HOW THEY WARNED CAPTAIN SHARKIE NYE
Dusk was falling as Sir John paused beside the old cross whose worn base
chanced to be propping divers and sundry brawny backs: Mr. Muddle leaned
there side by side with Mr. Pursglove; there also were Messrs. Godby,
Unstead and Comfort, each and all of whom seemed extremely wide awake and
more than usually talkative notwithstanding the pervading drowsiness of
the warm, stilly air.
“G’d evenin’, Mus’ Derwent; tur’ble waarm it do ha’ been to-day
sure-lye,” quoth Mr. Muddle.
“Though theer was a bit o’ wind stirrin’ ’bout ’leven o’clock ’s
marnin’,” added Mr. Pursglove.
“Aye, but it doied awaay it did, afore twalve,” said Mr. Godby.
“Rackon my peas’ll do naun good ’appen it doan’t rain,” opined Mr.
Comfort.
And yet Sir John knew instinctively that it was neither to discuss the
unusual heat of the weather nor Mr. Comfort’s languishing peas that had
brought them hither in murmurous conclave.
And surely it was no very extraordinary sight to behold Parson Hartop
ambling up the street on his plump steed, even though Mr. Pym strode at
his stirrup, and yet the four worthies seemed vaguely uneasy none the
less.
Reaching the cross, Mr. Hartop drew rein and Mr. Pym, grounding the long
musket he carried, wiped perspiring brow.
“Is George Potter hereabouts?” he inquired in accents discreetly
modulated.
“No, Mus’ Pym.”
“Then you must find him—at once!”
“Aye, Mus’ Pym ... but whoy, sir, an’ wherefore?”
“Tell ’em, Hartop!” said the painter.
“Friends,” said the parson, leaning down from his saddle and addressing
them much as if it had been a pulpit; “ye refractory souls, we be all of
us human and therefore prone to err. But for myself, having the cure of
souls among ye, I regard ye all as my wayward children, and, when I see
ye rushing blindly on destruction, hold it my bounden duty to warn ye
thereof.... Hark ye, then! Cuckmere Haven is watched to-night! There be
many soldiers hidden there and upon the cliff. I have seen them with my
own eyes; heed therefore my word! Pass the warning to your fellows, and
thereafter let each o’ ye seek your beds with due gratitude to that ever
beneficent Providence that by my humble means hath, yet again, saved ye
from dire peril o’ your bodies.”
“In a word,” added Mr. Pym, “the Preventives ha’ been warned somehow and
are out in force, and but for our parson would ha’ shot or taken every
man o’ ye!”
“One other matter,” sighed Mr. Hartop; “you will tell George Potter, most
wayward of all my children, that next time he is necessitated to use the
church tower he will leave space for the bell-ropes to play freely: on
the last occasion, as you will doubtless remember, the tenor bell could
not be rung up.”
“Arl roight, Mus’ Hartop, sir, an’ thank’ee koindly! Ye see, ’twere one
o’ they liddle tubs, sir, as went an’ jammed hisself, Mus’ ’Artop, sir.
An’ a praper parson ye be, sure-lye.”
“Aye, a moighty good passon to we, sir. A true gen’leman as do ever tak’
our part, you be, sir.”
“Alas!” sighed Mr. Hartop. “Alas, that ye should need me so to do!...
Pray show more care hereafter as regards my bells ... and mind, home all
o’ ye, and forget not your prayers.... Good-night.”
So saying, Parson Hartop saluted them all with lifted hat and ambled
away, whereupon the four worthies, big with the news, hasted forthwith to
the ‘Market Cross Inn.’
“Ha!” quoth Mr. Pym, leaning upon his musket and looking after the
parson’s retiring figure. “Said I not we were all smugglers hereabouts,
Mr. Derwent? And yonder goeth the best of us all, a truly saintly man,
sir. And now for Potter.”
They found the inn agog with the tidings.
“Guid save’s a’!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “what o’ poor Sharkie Nye?”
“Why, sir,” answered Mr. Bunkle, the philosopher, “never worrit! Life
hath its downs as well as its ups, an’ Sharkie’ll never put in shore
wi’out the signal.”
“But this looks like treachery, Peter!” fumed Sir Hector. “And syne they
ken sae muckle ’tis vera like they’ll ken the signal likewise. Whaur’s
Geordie? I maun hae a world wi’ Geordie Potter. Whaur bides he, Peter
man?”
“A sight nigher than ’e seems, sir!” answered Mr. Bunkle and, winking,
led them into his inner, much-doored holy of holies. Here he rapped
certain times upon the panelling, and rap answered him; thereafter one
of the five doors opened and Mr. Potter appeared, placid as ever and
surprisingly neat, except for a cobweb adhering to one newly trimmed
whisker.
Upon hearing Mr. Pym’s news, he grew profoundly thoughtful and stood
awhile staring into the fire.
“Sir Hector be right, I rackon!” said he at last. “’Tis a spy’s work,
sure-lye ... an’ there be only one way to mak’ sarten an’ that be to go
theer——”
“Do ’ee mean Cuckmere ’Aven, Jarge?”
“Aye, Peter, I do. I be a-goin’ d’rackly-minute to watch. If they shows
the signal light a-swing from cliff, I’ll know ’tis a spy ... an’ must
warn Sharkie off——”
“Aye, but how, Jarge?”
“Wi’ this, Peter.” And from a pocket of the frieze coat Mr. Potter drew
a short-barrelled, heavy pistol. “I wait till Sharkie be within ’ail and
let fly ... flash’ll warn ’im.... An’ noo I’ll be a-goin’——”
“An’ I’m wi’ ye, Geordie man!” quoth Sir Hector, reaching for his hat.
“And I,” said Sir John, clapping on his own.
“Why, Lord love ’ee, gen’lemen,” exclaimed Mr. Potter, “’twon’t be nowise
easy-goin’! I be for short cuts ’cross Down, ship-tracks an’ hidden ways.”
“No matter,” answered Sir John.
“An’ what’s more, sirs, dappen us reaches Cuckmere in time, when I fires
to warn Sharkie ’tis but to be expected as they Preventive lads’ll fire
back at me ... so ’tis best I go alone, I rackon——”
“Hoot-toot, Geordie, ye’re wastin’ an’ awfu’ lot o’ wind; save it tae
better purpose, man, for we’re gangin’ wi’ ye.”
“And I also,” said Mr. Pym, examining the flint of his musket.
“Why, then, come your ways, sirs,” said Mr. Potter; “but if we be took,
’tis as smugglers you’ll be sarved——”
“And why not?” retorted Mr. Pym argumentatively. “Are not all Sussex folk
smugglers at heart—aye, and mankind in general, for matter o’ that?”
“Well, good fortun’ go wi’ ye, sirs,” said Mr. Bunkle. “’Twill be
middlin’ dark; moon doan’t rise till three o’clock.... An’ there’ll be a
bowl o’ summat ’ot waitin’ agin your return. You ought to be back inside
two hours, eh, Jarge?”
“Why, as to that, Peter,” answered Mr. Potter in his placid manner, “what
is to be, will be, I rackon!” And opening a door he led them forth by a
discreetly unobtrusive passage that brought them to a back lane, to a
footpath skirting the rope walk, and so to a steep upland, rising against
the stars.
Once clear of the village, Mr. Potter went at a pace that Sir John found
somewhat trying by reason of the difficult country. Moreover, his hurt
arm irked him; but Mr. Pym strode unfaltering, up hill and down, despite
the heavy musket he bore, and Sir Hector’s long legs seemed tireless.
Though there was no moon as yet, the stars made a palpitant glow, a
glimmering dusk wherein all objects loomed up vague and unfamiliar. To
Sir John the dim forms of his silent companions seemed like phantoms in a
phantom world; stumbling and breathless he struggled on, feeling as one
in a nightmare, conscious of spectral shapes that reached out ghostly
arms, or touched him with clammy fingers—things that by day were trees
and bushes, but now were things very evil and sinister.
On he stumbled, sometimes treading the dust of a road, but mostly they
seemed to be climbing or descending some grassy slope.
Mr. Potter went by ways known only to himself; he led them through narrow
lanes deep-sunk in the chalk, through black alleys roofed by tangled
thickets and dense-growing bushes, leafy tunnels sweet with honeysuckle;
up and up and down steep, thymey slopes, across lush meadows where
the feet sank deep, past brooks that gurgled sleepily in the dark; on
and ever on, reeling and sweating through a windless darkness, until,
breasting a slope, there met them a sweet, cool breath and to their ears
came the hoarse murmur of the sea. Then Mr. Potter halted, and when he
spoke it was in a whisper:
“Yonder lays Cuckmere, sirs ... tide’ll be at flood in ’arf an hour, I
rackon, an’ the _True Believer_ should be a-layin’ hove-to out yonder.
Afore Sharkie stands in he’ll show two lights—white above red, which
means, ‘Is arl clear?’ Then, if there be spies yonder they’ll swing a
lanthorn from the cliff, which means, ‘Arl clear.’ So bide ye here, sirs,
an’ watch fur Sharkie’s signal whiles I tak’ a look round. But dappen ye
see Potter’s wepping flash, why, then—run for your lives ... an’ softly
it be!” So saying Mr. Potter dropped upon hands and knees, crawled away
and vanished.
Sir John, panting upon the grass, could make out the loom of precipitous
cliff, the vague line of shore, the white foam of incoming tide; upon
his right hand crouched Mr. Pym, the barrel of his musket cutting across
the stars, upon his left knelt Sir Hector, bulking more gigantic than
nature in the dimness; and then he was startled by Mr. Potter’s voice
immediately behind him:
“Back, sirs, back an’ easy it is, for y’r lives!... They sojers be right
afore us—thick as mushrooms ... aye, thick as ’rooms they be, so easy it
is, sirs ... we must to the beach ... foller Potter, sirs ... an’ tread
cautious!”
Gliding like phantoms, they followed whither Mr. Potter led, while
ever the beat of the incoming waves grew louder. Suddenly beneath Sir
John’s foot a piece of rotten driftwood snapped, seeming to him loud as
a pistol-shot, and he stood, breath in check, half expecting a hoarse
challenge and the roaring flash of musketry; instead, he heard Mr.
Potter’s whisper:
“Lay down, sirs ... easy! Now watch the sea yonder!”
To Sir John, thus outstretched, hearing only the throb of his own heart
and remembering all those men who lay so murderously silent, so patiently
watchful and expectant, it seemed that looming cliff and vague foreshore
were places of supreme horror, since death lurked there; the very night
seemed foul of it.
And then came Mr. Potter’s soft, untroubled whisper:
“Yonder, sirs!... Yonder cometh Sharkie Nye!... D’ye see yon twinkle?...
Up she swings—the white!... Now the red! Aye, yonder lays the _True
Believer_ hove to an’ waitin’ the answerin’ signal.... Watch the cliff,
sirs——”
Almost as he spoke, was an answering beam of light upon the grim
headland, a light that winked once or twice and then was swiftly lowered
until it hung suspended half-way down the cliff.
“O Geordie-man—O Geordie!” whispered Sir Hector. “’Tis betrayed ye are,
lad—yon proves it beyond a’ doot!”
“Aye, by the Pize,” whispered Mr. Potter, “yonder’s black treachery!
A light a-top o’ cliff any fule might show ... but a light a-dangle
’arf-way down!... Look, sir—God love us ... Sharkie be a-standin’ in——”
“To his death, Geordie—himsel’ and a’ his lads!”
“Not whiles Potter can waarn ’em, sirs!” And, speaking, Mr. Potter got to
his knees, but there Mr. Pym’s grip on his leg arrested him.
“What’s to do, George?” he inquired.
“Liddle enough, sir, but arl I can.... Potter be a-goin’ down yonder to
th’ edge o’ the tide, an’ soon as they be nigh enough I lets fly with
both my pistols——”
“And commit suicide, George Potter!”
“Why, they sojers may miss me, sir ... an’ I shall run amazin’ quick
and—hark, sir ... Sharkie be a-towin’ in wi’ his boats!” Sure enough,
faint though distinct was the sound of oars.
“Lord love me!” exclaimed Mr. Potter, his placidity quite gone. “They be
closer ashore than I thought ... loose my leg, sir!”
“Not so, George!” answered the painter. “Your plan is extreme clumsy and
offers but problematical chance o’ success whiles you run great risk o’
wounds or death, and Captain Nye may be nothing advantaged. Now, upon the
other hand——”
“Mus’ Pym, Mus’ Pym, it be no time to arg’—lemme go, sir!”
“Heark’ee now, George Potter, ’twill take Sharkie Nye some half-hour to
tow into musket-shot in this dark whiles yon lanthorn, though a fairish
distance, is yet well within range ... nay, patience, George, lie still
and listen to me! The trouble seems to be yonder lanthorn—very well, let
us incontinent extinguish yon lanthorn....”
“Aye, but how, sir—how?”
“Hold thy tongue, George, and give me elbow-room.”
“Why—why, Mus’ Pym,” gasped Potter, “you never think as you can manage
... so fur ... sich a liddle bit of a thing as yon lanthorn?”
“With a bow and arrow, George, which was a weapon of less precision than
such musket as mine, the worthy Tell split an apple imposed upon his
small son’s head ... and to-night ... hum! Give me room, George!”
Mr. Pym extended himself comfortably at full length; they heard the sharp
click as he cocked his long piece, watched him level it across convenient
rock, held their breaths while he dwelt upon his aim; a spurt of fire, a
roar that reverberated far and wide, a puff of smoke ... and the swinging
light was not. Ensued a moment of utter stillness, then from seaward came
an answering flash, hoarse commands, the red and white lights vanished,
and thereafter a riot of sound as the gloom of cliff and foreshore was
stabbed by musketry fire; and, lying face down upon the grass, Sir John
heard the whistle and hum of bullets in the air above him.
“Quick!” cried Potter. “Run fur it, sirs, whiles they reload.... They
marked Mus’ Pym’s flash an’ some on ’em’s arter us—so quick it be!”
A panting minute or so across smooth turf, a stumbling descent, a
desperate scrambling over loose pebbles, a breathless race across wet
sand, a groping among boulders ... and Sir John found himself alone; he
was standing thus, staring dazedly about him, in his ears the shouting
of his nearer pursuers, when from the dimness above a long arm reached
forth, a mighty hand grasped coat collar, and he was swung from his feet,
dragged through a rocky fissure, and found himself crouched beside Sir
Hector.
“Aha, Johnnie,” whispered the giant, hugging him until he blenched with
the pain of his arm, “is this no’ a bonny place? They ca’ it Pook’s
Kitchen—forbye, there’s few as kens it ... the De’il himsel’ couldna
find us here, y’ ken.... Whisht, lie ye still, Johnnie; yon be only Pym
a-cursing, an’ sma’ wonder; the puir gentleman was forced tae leave his
gun behind.... O Pymmie-man,” quoth Sir Hector, wedging his vast bulk
deeper into the narrow cave, “’tis a sinfu’, waefu’, shamefu’ thing ye
should hae wasted y’r gifts on paint when ye wad hae made sic a bonny
musketeer!”
“So far as my memory serves,” sighed Mr. Pym the Painter, “I dropped it
just after we crossed the pebble-ridge.”