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Cutlass and Cudgel

<h3>Chapter Eleven.</h3> A feeling of misery that he could not have explained came over Archy Raystoke as he grasped the position, and he wished that he had never undertaken the task he had in hand. For it seemed so shocking that the noble-looking lady and gentleman he had seen that day should be in league with a gang of smugglers, and have lent their out-of-the-way house to be a depository for the contraband goods. “Oh, it’s impossible,” he said to himself. “They could not. The scoundrels have hidden the things somewhere up in the wood by the house, thinking that nobody would come in there to search.” “The artful rascal!” said Archy to himself, feeling better now that he had put this interpretation upon the proceedings; and, knowing his way better now, and thinking of the dog the while, he hurried on, and had nearly reached the house, meaning to hide somewhere among the abundant shrubs which surrounded it till the smugglers had passed, when all doubt as to the party being those he was tracking was chased away by his hearing a voice just before him say,— “All right, father. Here they come.” Archy stopped short, as he felt his position. The farmer and his son had come up here, and were waiting for the men to act as carriers. “What shall I do?” he asked himself, for he was between two parties, and a step might mean discovery. In fact, if the last speaker had taken a step forward, he must have detected the spy’s presence. There was no time for thought Archy stood for a moment or two as if paralysed; then, as he heard the farmer’s gruff voice, he dropped down, and began to crawl among the bushes. “Been a long time coming; here, go in and get the lanthorns now.” At that moment Archy was brought up by a wall, over which he passed his hands, to find that he was directly after touching iron bars close to the ground. It was some building, and then, as he crouched there, he was conscious of a peculiar odour, which told him not only that this was a cellar, but one in which brandy was stored. Again he felt a strange sensation of misery. He had accidentally hit upon the place where the cargo had been hidden, and it must be in the cellar of the Hoze, and not in the wood. He wished he had not made the discovery now, and felt ready to retreat, for it would be horrible to have to tell the lieutenant, giving him such information as would lead to the arrest of the tall, careworn man who had impressed him so strangely that day. All at once he was conscious of a gleam of light, following a faint noise, and right before him he saw the fluttering blue flame of a brimstone match, which blue began to turn yellow and illumine the face of the boy who had been a prisoner, and two great stacks of kegs and bales, reaching nearly from floor to ceiling of a low vault. The light shone out through the grated window, by which he was on hands and knees, and feeling that he would be at once recognised if his face was seen, he crept on under the wall a few yards, and lay flat listening, as he wished that there was time for him to get down to the cliff, and signal for help, to capture the smugglers and their store. An impossibility, he knew, for the cargo might be all gone long before he could reach the cutter, even if a boat were waiting; beside which, he felt that he did not want to tell all he had seen, for if he did, what would follow with respect to those he had spoken with that day? “Now, my lads, in with you,” cried a familiar voice. “Load up carefully when you get down to the carts, and we shall get all snug before daylight.” A murmur of acquiescence followed, and they began to tramp very close to where the midshipman lay, expecting every moment to be seen. He crouched down as low as he could, not daring to raise even his head, and wondering whether the bright hilt of his dirk would show, and he thrust it farther into his breast. Then he wondered whether he could back softly away; but that was impossible, for the light came from behind him, through the grated window, while escape forward was impossible, as he was close to a door through which shadowy forms were passing in. There was nothing for it but to lie still, and trust to his not being seen, when the next minutes were made agreeable by a host of recollections regarding the treatment received by those who betrayed smugglers, of the desperate fights there had been, how many had been killed, and a shudder ran through the lad as he recalled the story of a man who had played the spy, somewhere about the south coast, being thrown from a cliff, and literally smashed. “They’ll see me, I know they’ll see me,” thought Archy; “but I’m a king’s officer, young as I am, and I’ll show them that I can fight for my life like a man.” As this thought struck him, his hand went involuntarily to his side to get a good grip of and draw his dirk. The movement betrayed him, for, before he could quite realise that his dirk was hidden in his breast, he was seized by two great muscular hands, dragged into a standing position, and he could dimly see a face peering into his, as a voice, which he recognised as the farmer’s, growled savagely— “Who’s this?” Before he could struggle or answer, the man went on fiercely— “Why, you lazy, shuffling, young villain! Sit there and skulk, while the others do the work, would you? Come on!” Before the midshipman could recover from his surprise, he felt himself run forward by the two hands which had been dropped on his shoulders, thrust through the door, the farmer whispering savagely, “Work, or I’ll break your neck;” and giving him a fierce push and a kick, which drove him along a passage, where on his left was the open doorway into the dimly lit cellar. So great was the impetus given, that but for a desperate effort to keep his feet, and a bound or two, the lad would have gone down upon his face. As it was, the actual first leap took him level with the door of the cellar, the second right on to a flight of steps beyond in the darkness, and as he stood panting there, he realised the meaning of the old smuggler’s mistake; for he had forgotten that he was roughly dressed as a sailor boy, and had a red worsted tasselled cap, well drawn-down over his besmirched face. As Archy stood there in the darkness, at the foot of the stair which he knew must lead up into the house, he looked back to see a man come out of the cellar, his figure just dimly seen by the light from within and below, and over the man’s shoulders were swung a couple of kegs. Archy held his breath, and felt that in all probability the farmer had contented himself with driving him in to work, for he made no further movement, and the coming out of this man, and another who followed directly, completely reassured him. It was evident, too, that they did not know of his presence, and with his heart beating with hopes of escape, as he more and more understood that he had been taken for one of the boys of the gang, he backed softly up the steps, more and more into the darkness, till further progress was stayed by a door. Here he stopped, panting, and holding his hand upon his throbbing heart. Then feeling that he would be seen directly if a lanthorn were brought into the passage, he pressed the lock, it yielded, and he stepped softly up on to a stone floor. Here all was blacker than before, but it was a haven of refuge, and he passed in and softly closed the door behind him, to stand listening. All was still as death, and he began to ask himself what he should do next. He dared not stay where he was, for if the smugglers were so much at home at the Hoze that they could come like this by night, the farmer or some one else might at any moment come up those steps with a light, and then discovery was certain. But what to do? A closet—a room—a staircase—an open window leading in another direction to that where the men were busy! If he could find any of these he might be safe, and he was about to try and search for some means of concealment or escape when a cold shudder of superstitious dread ran through him, and he began to recall all he had read of haunted houses, for from somewhere in the darkness in front of him, he heard a low, piteous cry. Archy was as courageous as most boys of his age, as he was proving by his adventurous acts; but this sound, heard by a lad living in a generation wanting in our modern enlightenment, paralysed him. His blood seemed to run cold, his lips parted, his throat felt dry, and a peculiar shiver ran over his skin, accompanied by a sensation as if tiny fingers, cold as ice, were parting and turning his hair. Again the sigh came, to be followed by a cold current of air, which swept across the boy’s face, and then there was a low rustling sound, which hovered in front of him, and went up and up and up, and then slowly died away. Archy’s first impulse, as he recovered himself a little in the silence which followed, was to turn, open the door, and flee. But he hesitated. It would be right into the hands of the enemy. Besides, the terribly chilling sounds he had heard had ceased, and he felt less cowardly. “Perhaps,” he said to himself, “it was fancy, or nothing to be afraid of.” A heavy step on the other side of the door alarmed him more, and stretching out his hands, he stepped forward, went cautiously on and on, and at the end of a few yards touched what felt like panelling. The next moment he realised that he had reached a door, which was yielding, and he passed into a room, to scent the cool night air, and hear subdued sounds without and below. He was in a room over the cellar, he was sure, and the window was wide open. He crept to it, guided by the cold air which came in, and had just reached it when he heard rapid footsteps, and some one panted,— “Where’s the skipper?” “Here. What is it?” whispered Shackle, who seemed close to where the midshipman stood. “Jemmy Dadd—came from the cove. Boat’s crew landed.” “Run down and tell them all to come back,” said Shackle hoarsely. “I did, and they’re coming. I met first man.” “Right! Get all back in quick!” As he finished speaking, Archy could hear the dull, soft steps of laden men returning, and more and more kept coming, and it was soon evident that they were quickly and silently replacing the kegs they had been carrying down hill to where tumbrils were waiting for a load. The midshipman stood a little way back from the window, seeing nothing, but drinking all this in, and in imagination grasping the whole scene which went on for the next quarter of an hour or so, by which time the last load seemed to have been brought back. As he listened, he wondered what boat’s crew it could be that had landed, as no arrangement had been made for any help to be sent till he either signalled from the cliff or went down to the cove at twelve the next day, where a boat would be about half a mile out, with two men in her fishing. He could not understand it; all he could tell for certain was that the smugglers had been alarmed, and that they would not remove the cargo that night, for all at once he heard the sharp snap of a great lock beneath his feet; this was followed by the closing of a door, and directly after there was the shuffling of feet, and Shackle’s voice was heard in a hoarse whisper,— “Got the lanthorn, boy?” “Yes, father.” “Off you go then—all. Scatter!” “You won’t try again to-night?” “Try? No,” said the farmer savagely. “Wish I had some of them here!” There were retiring steps then, and Archy leaned forward towards the window, to utter a faint cry of pain, for his head had come in contact with something, and as he put up his hand he found that the window was protected by thick iron bars. He stood listening till not a sound could be heard, and then he drew back from the window, thinking about his next course, gazing out into the darkness the while, and wishing he could have stepped out, leaped down, and fled at once. “Made our plans badly,” he thought to himself. “I can’t signal even if I could find my way to the cliff, and I ought to be able to get back here at once to seize all this store, and—” More unpleasant thoughts came back now about how hard it seemed to have to betray these people. “Can’t help it,” he said to himself. “I am a king’s officer, and I’ve got to do my duty.” Then to keep these thoughts from troubling him, he began to think again about the cutter. They never expected that he would get valuable information so soon. He had been wonderfully fortunate, but what was to be his next course? Certainly to get back to the ship as soon as possible, but that was not possible till morning, and he was miles away from the cove. What should he do? Two hours would be plenty for the work, and as he guessed it was not much past twelve now. How was he to pass all those weary hours? If he could find some barn or even a haystack he would not have cared, but it seemed to him that he would have to pass the remainder of the night in walking, and watching so that he did not encounter any of the smuggler gang on his way back and so raise their suspicions. Better be off at once. Perhaps, after all, he thought as by an inspiration, the lieutenant had altered his plans, and was sending men to look after and protect him. “Let’s see,” said Archy to himself. “I must go out of this door, and keep turning a little to the right till I feel the door at the top of the stairs.” Suppose any one should hear him, take him for a thief, and fire at him? Suppose that door at the end of the passage had been locked by the smugglers? It seemed so probable, that a nervous feeling attacked the lad. He would be a prisoner, and discovered by the inmates in the morning. He would soon put that to the proof, he told himself; and he was about to step cautiously back toward the door when another thought sent a shudder through him. Suppose as soon as he got into the hall, or whatever place it was, he should hear that sigh again and the rustling sound? He shrank back as he recalled how it had affected him. “Oh, what a coward I am!” he said softly; and he took a step forward, where very faintly, as if far distant, he heard the rustling sound again. It came nearer and nearer, then there was a low sigh, the door was pushed open, for the rustling came quite plainly now, accompanied by a faint breathing. The door closed with a soft dull sound as Archy stood as if turned into stone, his hair again feeling as if moved by hands, and he would have spoken, but no words would come. At last, as he stood there in front of the window, terrified too much to stir, he suddenly heard a faint sound as of catching breath, and a voice said in a hurried, frightened whisper,— “Who’s there? Is that you, Ram?” Archy tried to speak but could not. Before he could draw a breath of relief, feeling as he did that this was nothing of which he need feel such fear, the voice said again,— “You are trying to frighten me. I can see you plainly there by the window. How dare you come in here like this, sir? Go back home with your horrid men.” <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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