THE BATTLE OF TALLAND COVE.
"Now entertain conjecture of a time
When creeping murmur and the poring dark
Fills the wide vessel of the universe. . . ."
The _avant-garde_ of the Looe Diehards occupied, and had been
occupying for two dark hours--in a sitting posture--the ridge of rock
which, on its eastern side, sheltered Talland Cove. One may say,
considering the heavy dew and the nature of the ridge--of slate
formation and sharply serrated--they had clung to it obstinately.
Above them the clear and constellated dome of night turned almost
perceptibly around its pole. At their feet the tide lapped the
beach, phosphorescent, at the last draught of ebb.
Somewhere in the darkness at the head of the beach--either by the
footbridge where the stream ran down, or in the meadow behind it--lay
the main body. A few outposts had been flung wide to the westward,
and Captain Pond for the second time had walked off to test their
alertness and give and receive the password--"_Death to the
Invader_."
"And a more cold-running act of defiance I don't remember to have
heard--no, not in all my years of service," said Gunner Israel
Spettigew, a cheerful sexagenarian, commonly known as Uncle Issy,
discussing it with his comrades on the ridge. "There's a terrible
downrightness about that word 'death.' Speaking for myself, and
except in the way of business, I wouldn' fling it at a cat."
"'Tis what we must all come to," said Gunner Oke, a young married
man, gloomily shifting his seat.
"True, lad, true. Then why cast it up against any man in particular,
be he French or English? Folks in glass houses, simmin' to me,
shouldn' throw stones."
"I reckon you fellows might find something more cheerful to talk
about." Gunner Oke shifted his seat again, and threw a nervous
glance seaward.
"William Oke, William Oke, you'll never make a sojer! Now I mind
back in 'seventy-nine when the fleets of France an' Spain assembled
and come together agen us--sixty-six sail of the line, my billies,
besides frigates an' corvettes an' such-like small trade; an' the
folks at Plymouth blowing off their alarm-guns, an' the signals
flying from Maker Tower--a bloody flag at the masthead an' two blue
uns at the outriggers. Four days they laid to, in sight of the
assembled multitude of Looe, an' Squire Buller rode down to form us
up to oppose 'em. 'Hallo!' says the Squire, catching sight of me.
'Where's your gun? Don't begin for to tell me that a han'some,
well-set-up, intelligent chap like Israel Spettigew is for hangin'
back at his country's call!' 'Squire,' says I, 'you've a-pictered me
to a hair. But there's one thing you've left out. I've been turnin'
it over, an' I don't see that I'm fit to die.' 'Why not?' says he.
'I'm not a saved man like them other chaps,' says I. 'I've had a few
convictions of sin, but that's as far as it's gone.' 'Tut,' says he,
'have you ever broken the Commandments?' 'What's that?' I asks.
'Why, the things up at the end of the church, inside the rails.'
'I never married my gran'mother, if that's what you mean,' I says.
'That's the Affini-ety Table,' says he, 'but have 'ee ever made to
yourself a graven image?' 'Lord, no,' I says, 'I leaves that
nigglin' work to the I-talians.' 'Have 'ee honoured your father an'
your mother?' 'They took damgood care about that,' says I.
'Well, then, have 'ee ever coveted your neighbour's wife?' 'No,' I
says, 'I never could abide the woman.' 'Come, come,' says he, 'did
'ee ever commit murder upon a man?' 'That's a leadin' question from
a magistrate,' I says; 'but I don't mind ownin', as man to man, that
I never did.' 'Then,' says he, 'the sooner you pitch-to and larn the
better.'"
"The bloodthirsty old termigant!"
"'Twas the way of us all in the year 'seventy-nine," the old man
admitted modestly. "A few throats up or down--Lord bless 'ee!--we
talked of it as calm as William Oke might talk of killin' a pig!
And, after all, what's our trade here to-night but battery and
murder?"
"But 'tisn' the French we'm expectin'," urged Oke, whose mind moved
slowly.
"'Tis the same argyment with these billies from Troy. Troy an' Looe.
What's between the two in an ordinary way? A few miles; which to a
thoughtful mind is but mud and stones, with two-three churches and a
turnpike to keep us in mind of Adam's fall. Why, my own brother
married a maid from there!"
"'Tis the Almighty's doin'," said Sergeant Pengelly; "He's
hand-in-glove with King George, and, while that lasts, us poor
subject fellows have got to hate Bonyparty with all our heart and
with all our mind and with all our soul and with all our strength,
for richer for poorer, till death us do part, and not to be afraid
with any amazement. To my mind, that's half the fun of being a
sojer; the pay's small and the life's hard, and you keep ungodly
hours; but 'tis a consolation to sit out here 'pon a rock and know
you'm a man of blood and breaking every mother's son of the Ten
Commandments wi' the Lord's leave."
"What's _that_!" Gunner Oke gripped the Sergeant's arm of a sudden
and leaned forward, straining his ears.
Someone was crossing the track towards them with wary footsteps,
picking his way upon the light shingle by the water's edge.
Presently a voice, hoarse and low, spoke up to them out of the
darkness.
"Hist, there! Silence in the ranks!" The speaker was Captain Pond
himself. "A man can hear that old fool Spettigew's cackle half-way
across the Cove. They're coming, I tell you!"
"Where, Cap'n? Where?"
"Bare half-a-mile t'other side of Downend Point. Is the first rocket
ready?"
"Ay, ay, Cap'n."
"And the flint and steel?"
"Here, between my knees: and Oke beside me, ready with the fuse.
Got the fuse, Oke?"
"If--if you p-please, sir--"
"What's wrong?"
"If you p-please, sir, I've chewed up the fuse by mistake!"
"_What_'s he saying?"
"I got it m-mixed up, sir, here in the d-dead darkness with my quid
o' baccy--and I th-think I'm goin' to be sick."
"'Tis the very right hand o' Providence, then, that I brought a spare
one," spoke up Pengelly. "Here, Un' Issy--_you_ take hold--"
"Everything must follow in order, mind," Captain Pond commanded.
"As soon as the first boat takes ground, you challenge: then count
five, and up goes the rocket. Eh?" The Captain swung round at the
sound of another footstep on the shingle. "Is that you, Clogg?
Man, but you made me jump!"
"Captain Pond! Oh, Captain Pond!" stammered the new-comer, who was
indeed no other than Mr. Clogg, senior lieutenant of the Diehards.
"Why have you left your post, sir? Don't stand there clinky-clanking
your sword on the pebbles--catch it up under your arm, sir: you're
making noise enough to scare the dead! Now, then, what have you to
report? Nothing wrong with the main body, I hope?"
"A man might call it ghosts"--Mr. Clogg in the darkness passed a
sleeve across his clammy brow--"A man might call it ghosts, Captain
Pond, and another might set it down to drink. But you know my
habits."
"Be quick, man! You've seen something? What is it?"
"Ah, what indeed? You may well ask it, sir: though not if you was to
put the Book into my hands at this moment and ask me to kiss it--"
"Clogg," interrupted the Captain, stepping close and gripping him by
the upper arm, "will you swear to me you have not been drinking?"
"Yes and no, Captain. That is, it began with my stepping up the
valley to the farm for a dollop of hot water--I'd a thimbleful of
schnapps in my flask here--and the night turning chilly, and me
remembering that Mrs. Nankivel up to the farm was keeping the kettle
on the boil, because she promised as much only last night, knowing my
stomach to be susceptible. Well, sir, not meaning to be away more'n
a moment--as I was going up the meadow, but keeping along the
withy-bed, you understand?--and if I hadn't taken that road, more by
instinct than anything else--"
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, if you've anything important to say, say it!
In another five minutes the boats will be here!"
"I don't know what you'd call 'important,'" answered the Lieutenant,
in an aggrieved tone. "As I was telling, I got to where the
withy-bed ends at the foot of the orchard below the house.
The orchard, as you know, runs down on one side of the stream, and
'tother side there's the grass meadow they call Little Parc. Just at
that moment, if you'll believe me, I heard a man sneeze, and 'pon top
of that a noise like a horse's bit shaken--a sort of jingly sound,
not ten paces off, t'other side of the withies. 'Tis a curious habit
of mine--and you may or may not have noticed it--but I never can hear
another person sneeze without wanting to sneeze too. Hows'ever,
there's a way of stopping it by putting your thumb on your top lip
and pressing hard, and that's what I did, and managed to make very
little noise; so that it surprised me when somebody said, 'Be quiet,
you fool there!' But he must have meant it for the other man.
Well, ducking down behind the withies and peeking athurt the
darkness, by degrees I made out a picter that raised the very hairs
on the back of my neck. Yonder, on the turf under the knap of Little
Parc, what do I see but a troop of horsemen drawn up, all ghostly to
behold! And yet not ghostly neither; for now and then, plain to
these fleshly ears, one o' the horses would paw the ground or another
jingle his curb-chain on the bit. I tell you, Captain, I crope away
from that sight a good fifty yards 'pon my belly before making a
break for the Cove; and when I got back close to the mainguard I
ducked my head and skirted round to the track here in search of you:
for I wouldn' be one to raise false alarms, not I! But, if you ask
my private opinion, 'tis either Old Boney hisself or the Devil, and
we'm lost to a man."
"Good Lord!" muttered Captain Pond, half to himself. "Horsemen, you
say?"
"Horsemen, Captain--great horsemen as tall as statues. But statues,
as I told myself, at this time o' night! 'Tis out of the question,
an' we may put it aside once for all."
"Horsemen?" repeated Captain Pond. "There's only one explanation,
and Hymen must be warned. But I _do_ think he might have trusted
me!"
He turned for a swift glance seaward, and at the same instant one or
two voices on the ridge above called alarm. Under the western cliff
his eye detected a line of dark shadows stealing towards the shore.
"_Until gaining the entrance of the Cove_"--so ran the Major's
order--"_the boats will preserve single file. At Downend Point
the leading boat will halt and lie on her oars, dose inshore,
while each successor pivots and spreads in echelon to starboard,
keeping, as nearly as may be, two fathoms' distance from her
consort to port; all gradually, as the shore is approached,
rounding up for a simultaneous attack in line. The crews, on
leaping ashore, will spread and find touch with one another in
two lines, to sweep the beach. A bugle-call will announce the
arrival of each boat_."
The Major, erect in the bows of the leading boat, glanced over his
right shoulder and beheld his line of followers, all in perfect
order, extend themselves and close the mouth of the Cove. Ahead of
him--ahead but a few yards only--he heard the slack tide run faintly
on the shingle. From the dark beach came no sound. Overhead
quivered the expectant stars. He lifted his sword-arm, and from
point to hilt ran a swift steely glitter.
"Give way, lads! And Saint Fimbar for Troy!"
A stroke of the oars, defiant now, muffled no longer! Two--three
strokes, and with a jolt the boat's nose took the beach. The shock
flung the Major forward over the bows; and on all fours, with a
splash--like Julius Caesar--he saluted the soil he came to conquer.
But in an instant he stood erect again, waving his blade.
"Forward! Forward, Troy!"
"I beg your pardon, Hymen," interrupted Captain Pond, quietly but
seriously, stepping forth from the darkness. "Yes, yes; that's
understood--but see here now--"
"Back, or you are my prisoner!" The Major had scrambled to his feet,
and stood waving his sword.
"Hymen!" Captain Pond ran past the Major's guard and caught him by
the elbow.
"Hands off, I say! Forward, Troy!" The Major struggled to disengage
his sword-arm.
"Hymen, don't be a fool! As a friend now--though you _might_ have
taken me into your confidence--"
"Unhand me, Pond! Though you are doing your best to spoil the whole
business--"
"Listen to me, I say. The Dragoons--"
But Captain Pond shouted in vain. Bugle after bugle drowned his
voice, rending the darkness. From the rocks to the eastward voices
answered them, challenging wildly.
"Death to the invader!"
With a _whoo-sh_ a rocket leapt into the air and burst, flooding the
beach with light, showing up every furze bush, every stone wall,
every sheep-track, on the surrounding cliffs. As if they had caught
fire from it, a score of torches broke into flame on the eastward
rocks, and in the sudden blaze, under the detonating fire of
musketry, the men of Troy could be seen tumbling out of their boats
and splashing ankle-deep to the shore.
It was a splendid, a gallant sight. Each man, as he reached _terra
firma_, dropped on one knee, fired deliberately, reloaded, and
advanced a dozen paces. Still from the boats behind fresh
reinforcements splashed ashore and crowded into the firing-line:
while from the eastward rock the vanguard of the Diehards kept up its
deadly flanking fire, heedless of the torches that exposed them each
and all at plain target-shot to the oncoming host.
Still, amid the pealing notes of the bugles, the Major waved his men
forward. Captain Pond, breaking loose from him and facing swiftly
towards the Cove-head, with a flourish of his blade called upon his
mainguard.
Under the volley that thereupon swept the beach, the invaders did
indeed waver for a moment--so closely it resembled the real thing.
As the smoke lifted, however, by the murky glare of the torches they
were seen to be less demoralised than infuriated. And now, upon the
volley's echo, a drum banged thrice, and from a boat just beyond the
water's edge the Troy bandsmen crashed out with:
"The Rout it is out for the Looes,
For the Looes;
Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes!"
"Forward! Forward, Troy!"
"Steady, the Two Looes! Steady, the Diehards!"
"Form up--form up, there, to the left! Hurray, boys! give 'em the
bagginet!"
"Death to Invader! Reload, men! Oh, for your lives, reload! Make
ready, all! Prepare! Fire!"
"Mr. Spettigew! Mr. Spettigew!"
"Eh?" Uncle Issy turned as William Oke plucked him by the sleeve.
"What's the matter now? Reload, I tell'ee!"
"I--I can't, Mr. Spettigew. I've a-fired off my ramrod!"
"Then you'm a lost man."
"Will it--will it have killed any person, d'ee think?" Oke's teeth
rattled like a box of dice as he peered out over the dark and
agitated crowd of boats.
"Shouldn' wonder at all."
"I didn' mean to kill any person, Mr. Spettigew!"
"'Tis the sort of accident, Oke, that might happen to anyone in war.
At the worst they'll recommend 'ee to mercy. The mistake was your
tellin' me."
"You won't inform upon me, Mr. Spettigew? Don't say you'll inform
upon me!"
"No, I won't; not if I can help it. But dang it! first of all you
swaller the fuse, and next you fire off your ramrod."
"E-everything must have a beginning, Mr. Spettigew."
Uncle Issy shook his head. "I doubt you'll never make a sojer,
William Oke. You'm too frolicsome wi' the materials. Listen,
there's Pengelly shoutin' for another volley! Right you be,
sergeant! Make ready--prepare--Eh? Hallo!"
Why was it that suddenly, at the height of the hubbub, a panic fell
upon the bandsmen of Troy? Why did the "Rout for the Looes" cease
midway in a bar? What was it that hushed on an instant the shouts,
the rallying cries upon the beach, the bugle-calls and challenges,
the furious uproar of musketry?
Why, within twenty yards of the Cove-head, in the act of charging
upon the serried ranks of Looe's main guard, did Major Hymen face
about and with sword still uplifted stare behind him, and continue to
stare as one petrified?
What meant that strange light, out yonder by the Cove's mouth, in the
rear of his boats?
The light grew and spread until it illuminated every pebble on the
beach. The men of Troy, dazzled by the glare of it, blinked in the
faces of the men of Looe.
THE FRENCH!
"A trap! A trap!" yelled someone far to the right, and the cry was
echoed on the instant by a sound in the rear of the Diehards--a sound
yet more terrible--the pounding of hoofs upon hard turf.
Again Captain Pond rushed forward and caught the Major by the elbow.
"The Dragoons!" he whispered. "Run for your life, man!"
But already the ranks of the Diehards had begun to waver; and now, as
the oncoming hoofs thundered louder, close upon their rear, they
broke. Trojans and men of Looe turned tail and were swept in one
commingled crowd down the beach.
"To the water, there! Down to the water, every man of you!"
A voice loud as a bull's roared out the command from the darkness.
The Major, still waving his sword, was lifted by the crowd's pressure
and swept along like a chip in a tideway. His feet fought for solid
earth. Glancing back as he struggled, he saw, high above his
shoulder, lit up by the flares from seaward, a line of flashing
swords, helmets, cuirasses.
"To the boats!" yelled the crowd.
"To the water! Drive 'em to the water!" answered the stentorian
voice, now recognisable as Mr. Smellie's.
The Dragoons, using the flat of their sabres, drove the fugitives
down to the tide's edge, nor drew rein until their chargers stood
fetlock-deep in water, still pressing the huddled throng around the
boats.
"Bring a lantern, there!" shouted the Riding Officer. "And call
Hymen! Where is Hymen!"
"I am here!"
The Major had picked himself up out of two feet of water, into which
he had been flung on all fours. He was dripping wet, but he still
clutched his naked blade, and advancing into the light of the
lantern's rays, brought it up to salute with a fine cold dignity.
"I am here," he repeated quietly.
"Well, then, I'm sorry for you, Hymen; but the game's up," said Mr.
Smellie.
The Major glanced at him, for a moment only.
"Will someone inform me who commands this troop?" he asked, looking
first to right, then to left, along the line of the Dragoons.
"At your service, sir," answered a young officer, pressing his horse
forward alongside Mr. Smellie's.
The Major reached out a hand for the lantern. Someone passed it to
him obediently; and holding it he scanned the officer up and down
amid the dead silence of the crowd.
"Your name, sir?"
"Arbuthnot, sir--Captain Arbuthnot, of the 5th Dragoons."
"Then allow me to ask, Captain Arbuthnot, by what right have you and
your troopers assaulted my men?"
"Excuse me," the Captain answered. "I am acting on trustworthy
information. The Riding Officer here, Mr. Smellie--"
But here Mr. Smellie himself interposed brusquely.
"You can stow this bluster, Hymen. I've cornered you, and you know
it. The flares in the offing yonder came from two preventive boats.
Back-door and front I have you, as neat as a rat in a drain; so you
may just turn that lantern of yours on the cargo, own up, and sing
small."
"To resume our conversation, Captain Arbuthnot," the Major went on.
"Upon what information are you and your men taking a part, uninvited,
in this evening's--er--proceedings? You must understand, sir, that I
put this question as a magistrate."
"To be frank, sir, I am warned that under cover of a feigned attack
between your two corps an illicit cargo was to be run here to-night.
The Riding Officer's information is precise, and he tells me he is
acquainted with the three boats in which the goods have been brought
over."
"And more by token, there they are!" exclaimed Mr. Smellie, pointing
to three small lugger-rigged craft that lay moored some six or eight
fathoms outside the long-boats, with mainmasts unstepped, sails left
to lie loose about deck with an artful show of carelessness, and
hulls suspiciously deep in the water. He dismounted, caught up a
lantern, and scanned them, chuckling in his glee. "See here,
Captain, the rogues had their gang-planks out and ready. Now, wait
till I've whistled in the preventive crews, and inside of ten minutes
you shall see what game these pretty innocents were playing."
He blew his whistle, and a whistle answered from the offing, where
the flares continued to blaze.
"Excuse me again," said the Major, ignoring the interruption and
still addressing himself to Captain Arbuthnot, "but this is a very
serious accusation, sir. If, as you surmise--or rather as your
informant surmises--these boats should prove to be laden with
contraband goods, the men undoubtedly deserve punishment; and I am
the less likely to deprecate it since they have compromised me by
their folly. For me, holding as I do the King's commission of the
peace, to be involved, however innocently, however unconsciously--"
"Ay," struck in Mr. Smellie again, "it's a devilish awkward business
for you, Hymen. But you won't improve it by turning cat-in-the-pan
at the last moment, and so I warn you. Come along, lads!" he called
to the preventive crews. "We have 'em right and tight this trip.
See the three luggers, there, to port of ye?"
"Ay, ay, sir!"
"Tumble aboard, then, and fetch us out a sample of their cargo."
There was a pause. Save for the jingling of the chargers' bits and
now and again the clink of scabbard on boot, silence--dead silence--
held the beach. Aboard the boats the preventive men could be heard
rummaging.
"Found anything?" called out Mr. Smellie.
"Ay, ay, sir!"
"What is it?"
"Casks!"
"What did I promise you?" Mr. Smellie turned to Captain Arbuthnot in
triumph. "Luxmore!" he called aloud.
"Ay, ay, sir!" came the Chief Boatman's voice in answer.
"There's a plank handy. Roll us a sample or two ashore here, and
fetch along chisel and auger."
"If you think it necessary, sir--"
"Do as you're told, man! . . . Ah, here we are!"--as a couple of
preventive men splashed ashore, trundling a cask along the plank
between them, and up-ended it close by the water's edge.
Captain Arbuthnot had dismounted and, advancing with his arm through
his charger's bridle, bent over the cask.
"Devilish queer-smelling brandy!" he observed, drawing back a pace
and sniffing.
"It has been standing in the bilge. These fellows never clean out
their boats from one year's end to another," said Mr. Smellie,
positively. Yet he, too, eyed the cask with momentary suspicion.
In shape, in colour, it resembled the tubs in which Guernsey
ordinarily exported its _eau-de-vie_. It was slung, too, ready for
carriage, and with French left-handed rope, and yet. . . . It seemed
unusually large for a Guernsey tub . . . and unusually light in
scantling. . . .
"Shall I spile en, maister?" asked one of the preventive men,
producing a large auger.
"No, stave its head in. And fetch a pannikin, somebody. There's
good water at the beach-head; and I dare say your men, Captain, won't
despise a tot of French liquor after their ride."
The preventive man set his chisel against the inner rim of the cask,
and dealt it a short sharp blow with his hammer, a sort of trial tap,
to guide his aim. "French liquor?" He sniffed. "Furrin fruit, more
like. Phew! Keep back there, and stand by for lavender!"
Crash! . . .
"Pf--f!"
"Ar-r-r-ugh! Oh, merciful Heaven!" Captain Arbuthnot staggered
back, clapping thumb and forefinger to his nose.
"PILCHARDS!"
"SALT PILCHARDS!"
"ROTTEN PILCHARDS!"
Mr. Smellie opened his mouth, but collapsed in a fit of retching, as
from right and left, and from the darkness all around him, a roar of
Homeric laughter woke the echoes of the Cove. Men rolled about
laughing. Men leaned against one another to laugh.
Already the preventive men on board the luggers--having been rash
enough to prise open some half a dozen casks--had dropped overboard
and were wading ashore, coughing and spitting as they came. Amid the
uproar Major Hymen kept a perfectly grave face.
"You see, sir," he explained to Captain Arbuthnot, "Mr. Smellie is
fond of hunting where there is no fox. So some of my youngsters hit
on the idea of providing him with a drag. They have spent a week at
least in painting these casks to look like the real thing. . . . I am
sorry, sir, that you and your gallant fellows should have been misled
by an officious civilian; but if I might suggest your marching on to
Looe, where a good supper awaits us, to take this taste out of our
mouths--and good liquor too, not contraband, to drown resentment--"
The Captain may surely be pardoned if for the moment even this gentle
speech failed to placate him. He turned in dudgeon amid the grinning
crowd and was in the act of remounting, but missed the stirrup as his
charger reared and backed before the noise of yet another diversion.
No one knows who dipped into the cask and flung the first handful
over unhappy Mr. Smellie. No one knows who led the charge down upon
the boats, or gave the cry to stave in the barrels on board. But in
a trice the preventive men were driven overboard and, as they leapt
into the shallow water, were caught and held and drenched in the
noisome mess; while the Riding Officer, plastered ere he could gain
his saddle, ducked his head and galloped up the beach under a
torrential shower of deliquescent pilchards.
The Dragoons did not interfere.
"Shall it be for Looe, Captain?" challenged Major Hymen, waving his
blade and calling on the Gallants to re-form. And as he challenged,
by the happiest of inspirations the band, catching up their
instruments, crashed out with:
"Oh, the De'il's awa'--
The De'il's awa'--
The De'il's awa' wi' th' exciseman!"