the oil were beginning to pass off, and the waves were noticeably
higher. Quicker than thought a rope was let down to the lifeboat,
and immediately figures could be discerned scrambling down into the
boat. In less than a quarter of an hour more than forty men had been
rescued. While the rest were preparing to leave the wreck, two enormous
waves swept over the wreck and enveloped the lifeboat. Each time the
tough little craft disappeared for a moment, reappeared, tottered, and
righted herself gamely. Indeed, not a man was lost, not a splinter
broken. Closer still she hugged the vessel’s side, till every man
aboard--fifty of them in all--had been hauled into the rescuing boat.
“The last man to leave his lost ship was the captain, and as he slipped
into the lifeboat the crew of the latter gave a rousing cheer that was
echoed again and again by the people ashore.”
Even now the lifeboat had not finished its work; there was danger
ahead. Great heads reared at her; a tremendous sea swamped down upon
her, and she nearly capsized; but, shaking herself free, she laboured
away, making fair progress. Then another huge wave rose at her,
threatened her with destruction, was met boldly. Struck broadside
on, the lifeboat was almost on her beam-ends. Watchers on the shore
held their breath. Would she withstand the shock? She did, and swept
gallantly forward, and at last reached the harbour mouth.
What cheers went up then! Men on shore cheered the gallant rescuers,
who cheered back, while the rescued men in the boat joined their voices
with the others. Then the boat came to the quay, and men ran down the
steps to help the saved ashore, where they were soon taken to shelter,
after having passed through a terrible experience.
TALES OF THE SMUGGLERS
Stories of Smugglers’ Ways and Smuggling Days have always had a
Fascination
Anything more adventurous than the lives of the old smugglers would be
hard to find. Nowadays a man seeks to get prohibited goods into the
country by using false bottoms to his trunks, or swathing his legs in
bandages of rich lace; and maybe a woman smuggler cuddles to her bosom
a “baby” of most wonderful make-up--laces, tobacco, scent! But there
is little of the adventurous about that smuggling to-day, and we have
to hark back to the days when men literally took their lives in their
hands in the effort to outwit the Government and to avoid paying the
taxes.
The strangest thing about smuggling is that all classes of people were
engaged in it--sailors, soldiers, fishermen, justices of the peace, and
even clergymen! When a village depended almost entirely for its trade
upon the illicit running of goods, perhaps it is not to be wondered at
that the parson had his sympathies with his parishioners.
A good instance of this is to be found in the story of the smugglers of
Morwenstowe, Cornwall. A visitor from an inland town, strolling along
the beach, stumbled upon the scene of a “landing” one evening. The ship
lying in the offing, the boats hurrying to the beach laden with kegs
of brandy, the people lining the shore, waiting to roll the kegs away
to safety, soon made him realise what was afoot; and, being honest,
he was staggered. And being also very temperate, he was shocked to see
men knocking in the heads of kegs and taking their fill of brandy, and
becoming so far intoxicated as to quarrel amongst themselves.
“What a horrible sight! Have you no shame?” he cried, addressing the
crowd in general. “Is there no magistrate at hand? Cannot any justice
of the peace be found in this fearful country?”
“No, thanks be to God!” came the answer from somewhere amongst the busy
crowd. “None within eight miles.”
“Well, then,” exclaimed the visitor, “is there no clergyman hereabout?
Does no minister of the parish live among you?”
“Aye, to be sure there is,” was the reply.
“Well, how far off does he live? Where is he?” asked the virtuous
gentleman, who next moment received another shock.
“There! That’s he, sir--yonder with the lanthorn,” was the answer
that came to him; and looking in the direction indicated, he saw a
venerable-looking man, in his parson’s clothes, holding the light while
his parishioners worked at robbing the State!
When smuggling began it would be hard to say, except that one would be
safe in supposing that as soon as a thing was taxed attempts were made
to slip it into the country untaxed. As, however, it is not intended
here to try to outline the history of smuggling, we need not worry
about that, but content ourselves with picking out here and there some
of the choice passages from the history.
Something historical, however, must be allowed to intrude, because
it had a great bearing upon smuggling; and that is, that prior to
1816 there were no systematic attempts made to prevent the illicit
importation of taxed goods. True, the Government had excise men and
revenue cutters on guard; but they were all too few, owing chiefly to
the fact that the great wars of the eighteenth century took up most
of the men, while the general slackness tended to make it fairly easy
for the “free trader,” as he was called, to slip into some cove and
unload his illegal cargo. Sometimes, indeed, the revenue men themselves
had lapses and “ran” goods in on their own account! In 1816, however,
following the conclusion of the great peace, the Government instituted
a regular system of smuggling prevention. Kent and Sussex having been
the favourite playground of the smugglers, the coasts of these two
counties were blockaded. A man-o’-war, the _Hyperion_, was stationed
at Newhaven, in Sussex, and the _Ramilles_ in the Downs, off Kent; and
the martello towers which had been erected along the coasts against
the coming of Napoleon’s armies were used to house their crews. To all
intents and purposes these sailors were the first coastguards, and
in due course the system of blockading was carried out all round the
coasts of Britain, chiefly by means of the revenue men and cutters.
On these the Government drew, and duly formed the “Preventive Water
Guard,” whose crews were stationed at certain spots along the coasts to
keep watch and ward day and night.
It is true that at the end of the seventeenth century there were Riding
Officers, whose work was to patrol the south-east coast on the look-out
against wood smugglers. But as there were only about three hundred
of them, and these all civilians, they were by no means an effective
check to the smugglers. Later on they were permitted the assistance of
the dragoons, who naturally resented being placed under the direction
of civilians, with the result that there was much friction, and the
service, instead of being improved, suffered a great deal, the soldiery
incidentally finding it a paying game to keep in with the smugglers.
In 1822 changes were made, and the civilian riding officers disappeared
and their places were taken by men from the cavalry regiments, and
at the same time the Board of Customs was given sole control of the
preventive services, which then consisted, as we have seen, of the
revenue cutters, Preventive Water Guard, and Riding Officers. Seven
years later something more was done--the coastguard proper was born.
No man was eligible for the service unless he was between twenty
and thirty years of age and had served six years at sea or seven
years’ apprenticeship in fishing-boats. The new force justified its
creation, and in a few years took charge of the work that had been
done by the revenue men who had been detailed for the blockade system
along the east and south coasts; and then, later, the revenue men
were made liable to service on board the men-o’-war; so that to-day
the coastguard force is a part of the Royal Navy, and has even had
its taste of active service, having been found of immense use, for
instance, in the Crimean War.
So much for the dry bones of history as seen in the development of the
coastguard force, which is bound up with the story of smuggling, from
which we will now cull some instances.
The smuggler was honest--in some ways. For instance, away back in the
latter half of the eighteenth century there lived a man who, named John
Carter, received the sobriquet “The King of Prussia.” Carter’s home
was at Porth Leah, in Mount’s Bay, that wonderful place in Cornwall.
To Porth Leah was later given the name of Prussia Cove, in honour of
the “honest smuggler,” who did things so thoroughly that he erected a
battery with which to keep the revenue cutters at bay, cut a road by
which he could transport his cargoes from the harbour--which he also
built; and out of the many caves along the coast fashioned cellars in
which to store his goods. In fact, Porth Leah was what one might call a
smugglers’ community.
The “King of Prussia” had a regular trade with regular customers,
to whom he would, like any other trader, make definite promises of
delivery; and, being a stickler for good business, he never let
anything stand in the way of his carrying out his contracts. One day,
while he was away, the excise officers found a cargo just arrived at
Porth Leah from France. They promptly seized the cargo and carried it
off to Penzance, and put it in the Custom House store under guard.
Thus it was that Carter, coming back, found his cargo gone--and he had
promised to deliver it to his customers on a certain day.
“See here!” he exclaimed to his men. “Whaat be I to do? I be an honest
maan, and must keeap me woord. I tell ’ee, men, we be gwine to d’liver
they goods ’cordin’ to pledge!”
His men knew that when Carter felt that his reputation as an honest
man was at stake he would take strong measures, and got themselves
ready against the coming of night. In due course they embarked on their
ship, and, armed to the teeth, as becomes men going on a perilous
errand, sailed across to Penzance. Arrived here, they fell upon the few
Customs officers left in charge, and before they knew what had happened
the latter were prisoners and the smugglers were rifling the stores,
seeking their confiscated cargo. Not a thing did Carter or his men take
away that wasn’t their own. They weren’t out thieving! Away they went
with their cargo to Porth Leah, where they quickly stowed it in their
cave-cellars, ready to ship again when the time came for Carter to
deliver his goods as per contract!
Thus, while saving his reputation the King of Prussia added to it, for
when, the next morning, the revenue officers came to the Custom House
and found what had happened, they soon made up their minds who had been
at work:
“It was Jack Carter,” they said. “He always was honest, and took
nothing that wasn’t his own.”
The romantic stories of smugglers abound in incidents connected with
the caves they used for hiding their illicit cargoes. All along the
coasts may be seen these galleried caves, and if you can get hold of
the oldest inhabitant, he will tell you tales of wonder and danger. One
oldest inhabitant of a Dorset village told me such a story once.
It would seem that on a certain night a cargo was to be run, and one
by one, at this inn and the other, men gathered to await the coming
of night. When twilight fell, men were posted at different points of
the cliff to keep a look-out for a revenue cutter, and in the event
of one coming, to endeavour to warn the men bringing the smuggling
vessel in. No cutter appeared, and in due time--almost to the minute
arranged--the smugglers came into view. Word was sent to the inns, and
the men hurried down to the shore, helped to pull the vessel up, and
then began the work of unloading her. Methodically, as though each man
had been trained to the work, the smugglers set about the task, getting
barrels, casks, and what not ashore in an incredibly short time; and
while one batch did this, another hoisted the bales on their own backs
or the backs of pack-horses. Then away they went into the night, making
for their secret store-house. This was a cave with a small entrance,
barely large enough for a man to squeeze through; but inside it opened
out into a large, roomy place with niches cut. In these holes the
goods were stored as, one by one, men came in with them; and the work
was almost done when there came from outside the sounds which told
them that trouble was afoot. The revenue men, perhaps warned by some
gossiper of what was going on, had dashed round a headland in their
cutter and interrupted the work.
Before the smugglers knew what had happened the cutter had swept into
the little cove, there was a sharp command of “In the King’s name!”
followed by roars from the smugglers, who, thus trapped, began to think
of safety. The horses that were at hand were whipped up, men seized
whatever lay near them, and before the revenue men could land they
were running inland, keeping clear of the cave so that the Government
men should not find it. As quickly as possible the Customs men leaped
ashore, rushed after the fleeing men, called upon them to surrender,
were answered by curses, and immediately opened fire.
It was the signal for a free fight. Armed, all of them, the smugglers
dropped their burdens and turned about. Shots rang out, the pistols
flashed fire, cries of men arose; revenue men fell to the ground,
smugglers bit the dust, but it seemed that the officers must win, when
suddenly there was a rush. Under cover of the darkness the men in the
cave had slipped out, made a detour, and then, with shouts and shots,
fell upon the revenue men, and in a few minutes had put them to flight.
Then, wasting no time on the wounded officers, the smugglers went
back; some got into the boat and slipped out with her, while the rest
finished the work of hiding the goods.
The “run” was over, and for several weeks the smugglers remained quiet,
lest they should be traced as having taken part in the murderous affray.
We have referred above to the smugglers of Kent, and these gentry were
by no means the honest kind of folk like the Cornishmen. A typical
case of Kentish smugglers’ ways is that of the Hawkhurst gang, who,
under their leader, Thomas Kingsmill, earned such a reputation for
ruffianism that a special body called the “Goudhurst Militia” was
raised to resist them, and many a stiff fight did the two bands have.
The most disgraceful happenings in the career of the Hawkhurst gang
were those that followed the affair of the Poole Custom House, where an
illicit cargo of tea, valued at £500, had been taken into store by the
officers. This cargo had been destined for Sussex, and the Hawkhurst
gang and the Sussex men made a compact to break open the Custom House
and rescue it.
Accordingly, on October 6, 1747, the smugglers set out for Poole,
having arranged that thirty of them were to make the attack and thirty
were to keep a look-out on the various roads. Arriving at Poole late at
night, they sent a couple of men into the town to see if the way was
clear.
One of the scouts came back with information that a large sloop lay in
the harbour, in such a position that she might easily train her guns on
the door of the Custom House and blow them to the winds if they dared
to attack. The Sussex men were scared, and, preferring to lose the tea
than their lives, turned back as if to go away. But Kingsmill cried:
“If you won’t do it, we’ll go and do it ourselves!”
The result was a consultation, during which another man came from the
harbour to say that the tide was low and that the sloop could not
bring her guns to bear on the raiders. The consultation came to an
end, and the smugglers went forward, riding down a little back lane
on the left of the town until they came to the seashore, where they
left their horses. Then on to the Custom House, which they soon broke
open, and, taking their tea, carried it to their horses, packed it, and
rode away mightily pleased with themselves. Next morning they arrived
at Fordingbridge. Here they had breakfast and fed their horses, going
on afterwards to a place called Brook, where they obtained a pair of
steel-yards and weighed the tea, which was then divided amongst the men.
The news of the raid set the Customs folk by the ears, and a reward
was offered for the apprehension of the raiders, but months passed
by without the Government officials being able to obtain a clue. “A
striking commentary, surely,” says Lieutenant H. N. Shore in “Smuggling
Days and Smuggling Ways,” “on the state of merry England in the year
of grace 1747! Here was a body of thirty armed men riding into a
seaport town, storming the ‘King’s warehouse,’ and passing openly and
undisguised the following morning with their booty through a portion of
the most civilised and thickly populated part of England, and yet not a
single individual of the many who witnessed the passage of the strange
cavalcade, and were acquainted with many of those composing it, could
be induced to come forward and assist the authorities in bringing the
offenders to justice.”
Eventually, however, a clue was obtained. In the February following
the raid one named Chater, a shoemaker of Fordingbridge, was going,
in company with a Customs officer named Galley, to make a call upon
Major Batten, J.P. for Sussex. The couple arrived at the small village
of Rowland’s Castle, and put up at the “White Hart” for refreshment,
and probably, after dining not wisely but too well, they let slip the
information that they were bound for Major Batten. Now there were few
people in those days who were not hand in glove with the smugglers, and
the least suspicious sign was always conveyed to the smugglers to be
on their guard. Widow Payne, who kept the inn, had two smuggler sons,
and these she at once dispatched to give warning; and in due course
men began to drop into the “White Hart.” They chummed up with the
strangers, drank and talked with them, and at last Chater, inveigled
outside, volunteered the information that he was on his way to swear
against one of the men who had taken part in the Poole Custom House
affair. Galley, Chater’s companion, began to wonder what was afoot, and
came outside to see; and had no sooner shown his face out of the door
than he was knocked head over heels.
“I am a King’s officer,” he exclaimed, “and----”
“A King’s officer, are you?” said his assailant. “I’ll make a King’s
officer of you; and for a quartern of gin I’ll serve you so again!”
The smuggler’s mates gathered round, and realising that open methods
would be rash, succeeded in soothing the irate King’s officer; and the
company went back to the inn to drink and feast. Sad to relate, Chater
and Galley got drunk, and had to be put to bed; and when they awoke
they found themselves on the back of a horse, being carried they knew
not whither, but with men slashing at them with whips and crying:
“Whip ’em, cut ’em, slash ’em, curse ’em!”
The smugglers had at first made up their minds to hide them for a
while, until the commotion had blown over, and then send them away
to France; but the smugglers’ wives had considered this too mild
treatment, and had called out for their death. “Hang the dogs!” they
cried. “For they came to hang us!”
Eventually, however, gentler measures were suggested, and it was
decided that the men were to be secreted until it was discovered
what was to be done with the smuggler who had been arrested--the man
against whom Chater was going to give evidence. Each of the ruffians
had agreed to give threepence a week towards the keep of the two men,
but, drink-maddened, they soon forgot this, and set to work to belabour
the unfortunate men, who at last rolled under the horse’s belly, and
hung thus while the animal was driven like mad, the hoofs striking the
men’s heads as they went. Then they were hoisted on to the horse’s back
again, and the whipping renewed until the poor fellows were a mass of
bruises and weals and too exhausted to keep on the horse’s back. They
were then untied, slung across other horses, and carried on through the
night, till the men cried out in their agony to be shot through the
head.
Presently unconsciousness came to their relief. Arrived at Rake, near
Liss, the smugglers drew up at the “Red Lion,” and induced the landlord
to admit them. Here they imbibed afresh, and, drink-sodden, no doubt,
they took Galley’s body and buried it in a sand-pit--probably while he
was alive, for when the corpse was exhumed it was found that his hands
were before his face, as though held there to protect it.
Chater, exhausted and running blood, was taken to the village of
Trotton and chained to a post in a turf house, with two smugglers to
guard him, and with barely enough food to keep him alive, pending the
decision of the smugglers as to what to do with him. Next day they
spent in revelry, and at night they repaired to the turf house, where
one of them, drawing a large clasp knife, went up to Chater and cried:
“Down on your knees and to prayers! I’ll be your butcher!”
Chater, who was frightened almost to death, knelt, and the next instant
received a kick in the back. Gasping, he asked tremblingly what had
become of Galley.
“We’ve killed him, curse you!” cried one of the ruffians. “And we’ll
kill you!” And drawing his clasp knife, slashed it across the man’s
eyes and nose, almost cutting out both eyes and slitting the gristle
of his nose! A second slash made a terrible gash on Chater’s forehead,
and after several other barbarities the unfortunate man was tied on a
horse and carried to “Harris’s Well,” in Lady Holt Park, where they
thought to drown him. First, however, they tried to hang him; but the
rope was too short to admit of a sufficient drop, and he hung over the
well. What did the smugglers do but cut the rope and send him hurtling
down the well head first; and then, finding that he still lived, they
pitched stones down at him until they were absolutely certain that he
was dead!
A more revolting case it would be hard to conceive; and as the
smugglers took every precaution to hide traces of their crime, they
considered themselves safe. They overlooked one thing, however.
Galley’s greatcoat had been dropped on the journey from Rowland’s
Castle, and it was found later on, bloodstained, and sent to the
Customs men, who at once knew that the smugglers had been at work.
A large reward was immediately offered, and a free pardon promised
to anyone who would “peach”; but as the smugglers had vowed amongst
themselves not to “inform,” and had, indeed, been terrified by one
of their leaders, who swore to kill any informer, “whether one of
themselves or anybody else,” and as even the Custom officers were
timid in face of the open threats made by the smuggling community, it
did not seem likely that the butchers would ever be brought to justice.
It may seem incredible that such should be the case, but the picture
painted by a contemporary writer brings the facts home. “The smugglers
had reigned a long time uncontrolled,” says this writer. “They rode
in troops to fetch their goods, and carried them off in triumph by
daylight; nay, so audacious were they grown that they were not afraid
of regular troops that were sent against them into the country to keep
them in awe.... If any one of them happened to be taken, and the proof
ever so clear against him, no magistrate durst commit him to jail. If
he did, he was sure to have his house or barns set on fire, or some
other mischief done him, if he was so happy as to escape with his life!”
But, Nemesis! What all the efforts of the King’s officers could not
accomplish an anonymous letter brought about. This letter, written by
someone who was in the know, was sent to the authorities, and it told
them of the likely place in which Galley’s body would be discovered.
Search was made, and the body found. A second unsigned letter gave
the name of a man concerned in the crime. This man was arrested, and,
fearing for his life, turned King’s evidence, told everything, and the
King issued a proclamation that unless they surrendered themselves
to justice at a day appointed the smugglers would be outlawed; and a
reward of £500 was promised for the apprehension of everyone who should
be convicted.
In the end seven of the murderers were caught and put in prison. A
special assize was held at Chichester, January 16, 1749--nearly twelve
months after the crime--and the seven were sentenced to death, five of
them to be hung in chains as a warning.