CHANGE OF SCENE AND CHANGE OF PLACE
Soon after Margaret's recovery, and the taking of her deposition before
Colonel Neale, Mr. Gibson, and Mr. Seekamp, justices of the peace, she
took leave of the affectionate friends she had gained in the family at
St. Margaret's Green. She had permission to go and stay as long as she
felt necessary for the recruiting of her spirits, and accordingly she
went to Nacton. She found her aged father and her younger brother living
in the same cottage, and in better work and condition than when she had
left them. They gladly welcomed her, and she spent a peaceful quiet time
with them, though painful thoughts intruded themselves upon her mind.
Old and joyful, as well as joyless, associations crowded upon her; she
thought of her career of fortune and misfortune, with many a deep and
painful sigh. Oh! had religious instruction then fortified that mind as
it did years afterwards, what comfort might it not have gained even in
this moment of adversity--what pain might it not have turned aside! Her
father soon perceived that disappointment was gnawing at Margaret's
heart, the more keenly, as it found stronger food to feed upon, from the
past revival of warm hopes, now severely blighted. The old man sought
her confidence, and found that, by conversation with her, he lightened
the heaviness of her load.
Margaret told her father the exact state of her mind, and did not
conceal anything from him.
"I much fear," said the old man, "that he has returned to the coast
again, and perhaps to his former vicious companions. Not that I have
heard anything of him; but I know that the coastguard are as active as
they ever were in the discharge of their desperate duty. I cannot think
of any other method of ascertaining the fact, than by sending your
brother Edward down to the coast for a time, and let him learn what he
can. He is a very sharp young fellow, and I can tell you, Margaret, that
for activity of head, heart, and limb, not one of my boys ever exceeded
him."
"I think the scheme might answer," replied Margaret: "at all events, it
is worth trying. I shall feel more satisfied, let the result be what it
may. I will give him part of my wages, so that he shall lose nothing by
the trip."
In the evening the plan was proposed to the young man, who readily
entered into his sister's views upon the subject. He would ask his
master for a week or ten days, or a fortnight, if required.
Margaret gave him strict charge to explain to Will Laud the circumstance
of her having so hastily uttered those words which had given him such
offence; that it was her mistress's command that she should see no more
sailors. "Be cautious," she added; "avoid that villain Luff; for in his
clutches you would be no more than a lamb beneath a tiger's paw. You
must visit all the different places along the coast from Felixstowe to
Aldeburgh. If any of the coastguard speak to you, tell them honestly who
you are; and if you see young Edward Barry, you may tell him all the
truth. He will help you, as he promised to befriend me, should I ever
require his aid. If any private opportunity of speaking to Laud should
occur, tell him his money is all safe, and shall be employed according
to his directions. I consider it his property, though directed to me.
Go, Edward. I shall spend many a restless hour until you return."
Edward Catchpole was soon on his road to Felixstowe. His first attempt
was to find out the old ferryman, Laud's father, and ascertain if he
knew anything of him. But he learned that the old man had quietly
departed this life, soon after receiving the news of his son's
engagement with the French, in Lord Howe's victory of the 1st of June.
The only thing like a footmark of Laud was in the report given by some
of the neighbours, that a sailor had been there some weeks ago, making
inquiries about the old ferryman; who, ascertaining, however, that he
was dead, went away, and no one heard anything more of him.
Edward next went on from Felixstowe to Bawdsey Ferry, and took up his
quarters at the Sun Inn. Here he seemed as one come to the seaside for
health; for he was to be seen wandering along the shore, and talking
whenever he could with the sailors. But he could gain no tidings,
directly or indirectly, of the person he sought. He shifted his position
from the Sun to the Old Beach House, at the mouth of the river Alde, now
known by the name of the Life-Boat public-house, then kept by Jacob
Merrells, a pilot.
Great preparations were then making for building forts and Martello
towers along the coast, to oppose any invasion. Numbers of surveyors,
and workmen in the employ of Government, frequented the Beach House. The
conversation sometimes turned upon smuggling, and young Catchpole's
heart beat high at such moments, with the hope of some clue to Laud.
Nothing, however, could he elicit, except that, as so many Government
men were about at that time, the smugglers were not likely to be
carrying on a very brisk trade. Still it _was_ carried on, and Captain
Bargood was, it was said, as busy as ever.
He next visited Boyton and Sudbourn, and Orford. He lodged at the
Mariner's Compass, then kept by an old weather-beaten sailor, who often
put him across from the quay on the banks of the Alde, to the North
Vere; and here he used to spend so many hours, that the coastguard, who
kept a watch upon his movements, suspected that his countryman's dress
was only a ruse to hide some sinister intention. They observed, however,
that he did not avoid them, but rather sought opportunity for their
acquaintance. A more dreary place than this North Vere is scarcely to be
found on all the coast of Great Britain. It is a mass of shingle nearly
twenty miles long, in some places nearly a mile broad, in others, only a
few hundred yards. This wall of pebbles separates the river Alde from
the ocean. The bank reaches from Hollesley Bay to Aldeburgh. The sea and
the river are very deep along the shelving banks on either side.
Thousands upon thousands of sea-birds build, or rather lay their eggs,
upon this desolate bed of shingle. A few wild, straggling plants of
seakale, and very long, thin, sickly spires of grass, occasionally shoot
up through the stones; but there is no other vegetation, except here and
there in some few hollows in this desert of stones, where a little clay,
mixed with the sea-fowl dung, formed a green patch. These spots used to
be much frequented by smugglers, which, from their sunken situations,
used to hide both them and their goods from view. Nothing prominent can
be seen for miles round this coast, except the Orford lights, which
stand conspicuous enough about midway between Hollesley and Aldeburgh.
The poor fellows who acted as preventive-service men in the coastguard
had no sinecure in this dreadful situation. The sun burnt them by day,
and the wind, from whatever quarter it blew, and especially in the
winter nights, was cutting and cold; and from the exposure between two
waters, the sea and the river, it roared like the discharge of
batteries. In some of the hollows these poor men used to construct huts
of such rude materials as came to hand; old pieces of wrecks, or
broken-up boats, which they covered with seaweed, collected after a
storm. These served to break the east winds which blew over the German
Ocean, in their terrible night-watches, which they were forced to keep
pretty constantly, as they were watched, though they were watchers. Many
were the desperate struggles upon this wild beach between these brave
men and the smugglers, in which hard fighting, and too often
death-blows, told the desperate nature of the service.
"Well, my man, what brings you upon this coast?" said one of the
officers to Edward Catchpole, as he was sauntering lazily along the
seaside.
"Oh," replied Edward, "I have got a holiday, and I wish to spend a day
or two by the seaside."
"A day or two! Why you have been here six days, and you have been
staying at Hollesley, and Boyton, and Felixstowe. Come, come, young man,
you are up to some work which may get you into trouble. You had better
take my advice, and sheer off."
"I have no unlawful calling; if I had, I might deserve your scrutiny.
You think, perhaps, that I am connected with smugglers, and am here for
the purpose of giving them information. I am, however, much more
desirous of receiving than of giving information. I never saw a
smuggler's boat in my life. You suspect me, I see; but what of?--tell
me."
"I ought to be suspicious of the truth of what you tell me. But I never
saw you before, and your looks do not betray deceit."
"Are you sure you never saw me before? Perhaps you may be mistaken. I
have seen you before to-day, and have spoken to you before this day. I
know you, if you do not know me."
"I certainly do not know you, and assuredly have never spoken to you
till now. My memory is pretty accurate as to persons and faces, yet
neither the one nor the other are familiar to me in you."
"Your face is familiar to me. I never saw you more than twice, and then
you spoke to me, and very kindly too."
"You certainly puzzle me. What is your name, and whence do you come?"
"You are Edward Barry, and I am Edward Catchpole. Do you remember the
lad that drove his sister down to the boat-house at Bawdsey?"
"Yes, I remember you now, though you are greatly changed. But what
brings you here?"
"That which keeps you here night and day! I am upon the look-out for the
smugglers."
"You may look a long time if you are looking for Will Laud. Do you not
know that he is in the British navy?"
"I knew that he was so, but I do not know that he is. My sister told me
if I met you to make you acquainted with her trials, and to ask your
assistance."
Here the young man told him the events which had taken place, and her
fears that Laud had returned to his old career.
"I do not think he has. His old companions are as active as ever; but I
heard that he had split with them, and that, when he was taken by the
pressgang, he was quarrelling with Luff, who, as I understood, escaped,
and swore to finish his work upon Laud whenever he could catch him.
There is not a man among us but would run any risk to deliver that
fellow up to justice. We have had orders from Government to secure him
if we can, and the reward is extended to us. He is a daring wretch, and
knowing, as he must do, our determination to take him, it is my
conviction that he will never be taken alive. But, if you wish to see a
bit of sharp work, we have got information that he is now off this
coast, preparing to land a cargo on the Vere. If you have a mind to lend
a hand to take him, you can be of great service to us, without running
much danger in work that you are not accustomed to."
"That I will do gladly."
"Well, now listen. You cannot walk five hundred yards along the brow of
the beach without meeting one of my men. They are all upon the shore in
readiness, and have had their eyes upon you, though you have not seen
them. Look along the line of the coast against the upper ridge of
shingle at the spring-tide mark,--you see nothing. If you walk along
that line five hundred yards from where you stand, you will see a head
pop up from the shingle and salute you. They are placed there, and have
buried themselves in the shingle on purpose to watch your motions. You
are suspected to be the person appointed to hoist a white flag,
opposite Havergate Island, as a signal that the boat may come ashore. I
implicitly believe what you have told me of yourself, and, if you will
assist me, I will in return render you all the assistance I can in
search of your object."
"I will do anything you appoint me to do within my power."
"I ask nothing of you, but what you can easily perform. Remember the
watchword which I now give you. It is 'King George for ever,' an
expression you must use if any of my men salute you. What I want you to
do is, to pass along the whole line in the direction of the spring-tide
mark, which is the highest point that the tide reaches. Every five
hundred yards you will find yourself spoken to by one of my men, who
will say, 'Who goes there?' Do you reply, 'King George for ever!' They
will say 'Hurrah! pass on.' You will find fourteen men, which will tell
you that four miles of this coast is strictly guarded to-night. Pass
along the whole line; but note when you come to the seventh man, and lay
this pole, and white flag which is bound to it, about twenty yards on
this side of him. You will observe that, at that point, a tall poplar
tree in Sudbourn Grove, on the horizon, will be in a direct line with
you and the Shepherd's Cottage on Havergate Island. Leave the flag-pole
there until you return from going the whole line. Take this keg over
your shoulder, and replenish every man's can as you pass along, for they
will have sharp work to-night, and it is cold work lying in suspense. As
you come back from the line, unfurl the flag, and fix the staff strongly
in the ground. The wind blows off-shore, and will soon carry it
streaming outward. It will then be your duty to take up your position at
a respectful distance from the spot, and see that no one from the land
removes the flag. I strongly suspect that the old shepherd, who lives in
the Red Cottage on Havergate Island, is the man who will come to remove
it if he can. If you can secure him without our aid, so much the
better; but if not, just put your lips to this whistle which I give you,
and assistance will be close at hand. At all events, the old fellow must
be secured, and carried back to his cottage, and be bound to his bed.
And you must remain with him until night draws on. Then put the old
man's light, an oil lamp, which you will find standing under the bed,
into the little window looking towards the sea, which is at the
gable-end to the east.
"Then you must come over again with his boat, and mind and shove her the
full length of her moorings into the water before you fix her anchor on
the shore, or the falling tide will leave her high and dry. Then return
to the place, where you can bury yourself in the shingle. If I mistake
not, as soon as the moon is high, you will see a boat come ashore with a
cargo. There is a dell not far off the flag, to which they will probably
carry all their tubs. You must not be seen by them. You will easily see
how my men manage to hide themselves. Now be very particular in noting
what I tell you, or the lives of many may be forfeited. After the men
have landed their goods, two of them will go across to the river, to see
if the shepherd's boat is moored ready for them. When they come back,
you will hear them say 'Up! all's right!' They will then each take up
his burden, and proceed with it to the river's side. I expect there will
be ten or twelve of them. As soon as they are all fairly out of the
dell, do you give a good loud long whistle. By this time, my men, who
will have seen the boat coming ashore, will be getting on their hands
and knees close up to you. The smugglers will throw down their loads,
and hasten to their boat; we shall be ready to receive them. But,
whatever you do, lie still, and you will be out of danger; and if you
have a mind to see what a battle is, you will have a good view of it. I
do not ask you to risk your life, you will probably see some of us
killed, and should I be among the number, just remember, that in the
bottom of my cartridge-box there is a letter to my sister, which I will
get you to deliver. Do you think you fully understand me? and are you
now willing to help us? It is singular that I should find in you the
very instrument we wanted. I was about to have you secured, and to
perform the part myself; but ten to one if the old shepherd saw me, but
he would smell powder, and keep at home; but, seeing you a country
youth, he will not mind you, but will come to the scratch. You see how
much depends upon your courage."
Young Edward Catchpole had long made up his mind, notwithstanding all
the danger, to run any risk sooner than give up the enterprise; like his
sister he possessed great personal courage, and was quick, intelligent,
and active. He also looked upon the cause as a good one; it was for his
king and country, and for a sister whom he loved. He had given up the
idea of meeting with Laud, and thought only of securing the vile
assassin whose crimes had reached such an enormous pitch. He entered
upon his commission immediately, pursued his career along the high-water
mark of the beach, and, true enough, about every five hundred yards, a
head popped up from the shingle, with, "Who goes there?" "King George
for ever!" was the answer; and "That's right, my hearty, we'll drink his
health if you please," was the hint for the young man to replenish the
brave sailor's can. He noted the seventh man; there he left the flag and
staff, and proceeded on the whole length of the line. As he returned he
placed the pole firmly into the deep shingle, and unfurled the white
sheet, which soon formed a most conspicuous streamer in the air. He then
quietly secreted himself in the manner he had been shown by one of the
men, by working his body into the shingle, and letting the larger stones
fall over him until he was completely covered, save his head. It was not
long before a sail, which had been seen in the distance, now kept
standing off and on in the offing. But now came his own work.
About an hour after the flag had been unfurled, Edward plainly heard the
bleating of sheep, and saw a shepherd driving a score of sheep
leisurely along towards the flag, apparently watching his sheep cropping
the scant herbage of the North Vere. As he came whistling on, and
approached the staff, looking cautiously around him, Edward thought it
was time to commence proceedings, especially as the old man laid hold of
the flagstaff to unship it. He jumped up, and called to the shepherd,--
"I say, old boy, let that bell wether of mine alone, will you?"
The shepherd started, and left the staff, and approached the young man.
"What do you put that flag there for, young man?"
"Because such are my orders."
"But suppose I wish to have that flag for a sheet for my bed to-night,
who shall prevent it?"
"I will."
"Why, I could lick half a dozen such fellows as you, with one arm."
"Maybe so--but come, now, let's have a fair trial of strength. Lay down
your crook between us, and see if you or I can pull the other over it.
If you succeed, then take the flag. If I, then you must take yourself
off how you can."
"Done," said the shepherd--"it shall be a bargain;" and he threw his
crook down on the ground. "Now for it, young man."
Accordingly, they approached each other. Young Edward saw that he had a
formidable antagonist to contend with, a brawny, sinewy frame, full of
compact strength, and more than an equal match for his youth; but he
resolved not to give the whistle, if he could overcome the man any how
by himself.
"Stop," said Edward; "you have laid the crook so as to give yourself the
upper hand: that is not fair. Lay it down from sea to river, so that we
both have the same chance in the slant. I'll show you what I mean."
And the young man showed him in a moment what he meant; for, taking up
the crook, and stooping down to place it as he had said, with a
shepherd's dexterity (for the reader will remember that the youth was
also a shepherd) he swung it round the ankle of the old man, and at the
same instant gave it such a jerk, as pitched him backwards upon his
head, which came with such violence upon the stones, that he was
completely stunned. Edward was for a moment fearful that he was dead;
but conjecturing, very wisely, that he might revive, he took out of his
wallet the old man's sheep-cords (strong thongs which shepherds use when
they dress their sheep, or such as sheep-shearers use when they clip
them), and, without more ado, he tied his hands and legs together behind
him, so that he was completely pinioned.
It was well that young Catchpole had taken this advantage and
precaution; for, upon searching the inner pocket of the wallet, he found
a brace of pistols, primed and loaded, which would have made the contest
very uneven. As the old man shortly began to revive, he called out most
lustily for help.
"Hold your tongue," said Edward, "or I will shoot you dead with your own
pistols! Lie still, and no one will hurt you. What should an honest man,
in your calling, do with such weapons as these?"
The old fellow was soon convinced that he had to deal with as good a
hand as his own; and one as expert at catching a ram, too. His arms and
legs were tied in such a scientific manner, as convinced him that the
young man was a shepherd. He thought it best, therefore, to bear his
present condition silently.
"Come along, old boy," said the youth, as he stuck the shepherd's crook
under the cords, and began dragging him along towards his boat; "I'll
ease you down to the river."
"Take care you are not eased down yourself," said the old man. "I have
friends, who will give you your deserts before long, and ease me of
these clutches."
"I'll tell you what you deserve, old man; and what, if the coastguard
suffer to-night, you will receive. You deserve to be thrown into the
river as you are; and if I have many words with you, and you refuse to
give me a plain direction and answer to whatever question I put to you,
you may depend upon it I will do it myself; and that will soon settle
all disputes between us. You have had in your wallet, pistols; your
crook would make a flagstaff; and I find, upon dragging you along, that,
as your jacket buttons give way, you have half a sheet round your body.
Tell me, when did you intend to give the smugglers the signal? It will
do you no good to tell me a lie. You have seen enough to be convinced I
understand what you are. You had better tell me the truth at once, or a
cold salt-water bath will compel you to do so."
"Not to-night!--not to-night!"
"Why not to-night?"
"Because the coastguard are upon the watch."
As they proceeded on their way, Edward asked the old man, "Do you expect
Captains Laud or Luff to-night? You may as well tell me; for you must be
pretty well convinced, by this time, that I know what is going on."
"Well--I expect Captain Luff. Laud is dead."
The young man fairly dropped the crook, as he repeated Maud's
words--"Laud is dead! Laud is dead!--How do you know that?"
"If you will unbind me, I will tell you all about it."
"Perhaps I may, when you tell me how and where he died, and show me what
proof you have of his death."
"Will you unbind me then?"
"Yes; when I think you have been bound long enough."
"These thongs cut me sore."
"How can that be? they are too broad to cut; and if you do not attempt
to draw your hands asunder, you know, as well as I do, that the knot is
tied so that they cannot hurt you. I see, by your keeping your hands
close together, that they do not hurt you."
They had now arrived at the river's side, where a large ferry-boat, such
as is used to carry stock over from the mainland to the island, was
moored against the shore. Edward lifted the old man into the
broad-bottomed craft, and laying him down upon the boards, pulled up
the anchor, and shoved off towards the island. The old man soon
perceived that Edward was no sailor, by the manner in which he managed,
or rather mismanaged the boat; and truly this was the hardest work the
young man had yet to perform. He had been so taken up with the thought
of doing everything he was commissioned to do, and in his pride so
determined to do it all himself, without help, that he had overlooked
his greatest difficulty, and forgot that he should want assistance to
row the boat. He still did not use his whistle; but, with very great
exertion, and very awkward management, contrived to bring the boat to
the island, and to shove her along the side of the marsh wall, to a
creek, close by the shepherd's house. He then lifted the old man out of
the boat, and dragged him up the mud wall, and laid him down at his
cottage door. The door was locked; and, in the scuffle, the key of it
had fallen out of the old man's pocket; and Edward was obliged to make
his way in at a low window behind the house; when, having forced back
the bolt, he pulled the old man in, and lifted him on to a bed, which
was in the room adjoining, and took a seat by his side.
"I'm both hungry and thirsty after all my exertions; have you any
refreshment of any kind in this comfortable dwelling?"
"You will find plenty in the closet by the fireplace. I wish I could eat
and drink with you."
"So you may, and I will feed you as if you were my cosset lamb."
He soon found that the shepherd's cottage contained sufficient to
recruit the spirits of any man whose stomach was not too proud for
wholesome food. There was a slice of cold boiled bacon, and bread and
cheese in plenty. There was brandy, too, but very bad water; and it
required something stronger than tea to take off the brackish taste;
brandy alone could make it palatable for man. The cattle sometimes
suffered by drinking it. The young shepherd fed the old one, whose
muscular limbs were now as powerless as an infant's; not from second
childhood, but from the dexterity with which they were bound together.
There was something of kindness in the young man's manner, though he was
justified, in self-defence, to take the advantage he had done.
"Now," said he, "tell me how you know Captain Laud is dead?"
"Captain Luff told me so."
"And is that all you know of it? Have you no other proof?"
"Yes; I have the captain's watch, which Luff gave to me, and the case of
it has his true-love's name engraved in the inside. The watch is in the
old plum-tree box, in the cupboard."
The young man eagerly examined the spot. He found the box, and in it the
watch, with both names engraved on the inside of the case, shining as
bright, and the engraving as sharp, as if it had been executed only that
very day. "William Laud and Margaret Catchpole," round the interior
circumference, and "June 1st, 1794," with a wreath of victory
surrounding it, in the centre.
"All this is correct, as you say; but how did he die?"
"Well, I will tell you all I know. Captain Luff (if you do not know him,
I do) is a most desperate fellow; a price is set upon his head, dead or
alive, so that it be but taken. Well, he murdered the poor girl whose
name is written in the watch; and I firmly believe that he murdered
Captain Laud too! Towards the close of the last year I was upon Sudbourn
Heath, keeping my sheep, and who should I meet but Captain Luff, who
accosted me with this question:--
"'Have you seen my young commander, Captain Laud, pass this way?'
"Well, it was a curious question, and quite natural too; for about six
o'clock that very morning, as I was taking my sheep out of the fold, who
should pass by me but the gallant young fellow whom he inquired after?
Singularly enough he asked after Luff, and whether I knew if he was upon
the coast. I told him that I had not had any signals lately; but that
some of the crew were ashore, and were staying at the Mariner's Compass,
at Orford. Well, I told Luff the same as I now tell you; and he no
sooner received the intelligence, than with all the eagerness of a
blood-hound when he touches upon the scent of his victim, he was off for
Orford in a moment. Well, I thought this was all for old acquaintance'
sake, or for business; so I rather rejoiced in the adventure. That very
night I had made an appointment to take some game; and as I went up the
Gap Lane, leading to the Heath, I heard angry words, and soon found the
two captains at variance. I had no wish, as you may suppose, to
interfere with their strife, so I quietly laid myself up in the ferns.
It was a dreadful sound to hear the thunder of those two men's voices.
How they cursed each other! At length I heard the report of two pistols,
and one of the balls passed within a yard of my head, but as for blows,
I could not count them. They fought each other like two bull-dogs, I
should say for near an hour, till I heard the snap and jingle of a
broken sword, and then one of them fled. I found the broken part of the
blade next morning close to the spot. It was red with blood; and the
marks of feet in the sand were as numerous as if twenty men had been
contending. I found drops of blood sunk into the sand all the way down
the lane, until you come to the marshes: here I lost the track. I have
seen no more of Laud since. But what makes me think that he was killed
by Luff on that night is the after-behaviour of the captain. About two
months after this occurrence I received a signal from the North Vere;
and who should it be but Luff. Well, he came home to my cottage, and as
we sat together I said, by way of a sounder, 'Where's Captain Laud?'
"'What makes you ask that question?' says he, hastily and fiercely.
'Have you any particular reason for asking me after him? Speak out at
once,' says he,--'speak out; have you heard anything about him?'
"The terrific glare of the fiend's eye fell upon me so cruelly that I
dared not tell him I had witnessed the fight, so I said, 'I have not
seen the captain for so long a time, that I did not know where he was.'
"'Ho! ho! that's it, is it?' says he. 'Have you seen him since the
morning you fed your sheep on Sudbourn Heath?'
"'No,' says I; 'he was then anxious to see you. Did you find him?'
"'Yes, I did; and I have reason to think he was lost at sea that very
night; for he agreed to come on board, and we have seen nothing more of
him, nor two of our crew, since that very time. Two of my men were in
the river boat, but I have seen nothing of them since. They were to have
joined the crew off the head of the North Vere, but we never saw them
again.'
"'That's very odd,' says I; 'but how did you join the crew?'
"'I got a cast down the river in Master Mannell's boat, the old
fisherman of Boyton.'
"Then, after a pause,
"'Here, Jim,' says he, 'I'll make you a present of poor Will's watch. I
do not like to wear it; it grieves me when I look at it. We used to be
such friends.'
"Now I thought this very strange, and it confirmed me in the opinion
that his conscience would not let him rest. I took the watch, and you
have now got it in your hand."
"What shall I give you for this watch?" said Edward.
"What you like; for ever since I have had it, it has appeared to me as
if I was an accomplice in Captain Laud's murder."
"I will give you half a guinea."
"Well, it is yours."
"I will put the money into the box in the cupboard. Time now wears away.
What are all these pieces of wood for?"
"They are tholes for the boat, when the smugglers use it."
"With your permission I will take them with me. Have you any oars for
them also?"
"No! the smugglers bring their own oars."
"Well, I must be moving; and now since you have told me the truth, and I
have every reason to thank you, I will candidly tell you who I am: I am
Margaret Catchpole's brother."
"You are a shepherd, then?"
"I am a shepherd."
"I was sure of it by the manner in which you used these thongs. May I
ask, is your sister dead?"
"She is not dead. How many men do you expect from the lugger when they
land?"
"Ten, with the captain."
"Well, lie you still now. I must, for the sake of fulfilling the orders
of my commander, fasten your cords to the bedstead, or I may be blamed.
So: that will do. Now, should the captain himself come to see you, he
will be convinced that the foul play was not your part; and if he does
not come to-night, I will. But time presses, and I must do my duty.
Where is your lamp?"
"I see by your question," said the old man, "that all is discovered. You
want the lamp to put in the window upstairs; you will find it under the
bed."
There it was, and was soon lighted and put in its proper place: a joyful
signal of success to the brave and patient coastguard, and a fatal lure
to the desperadoes on board the smuggler.
"Now then, old friend, good-bye," said Edward. "If success attend our
scheme you and I may be better acquainted; you may be glad that you have
told me all the truth. Farewell."
The youth was soon on board the ferry-boat; and with much labour brought
her to the same spot where he had before unmoored her. The tide had
fallen some feet, and was near its last ebb, so that he very wisely drew
her up as high as he could on to the shore, concluding that if he
anchored her in the water when the tide flowed again, which it would
soon do, it would cover the anchor on the shore. He drew her up far
enough just to place her cable's end at high-water mark; and having put
the tholes in their proper places, he then walked across to the white
flag. Just before he passed the dell, who should lift up his head but
young Barry!
"I began to think our plan had not succeeded. Is all right?"
"All is as you could wish it, and more; but I will tell you all another
time."
"We can see the lugger," said young Barry, "standing off and on: our
white flag is successful. You must go to the right, so as to lay
yourself in such a position as to command a view of this little dell and
the river. Bring yourself to anchor full a hundred yards from this hole,
for I suspect the fight will be here; keep your head below the ocean
mark when you give the signal, or a few bullets may whistle about your
ears."
Only those who have had anything to do with the preventive service can
tell the dangers and difficulties which the poor fellows who defend our
trade have to encounter; how much toil and anxiety, and how seldom
sufficient honour or reward do such men gain in discharging their
onerous duty. It is a life of feverish vexation. Fancy fourteen men
collected and stationed along four miles of coast the whole day, buried
in the pebbles, and waiting on a cold night for the approach of the
smuggler. They all saw the vessel reconnoitring and sailing about the
offing: the least want of circumspection on their part would thwart the
scheme which up to this moment promised success. Even the men accustomed
to this kind of work shook with the anxiety of suspense; but what must
have been the sensations of the young landsman who had to give the
signal for the onset, in which more than one might fall? To say that he
did not suffer severely, enough almost to make him wish himself at home,
would not be true; the thought, however, that he might be instrumental
in bringing the villain Luff to justice for all his crimes, and the
singular manner in which he had discovered his treachery to Laud, made
the young man some amends for the truly painful task he had undertaken.
Night now began to draw on, and the sea-birds left off their screaming;
the tern and the dottrell hastened to their resting-places; and the last
of all the feathered sea-shore tribe, the one which goes to roost the
latest, the grey curlew, bent his rapid wing toward Havergate Island,
and gave a mournful note as he flapped over the head of the young
watchman. As the moon arose the wind began to blow a little fresh, and
the ocean to roar upon the beach. The smugglers rejoiced at this, as it
would enable them to land their cargo with less chance of being heard.
The flag still streamed and flapped in the wind; the light shone like a
star in the shepherd's cot; and the time drew near for the contest.
Not a sound could be now heard save that of the wind. The vessel,
however, might be seen in the moonlight, approaching the shore; and now
a heavy eight-oared boat was seen to leave her: she was heavily laden,
even to the gunwale. The boat lurched through the breakers like a log.
On she came, with her helmsman, John Luff, who laid her broadside on to
the shore. Now for an anxious moment. Not a word was spoken. The wind
preventing any sound along the shore, nothing could be heard even of the
grounding of the boat's keel upon the beach. Dark figures of men were
seen getting out of the boat. They were expert sailors, up to their
work; as the sea heaved the boat up, they dragged her higher on the
shore, until they could more conveniently unload her. This was done as
expeditiously as possible; each man carried a sack heavily laden. They
went to the very spot that Barry had named, deposited their load, and
again returned to their boat. Twice they performed this work; and now
the two last men, carrying the eight oars, brought up the rear. The
eight quietly seated themselves on the sacks, whilst the other two went
forward with the oars; they returned, and, as young Edward concluded,
must have said, "All's right."
By this time the coastguard were drawing their lines closer to the spot,
each man taking up his brother, or calling on him as he passed him,
until the whole fourteen were within the space of ten yards from the
flag; breathless, on their knees did they await the shrill whistle
which, like the trumpet's sound, was to give the word for the charge.
Young Catchpole saw the smugglers emerge from the dell, with each man
his sack upon his shoulder; for an instant he thought he ought to wait
until they came the second time, but as his orders did not say so, and
he judged that if they once stowed away half their cargo they would make
quickly for the river, he deemed it best to give the signal at once; so
drawing in his breath, he gave the whistle such a long, shrill blast,
that had the wind lain that way it might have been heard to Orford. He
did not raise himself up, and it was well he did not, for over his head
whizzed a ball, and flash--flash--flash went the pistols. As was
predicted the men dropped their cargoes, and ran for the pit, but here
stood the coastguard ready to receive them, young Barry having brought
his men down below the horizon of the sea, that they might not be
exposed to the sight of the smugglers, whilst the river lying lower, and
they ascending from it, became a visible mark against the moonlit water
for their fire.
Dreadful was the contest that ensued. The smugglers formed a close line:
the coastguard line was more measured, and with some spaces between each
two men, so that their danger was the less. The firing, as they
approached each other, was awful; two men of the smugglers fell. They
closed nearer, and swords clashed and sparkled in the moonlight; and the
uproar at length became more audible than the noise of the wind and
waves. At last there was one sudden, tremendous yell from the boat's
crew, and then the cry for quarter; some fell, others fled, not to the
boat but along the coast. It was the object of the coastguard not to
pursue them so far as to separate from each other; and as three fled one
way, and two another, they merely sent flying shots after them, and
cleared a passage to the boat. The shout announced the leader of the
smugglers to be shot, and two more were lying by his side, and two
surrendered, and were disarmed and guarded, whilst but one of the
coastguard had fallen.
As the enemy was dispersed young Barry mustered his men, and missed his
comrade. They found him near the two smugglers who had first fallen.
Close to them lay the captain, his arm nearly cut in two, shot in the
side, and severely wounded on the head. Young Edward, who had seen the
fight, now came forward to render further assistance. The two smugglers
were dead; but the preventive-service man and the captain of the crew
were not dead, though both were severely wounded.
The two wounded men were taken to the shepherd's cottage. Four men, with
Barry and young Edward, rowed across to the island, whilst ten men were
left to guard the prisoners and the cargo, and to secure the smugglers'
boat. The whole proved to be a most valuable prize.
The captain, as the reader may suppose, proved to be no other than the
hated John Luff. The old shepherd was released by young Catchpole, and
from cramp and pain from his long doubled-up position he could scarcely
stand. The two wounded men were placed upon his bed, presenting such a
contrast of feature, expression, and character, as the ablest artist in
the world could not have justly delineated. Luff, with his dark brow,
haggard eye, and hairy face, looking like a dying hyena, looked up and
saw before him, Barry, Catchpole, and the shepherd; and with the scowl
of revenge (a strong passion to exhibit in such agony), he muttered a
dreadful curse upon them all. The poor coastguard man, with his pale but
placid countenance, though suffering severely from his wounds, extended
his hands to his commander, and implored him to let him be carried to
another bed, to let him lie on the floor in the other room, or anywhere
but head to head beside the demon who lay shuddering and cursing by his
side.
The bed of the shepherd's daughter, who was at that time staying at
Orford, was brought down and laid in the keeping-room beside the
fireplace, and the poor fellow was laid upon it. Luff's death-hour was
evidently at hand. It was a fearful thing to see him in his horrible
tortures, and to hear him, in his groans and moans, proclaiming himself
the murderer of Will Laud. Whenever he opened his eyes he saw nothing
but the evidences of guilt before him, as he raved in wild frenzy,--
"There! there! there! I see him! He is not dead!--no! no! no! There's
Laud and Margaret Catchpole! Look! they laugh at me!"
At last, with one wild scream, his spirit, like an affrighted bird, fled
away. Never did those who stood near him witness such a death. A cold
shudder crept over their flesh, and they owned one to another that they
should never forget that awful sight.
When it became known that the notorious smuggler, John Luff, was killed,
numbers came to see him; and few that saw his body but owned that he was
a fearful fellow when living. Government paid the reward over into the
hands of the coastguard, who all subscribed liberally towards the
comfort of their wounded messmate. Edward Catchpole was included among
those who shared the reward, and this enabled him to pay all his
expenses without any recurrence to his sister's purse.
When young Catchpole returned to Nacton with the eventful tidings of his
journey, and related all the particulars to Margaret, stating his full
belief of Laud's death, she pondered for a while over his statement, and
then expressed her dissent from her brother's conclusions.
"I see no certain proof of Laud's death," said she. "The old shepherd
and the wretch Luff, may both have supposed him dead; but there is a
mystery not yet cleared up which fills me with strange hopes--I mean the
sudden disappearance of the two sailors with the boat that very night.
Luff made no mention of them in his dying moments. I really think these
two men are somehow connected with the safety of Laud; and I yet have
hope."
She rejoiced, however, that Laud was not found in company with his
former band, and especially with that bad man Luff; and drew
conclusions, in her own mind, favourable to his character and conduct.
She was very grateful to her brother; and not long afterwards she
proposed to return to her place. She had certainly been very remiss in
not communicating with her mistress once since she left her. So taken up
was she with her thoughts of Laud, that she forgot her situation; and,
until her brother's return, had never spoken of going back to Ipswich.
Her mistress not hearing of or from her, sent over to Brandiston, and
there learned that she had never been to see her uncle and aunt, nor had
they heard anything of her. A man was sent to Nacton, and,
unfortunately, the cottage was locked up, as Margaret had been that day
to spend a few hours with her first mistress, at the Priory Farm. These
strange circumstances made her mistress at Ipswich conclude that she was
gone in search of Laud; and consequently she engaged another servant.
When Margaret returned to St. Margaret's Green she found her place
filled up; and her mistress reproached her for her neglect in not having
had some communication with her. Margaret felt hurt and disappointed.
She stayed a short time at one or two places, but was extremely
unsettled and dissatisfied. She was in the habit of frequently visiting
St. Margaret's Green, and of being asked to go and see the children.
About eight months after a vacancy unexpectedly occurred in Mrs.
Cobbold's establishment, and Margaret entered a second time into the
service of her former mistress, in the capacity of cook; but her stay
this time was short. She was now as unlike as possible to the Margaret
of former days. She was not happy. Her temper had been soured by
disappointment, and her spirit made restless by rumours of Laud being
alive. She became impatient towards her fellow-servants, careless in her
dress and manner, and negligent in her work--a complete contrast to her
former self, who had been a pattern of order, decency, and regularity.
At the end of one year, it became her mistress's painful duty to give
her a final warning. It was a real heartfelt sorrow to that benevolent
lady to be compelled, for the sake of example to her other servants, to
discharge Margaret. But she could not do otherwise.
Here was a painful duty discharged conscientiously. Let not the reader
think that it made no impression. It fell with full force upon
Margaret's mind. Margaret wept most bitterly when she found that she
must now break off all connexion with that family in which she had once
been so happy. She merely asked permission to remain till the end of the
week, and that in such a subdued tone and supplicating manner, as
touched her mistress's heart. It is needless to say that her request was
granted.
The morning of departure arrived, and not a servant, no, nor a child in
that house, could say "Good-bye" without tears. Her mistress, when
handing over to her the money directed to her by Laud, made Margaret sit
down, and conversed with her upon her future prospects. She also gave
her some good books for a remembrance, expressed a hope that she would
read them, and told her she should forget all but her good deeds, and be
ever ready to serve her.
Then, with tears rolling down her cheeks, Margaret tottered to the cart
which had been provided to take her to Brandiston, and left that house
never to enter it again, and never to look upon it without terror.
The author cannot help introducing at the close of this chapter an
authenticated document, which has been sent to him from Reading, in
Berkshire. It is the testimony of a man still living, who has never
forgotten Margaret Catchpole: and the reader will say he had good reason
to remember her. This man now lives in the service of Mr. John Snare,
No. 16 Minster Street, Reading; and, since the publication of the former
edition of this work, has made known to his master a providential escape
which he had in his infancy, through the intrepidity of this
extraordinary woman. Poor Margaret! it is with inexpressible pleasure
that the author transcribes this tribute to her memory; for it proves to
him, that whatever was the cause of her unsettled state of mind, her
noble spirit was still as prompt to hear the cry of the helpless as in
her days of confidence and comfort with her beloved mistress. The author
is indebted to the Rev. John Connop, Bradfield Hall, Reading, for the
original document, which he now gives to the public; and which he is
happy to add, is fully confirmed by persons now living at Ipswich.
_The Declaration of William White, of Reading, in Berkshire._
"My parents lived on St. Margaret's Green, St. Margaret's parish,
Ipswich, about five doors from the house of John Cobbold, Esq.
Margaret Catchpole was then living in Mr. Cobbold's service as
cook. About the middle of the spring of 1797, I, being then a child
about six years of age, was playing on the Green with many of the
neighbours' children; and in the midst of our sport, a mad bull
rushed most furiously towards us, directing his attack upon our
little group to the precise spot where I stood. Paralysed by fear
and surprise, I saw no hope of safety in flight, and must have
fallen a victim to the assault of the infuriated beast, had not my
companions set up a cry of alarm. At this critical moment, Margaret
Catchpole rushed out of Mr. Cobbold's house, to ascertain the cause
of the disturbance, and had the courage to fly in the face of the
bull, just as he was in the act of tossing me. Indeed I was
slightly gored by him, and must inevitably have been severely
injured, had not this courageous woman snatched me up, and carried
me into Mr. Cobbold's kitchen, taking every care of me until my
parents arrived.
"I was not seriously hurt, but I have been told that my bruises and
scars did not disappear for several weeks; and during this time I
was visited by Margaret Catchpole and Mrs. Cobbold, who both took
great notice of me, and evinced great anxiety for my recovery.
"I remember that this courageous act of Margaret Catchpole's was
much talked of at the time, and the Rev. Mr. Fonnereau, the rector
of St. Margaret's, took much interest in the affair; so much,
indeed, did he think of it, that on my marriage in 1817, he, being
still the rector, and performing the ceremony, reminded me of the
extraordinary circumstance which had occurred in my childhood, and
of my providential escape from an early grave.
"My uncle, Samuel Bayley (my mother's brother), was cooper and
brewer to J. Cobbold, Esq., being in his employment at the Cliff
Brewery, near Ipswich, at the time the above occurred.
"William White.
"Reading, February 18th, 1847."