THE CONFLICT
But where is Margaret all this time? She is on the shore, casting an
anxious eye upon the waters. The moon is shining with such perfect
brightness, that she can see across the river, though it be nearly two
miles from the strand at Downham Reach to Freston Tower. She looks
towards the dark shades of Woolverstone, and with a lover's anxious eye,
fancies she can descry a sail. A sail there was; but it came very slowly
on, though a breeze reached the spot where poor Margaret was standing.
In that old vessel, seated at the helm, was as extraordinary a character
as ever sailed upon the waves of the Orwell; and as he will be no
insignificant actor in some succeeding scenes of this work, he shall be
here introduced to the notice of the reader. He is thus described in the
_Suffolk Garland_.
"The ancient fisherman whose character is here portrayed is not a mere
creature of the imagination, but an eccentric being, once resident in
the parish of St. Clement, Ipswich, by name Thomas Colson, but better
known by the appellation of Robinson Crusoe. He was originally a
wool-comber, and afterwards a weaver; but a want of constant employment
in either of these occupations induced him to enter into the East
Suffolk Militia. Whilst quartered at Leicester, he learned, with his
usual ingenuity, the art of stocking-weaving, which trade he afterwards
followed in this county. But this employment, in its turn, he soon
relinquished, and became a fisherman on the river Orwell. His little
vessel (if vessel it might be called, for every part of it was his own
handiwork) presented a curious specimen of naval patchwork, for his
extreme poverty did not afford him the means of procuring proper
materials. In this leaky and crazy vessel, it was his constant custom,
by day and by night, in calms and in storms, to toil on the river for
fish. His figure was tall and thin; his countenance meagre, yet
striking; and his eye sharp and piercing. Subject to violent chronic
complaints, with a mind somewhat distempered, and faculties impaired, he
was a firm believer in the evil agency of wizards and witchcraft.... His
mind was so haunted with the dreams of charms and enchantments, as to
fancy that he was continually under the influence of these mischievous
tormentors. His arms and legs, nay, almost his whole body, was encircled
with bones of horses, rings, amulets, and characts, verses, words, &c.,
&c., as spells and charms to protect him against their evil
machinations. On different parts of his boat was to be seen 'the
horseshoe nailed,' that most effective antidote against the power of
witches. When conversing with him, he would describe to you that he saw
them hovering about his person, and endeavouring by all their arts to
punish and torment him. Though a wretched martyr to the fancies of a
disordered imagination, his manners were mild and harmless, and his
character honest and irreproachable. But, however powerful and effective
his charms might be to protect him from the agency of evil spirits, they
did not prove sufficiently operative against the dangers of storm and
tempest. For, being unfortunately driven on the ooze by a violent storm
on the 3rd of October, 1811, he was seen, and earnestly importuned to
quit his crazy vessel; but relying on the efficacy of his charms, he
obstinately refused; and the ebb of the tide drawing his bark off into
deep water, his charms and his spells failed him, and poor Robinson sank
to rise no more."
The writer of these pages knew Colson well. He has often, when a boy,
been in his boat with him; and always found him kind and gentle.
The old man who sat at the helm of his crazy vessel, now toiling up the
Orwell, was a perfect fisherman, patient, quiet, steady, active, and
thoughtful. He had enough to employ his mind as well as his body, and
too deeply was that mind engaged. The whole legion of evil spirits
seemed to be his familiar companions, or rather his incessant enemies.
He knew all their names, and their propensities; how they visited and
afflicted men; and his great study was, how to prevent their malice
taking effect upon himself or any one else. He would converse with them,
and parley with them; he would seem to suffer when any of them took him
by surprise and found him off his guard. The loss of any one of his
numerous charms was sure to occasion the visit of that very demon from
whose attacks it was supposed to defend him. He has often been tried by
intelligent persons, anxious to discover if he really invented a new
tale for each spirit; notes were kept of the name and the peculiar
temper he attributed to each; and, months afterwards, he was questioned
again and again upon the same points, but he never faltered--never
attributed a wrong direction to any one--but was as accurate and certain
as on the first day he spoke of them.
The whole purport of these attacks was to persuade Robin to do some
wicked deed, at which his mind revolted; and when they could not prevail
against him, they used to seem, to his suffering mind, to torment him,
sometimes to pinch him, sometimes to pelt him, at others, to burn or
scald him, pull his hair off his head, to pull his ears, his nose, or
his arms; and, under all these seeming attacks, the old man's
countenance would exhibit the species of suffering resembling the
agonies of one really under such torture. No one could persuade him that
it was imaginative; he would shake his head and say, "I see them
plainly--take care they do not visit you!"
He was a very kind friend to many who were afflicted; and never saw a
person in distress whilst he had a fish in his boat, or a penny in his
pocket, and refused to help him.
From the great encouragement he met with, and the friends who were
always kind to him, it is supposed that he might have laid by a
sufficiency for his latter days, for at one time he had amassed enough
to have purchased a new vessel, but in an evil hour he was induced to
lend it to an artful villain, who represented himself in great distress,
but who ran off with the whole.
It was curious to see the old man whilst repairing his boat, which was,
when given to him by Mr. Seekamp, but a wreck, as it lay upon the mud
near Hog Island. It was curious to see him, whilst plying his hatchet,
suddenly stop, seat himself on a piece of timber, and hold parley with
one of the demons, who, in his frenzy, he fancied attacked him. After
searching about his person, he would suddenly catch up a talisman, which
shown to the enraged spirit would send him off, and leave the tormented
in peace. His delight was visible in the chuckling joy of his speech, as
he returned triumphantly and speedily to his accustomed work.
Colson, who sat at the helm of his vessel, which creaked heavily under
the breeze as it sprang up, was in one of his moods of reverie, when,
stooping down and straining his eyes to windward, he saw a sail. It was
a small boat, which seemed to have got more wind in her canvas than
Robin could obtain.
On came the boat; and the breeze began to swell the many-coloured sail
of the bewitched barque; but Robin's canvas was heavy compared with the
airy trimming of the feathers of the little duck that followed him. Like
a creature of life, she skipped along, and soon overtook the old
fisherman of the Orwell.
"What ship ahoy! What ship ahoy!" exclaimed a gruff voice from the boat
below, as Robin, leaning over the stern of his clumsy craft, looked
closely into her with an eager eye.
"It's only old Robinson Crusoe," replied the other. "You may speak long
to him before you know what he means, even if you get any answer at
all."
"Ahoy! ahoy!" was, however, the old man's reply. "You've got the foul
fiend aboard. What are you up to, Will? I know that's Will Laud's voice,
though I haven't heard it lately. Whither bound, Will? whither bound?"
"Confound the fellow!" muttered Will. "I never heard him say so much
before. The foul fiend always sails with him. But give him a good word,
John, and a wide berth."
"Heavy laden, Robin? heavy laden? You've a good haul aboard. Crabs, or
lobsters, or crayfish--eh, Robin? turbot, plaice, or flounders? soles,
brill, or whiting? sanddabs, or eels? But you've got plenty, Bob, or I
mistake, if not a choice. The tide is falling: you'll never reach the
Grove to-night."
"I shall get up in time, Will. You've lightened my cargo. You've got a
pleasant companion aboard. You've got my black fiend on your mainsail.
There he sits, pointing at you both, as if he had you in his own
clutches. Take care he don't drive you aground. He sticks close to the
sail, Will."
"Heave ahoy! heave ahoy! Good-night!" and away bounded the boat, which
was then passing Pin Mill, in the widest part of the river, and steering
towards the shades of Woolverstone. The obelisk rose high over the dark
trees, pointing to the clear, moonlit sky, its pinnacle still tinged
with the last red light of that autumnal evening.
But the breeze freshening, the little skiff darted along the side of the
greensward, which sloped to the water's edge; and, as she passed, the
startled doe leaped up from her repose, and stamped her foot, and
snorted to the herd reposing or browsing on the side of the hill.
Woolverstone Park, with its thick copses and stately trees, whose roots
reached, in snaky windings, to the very shore, was now the range along
which the barque skirted till it came opposite the white cottage, which
stands on a small green opening, or lawn, slanting down to the river.
The park boat was moored against the stairs, and a single light burned
against the window, at which a white cat might be seen to be sitting. It
was a favourite cat of the gamekeeper's, which had accidentally been
killed in a rabbit-trap, and, being stuffed, was placed in the window of
the cottage. Visible as it always was in the same place, in the broad
day and in the clear moonlight, the sailors on the river always called
that dwelling by the name of the Cat House; by which it is known at the
present day. High above it might be seen the mansion, shining in the
moonbeam, and many lights burning in its various apartments--a sign of
the hospitality of W. Berners, Esquire, the lord of that beautiful
domain.
But the two sailors in the boat were little occupied with thoughts about
the beauty of this scene, or the interest that might attach to that side
of the water. Their eyes were bent upon the opposite shore; and, as they
sailed along, with a favourable wind, they soon passed the boathouse and
the mansion of Woolverstone.
"Luff, do you think we shall be lucky? I'd venture my share of the next
run, if I could once safely harbour the prize from yonder shore."
"Why, Will, you speak as if the Philistines were to meet you. Who can
prevent your cutting out such a prize?"
"I know not; except that she is too difficult a craft to manage."
"Pshaw, Will! her cable may be easily cut; and once we have her in tow,
with this side-wind upon our sail, we shall be back again as quickly as
we came."
"Maybe, maybe, John; but I do not like being too desperate. I'll fulfil
my word, and give you more than half my share, which you know is a
pretty good one, if you will lend me an honest and fair play."
"I'll do nothing, Bill, but what you tell me. I'll lay like a log in the
boat, and stir not without the boatswain's whistle; and as to an honest
hand, I'll tell you what, Will, 'tis something as good as your own--it
will do by you as well as your own would do by me."
"Say no more, say no more! But look, John--I do believe I see her by the
shore."
"I see something white, but that's the cottage in the Reach."
"No, no, John; keep her head well up; my eyes are clearer than yours--I
see her flag waving in the wind. You may take your tack now, John--we
shall run directly across. Ease out the mainsail a bit, and I'll mind
the foresail. Bear up, my hearty! bear up, my hearty!"
With such words of mutual encouragement did these men of the sea, the
river, and the land, after passing Woolverstone Park, steer directly
across, towards Nacton Creek, that they might hug the wind under Downham
Reach, and move more rapidly, in shallow water, against the tide.
Any one would imagine, from their conversation, that they were intent
upon cutting out some vessel from her moorings, instead of a poor,
defenceless girl, who, trusting to nothing but the strength of true
love, stood waiting for them on the shore.
There stood the ever faithful Margaret, with palpitating heart, watching
the light barque, as it came bounding over the small curling waves of
the Orwell. In her breast beat feelings such as some may have
experienced; but, whoever they may be, they must have been most
desperately in love. Hope, fear, joy, and terror, anxiety, and
affection--each, in turn, sent their separate sensations, in quick
succession, into her soul. Hope predominated over the rest, and
suggested these bright thoughts--
"He is coming to me, no more to be tried, no more to be disapproved, but
to tell me he is an honest man, and engaged in honest service."
What a picture would she have presented at that moment to any genuine
lover of nature! Who could describe that eye of expectation, swelled as
it was with the animating hope of happiness to come! Who could describe
that heaving heart, answering as it did to every heave of the little
boat which came bounding to the shore! And what words shall speak that
sudden emotion, as the welcome sound of the grounding keel, and the rush
of waters following it, told that the boat was ashore, which conveyed to
a woman's heart all that she had so long looked for, hoped, and
feared--her lover's return!
The watchword, "_Margaret_," was spoken, and in another moment her joy
and grief, and love and hope, were, as it were, embodied in the embrace
of him she loved. Moments at such time fly too rapidly--an hour seems
but an instant. There is so much to say, to express, to ponder upon,
that the time is always too short. In honest love there seems to be no
fear, no death, no time, no change--a sort of existence indescribably
happy, indefinitely blissful, hopeful, and enduring.
In the heart of Margaret, the poor Margaret Catchpole, love was her
life; and as she stood upon that strand, and first welcomed her William,
she felt the purest, happiest, and holiest feelings of joy, rectitude,
and honesty--such as she never before had felt to such extent, and such
as she knew but for a few short moments, and often wished for again, but
never, never afterwards experienced.
Since his absence from Margaret, the character of Laud had become more
and more desperate, and to say that the same pure feeling burned in his
breast as did in Margaret's would not be true. No man who leads a guilty
life can entertain that purity of love in his heart which shall stand
the test of every earthly trial; but Margaret, like many real lovers,
attributed to him she loved the same perfection and singleness of
attachment which she felt towards him. Had she known that this pure
flame was only burning as pure and bright in the honest soul of Jack
Barry, she would, it may be, have rejected Laud, and have accepted him;
but she knew not this. She was not blind to the faults of the sailor,
though she was blinded to his real character. She expected to find a
love like her own, and really believed his affection to be the same to
the last.
"Now, Margaret," he at length exclaimed, "now's the time: my boat is
ready, my ship is at the mouth of the river. A snug little cabin is at
your service; and you will find more hearts and hands to serve you than
you ever had in your life."
"But where am I to go, William? What business have I on board your
master's vessel? He would not approve of your sailing with your young
wife. I thought you came to tell me you were prepared to marry me from
my own dear father's house, and to be a comfort and a blessing to my
aged mother."
"Margaret, you say you love me. My time is short. I am come here to
prove the sincerity of my love, and to take you, in an honest way, to a
country where we may be married; but if you send me away now, we may
never meet again."
"If you are true, William--if, as you say, your prospects are good, and
you have spared sufficient from your lawful gains to hire a cottage and
to make me happy, why not get leave of absence, and come and marry me in
dear old England?"
"I may not be able to get leave for a long time; and what difference
does it make whether we are married here, or in my employer's country?
Marriage is marriage, Margaret, in every place, all the world over."
"Yes, Will; but I have heard that marriages solemnized in some countries
do not hold good in others; and whether they did or not, I should like
those who first gave me birth to give me to you, William. My consent,
they know, is a willing one; but I should not be happy in mind, if I
were to leave my parents without their knowing where I was gone."
"What will it matter if they do not know it till we return? I almost
think you would like another better than me, Margaret."
"If you, William, were, in some respects, other than you are, I should
like you full as well; but, as you are, I love you, and you know it. Why
not come ashore, and marry me at our own church, and in the presence of
my own parents? As to any other, William, though another may like me, I
cannot help it, but I can help his having me."
"Then there is another that does love you!--is there, Margaret?"
A blush passed over Margaret's face as she replied, "Another has told me
so, and I did not deceive him. He thought you dead, or he would never
have ventured upon the subject. I told him he was mistaken, that you
were not dead, and that I still loved you, William."
"Then he knows I live, does he?"
"Yes."
"And you have betrayed me?"
"No: I have not told any one but him; and as he pressed his suit,
thinking that you were no more, I felt it to be only due to him to tell
him you were alive."
"And who is he, Margaret? You would not have been so plain with him if
he had not had somewhat of your confidence."
"He is an honest young man, and of very good and respectable parents--he
works at the Priory Farm; and seeing him, as I do, daily, I can form
sufficient judgement of his character to believe he would never betray
any one."
"Upon my word, Margaret, he must be a prodigy of perfection! Perhaps you
would like him to be bridesman upon our wedding-day?"
"I would, indeed, if he would like it, and you had no objection."
"What is his name?"
"John Barry."
"What! of Levington?"
"Yes."
"His brother is in the coastguard. It was he who gave me this, Margaret,
this cut upon my forehead--this, that you took such pains to heal."
"And it is healed, William; and your heart, too, I hope."
"No, no, no!--I owe him one!"
"Consider me his creditor, and pay it me; for I healed that wound, and
it brought with it reformation."
"I would not give you what I would give him."
"No, William; but you ought not to bear malice. His brother has been
very kind to me. I may say, he is the only one who never reproached me
with having been the mistress of a smuggler." (There was a fearful frown
upon the smuggler's brow at this moment, and a convulsive grasp of the
poor girl's hand, that told there was agony and anger stirring in his
soul.) "But you are not a smuggler now, William. I did not mean to hurt
your feelings. All reproach of that name has long passed away from my
mind."
William was silent, and gazed wildly upon the waters. One hand was in
his bosom, the other was in Margaret's hand, as she leaned upon his
shoulder. There might be seen a strange paleness passing over his face,
and a painful compression of his lips. A sudden start, as if
involuntary, and it was most truly so. It told of a chilliness on the
heart, that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins. He actually
trembled.
"William, you are not well."
"No, I am not; but a little grog, which is in the boat, will soon set me
right again."
"Shall I run and fetch it?"
"No, no,--wait a bit, wait a bit. Hold--I was a smuggler! Yes, you said
I was a smuggler! The world despised me! You bore the reproach of my
name! Well, Margaret, the smuggler comes home--he comes to marry you.
Will the world believe him to be altered? Will they not call you, then,
the smuggler's bride?"
"No, William, not if you are really altered, as you say you are. I wish
you were in the British service; seamen are wanted now, and the smuggler
would soon be forgiven, when he once sailed under the flag of Old
England."
"'Tis too late, 'tis too late, now, Margaret! I will not say I may not
ever sail under our gallant Nelson. You might persuade me to it, if you
would only sail with me to Holland, and there be married to me,
Margaret."
"You have heard me upon this point: do not urge it any more. I have now
stolen away from duty, William, to meet you here, and I hope I shall
not be missed. Let me only hear you say you will come again soon, to
marry me at home, and I shall return to my service happy."
"I would if I could, but I cannot."
"Why not, William? why not?"
"Do not ask me why. Come, Margaret, come to the boat, and share my fate.
I will be constant to you, and you shall be my counsellor."
"Nay, William, do not urge me to forsake all my friends, and put all
this country in terror as to what has become of me. I cannot go on board
your boat. I cannot give you myself until God and my parents have given
me to you. So do not think of it; but, come again, come again!--yes,
again and again!--but come openly, in the sight of all men, and I will
be yours. I live for you only, William, and will never be another's
whilst you live."
"But how can I live without you, Margaret? I cannot come in the way you
talk of; I tell you I cannot. Do, then, do be mine."
"I am yours, William, and will ever be so; but it must be openly, before
all men, and upon no other terms."
"Then it will never be!"
"Why so?"
"Because I am a smuggler!"
"You have been such, but you are not so now. You have long forsaken the
gang; you are forgotten, and supposed to be dead. You may change your
name; but being changed in your life, it will only be known to me."
"And to Barry, too, Margaret; and then to his brother, and to numbers of
others, who will know me. I was recognized this very night."
"What, if you change your name?"
"My name is changed, but not my nature. I am a smuggler still!"
"No, William, no--you cannot be! You are in the service of an honest
man, though a foreigner."
"No, Margaret, I am not. You see before you the notorious Hudson. I am a
smuggler still!"
It was now poor Margaret's turn to tremble, and she felt more than
language can speak. She had heard of Hudson--Captain Hudson, as he was
called--but had no idea that her lover was that, or such a man. She felt
a revulsion amounting to sickness, a giddiness overcame her, and she
felt as if she must fall to the earth. Half carried, half urged, half
pulled along, she was unconsciously moving, with her eyes fixed fully
upon the boat, and approaching it, and she had no power to resist--a
sort of trance-like senselessness seemed to overpower her; and yet she
felt that hand, knew that form, and saw the waters and the boat, and had
no energy or impulse to resist. Her heart was so struck with the
deadliness of grief and despair, that the nerves had no power to obey
the will, and the will seemed but a wish to die. We cannot die when we
wish it, and it is well for us we cannot. Happy they who do not shrink
when the time comes appointedly; thrice happy they who welcome it with
joy, and hope, and love!
Margaret revived a little before she reached the boat, and resisted. The
firm grasp of the smuggler was not, however, to be loosed.
"You do not mean to force me away, William?"
"I must, if you will not go."
"I will not go."
"You shall--you must--you cannot help it! Do not resist."
"Shame, William, shame! Is this your love?"
"It is, Margaret, it is. I mean you fair."
"Your means are foul. Let me go, William! let me go!"
"Yes: you shall go on board my boat."
"Not with my life, William. I will go overboard!"
"Then will I follow you; but I cannot parley longer. Come on!"
The poor girl's struggles now became so violent, and her efforts to
escape so powerful, that Will Laud's utmost strength could not drag her
along the sand. Her fears, too, were increasing with his cruel violence;
and these fears were greatly increased by Laud giving a loud, shrill
boatswain's whistle. This awakened her to the sight of the trap into
which she had been beguiled, for, in another moment, she saw a man
spring from the boat, and hasten towards her. He came along with rapid
strides to join them, and soon, with horrid voice, exclaimed,--
"Your signal, Laud, is late indeed, but better late than never."
That voice was too well known by Margaret: 'twas the hated
countryman's--'twas John Luff's.
This fellow seized her in his arms, and, as a tiger would swing a fawn
over his back, so poor Margaret was swung over his shoulders in an
instant. The last effort a defenceless female can make is the shriek of
despair; and such a one was heard, as not only sounded through the woods
of Downham Reach, but reached the opposite shores of Woolverstone Park.
That shriek was heard by one whose heart was too true to nature to
resist the good motives which it awakened. Young Barry, as the reader
knows, was journeying toward the gamekeeper's cottage on the cliff, and
had just entered the wood in front of that dwelling, as the piercing
shriek struck upon his ear. He sprang over the paling in an instant, and
by the broad moonlight beheld a man carrying a female towards a boat,
and the other assisting to stop her cries. He leaped down the cliff, and
seizing a strong break-water stake, which he tore up from the sand,
rushed forward to the man who carried the female. It was a good, trusty,
heart-of-oak stake which he held, and which in one moment he swung round
his head, and sent its full weight upon the hamstrings of Luff. The
fellow rolled upon the sand, and over and over rolled the poor girl into
the very waves of the Orwell.
It was no slight work which Barry had now in hand. It was a bold deed to
attack two such daring villains, both well armed, and he with nothing
but a stake. But the consequences he neither foresaw nor dreaded; the
cause was a good one, and he left the issue to God. As quick as thought
he had already dashed one foeman to the earth; the other stood aghast,
beholding Margaret fallen into the water, and his comrade rolling on the
shore. He flew to help Margaret, and raising her up, determined not to
relinquish her, but stood opposed to the dauntless Barry.
"Villains, release the girl!" was his exclamation.
"It is Barry's voice!" shrieked Margaret. "Help, John, help!"
There was a strange opposition of feeling in all the parties at these
words. The blood curdled in the veins of the smugglers, whilst it seemed
to burst with overpowering fullness upon the forehead of the young man
who now attacked them. He fought for the prize of true love--they for
revenge. The moment they heard the name uttered by the girl they seemed
to think no more about her; but the fallen man sprang up, and Laud let
Margaret go, and both rushed, like enraged wild beasts, with full force
against young Barry. He, with true heroic daring, committed himself at
once to the encounter. He was a fine athletic young man, a head taller
than either of the sailors, but odds were fearfully against him. Luff
was a stout, stiff, sturdy seaman; and Laud young, active, cool, and
desperate.
A smuggler is seldom without a weapon of offence and defence. Luff
seized his pistol from his girdle, and fired at his brave antagonist; it
missed its mark, and the stout oak arm was not long in thundering a blow
upon his head, which again sent him sprawling upon the ground. It was
Laud's turn now to take his aim, which he did in the most cool,
determined manner, with as much ease, and as steady a hand, as if he
were firing at a holiday mark. It was a cruel aim, and rendered the
contest still more unequal. It took effect in the young man's left
shoulder, and rendered that arm useless.
None but such a frame and such a spirit could have stood against that
pistol-shot. It made him stagger for the moment; but he had presence of
mind to ward off the next blow of a cutlass with his good oaken staff.
And now might be seen the most desperate conflict for life or death
between the rivals. Barry and Laud closed and parted, and struggled
fiercely with each other, though the former had but one arm to act upon
the defensive with. His right hand, however, was powerful enough to dash
the sword of Laud at least ten yards into the wave; and with such
dexterity did he handle his weapon, that had not Luff come again
unexpectedly to the encounter, the contest must have been speedily
terminated in favour of Barry: Luff recovered his feet again, and rushed
at Barry with such rage, that again his other pistol missed its aim.
Barry had now to act entirely upon his own defence, with only one arm
against four. He had this advantage, however, that they had no time to
load their pistols, and had only their short butt-ends to fight with,
whilst he had a good long arm.
But assistance--unexpected assistance--was at hand. A tall, gaunt figure
strode along the strand, armed with a long fisherman's pike, or hook, a
weapon commonly used to take codfish off the fishing-lines. His was a
sinewy arm, which few could resist or disable.
When such a man was aroused, harmless and peaceable as was his general
character, his appearance became truly terrific; and his firm and steady
step, and determined resolution, told that he was a soldier of cool
courage, not easily to be beaten.
It was old Colson, or poor Robinson Crusoe, who, as it has been stated,
was making his way with fish up the Orwell.
He and young Barry, now side by side, beat back the smugglers to their
boat. Desperate was the contest; but there was no opposing the
unearthly-looking being, with his bones, perforated plates, and charms
dangling about his person. Well was it that he came so opportunely, for
without his help the fate of young Barry had been sealed for ever. It
was bad enough as it was. The smugglers retreated, and jumped into their
boat. Laud, seizing a carabine, levelled it at Barry, whilst Luff
pushed off the boat from the shore.
"Let fly at him, Will! let fly at him! Revenge yourself and my fall!"
A flash and loud explosion followed this advice. The smoke cleared off
in a second, and the pirates saw but the stately form of Robin standing
upon the shore. Young Barry--the generous, brave, and faithful
Barry--lay stretched upon the sand.
Meantime Margaret had escaped. She had reached the Priory Farm; and
rushing into the room where the harvest-men were assembled, fell down
exhausted, with just strength of voice to say, "Fly--fly--fly to the
shore! Barry will be murdered!"
The gamekeeper was off before Margaret arrived, having heard the report
of the pistols; and he went into the wood. The young men ran off to the
shore, and soon found the old fisherman supporting the head of the poor
young man. The blood was flowing fast from his wounds, and he was in a
swoon like death, though his heart beat, and he breathed painfully. They
formed a double row; they lifted him up, and carried him along as gently
as they could; but the poor fellow groaned with the agony of his
shattered arm and wounded side.
Robin followed them, muttering curses against the foul fiend, and every
moment pointing to the departing boat of the smugglers with a clenched
fist, exclaiming, "The foul fiend be with you! He'll consume you yet, ye
cowards!"