The Monks Cove raid was not an unmixed success. The bag was very slight
and the ringleader got clear away. Mr. Carmichael’s impetuosity was
responsible for this. The riding officer was annoyed with him; he wished
he would go home to Ireland and get drowned in a bog. Had any other
officer been in charge of the soldiers they would have made a fine coup;
at the same time, he reflected that had any one else commanded, the
soldiers would not have been there at all. There were two sides to it.
He consoled himself with the thought that, although the material results
were small, the morale of the Monks Cove Free Traders had suffered a
severe jolt; at any rate, he hoped so. At the outset things had promised
well. It was true that the cornet had only mustered thirty-one sabers
instead of forty (and two of these managed to drop out between Penzance
and Paul), but they had reached the cliff-top not more than fifty
minutes behind schedule, to find the picket trussed up like a boiled
chicken and all clear.
Carmichael led the way down the sheep-path; he insisted on it. “An
officer’s place is at the head of his men,” he chanted. The sentiment is
laudable, but he led altogether too fast. Seventeen and carrying nothing
but his sword, he gamboled down the craggy path with the agility of a
chamois. His troopers, mainly elderly heroes, full of beer (they had
been dragged blaspheming out of taverns just as they were settling down
to a comfortable evening) and burdened with accoutrements, followed with
all the caution due to their years and condition. The result was that
Carmichael arrived at the base alone.
He crouched behind the corner of the pilchard shed and listened. The
place was alive. It was inky dark; he could see nothing, but he could
hear well enough.
“He-ave, a’. Up she goes! Stan’ still, my beauty! Fast on that side,
Jan? Lead on, you!”
“Bessie Kate, Bessie Kate, bring a hank o’ rope; this pack’s slippin’.”
“Whoa, mare, blast ’e! Come along wid that there lot, Zacky; want to be
here all night, do ’e?”
“Next horse. Pass the word for more horses . . . ahoy there . . .
horses.”
Grunts of men struggling with heavy objects, subdued exhortations,
complaints, oaths, laughter, women’s chatter, hoof beats, the shrill
ki-yi of a trampled dog. The darkness ahead was boiling with invisible
people, smugglers all and engaged on their unlawful occupations.
Carmichael’s hackles stood on end. He gripped his sword.
“Is that all?” a voice called, louder, more authoritative than the rest.
“Get them horses away then.”
The voice was referring to the boat-load, but the cornet thought the
whole run was through. In a minute the last horse would be off and he
would lose the capture. Without looking to see how many of his men had
collected behind him he shouted “Huzza!” and plunged into the thick of
it. Death! Glory!
He plunged head-first into Uncle Billy Clemo’s daughter-in-law, butting
her over backwards. She clutched out to save herself, clutched him round
the neck and took him with her. She lay on the ground, still grasping
the cornet to her, and screamed her loudest. Mr. Carmichael struggled
frantically; here was a pretty situation for a great military genius at
the onset of his first battle! The woman had the hug of a she-bear, but
his fury gave him the strength of ten. He broke her grip and plunged on,
yelling to his men to fire. The only two who were present obeyed, but as
he had neglected to tell them what to fire at they very prudently fired
into the air.
The cornet plunged on, plunged into somebody, shouted to the somebody to
stop or be hewn limb from limb. The somebody fled pursued by Carmichael,
turned at bay opposite a lighted window and he saw it was a woman.
Another woman! Death and damnation! Were there nothing but damnation
women in this damnation maze?
He spun about and galloped back, crashed into something solid—a man at
last!—launched out at him. His sword met steel, a sturdy wrist-snapping
counter, and flipped out of his hand.
“S’render!” boomed the voice of his own servant. “Stand or I’ll carve
your heart out, you . . . Oh, begging your pardon, sir, I’m sure.”
Carmichael cursed him, picked up his sword again and rushed on. By the
sound of their feet and breathing he knew there were people, scores of
them, scurrying hither and thither about him in the blank darkness, but
though he challenged and clutched and smote with the flat of his sword
he met with nothing—nothing but thin air. It was like playing
blindman’s buff with ghosts. He heard two or three ragged volleys in the
direction of the sea and galloped towards it, galloped into a cul-de-sac
between two cottages, nearly splitting his head against a wall. He was
three minutes fumbling his way out of that, blubbering with rage, but
this time he came out on the sea-front.
Gun-flashes on the slip-head showed him where his men were (firing at a
boat or something), and he ran towards them cheering, tripped across a
spar and fell headlong over the cliff. It was only a miniature cliff, a
bank of earth merely, not fifteen feet high, with mixed sand and
bowlders beneath.
The cornet landed wallop on the sand and lay there for some minutes
thinking he was dead and wondering what style of monument (if any) his
parents would erect to his memory:—
“_Hic jacet William Shine Carmichael, cornet of His Majesty’s
Dragoons, killed while gallantly leading an attack on smugglers.
Militavi non sine gloria. Aged 17._”
Aged only seventeen; how sad! He shed a tear to think how young he was
when he died and then slowly came to the conclusion that perhaps he
wasn’t quite dead—only stunned—only half-stunned—hardly stunned at
all.
A stray shot went wailing eerily out to sea. His men were in action; he
must go to them. He tried to get up, but found his left leg was jammed
between two bowlders, and, tug as he might, he could not dislodge it. He
shouted for help. Nobody took any notice. Again and again he shouted. No
response. He laid his curly head down on the wet sand and with his tears
wetted it still further. When at length (a couple of hours later) he was
liberated it was by two of the smuggler ladies. They were most
sympathetic, bandaged his sprained ankle, gave him a hot drink to revive
his circulation and vowed it was a shame to send pretty boys of his age
out so late.
Poor Mr. Carmichael!
Eli and Bohenna were the first to load, and consequently led the
pack-train which was strung out for a quarter of a mile up the valley
waiting for Ortho. When they heard the shots go off in the Cove they
remembered King Nick’s standing orders and scattered helter-skelter up
the western slope. There were only three side-tracks and thirty-two
horses to be got up. This caused jamming and delay.
The sergeant at the track-head heard the volleys as well, and, not
having the least regard for Mr. Carmichael’s commandments, pushed on to
see the fun. Fortunately for the leaders the chaotic state of the track
prevented him from pushing fast. As it was he very nearly blundered into
the tail end of the train. A mule had jibbed and stuck in the bushes,
refusing to move either way. Eli and two young Hernes tugged, pushed and
whacked at it. Suddenly, close beside, they heard the wild slither of
iron on stone, a splash and the voice of a man calling on Heaven to
condemn various portions of his anatomy. It was the sergeant; his horse
had slipped up, depositing him in a puddle. He remounted and floundered
on with his squad, little knowing that in the bushes that actually
brushed his knee was standing a loaded mule with three tense boys
clinging to its ears, nose and tail to keep it quiet. It was a close
call.
Eli took charge of the pack train. He was terribly anxious about Ortho,
but hanging about and letting the train be taken would only make bad
worse, and Ortho had an uncanny knack of slipping out of trouble. He
felt sure that if anybody was arrested it would not be his brother.
King Nick had thought of everything. In case of a raid by mounted men
who could pursue it would be folly to go on to St. Just. They were to
hide their goods at some preordained spot, hasten home and lie doggo.
The preordained spot was the “Fou-gou,” an ancient British dwelling
hidden in a tangle of bracken a mile to the northwest, a subterranean
passage roofed with massive slabs of granite, lined with moss and
dripping with damp, the haunt of badgers, foxes and bats. By midnight
Eli had his cargo stowed away in that dark receptacle thoughtfully
provided by the rude architects of the Stone Age, and by one o’clock he
was at home in bed prepared to prove he had never left it. But he did
not sleep, tired as he was. Two horses had not materialized, and where
was Ortho? If he had escaped he should have been home by now . . . long
ago. The gale made a terrific noise, moaning and buffeting round the
house; it must be awful at sea.
Where _was_ Ortho?
Eli might just as well have taken his goods through to St. Just for all
the Dragoons cared. Had the French landed that night they would have
made no protest. They would have drunk their very good healths.
When the sergeant and his detachment, the snow at their backs, finally
stumbled into Monks Cove it was very far from a scene of battle and
carnage that met their gaze. “Homely” would better describe it. The
cottages were lit up and in them lounged the troopers, attended by the
genial fisher-folk in artistic _déshabillé_, in the clothes in which
they, at that moment, had arisen from bed (so they declared). The
warriors toasted their spurs at the hearths and drank to everybody’s
everlasting prosperity.
The sergeant made inquiries. What luck?
None to speak of. Four fifths of the train was up the valley when they
broke in, and got away easily. That little whelp Carmichael had queered
the show, charging and yapping. Where was he now? Oh, lying bleating
under the cliff somewhere. Pshaw! Let him lie a bit and learn wisdom,
plaguy little louse! Have a drink, God bless us.
They caught nothing then?
Why, yes, certainly they had. Four prisoners and two horses. Two of the
prisoners had since escaped, but no matter, the horses hadn’t, and they
carried the right old stuff—gin and brandy. That was what they were
drinking now. Mixed, it was a lotion fit to purge the gullet of the
Great Mogul. Have a drink, Lord love you!
The sergeant was agreeable.
It was not before dawn that these stalwarts would consent to be
mustered. They clattered back to Penzance in high fettle, joking and
singing. Some of the younger heads (recruits only) were beginning to
ache, but the general verdict was that it had been a very pleasant
outing.
Mr. Carmichael rode at their head. His fettle was not high. His ankle
was most painful and so were his thoughts. Fancy being rescued by a pair
of damnation girls! Moreover, two or three horses were going lame; what
would Jope say to him when he returned—and Hambro? Brrh! Soldiering
wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Mr. Curral rode at the tail of the column. He too was a dejected man.
That silly little fool of a Carmichael had bungled the haul of the year,
but he didn’t expect the Collector would believe it; he was sure to get
the blame. He and his poacher had captured two horses to have them taken
from them by the troopers, the tubs broached and the horses let go.
Dragoons!—they had known what discipline was in the Horse Guards! It
was too late to go to Bosula or the gypsy camp now; all tracks would
have been covered up, no evidence. The prisoners had by this time
dwindled to a solitary youth whom Curral suspected of being a half-wit
and who would most assuredly be acquitted by a Cornish jury. He sighed
and sucked the head of his whip. It was a hard life.
* * * * *
Phineas Eva, parish clerk of St. Gwithian, came to call on Teresa one
afternoon shortly after the catastrophe. He was dressed in his best,
which was not very good, but signified that it was a visit of
importance.
He twittered some platitudes about the weather, local and foreign
affairs—the American colonists were on the point of armed rebellion, he
was creditably informed—tut, tut! But meeting with no encouragement
from his hostess he dwindled into silence and sat perched on the edge of
the settle, blinking his pale eyes and twitching his hat in his
rheumatic claws. Teresa seemed unaware of his presence. She crouched
motionless in her chair, chin propped on knuckles, a somber, brooding
figure.
Phineas noted that her cheeks and eyelids were swollen, her raven hair
hanging in untidy coils, and feared she had been roistering again. If so
she would be in an evil mood. She was a big, strong woman, he a small,
weak man. He trembled for his skin. Still he must out with it somehow,
come what might. There was his wife to face at the other end, and he was
no less terrified of his wife. He must out with it. Of the two it is
better to propitiate the devil you live with than the devil you don’t.
He hummed and hawed, squirmed on his perch, and then with a gulp and a
splutter came out with it.
His daughter Tamsin was in trouble, and Ortho was the cause. He had to
repeat himself twice before Teresa would take any notice, and then all
she did was to nod her head.
Phineas took courage; she had neither sworn nor pounced at him. He spoke
his piece. Of course Ortho would do the right thing by Tamsin; she was a
good girl, a very good girl, docile and domestic, would make him an
excellent wife. Ortho was under a cloud at present, but that would blow
over—King Nick had powerful influence and stood by his own. Parson
Coverdale of St. Just was always friendly to the Free Traders; he would
marry them without question. He understood Ortho was in hiding among the
St. Just tinners; it would be most convenient. He . . . Teresa shook her
head slowly.
Not at St. Just? Then he had been blown over to Scilly after all. Oh,
well, as soon as he could get back Parson Coverdale would . . . Again
Teresa shook her head.
Not at Scilly! Then where was he? Up country?
Teresa rose out of her chair and looked Phineas full in the face, stood
over him, hair hanging loose, puffy, obese yet withal majestic, tragic
beyond words. Something in her swollen eyes made him quail, but not for
his own skin, not for himself.
“A Fowey Newfoundlander put into Newlyn Pools morning,” she said, and
her voice had a husky burr. “Ten leagues sou’west of the Bishop they
found the _Gamecock_ of Monks Cove—bottom up.”
Phineas gripped the edge of the settle and sagged forward. “Then . . .!”
“Yes,” said Teresa. “Drowned. Go home and tell _that_ to your daughter.
An’ tell her she’ve got next to her heart the only li’l’ livin’ spark of
my lovely boy that’s left in this world. She’m luckier nor I.”