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Cutlass and Cudgel

<h3>Chapter Five.</h3> Shackle was quite right; the fog did begin to gather over the sea soon after sundown, and the depressing weather seemed to have a curious effect on Farmer Shackle, who kept getting up from his supper to go and look out through the open door, and come back smiling and rubbing his hands. Mrs Shackle was very quiet and grave-looking and silent for a time, but at last she ventured a question. “Did you see her at sundown?” “Ay, my lass. ’Bout eight mile out.” “But the cutter?” “Well, what about the cutter?” “Will it be safe?” “Safe? Tchah! I know what I’m ’bout.” That being so, Mrs Shackle made no remark, but went on cutting chunks of bread and butter for her son, to which the boy added pieces of cold salt pork, and then turned himself into a mill which went on slowly grinding up material for the making of a man, this raw material being duly manipulated by nature, and apportioned by her for the future making of the human mill. “Now, Ram,” said his father, “ready?” “Yes, father,” said the boy, after getting his mouth into talking trim. “Lanthorns! Off with you.” “Lanthorns won’t be no good in the fog.” “Don’t you be so mighty clever,” growled Shackle. “How do you know that the fog reaches up far?” “Did you signal s’afternoon, father?” “Lanthorns! And look sharp, sir.” The boy went into the back kitchen, took down from a shelf three horn-lanthorns, which had the peculiarity of being painted black save in one narrow part. Into these he glanced to see that they were all fitted with thick candles before passing a piece of rope through the rings at the top. This done he took down a much smaller lanthorn, painted black all round, lit the candle within, and, taking this one in his hand, he hung the others over his shoulder, and prepared to start. “Mind and don’t you slip over the cliff, Ram,” said his mother. “Tchah! Don’t scare the boy with that nonsense,” said the farmer angrily; “why should he want to slip over the cliff? Put ’em well back, boy. Stop ’bout half an hour, and then come down.” Ram nodded and went off whistling down along the hollow for some hundred yards toward the sea, and then, turning short off to the right, he began to climb a zigzag path which led higher and higher and more and more away to his left till it skirted the cliff, and he was climbing slowly up through the fog. The lad’s task was robbed of the appearance of peril by the darkness; but the danger never occurred to Ram, who had been up these cliff-paths too often for his pleasure to heed the breakneck nature of the rough sheep-track up and up the face of the cliff, leading to where it became a steep slope, which ran in and on some four hundred feet, forming one of the highest points in the neighbourhood. “It’s plaguey dark,” said Ram to himself. “Wonder what they’re going to bring to-night?” He whistled softly as he climbed slowly on. “Fog’s thicker than it was last night. They won’t see no lanthorns, I know.” “Dunno, though,” he muttered a little higher up. “Not quite so thick up here. How old Grip growled! But he had to do it. Aren’t afraid of a dog like him. Look at that!” He had climbed up the zigzag track another fifty feet, and stopped short to gaze away at the bright stars of the clear night with the great layer of fog all below him now. “Father was right, but I dunno whether they’ll be able to see from the lugger. Don’t matter. They know the way, and they’d see the signal s’afternoon.” He whistled softly as he went on higher, laughing all at once at an idea which struck him. “Suppose they were to row right on to the cutter! Wouldn’t it ’stonish them all? I know what I should do. Shove off directly into the fog. They wouldn’t be able to see, and I wouldn’t use the sweeps till I was out of hearing, and then—oh, here we are up atop!” For the sheep-track had come to an end upon what was really the dangerous part of the journey. The zigzag and the cliff-path had been bad, but a fall there would not have been hopeless, for the unfortunate who lost his footing would go down to the next path, or the next, a dozen places perhaps offering the means of checking the downward course, but up where the boy now stood was a slope of short turf with long dry strands which made the grass terribly slippery, and once any one had fallen here, and was in motion, the slope was at so dangerous an elevation that he would rapidly gather impetus, and shoot right off into space to fall six hundred feet below on to the shore. This danger did not check Ram’s cheery whistle, and he climbed on, sticking his toes well into the short grass, and rising higher and higher till he reached some ragged shale with the grass, now very thin, and about a hundred feet back from the sea, in a spot which he felt would be well out of the sight of the cutter if those on board could see above the fog. He set down his lanthorns, two about five feet apart, lit them all, and held the third on the top of his head as he stood between the others, so that from seaward the lights would have appeared like a triangle. It seemed all done in such a matter of course way that it was evident that Ram was accustomed to the task, and supporting the lanthorn on his head, first with one and then with the other hand, he went on whistling softly an old west country air, thinking the while about Sir Risdon and Lady Graeme, and about how poor they were, and how much better it was to live at a farmhouse where there was always plenty to eat, and where his father could go fishing in the lugger when he liked, and how he could farm and smuggle, and generally enjoy life. “That’s good half an hour,” said Ram, lowering his lanthorn, opening the door, and puffing out the candle, afterwards serving the others the same. Whew—whew—whew—whew! A peculiar whishing of wings from far overhead, as a flock of birds flew on through the darkness of the night, following the wonderful instinct which made them take flight to other lands. “Wasn’t geese; and I don’t think it was ducks,” said the lad to himself, as he slung his darkened lanthorns together, and began to descend as coolly as if he had been provided by nature with wings to guard him against a fall down the cliff. “Wonder whether they saw the lights,” he said to himself. “Not much good showing them, if they were in the fog.” He went on, gradually approaching the mist which lay below him, and at last was descending the zigzag path with the stars blotted out, and the tiny drops of moisture gathering on his eyelashes, finding his way more by instinct than sight. “Come in with the tide ’bout ’leven,” said Ram, as he still descended the face of the cliff, then the path, and at last was well down in the little valley, whose mouth seemed to have been filled up in some convulsion of nature by a huge wall of cliff, under which the streamlet which ran from the hills had mined its way. As soon as he was down on level ground, the boy started for home at a trot, gave the lanthorns into his mother’s hands, and, after a brief inquiry as to his father’s whereabouts, he started off once more. The part of the cliff for which he made was exactly opposite Sir Risdon’s old house, and to a stranger about the last place where it would be deemed possible for a smuggler to land his cargo. Hence the successful landing of many a boat-load, which had been scattered the country through. For there, at the foot of the cliff, lay a natural platform or pier, almost as level as if it had been formed for a landing stage. The deep water came right up to its edge, and here, at a chosen time of tide, a lugger could lie close in, and her busy crew and their helpmates land keg and bale upon the huge ledge,—a floor of intensely hard stone, full of great ammonites, many a couple of feet across, monsters of shell-fish, which had gradually settled down and died, when the stone in which they lay had been soft mud. Revenue boats had of course, from time to time, as they explored the coast, noted this natural landing-place, but as there was only a broad step twenty feet above this to form another platform, and then the cliffs ran straight up two hundred feet slightly inclined over toward the sea, and the existence of even a moderate surf would have meant wreck, it was never even deemed likely that there was danger here, and consequently it was left unwatched. The smugglers had a different opinion of the place, and on Ram reaching the spot he was in nowise surprised to find a group of about thirty men on the cliff, clustered about the end of a spar, whose butt was run down into a hole in the rock, which lay a foot beneath the turf, and at whose end, as it rose at an angle, was a pulley block and rope run through ready for use should the lugger come. “Where’s father?” whispered Ram to one of the men, who looked curiously indistinct amid the fog. “Here, boy,” was whispered close to his ear. “Going down to help?” “May I, father?” Shackle grunted; and, after speaking to one of the men, Ram took hold of the loop at the end of the rope, thrust a leg through, held on tightly, and, after the word was given, swung himself off into the fog. The well-oiled wheel ran fast, and it was a strange experience that of gliding rapidly down and steadily turning round and round with the thick darkness all around, and nothing to show that he who descended was not stationary. The peril of such a run down would have appeared the greater, could he who descended have seen how the rope was allowed to run. For no careful hands held it to allow it to glide through fingers, which could at any moment clutch the line tightly and act as a check. The rope lay simply on the turf, and the man who watched over the descent, merely placed his boot over it, the hollow between sole and heel affording room for the rope to run, and a little extra pressure stopping its way. Thus it was that Ram was allowed to glide rapidly down, till by experience the man knew that he was nearly at the bottom when the rope began to run more slowly, and then was checked exactly as the boy’s feet touched the stone shelf, and he stepped from the loop on to the ammonite-studded rock. Dimly seen about him was a group of a dozen men, whose faces looked mysterious and strange, and this was added to by the silence, for only one spoke, and he when he was addressed, for the first few minutes after Ram’s arrival among them, every one there being listening attentively for the distant beat of oars. “Think she’ll come to-night, young Ram?” said the man close by him. “Dunno.” “Been to show the lights?” “Yes.” “Was there any fog up there?” “No; clear as could be.” “Then she may come. Pst!” Hardly a breath could be heard then as ears were strained, and after a good deal of doubt had been felt, a kind of thrill ran through the men who had taken hold of a line fastened to a stanchion and lowered themselves down to the broad ledge. The low, regular, slow beat of great sweeps became now audible, but though Ram strained his eyes seaward, nothing was visible for quite another ten minutes, when, as the boy stood at the brink of the upper ledge he dimly saw something darker than the mist coming into view. Soon there came a faint crunching noise as of a fender being crushed against the rock, followed by the sound of ropes drawn over the bulwark, and Ram hesitated no longer, but ran to the loop, placed his leg through it, gave the signal by shaking the rope, and in an instant he was snatched from his feet, run up, the rope drawn in, and he was landed on the turf. A small bag of stones was then attached to the loop, the wheel spun round, and the bag went whizzing down, while the group of men stood waiting and waiting, for they could see nothing below, hardly see each other, so dense was the mist now. Sundry familiar sounds arose from time to time, and more than once the farmer uttered an ejaculation full of impatience at the length of time taken up in bringing the vessel below and taking precautions to keep her from grinding and bumping against the edge of the shelf, for though the sea was calm, there was the swell to contend with. At last. There was a murmur from below which those two hundred feet above knew well, and as two stood ready, another man by them took hold of the rope, and suddenly started off at a run, disappearing at once in the fog, while a peculiar whizzing sound was heard, as the little wheel in the block now ran round till all at once a couple of kegs and the bag of stones appeared level with the top of the cliff. These were seized, unhitched, and as the bag ran down, a man knelt, fitted a short rope about the kegs and hoisted them on his shoulder, just as the man who held the rope trotted up out of the fog into which the other with the kegs disappeared. There was a faint hiss, and away ran the man again bringing the next two kegs up rapidly, to be set at liberty, slung, and hoisted on another man’s back as the hauler came back out of the fog. And so the unloading went on with marvellous rapidity, the hauler rushing off into the fog, a couple of kegs coming up into sight, being taken out of the loops, slung and hoisted just as the hauler came back and the bearer disappeared, till quite a line of men were trudging slowly up the hill, down into the valley, and up again toward Sir Risdon Graeme’s old house, the Hoze, till all the bearers were gone, and the kegs still kept coming up out of the fog. The silence was astonishing, considering the amount of work being done and the rapidity with which all went on. Away to left and right sentries were placed, from among the haulers who, as they grew tired by their exertions in running up the kegs, were placed there to rest and listen for danger from seaward; but hour after hour went on, the carriers, augmented by a dozen more, came and went in two bands now, so that part were returning as the others were going. But still they were not in sufficient force, for the Hoze was some distance away, and the number of kegs kept increasing on the turf at the top of the cliff. About half the cargo was landed when Shackle whispered an order to Ram, who at once stooped to pick up a keg. “No, no; run without, and see that they store them all up well.” Ram was used to the business, and he went off at a trot, breasted the hill, dived down into the hollow, and then passing men going and coming, made for the Hoze, entered by the side door, made his way along a stone passage, and then down into a huge vault with groined roof lit by a couple of lanthorns hanging from hooks. Here for the next three hours he worked hard, helping to stack the little brandy kegs at first, and afterwards the small tightly packed bales and chests which were brought more quickly now—a dozen of swarthy, dirty-looking men, with earrings and short loose canvass trousers which looked like petticoats, helping to bring up the cargo, and showed by their presence that all had been landed from the lugger—that which was now being brought up consisting of the accumulation on the ledges and at the top of the cliff. “Much more?” Ram kept asking as he toiled away, wet now with perspiration. “Ay, ay, lad, it’s a long cargo,” he kept hearing; and the lanthorns had to be shifted twice as the stacks of kegs and bales increased, till just as the boy began to think the loads would never end, he realised that the French sailors had not been up lately, and one of their own men suddenly said— “Last!” Ram drew a breath full of relief as the men came out silently, and he stopped behind with one lanthorn only alight to lock the door of the great vault, and then stood in the stone passage, thinking how quiet and still the house seemed. He went out, closing the door after him, and stood in the garden. “Wonder whether Miss Celia heard us,” he said; “never thought of it before; they must have tied up old Grip.” He glanced up at the windows as he went out, then they seemed to disappear in the mist as he made for the track and went downwards, to hear low voices, and directly after he encountered his father. “Got ’em all right, boy?” “Yes, father,” said Ram, handing the key. “Lugger gone?” “Hour and a half ago, lad; just got her empty as the tide turned. Best run we’ve had.” He burst into a low fit of chuckling. “What are you laughing at, father?” “I was thinking how artful revenue cutters are, boy. I don’t believe that White Hawk’s more than half a mile away.” “But then see what a fog it was, father?” “Tchah! To me it’s just the same as a moonshiny night, boy. There, come on home and get to bed. Must be up early; lots to do to-day.” Seeing that it could not be long before morning, Ram asked himself what was the use of his going to bed; but he said nothing, only hurried to keep pace with his father; and soon after, feeling fagged out, he was fast asleep, and dreaming that whenever he piled the kegs up they kept on rolling down about him, and that the midshipman from the White Hawk stood looking on, and laughing at him for being clumsy, and then he awoke fancying he was called. It was quite right, for Farmer Shackle was shouting— “Now you, Ramillies, are you going to sleep there all day?” <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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