ‘think Sir Risdon would mind if I sent him a few fish up to the Hoze?’ “‘Ay, father,’ he says, ‘they don’t want us to send them fish. My lady’s too proud!’” Sir Risdon sighed, and the man watched him narrowly. “It’s a pity too,” the latter continued, “specially as we often have so much fish we puts it on the land.” “Er—if you would be good enough to send a little fish—of course very fresh, Master Shackle, and a few eggs, and a little butter to the Hoze, and let me have your bill by and by, I should be gratified.” “On’y too glad, Sir Risdon, I will.—Think any one’s been telling tales?” “Tales?” “’Bout us, Sir Risdon.” “About us!” “You see the revenue cutter’s hanging about here a deal, and it looks bad.” “Surely no one would betray you, Master Shackle?” “Hope not, Sir Risdon; but it’s okkard. There’s a three-masted lugger coming over from Ushant, and she may be in to-night. There’s some nice thick fogs about now, and it’s a quiet sea. Your cellars are quite empty, I s’pose?” The last remark came so quickly, that the hearer started, and made no reply. “You see, Sir Risdon, we might run the cargo, and stow it all up at my place, for we’ve plenty o’ room; but if they got an idea of it aboard the cutter, she’d land some men somehow, and come and search me, but they wouldn’t dare to come and search you. I’ve got a bad character, but you haven’t.” “No, no, Master Shackle; I cannot; I will not.” “The lads could run it up the valley, and down into your cellar, Sir Risdon,” whispered the man, as if afraid that the old grey horse would hear; “nobody would be a bit the wiser, and you’d be doing a neighbour a good turn.” “I—I cannot, Master Shackle; it is against the law.” “Dutchman’s law, not the laws of Bonnie Prince Charlie. You will, Sir Risdon?” “No—no, I dare not.” “And it gives a neighbour a chance to beg your acceptance of a little drop o’ real cognac, Sir Risdon—so good in case o’ sickness. And a bit of prime tay, such as would please her ladyship. Then think how pleasant a pipe is, Sir Risdon; I’ve got a bit o’ lovely tobacco at my place, and a length or two of French silk.” “Master Shackle! Master Shackle!” cried the tall thin baronet piteously, “how can you tempt a poor suffering gentleman like this?” “Because I want to do you a bit of good, Sir Risdon, and myself too. I tell you it’s safe enough. You’ve only to leave your side door open, and go to bed; that’s all.” “But I shall be as guilty as you.” “Guilty?” the man laughed. “I never could see a bit o’ harm in doing what I do. Never feel shamed to look my boy Ramillies in the face. If a bit o’ smuggling was wrong, Sir Risdon, think I’d do it? No, sir; I think o’ them as was before me. My father was in Marlborough’s wars, and he called me Blenheim, in honour of the battle he was in; and I called my boy Ramillies, and if ever he gets married, and has a son, he’s to be Malplackey. I arn’t ashamed to look him in the face.” “But I shall be afraid to look in the face of my dear child.” “Mistress Denise, Sir Risdon? Tchah! Bless her! I don’ believe she’d like her father to miss getting a lot of things that would be good for him, and your madam. There, Sir Risdon; don’t say another word about it. Leave the door open, and go to bed. You shan’t hear anybody come or go away, and you’re not obliged to look in the cellars for a few days.” “But, my child—the old servant—suppose they hear?” “What? The rats? Tell ’em to take no notice, Sir Risdon. Good day, Sir Risdon. That’s settled, then?” “Ye–es—I suppose so. This once only, Master Shackle.” “Thank ye, Sir Risdon,” said the man. “Jee, Dutchman!” The horse tugged at the tumbril, and Sir Risdon went thoughtfully along the field, toward a clump of trees lying in a hollow, while Master Shackle went on chuckling to himself. “Couldn’t say me nay, poor fellow. Half-starved they are sometimes. Wonder he don’t give up the old place, and go away. Hope he won’t. Them cellars are too vallyble. Hallo! What now?” This to the fair curly-headed lad, who came trotting up across the short turf. “Been looking at the cutter, father?” “Oh, she don’t want no looking at. Who brought those cows down here?” “Jemmy Dadd.” “He’s a fool. We shall be having some of ’em going over the cliff. Go home and tell mother to put a clean napkin in a basket, and take two rolls of butter, a bit of honey, and a couple of chickens up to the Hoze.” “Yes, father.” “And see if there’s any eggs to take too.” “Yes, father. But—” “Well?” “Think the lugger will come to-night?” “No, I don’t think anything, and don’t you. Will you keep that rattle tongue of yours quiet? Never know me go chattering about luggers, do you?” “No, father.” “Then set your teeth hard, or you’ll never be a man worth your salt. Want to grow into a Jemmy Dadd?” “No, father.” “Then be off.” The boy went off at a run, and the fisher-farmer led his horse along the two rutted tracks till he came down into the valley, and then went on and on, towards where a couple of men were at work in a field, doing nothing with all their might. <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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