ACTION AND COUNTER-ACTION
It is conscience that makes cowards of us all, and this may be said of
smugglers no less than of law-abiding citizens. A trial was going on
in connection with a certain incident which had occurred in Cawsand
Bay, Plymouth Sound. It was alleged that, on the night of November 17,
1831, a man named Phillips had been shot in the knee whilst in a boat,
trying with the aid of some other men to get up an anchor. The chief
officer of the Preventive service at Cawsand was accused by Phillips
of having thus injured him, and the case in the course of time was
brought into court. Among the witnesses was one whom counsel believed
to be not wholly unconnected with smuggling. Whether or not this was
true we need not worry ourselves, but the following questions and
answers are well worth recording.
Cawsand was a notorious smuggling locality, and its secluded bay, with
plenty of deep water almost up to the beach, made it highly suitable
for sinking tubs well below the surface of the water. And then there
must have been very few people ashore who had never been concerned in
this contraband trade. In such villages as this you might usually
rely on the local innkeeper knowing as much as anyone in the
neighbourhood on the subject of smuggling. Such a man, then, from
Cawsand, illiterate, but wideawake, went into the witness-box for
counsel to cross-examine, and the following dialogue carries its own
conviction:--
_Question._ "You are an innkeeper and sailor, if I understand you
rightly?"
_Answer._ "Yes!"
_Q._ "Is that all?"
_A._ "Mariner and innkeeper."
_Q._ "Is that all the trades you follow?"
_A._ "Fishing sometimes."
_Q._ "What do you fish for?"
_A._ "Different sorts of fish."
_Q._ "Did you ever fish for half-ankers?"
_A._ "Half-ankers?"
_Q._ "Casks of spirits--is that part of your fishing-tackle?"
_A._ "No, I was never convicted of no such thing."
_Q._ "I am not asking you that. You know what I mean. I ask whether it
is part of your profession."
_A._ "No, it was not."
_Q._ "You never do such things?"
_A._ "What should I do it for?"
_Q._ "I cannot tell you. I ask you whether you do it, not what you do
it for."
_A._ "I may choose to resolve whether I tell you or not."
_Q._ "I will not press you if your conscience is tender. You will not
tell me whether you do a little stroke in the Fair trade upon the
coast? You will not answer me that question?"
_A._ "I am telling the truth."
_Q._ "Will you answer that question?"
_A._ "No."
_Q._ "Are you or are you not frequently in practice as a smuggler?"
_A._ "No!"
And that was all that could be got out of a man who probably could
have told some of the best smuggling yarns in Cornwall. The
inhabitants so thoroughly loathed the Preventive men that, to quote
the words of the man who was chief officer there at the time we are
speaking of, "the hatred of the Cawsand smugglers is ... so great that
they scarcely ever omit an opportunity of showing it either by insult
or otherwise."
There was a kind of renaissance of smuggling about the third decade of
the nineteenth century, and this was brought on partly owing to the
fact that the vigilance along our coasts was not quite so smart as it
might have been. But there were plenty of men doing their duty to the
service, as may be seen from the account of Matthew Morrissey, a
boatman in the Coastguard Service at Littlehampton. About eleven
o'clock on the evening of April 5, 1833, he saw a vessel named the
_Nelson_, which had come into harbour that day. On boarding her,
together with another boatman, he found a crew of two men and a boy.
The skipper told him they were from Bognor in ballast. Morrissey went
below, got a light, and searched all over the after-cabin, the hold,
and even overhauled the ballast, but found nothing. He then got into
the Coastguard boat, took his boat-hook, and after feeling along the
vessel's bottom, discovered that it was not as it ought to have been.
"I'm not satisfied," remarked the Coastguard to her skipper, Henry
Roberts, "I shall haul you ashore."
One of the crew replied that he was "very welcome," and the Coastguard
then sent his companion ashore to fetch the chief boatman. The
Coastguard himself then again went aboard the _Nelson_, whereupon the
crew became a little restless and went forward. Presently they
announced that they would go ashore, so they went forward again, got
hold of the warp, and were going to haul on shore by it when the
Coastguard observed, "Now, recollect I am an officer in his Majesty's
Revenue duty, and the vessel is safely moored and in my charge; and if
you obstruct me in my duty you will abide by the consequences." He
took the warp out of their hands, and continued to walk up and down
one side of the deck while the crew walked the other. This went on for
about twenty minutes, when Henry Roberts came up just as the
Coastguard was turning round, and getting a firm grip, pushed him
savagely aft and over the vessel's quarter into the water. Heavily
laden though the Coastguard was with a heavy monkey-jacket, petticoat
canvas trousers over his others, and with his arms as well, he had
great difficulty in swimming, but at last managed to get to the shore.
The chief boatman and the other man were now arriving, and it was
found that the _Nelson's_ crew had vanished. The vessel was eventually
examined, and found to have a false bottom containing thirty-two tubs
of liquor and twenty-eight flagons of foreign brandy. Roberts was
later on arrested, found guilty, and transported for seven years.
[Illustration: "Getting a firm grip, pushed him ... into the water."]
A few pages back we witnessed an incident off Hastings. On the 5th of
January 1832, a much more serious encounter took place. Lieutenant
Baker, R.N., was cruising at that time in the Revenue cutter _Ranger_
off the Sussex coast, when between nine and ten in the evening he saw
a suspicious fire on the Castle Hill at Hastings. Believing that it
was a smuggler's signal, he despatched his four-oared galley, with
directions to row between Eccles Barn and the Martello Tower, No. 39.
At the same time the _Ranger_ continued to cruise off the land so as
to be in communication with the galley. About 1 A.M. a report was
heard from the Hastings direction, and a significant blue light was
seen burning. Baker therefore took his cutter nearer in-shore towards
the spot where this light had been seen. He immediately fell in with
his galley, which had shown the blue light, and in her he found about
two hundred casks of different sizes containing foreign spirits, and
also five men who had been detained by the galley.
The men of course were taken on board the cruiser, and as the morning
advanced, the _Ranger_ again stood into the shore so that the
lieutenant might land the spirits at the Custom House. Then getting
into his galley with part of his crew, the tubs were towed astern in
the cutter's smaller boat. But on reaching the beach, he found no
fewer than four hundred persons assembled with the apparent intention
of preventing the removal of the spirits to the Custom House, and
especially notorious among this gang were two men, named respectively
John Pankhurst and Henry Stevens. The galley was greeted with a shower
of stones, and some of the Revenue men therein were struck, and had to
keep quite close to the water's edge. Stevens and Pankhurst came and
deposited themselves on the boat's gunwale, and resisted the removal
of the tubs. Two carts now came down to the beach, but the mob refused
to allow them to be loaded, and stones were flying in various
directions, one man being badly hurt. Lieutenant Baker also received a
violent blow from a large stone thrown by Pankhurst.
But gradually the carts were loaded in spite of the opposition, and
just as the last vehicle had been filled, Pankhurst loosened the
bridle-back of the cart which was at the back of the vehicle to secure
the spirits, and had not the Revenue officers and men been very smart
in surrounding the cart and protecting the goods, there would have
been a rescue of the casks. Ultimately, the carts proceeded towards
the Custom House pursued by the raging mob, and even after the goods
had been all got in there was a good deal of pelting with stones and
considerable damage done. Yet again, when these prisoners, Pankhurst
and Stevens, were brought up for trial, the jury failed to do their
duty and convict. But the Lord Chief Justice of that time remarked
that he would not allow Stevens and Pankhurst to be discharged until
they had entered into their recognisances to keep the peace in £20
each.
But next to the abominable cruelties perpetrated by the Hawkhurst gang
related in an earlier chapter, I have found no incident so utterly
brutal and savage as the following. I have to ask the reader to turn
his imagination away from Sussex, and centre it on a very beautiful
spot in Dorsetshire, where the cliffs and sea are separated by only a
narrow beach. On the evening of the 28th of June 1832, Thomas Barrett,
one of the boatmen belonging to the West Lulworth Coastguard, was on
duty and proceeding along the top of the cliff towards Durdle, when he
saw a boat moving about from the eastward. It was now nearly 10 P.M.
He ran along the cliff, and then down to the beach, where he saw that
this boat had just landed and was now shoving off again. But four men
were standing by the water, at the very spot whence the boat had
immediately before pushed off. One of these men was James Davis, who
had on a long frock and a covered hat painted black.
Barrett asked this little knot of men what their business was, and why
they were there at that time of night, to which Davis replied that
they had "come from Weymouth, pleasuring!" Barrett observed that to
come from Weymouth (which was several miles to the westward) by the
east was a "rum" way. Davis then denied that they had come from the
eastward at all, but this was soon stopped by Barrett remarking that
if they had any nonsense they would get the worst of it. After this
the four men went up the cliff, having loudly abused him before
proceeding. On examining the spot where the boat had touched, the
Coastguard found twenty-nine tubs full of brandy lying on the beach
close to the water's edge, tied together in pairs, as was the custom
for landing. He therefore deemed it advisable to burn a blue light,
and fired several shots into the air for assistance.
Three boatmen belonging to the station saw and heard, and they came
out to his aid. But by this time the country-side was also on the
alert, and the signals had brought an angry crowd of fifty men, who
sympathised with the smugglers. These appeared on the top of the
cliff, so the four coastguards ran from the tubs (on the beach) to the
cliff to prevent this mob from coming down and rescuing the tubs. But
as the four men advanced to the top of the cliff, they hailed the mob
and asked who they were, announcing that they had seized the tubs. The
crowd made answer that the coastguards should not have the tubs, and
proceeded to fire at the quartette and to hurl down stones. A distance
of only about twenty yards separated the two forces, and the chief
boatman ordered his three men to fire up at them, and for
three-quarters of an hour this affray continued.
It was just then that the coastguards heard cries coming from the top
of the cliff--cries as of some one in great pain. But soon after the
mob left the cliff and went away; so the coastguards went down to the
beach again to secure and make safe the tubs, where they found that
Lieutenant Stocker was arriving at the beach in a boat from a
neighbouring station. He ordered Barrett to put the tubs in the boat
and then to lay a little distance from the shore. But after Barrett
had done this and was about thirty yards away, the lieutenant ordered
him to come ashore again, because the men on the beach were bringing
down Lieutenant Knight, who was groaning and in great pain.
What had happened to the latter must now be told. After the signals
mentioned had been observed, a man named Duke and Lieutenant Knight,
R.N., had also proceeded along the top of the cliff. It was a
beautiful starlight night, with scarcely any wind, perfectly still and
no moon visible. There was just the sea and the night and the cliffs.
But before they had gone far they encountered that mob we have just
spoken of at the top of the cliff. Whilst the four coastguards were
exchanging fire from below, Lieutenant Knight and Duke came upon the
crowd from their rear. Two men against fifty armed with great sticks 6
feet long could not do much. As the mob turned towards them,
Lieutenant Knight promised them that if they should make use of those
murderous-looking sticks they should have the contents of his pistol.
But the mob, without waiting, dealt the first blows, so Duke and his
officer defended themselves with their cutlasses. At first there were
only a dozen men against them, and these the two managed to beat off.
But other men then came up and formed a circle round Knight and Duke,
so the two stood back to back and faced the savage mob. The latter
made fierce blows at the men, which were warded off by the cutlasses
in the men's left hands, two pistols being in the right hand of each.
The naval men fired these, but it was of little good, though they
fought like true British sailors. Those 6-foot sticks could reach well
out, and both Knight and Duke were felled to the ground.
Then, like human panthers let loose on their prey, this brutal,
lawless mob with uncontrolled cruelty let loose the strings of their
pent-up passion. They kept these men on the ground and dealt with them
shamefully. Duke was being dragged along by his belt, and the crowd
beat him sorely as he heard his lieutenant exclaim, "Oh, you brutes!"
The next thing which Duke heard the fierce mob to say was, "Let's kill
the ---- and have him over the cliff." Now the cliff at that spot is
100 feet high. Four men then were preparing to carry out this
command--two were at his legs and two at his hands--when Duke
indignantly declared, "If Jem was here, he wouldn't let you do it."
It reads almost like fiction to have this dramatic halt in the murder
scene. For just as Duke was about to be hurled headlong over the side,
a man came forward and pressed the blackguards back on hearing these
words. For a time it was all that the new-comer could do to restrain
the brutes from hitting the poor fellow, while the men who still had
hold of his limbs swore that they would have Duke over the cliff. But
after being dealt a severe blow on the forehead, they put him down on
to the ground and left him bleeding. One of the gang, seeing this,
observed complacently, "He bleeds well, but breathes short. It will
soon be over with him." And with that they left him.
[Illustration: "Let's ... have him over the cliff."]
The man who had come forward so miraculously and so dramatically to
save Duke's life was James Cowland, and the reason he had so acted was
out of gratitude to Duke, who had taken his part in a certain incident
twelve months ago. And this is the sole redeeming feature in a glut of
brutality. It must have required no small amount of pluck and energy
for Cowland to have done even so much amid the wild fanaticism which
was raging, and smuggler and ruffian though he was, it is only fair to
emphasize and praise his action for risking his own life to save that
of a man by whom he had already benefited.
But Cowland did nothing more for his friend than that, and after the
crowd had indulged themselves on the two men they went off to their
homes. Duke then, suffering and bleeding, weak and stunned, crawled to
the place where he had been first attacked--a little higher up the
cliff--and there he saw Knight's petticoat trousers, but there was no
sign of his officer himself.
After that he gradually made his way down to the beach, and at the
foot of the cliff he came upon Knight lying on his back immediately
below where the struggle with the smugglers had taken place. Duke sat
down by his side, and the officer, opening his eyes, recognised his
man and asked, "Is that you?" But that was all he said. Duke then went
to tell the coastguards and Lieutenant Stocker on the beach, who
fetched the dying man, put him into Lipscomb's boat, and promptly
rowed him to his home at Lulworth, where he died the next day. It is
difficult to write calmly of such an occurrence as this: it is
impossible that in such circumstances one can extend the slightest
sympathy with a race of men who probably had a hard struggle for
existence, especially when the fishing or the harvests were bad. The
most one can do is to attribute such unreasoning and unwarranted
cruelty to the ignorance and the coarseness which had been bred in
undisciplined lives. Out of that seething, vicious mob there was only
one man who had a scrap of humanity, and even he could not prevent his
fellows from one of the worst crimes in the long roll of smugglers'
delinquencies.
The days of smugglers were, of course, coincident with the period of
the stage-coach. In the year 1833 there was a man named Thomas Allen,
who was master and part-owner of a coasting vessel named the _Good
Intent_, which used to trade between Dover and London. In February of
that year Thomas Becker, who happened to be the guard of the night
coaches running between Dover and London, came with a man named
Tomsett to Allen, and suggested that the latter should join them in a
smuggling transaction, telling him that they knew how to put a good
deal of money into his pocket. At first Allen hesitated and declined,
but the proposal was again renewed a few days later, when Allen again
declined, as it was too risky a business. But at length, as "trade was
very bad," both he and a man named Sutton, one of his crew, agreed to
come into the scheme. What happened was as follows:--
The _Good Intent_ left Dover on February 23, went as far as the Downs
about two miles from the coast, and under cover of darkness took on
board from a French vessel, which was there waiting by appointment,
about forty bales of silk. In order to be ready to deal with these,
the _Good Intent_ had been provided with sufficient empty crates and
boxes. The silks were put into these, they were addressed to some
persons in Birmingham, and, after being landed at one of the London
quays as if they had come from Dover, they were sent across to the
Paddington Canal, and duly arrived at their destination. Allen's share
of that transaction amounted to about £80. He had done so well that he
repeated the same practice in April and May; but in June some tea
which he brought in was seized, and although he was not prosecuted yet
it gave him a fright. But after being entreated by the two tempters,
he repeated his first incident, took forty more bales on board, and
arrived at the Port of London. But the Custom House officials had got
wind of this, and when the _Good Intent_ arrived she was searched. In
this case the goods had not been put into crates, but were concealed
in the ballast, the idea being not to land them in London but to
bring them back under the ballast to Dover.
[Illustration: "Under cover of darkness took on board ... forty bales
of silk."]
The first remark the Customs officer made was, "There is a great deal
more ballast here than is necessary for such a ship," and promptly
began moving the same. Of course the goods were discovered, and of
course Allen pretended he knew nothing about the forty bales being
there concealed. They were seized and condemned.
Becker got to hear of this disaster and that a warrant was out for his
own arrest, so he quickly hopped across to Calais. An officer was sent
both to Deal and to Dover to find Tomsett, but found him not, so he
crossed over to Calais, and among the first people whom he saw on
Calais pier were Tomsett and Becker walking about together. The
officer had no wish to be seen by Becker, but the latter saw him, and
came up and asked him how he was and what he was doing there. The
officer made the best excuse he could, and stated that he had got on
board the steam-packet and been brought off by mistake.
"Oh, I am here in consequence of that rascal Allen having peached
against us," volunteered Becker, and then went on to say that he was
as innocent as the child unborn. However, the judge, at a later date,
thought otherwise, and imposed a penalty of £4750, though the full
penalty really amounted to the enormous sum of £71,000.