You did not know, did you, who was the coastguardsman that s

TALES OF OUR COAST

[Illustration: _You and I used to watch the Tide come swilling in._]

Tales of Our Coast

By

S. R. CROCKETT

HAROLD FREDERIC

GILBERT PARKER

W. CLARK RUSSELL

Q.

With Twelve Illustrations by FRANK BRANGWYN

[Illustration: Logo]

New York

Dodd, Mead and Company

1898

COPYRIGHT, 1896,

BY

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.

CONTENTS

PAGE

THE SMUGGLERS OF THE CLONE 13

'THERE IS SORROW ON THE SEA' 41

THE PATH OF MURTOGH 81

THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 133

'THAT THERE MASON' 179

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

'YOU AND I USED TO WATCH THE TIDE COME SWILLING IN' _Frontispiece_

BLACK TAGGART WAS IN WITH HIS LUGGER 17

'I LAID A PISTOL TO HIS EAR' 31

'MY HEART KEEPS WARM IN THINKIN' OF YOU' 43

'YOU DROVE HIM FROM THE BOAT' 69

SAW HIS HEAD SPIKED OVER SOUTH GATE 83

'MY FATHER CUT HIM FREE FROM HIS DRUM' 149

THE TRUMPETER SOUNDED THE 'REVELLY' 165

'I KILLED A MAN' 169

'OLD JIM MASON'S THE WORST-TEMPERED MAN ON THE COAST' 183

'WHAT'S TAKEN YER HEYE?' 187

'YOU KILLEE HIM!' ROARS ONE 199

THE SMUGGLERS OF THE CLONE

BY

S. R. CROCKETT

THE SMUGGLERS OF THE CLONE.

'_Rise, Robin, rise! The partans are on the sands!_'

The crying at our little window raised me out of a sound sleep, for I

had been out seeing the Myreside lasses late the night before, and was

far from being wake-rife at two by the clock on a February morning.

It was the first time the summons had come to me, for I was then but

young. Hitherto it was my brother John who had answered the raising word

of the free-traders spoken at the window. But now John had a

farm-steading of his own, thanks to Sir William Maxwell and to my

father's siller that had paid for the stock.

So with all speed I did my clothes upon me, with much eagerness and a

beating heart,--as who would not, when, for the first time, he has the

privilege of man? As I went out to the barn I could hear my mother (with

whom I was ever a favourite) praying for me.

'Save the laddie--save the laddie!' she said over and over.

And I think my father prayed too; but, as I went, he also cried to me

counsels.

'Be sure you keep up the grappling chains--dinna let them clatter till

ye hae the stuff weel up the hill. The Lord keep ye! Be a guid lad an'

ride honestly. Gin ye see Sir William, keep your head doon, an' gae by

withoot lookin'. He's a magistrate, ye ken. But he'll no' see you, gin

ye dinna see him. Leave twa ankers a-piece o' brandy an' rum at our ain

dyke back. An' abune a', the Lord be wi' ye, an' bring ye safe back to

your sorrowing parents!'

So, with pride, I did the harness graith upon the sonsy back of Brown

Bess,--the pad before where I was to sit,--the lingtow and the hooked

chains behind. I had a cutlass, a jockteleg (or smuggler's sheaf-knife),

and a pair of brass-mounted pistols ready swung in my leathern belt.

Faith, but I wish Bell of the Mains could have seen me then, ready to

ride forth with the light-horsemen. She would never scorn me more for a

lingle-backed callant, I'se warrant.

'Haste ye, Robin! Heard ye no' that the partans are on the sands?'

It was Geordie of the Clone who cried to me. He meant the free-traders

from the Isle, rolling the barrels ashore.

'I am e'en as ready as ye are yoursel'!' I gave him answer, for I was

not going to let him boast himself prideful all, because he had ridden

out with them once or twice before. Besides, his horse and accoutrement

were not one half so good as mine. For my father was an honest and

well-considered man, and in good standing with the laird and the

minister, so that he could afford to do things handsomely.

We made haste to ride along the heuchs, which are very high, steep, and

rocky at this part of the coast.

And at every loaning-end we heard the clinking of the smugglers chains,

and I thought the sound a livening and a merry one.

'A fair guid-e'en and a full tide, young Airyolan!' cried one to me as

we came by Killantrae. And I own the name was sweet to my ears. For it

was the custom to call men by the names of their farms, and Airyolan was

my father's name by rights. But mine for that night, because in my hands

was the honour of the house.

Ere we got down to the Clone we could hear, all about in the darkness,

athwart and athwart, the clattering of chains, the stir of many horses,

and the voices of men.

Black Taggart was in with his lugger, the 'Sea Pyet,' and such a cargo

as the Clone men had never run,--so ran the talk on every side. There

was not a sleeping wife nor yet a man left indoors in all the parish of

Mochrum, except only the laird and the minister.

[Illustration: _Black Taggart was in with his lugger._]

By the time that we got down by the shore, there was quite a company of

the Men of the Fells, as the shore men called us,--all dour, swack,

determined fellows.

'Here come the hill nowt!' said one of the village men, as he caught

sight of us. I knew him for a limber-tongued, ill-livered loon from the

Port, so I delivered him a blow fair and solid between the eyes, and he

dropped without a gurgle. This was to learn him how to speak to innocent

harmless strangers.

Then there was a turmoil indeed to speak about, for all the men of the

laigh shore crowded round us, and knives were drawn. But I cried,

'Corwald, Mochrum, Chippermore, here to me!' And all the stout lads came

about me.

Nevertheless, it looked black for a moment, as the shore men waved their

torches in our faces, and yelled fiercely at us to put us down by fear.

Then a tall young man on a horse rode straight at the crowd which had

gathered about the loon I had felled. He had a mask over his face which

sometimes slipped awry. But, in spite of the disguise, he seemed

perfectly well known to all there.

'What have we here?' he asked, in a voice of questioning that had also

the power of command in it.

''Tis these Men of the Fells that have stricken down Jock Webster of the

Port, Maister William!' said one of the crowd.

Then I knew the laird's son, and did my duty to him, telling him of my

provocation, and how I had only given the rascal strength of arm.

'And right well you did,' said Maister William, 'for these dogs would

swatter in the good brandy, but never help to carry it to the caves, nor

bring the well-graithed horses to the shore-side! Carry the loon away,

and stap him into a heather hole till he come to.'

So that was all the comfort they got for their tale-telling.

'And you, young Airyolan,' said Maister William, 'that are so ready with

your strength of arm,--there is even a job that you may do. Muckle Jock,

the Preventive man, rides to-night from Isle of Whithorn, where he has

been warning the revenue cutter. Do you meet him and keep him from doing

himself an injury.'

'And where shall I meet him, Maister William?' I asked of the young

laird.

'Oh, somewhere on the heuch-taps,' said he, carelessly; 'and see, swing

these on your horse and leave them at Myrtoun on the by-going.'

He called a man with a torch, who came and stood over me, while I laid

on Brown Bess a pair of small casks of some fine liqueur, of which more

than ordinary care was to be taken, and also a few packages of soft

goods, silks and laces as I deemed.

'Take these to the Loch Yett, and ca' Sandy Fergus to stow them for ye.

Syne do your work with the Exciseman as he comes hame. Gar him bide

where he is till the sun be at its highest to-morrow. And a double share

o' the plunder shall be lyin' in the hole at a back of the dyke at

Airyolan when ye ride hame the morn at e'en.'

So I bade him a good-night, and rode my ways over the fields, and across

many burns to Myrtoun. As I went I looked back, and there, below me, was

a strange sight,--all the little harbour of the Clone lighted up, a

hurrying of men down to the shore, the flickering of torches, and the

lappering of the sea making a stir of gallant life that set the blood

leaping along the veins. It was, indeed, I thought, worth while living

to be a free-trader. Far out, I could see the dark spars of the lugger

'Sea Pyet,' and hear the casks and ankers dumping into the boats

alongside.

Then I began to bethink me that I had a more desperate ploy than any of

them that were down there, for they were many, and I was but one.

Moreover, easily, as young Master William might say, 'Meet Muckle Jock,

and keep him till the morn at noon!' the matter was not so easy as

supping one's porridge.

Now, I had never seen the Exciseman, but my brother had played at the

cudgels with Jock before this. So I knew more of him than to suppose

that he would bide for the bidding of one man when in the way of his

duty.

But when the young laird went away he slipped me a small, heavy packet.

'Half for you and half for the gauger, gin he hears reason,' he said.

By the weight and the jingle I judged it to be yellow Geordies, the best

thing that the wee, wee German lairdie ever sent to Tory Mochrum. And

not too plenty there, either! Though since the Clone folk did so well

with the clean-run smuggling from the blessed Isle of Man, it is true

that there are more of the Geordies than there used to be.

So I rode round by the back of the White Loch, for Sir William had a

habit of daunering, over by the Airlour and Barsalloch, and in my

present ride I had no desire to meet with him.

Yet, as fate would have it, I was not to win clear that night. I had not

ridden more than half-way round the loch when Brown Bess went

floundering into a moss-hole, which are indeed more plenty than paved

roads in that quarter. And what with the weight of the pack, and her

struggling, we threatened to go down altogether. When I thought of what

my father would say, if I went home with my finger in my mouth, and

neither Brown Bess nor yet a penny's-worth to be the value of her, I was

fairly a-sweat with fear. I cried aloud for help, for there were

cot-houses near by. And, as I had hoped, in a little a man came out of

the shadows of the willow bushes.

'What want ye, yochel?' said he, in a mightily lofty tone.

'I'll "_yochel_" ye, gin I had time. Pu' on that rope,' I said, for my

spirit was disturbed by the accident. Also, as I have said, I took

ill-talk from no man.

So, with a little laugh, the man laid hold of the rope, and pulled his

best, while I took off what of the packages I could reach, ever keeping

my own feet moving, to clear the sticky glaur of the bog-hole from them.

'Tak' that hook out, and ease doon the cask, man!' I cried to him, for I

was in desperation; 'I'll gie ye a heartsome gill, even though the stuff

be Sir William's!'

And the man laughed again, being, as I judged, well enough pleased. For

all that service yet was I not pleased to be called 'yochel.' But, in

the meantime, I saw not how, at the moment, I could begin to cuff and

clout one that was helping my horse and stuff out of a bog-hole. Yet I

resolved somehow to be even with him, for, though a peaceable man, I

never could abide the calling of ill names.

'Whither gang ye?' said he.

'To the Muckle Hoose o' Myrtoun,' said I, 'and gang you wi' me, my man;

and gie me a hand doon wi' the stuff, for I hae nae stomach for mair

warsling in bog-holes. And wha kens but that auld thrawn Turk, Sir

William, may happen on us?'

'Ken ye Sir William Maxwell?' said the man.

'Na,' said I. 'I never so muckle as set e'en on the auld wretch. But I

had sax hard days' wark cutting doon bushes, and makin' a road for his

daftlike carriage wi' wheels, for him to ride in to Mochrum Kirk'.

'Saw ye him never there?' said the man, as I strapped the packages on

again.

'Na,' said I, 'my faither is a Cameronian, and gangs to nae Kirk

hereaboots.'

'He has gi'en his son a bonny upbringing, then!' quoth the man.

Now this made me mainly angry, for I cannot bide that folk should meddle

with my folk. Though as far as I am concerned myself I am a peaceable

man.

'Hear ye,' said I, 'I ken na wha ye are that speers so mony questions.

Ye may be the de'il himsel', or ye may be the enemy o' Mochrum, the

blackavised Commodore frae Glasserton. But, I can warrant ye that ye'll

no mell and claw unyeuked with Robin o' Airyolan. Hear ye that, my man,

and keep a civil tongue within your ill-lookin' cheek, gin ye want to

gang hame in the morning wi' an uncracked croun!'

The man said no more, and by his gait I judged him to be some serving

man. For, as far as the light served me, he was not so well put on as

myself. Yet there was a kind of neatness about the creature that showed

him to be no outdoor man either.

However, he accompanied me willingly enough till we came to the Muckle

House of Myrtoun. For I think that he was feared of his head at my

words. And indeed it would not have taken the kittling of a flea to have

garred me draw a staff over his crown. For there is nothing that angers

a Galloway man more than an ignorant, upsetting town's body, putting in

his gab when he desires to live peaceable.

So, when we came to the back entrance, I said to him: 'Hear ye to this.

Ye are to make no noise, my mannie, but gie me a lift doon wi' thae

barrels cannily. For that dour old tod, the laird, is to ken naething

aboot this. Only Miss Peggy and Maister William, they ken. 'Deed, it was

young William himsel' that sent me on this errand.'

So with that the mannie gave a kind of laugh, and helped me down with

the ankers far better than I could have expected. We rolled them into a

shed at the back of the stables, and covered them up snug with some

straw and some old heather thatching.

'Ay, my lad,' says I to him, 'for a' your douce speech and fair words I

can see that ye hae been at this job afore!'

'Well, it is true,' he said, 'that I hae rolled a barrel or two in my

time.'

Then, in the waft of an eye I knew who he was. I set him down for Muckle

Jock, the Excise officer, that had never gone to the Glasserton at all,

but had been lurking there in the moss, waiting to deceive honest men. I

knew that I needed to be wary with him, for he was, as I had heard, a

sturdy carl, and had won the last throw at the Stoneykirk wrestling. But

all the men of the Fellside have an excellent opinion of themselves, and

I thought I was good for any man of the size of this one.

So said I to him: 'Noo, chiel, ye ken we are no' juist carryin' barrels

o' spring water at this time o' nicht to pleasure King George. Hearken

ye: we are in danger of being laid by the heels in the jail of Wigton

gin the black lawyer corbies get us. Noo, there's a Preventive man that

is crawling and spying ower by on the heights o' Physgill. Ye maun e'en

come wi' me an' help to keep him oot o' hairm's way. For it wad not be

for his guid that he should gang doon to the port this nicht!'

The man that I took to be the gauger hummed and hawed a while, till I

had enough of his talk and unstable ways.

'No back-and-forrit ways wi' Robin,' said I. 'Will ye come and help to

catch the King's officer, or will ye not?'

'No' a foot will I go,' says he. 'I have been a King's officer, myself!'

Whereupon I laid a pistol to his ear, for I was in some heat.

[Illustration: _I laid a pistol to his ear._]

'Gin you war King Geordie himsel', aye, or Cumberland either, ye shall

come wi' me and help to catch the gauger,' said I.

For I bethought me that it would be a bonny ploy, and one long to be

talked about in these parts, thus to lay by the heels the Exciseman and

make him tramp to Glasserton to kidnap himself.

The man with the bandy legs was taking a while to consider, so I said to

him: 'She is a guid pistol and new primed!'

'I'll come wi' ye!' said he.

So I set him first on the road, and left my horse in the stables of

Myrtoun. It was the gloam of the morning when we got to the turn of the

path by which, if he were to come at all, the new gauger would ride from

Glasserton. And lo! as if we had set a tryst, there he was coming over

the heathery braes at a brisk trot. So I covered him with my pistol, and

took his horse by the reins, thinking no more of the other man I had

taken for the gauger before.

'Dismount, my lad,' I said. 'Ye dinna ken me, but I ken you. Come here,

my brisk landlouper, and help to haud him!'

I saw the stranger who had come with me sneaking off, but with my other

pistol I brought him to a stand. So together we got the gauger into a

little thicket or planting. And here, willing or unwilling, we kept him

all day, till we were sure that the stuff would all be run, and the long

trains of honest smugglers on good horses far on their way to the towns

of the north.

Then very conscientiously I counted out the half of the tale of golden

guineas Master William had given me, and put them into the pocket of the

gauger's coat.

'Gin ye are a good, still-tongued kind of cattle, there is more of that

kind of yellow oats where these came from,' said I. 'But lie ye here

snug as a paitrick for an hour yet by the clock, lest even yet ye should

come to harm!'

So there we left him, not very sorely angered, for all he had posed as

so efficient and zealous a King's officer.

'Now,' said I to the man that had helped me, 'I promised ye half o'

Maister William's guineas, that he bade me keep, for I allow that it

micht hae been a different job but for your help. And here they are. Ye

shall never say that Robin of Airyolan roguit ony man,--even a feckless

toon's birkie wi' bandy legs!'

The man laughed and took the siller, saying, 'Thank'ee!' with an

arrogant air as if he handled bags of them every day. But, nevertheless,

he took them, and I parted from him, wishing him well, which was more

than he did to me. But I know how to use civility upon occasion.

When I reached home I told my father, and described the man I had met.

But he could make no guess at him. Nor had I any myself till the next

rent day, when my father, having a lame leg where the colt had kicked

him, sent me down to pay the owing. The factor I knew well, but I had my

money in hand and little I cared for him. But what was my astonishment

to find, sitting at the table with him, the very same man who had helped

me to lay the Exciseman by the heels. But now, I thought, there was a

strangely different air about him.

And what astonished me more, it was this man, and not the factor, who

spoke first to me.

Aye, young Robin of Airyolan, and are you here? Ye are a chiel with birr

and smeddum! There are the bones of a man in ye! Hae ye settled with the

gauger for shackling him by the hill of Physgill?'

Now, as I have said, I thole snash from no man, and I gave him the word

back sharply.

'Hae ye settled wi' him yoursel', sir? For it was you that tied the tow

rope!'

My adversary laughed, and looked not at all ill-pleased.

He pointed to the five gold Georges on the tables.

'Hark ye, Robin of Airyolan, these are the five guineas ye gied to me

like an honest man. I'll forgie ye for layin' the pistol to my lug, for

after all ye are some credit to the land that fed ye. Gin ye promise to

wed a decent lass, I'll e'en gie ye a farm o' your ain. And as sure as

my name is Sir William Maxwell, ye shall sit your lifetime rent free,

for the de'il's errand that ye took me on the nicht of the

brandy-running at the Clone.'

I could have sunken through the floor when I heard that it was Sir

William himself,--whom, because he had so recently returned from foreign

parts after a sojourn of many years, I had never before seen.

Then both the factor and the laird laughed heartily at my discomfiture.

'Ken ye o' ony lass that wad tak' up wi' ye, Robin?' said Sir William.

'Half a dozen o' them, my lord,' said I. 'Lassies are neither ill to

seek nor hard to find when Robin of Airyolan gangs acoortin'!'

'Losh preserve us!' cried the laird, slapping his thigh, 'but I mysel'

never sallied forth to woo a lass so blithely confident!'

I said nothing, but dusted my knee-breeks. For the laird was no very

good-looking man, being grey as a badger.

'An' mind ye maun see to it that the bairns are a' loons, and as staunch

and stark as yoursel'!' said the factor.

'A man can but do his best,' answered I, very modestly as I thought. For

I never can tell why it is that the folk will always say that I have a

good opinion of myself. But neither, on the other hand, can I tell why I

should not.

'THERE IS SORROW ON THE SEA'

BY

GILBERT PARKER

'THERE IS SORROW ON THE SEA'

I.

YORK FACTORY, HUDSON'S BAY.

_23rd September, 1747._

MY DEAR COUSIN FANNY,--It was a year last April Fool's Day, I left you

on the sands there at Mablethorpe, no more than a stone's throw from the

Book-in-Hand, swearing that you should never see or hear from me again.

You remember how we saw the coastguards flash their lights here and

there, as they searched the sands for me? how one came bundling down the

bank, calling, 'Who goes there?' and when I said, 'A friend,' he

stumbled, and his light fell to the sands and went out, and in the

darkness you and I stole away: you to your home, with a whispering,

'God-bless-you, Cousin Dick,' over your shoulder, and I with a bit of a

laugh that, maybe, cut you to the heart, and that split in a sob in my

own throat,--though you didn't hear that.

'Twas a bad night's work that, Cousin Fanny, and maybe I wish it undone;

and maybe I don't; but a devil gets into the heart of a man when he has

to fly from the lass he loved, while the friends of his youth go hunting

him with muskets, and he has to steal out of the back-door of his own

country and shelter himself, like a cold sparrow, up in the eaves of the

world.

Ay, lass, that's how I left the fens of Lincolnshire a year last April

Fool's Day. There wasn't a dyke from Lincoln town to Mablethorpe that I

hadn't crossed with a running jump; and there wasn't a break in the

shore, or a sink-hole in the sand, or a clump of rushes, or a samphire

bed, from Skegness to Theddlethorpe, that I didn't know like every line

of your face. And when I was a slip of a lad--ay, and later, too,--how

you and I used to snuggle into little nooks of the sand-hills, maybe

just beneath the coastguard's hut, and watch the tide come swilling

in,--daisies you used to call the breaking surf, Cousin Fanny! And that

was like you, always with a fancy about everything you saw. And when the

ships, the fishing-smacks with their red sails, and the tall-masted

brigs, went by, taking the white foam on their canvas, you used to wish

that you might sail away to the lands you'd heard tell of from old

skippers that gathered round my uncle's fire in the Book-in-Hand. Ay, a

grand thing I thought it would be, too, to go riding round the world on

a well-washed deck, with plenty of food and grog, and maybe, by-and-by,

to be first mate, and lord it from fo'castle bunk to stern-rail!

[Illustration: _My heart keeps warm in thinkin' of you._]

You did not know, did you, who was the coastguardsman that stumbled as

he came on us that night? It looked a stupid thing to do that, and let

the lantern fall. But, lass, 'twas done o' purpose. That was the one

man in all the parish that would ha' risked his neck to let me free.

'Twas Lancy Doane, who 's give me as many beatings in his time as I him.

We were always getting foul one o' t'other since I was big enough to shy

a bit of turf at him across a dyke, and there isn't a spot on 's body

that I haven't hit, nor one on mine that he hasn't mauled. I've sat on

his head, and he's had his knee in my stomach till I squealed, and we

never could meet without back-talking and rasping 'gainst the grain. The

night before he joined the coastguardsmen, he was down at the

Book-in-Hand, and 'twas little like that I'd let the good chance

pass,--I might never have another; for Gover'ment folk will not easy

work a quarrel on their own account. I mind him sittin' there on the

settle, his shins against the fire, a long pipe going, and Casey of the

'Lazy Beetle,' and Jobbin the mate of the 'Dodger,' and Little Faddo,

who had the fat Dutch wife down by the Ship Inn, and Whiggle the

preaching blacksmith. And you were standin' with your back to the

shinin' pewters, and the great jug of ale with the white napkin behind

you; the light o' the fire wavin' on your face, and your look lost in

the deep hollow o' the chimney. I think of you most as you were that

minute, Cousin Fanny, when I come in. I tell you straight and fair, that

was the prettiest picture I ever saw; and I've seen some rare fine

things in my travels. 'Twas as if the thing had been set by some one

just to show you off to your best. Here you were, a slip of a lass,

straight as a bulrush, and your head hangin' proud on your shoulders;

yet modest too, as you can see off here in the North the top of the

golden-rod flower swing on its stem. You were slim as slim, and yet

there wasn't a corner on you; so soft and full and firm you were, like

the breast of a quail; and I mind me how the shine of your cheeks was

like the glimmer of an apple after you've rubbed it with a bit of cloth.

Well, there you stood in some sort of smooth, plain, clingin' gown, a

little bit loose and tumblin' at the throat, and your pretty foot with a

brown slipper pushed out, just savin' you from bein' prim. That's why

the men liked you,--you didn't carry a sermon in your waist-ribbon, and

the Lord's Day in the lift o' your chin; but you had a smile to give

when 'twas the right time for it, and men never said things with _you_

there that they'd have said before many another maid.

'Twas a thing I've thought on off here, where I've little to do but

think, how a lass like you could put a finger on the lip of such rough

tykes as Faddo, Jobbin, and the rest, keepin' their rude words under

flap and button. Do you mind how, when I passed you comin' in, I laid my

hand on yours as it rested on the dresser? That hand of yours wasn't a

tiny bit of a thing, and the fingers weren't all taperin' like a

simperin' miss from town, worked down in the mill of quality and got

from graftin' and graftin', like one of them roses from the flower-house

at Mablethorpe Hall,--not fit to stand by one o' them that grew strong

and sweet with no fancy colour, in the garden o' the Book-in-Hand. Yours

was a hand that talked as much as your lips or face, as honest and

white; and the palm all pink, and strong as strong could be, and warmin'

every thread in a man's body when he touched it. Well, I touched your

hand then, and you looked at me and nodded, and went musin' into the

fire again, not seemin' to hear our gabble.

But, you remember--don't you?--how Jobbin took to chaffin' of Lancy

Doane, and how Faddo's tongue got sharper as the time got on, and many a

nasty word was said of coastguards and excisemen, and all that had to do

with law and gover'ment. Cuts there were at some of Lancy's wild doings

in the past, and now and then they'd turn to me, saying what they

thought would set me girdin' Lancy too. But I had my own quarrel, and I

wasn't to be baited by such numskulls. And Lancy--that was a thing I

couldn't understand--he did no more than shrug his shoulder and call for

more ale, and wish them all good health and a hundred a year. I never

thought he could ha' been so patient-like. But there was a kind of

little smile, too, on his face, showin' he did some thinkin'; and I

guessed he was bidin' his time.

I wasn't as sharp as I might ha' been, or I'd ha' seen what he was

waitin' for, with that quiet provokin' smile on his face, and his eyes

smoulderin' like. I don't know to this day whether you wanted to leave

the room when you did, though 'twas about half after ten o'clock, later

than I ever saw you there before. But when my uncle came in from Louth,

and gave you a touch on the shoulder, and said: 'To bed wi' you, my

lass,' you waited for a minute longer, glancin' round on all of us, at

last lookin' steady at Lancy; and he got up from his chair, and took off

his hat to you with a way he had. You didn't stay a second after that,

but went away straight, sayin' good-night to all of us; but Lancy was

the only one on his feet.

Just as soon as the door was shut behind you, Lancy turned round to the

fire, and pushed the log with his feet in a way a man does when he's

thinkin' a bit. And Faddo gave a nasty laugh, and said:--

'Theer's a dainty sitovation. Theer's Mr. Thomas Doane, outlaw and

smuggler, and theer's Mr. Lancy Doane, coastguardsman. Now, if them two

should 'appen to meet on Lincolnshire coast, Lord, theer's a sitovation

for ye,--Lord, theer's a cud to chew! 'Ere's one gentleman wants to try

'is 'and at 'elpin' Prince Charlie, and when 'is 'elp doesn't amount to

anythink, what does the King on 'is throne say? He says, "As for Thomas

Doane, Esquire, aw've doone wi' 'im!" And theer's another gentleman, Mr.

Lancy Doane, Esquire. He turns pious, and says, "Aw'm goin' for a

coastguardsman!" What does the King on his throne say? 'E says, "Theer's

the man for me!" But aw says, "Aw've doone, aw've doone wid Mr. Lancy

Doane, Esquire, and be damned to 'im." He! he! Theer's a fancy

sitovation for ye. Mr. Thomas Doane, Esquire, smuggler and outlaw, an'

Mr. Lancy Doane, Esquire, coastguardsman. Aw've doone. Ho! ho! That gits

into my crop.'

I tell you these things, Cousin Fanny, because I'm doubtin' if you ever

heard them, or knew exactly how things stood that night. I never was a

friend of Lancy Doane, you understand, but it's only fair that the truth

be told about that quarrel, for like as not he wouldn't speak himself,

and your father was moving in and out; and, I take my oath, I wouldn't

believe Faddo and the others if they were to swear on the Bible. Not

that they didn't know the truth when they saw it, but they did love just

to let their fancy run. I'm livin' over all the things that happened

that night,--livin' them over to-day, when everything's so quiet about

me here, so lonesome. I wanted to go over it all, bit by bit, and work

it out in my head just as you and I used to do the puzzle games we

played in the sands. And maybe, when you're a long way off from things

you once lived, you can see them and understand them better. Out here,

where it's so lonely, and yet so good a place to live in, I seem to get

the hang o' the world better, and why some things are, and other things

aren't; and I thought it would pull at my heart to sit down and write

you a long letter, goin' over the whole business again; but it doesn't.

I suppose I feel as a judge does when he goes over a lot of evidence,

and sums it all up for the jury. I don't seem prejudiced one way or

another. But I'm not sure that I've got all the evidence to make me ken

everything; and that's what made me bitter wild the last time that I saw

you. Maybe you hadn't anything to tell me, and maybe you had, and maybe,

if you ever write to me out here, you'll tell me if there's anything I

don't know about them days.

Well, I'll go back now to what happened when Faddo was speakin' at my

uncle's bar. Lancy Doane was standin' behind the settle, leanin' his

arms on it, and smokin' his pipe quiet. He waited patient till Faddo had

done, then he comes round the settle, puts his pipe up in the rack

between the rafters, and steps in front of Faddo. If ever the devil was

in a man's face, it looked out of Lancy Doane's that minute. Faddo had

touched him on the raw when he fetched out that about Tom Doane. All of

a sudden Lancy swings, and looks at the clock.

'It's half-past ten, Jim Faddo,' he said, 'and aw've got an hour an' a

half to deal wi' you as a Lincolnshire lad. At twelve o'clock aw'm the

Gover'ment's, but till then aw'm Lancy Doane, free to strike or free to

let alone; to swallow dirt or throw it; to take a lie or give it. And

now list to me; aw'm not goin' to eat dirt, and aw'm goin' to give you

the lie, and aw'm goin' to break your neck, if I swing for it to-morrow,

Jim Faddo. And here's another thing aw'll tell you. When the clock

strikes twelve, on the best horse in the country aw'll ride to

Theddlethorpe, straight for the well that's dug you know where, to find

your smuggled stuff, and to run the irons round your wrists. Aw'm

dealin' fair wi' you that never dealt fair by no man. You never had an

open hand nor soft heart; and because you've made money, not out o'

smugglin' alone, but out o' poor devils of smugglers that didn't know

rightly to be rogues, you think to fling your dirt where you choose. But

aw'll have ye to-night as a man, and aw'll have ye to-night as a King's

officer, or aw'll go damned to hell.'

Then he steps back a bit very shiny in the face, and his eyes like

torchlights, but cool and steady. 'Come on now,' he says, 'Jim Faddo,

away from the Book-in-Hand, and down to the beach under the sand-hills,

and we'll see man for man--though, come to think of it, y'are no man,'

he said--'if ye'll have the right to say when aw'm a King's officer

that you could fling foul words in the face of Lancy Doane. And a word

more,' he says; 'aw wouldn't trust ye if an Angel o' Heaven swore for

ye. Take the knife from the belt behind your back there, and throw it on

the table, for you wouldn't bide by no fair rules o' fightin'. Throw the

knife on the table,' he says, comin' a step forward.

Faddo got on to his feet. He was bigger built than Lancy, and a bit

taller, and we all knew he was devilish strong in his arms. There was a

look in his face I couldn't understand. One minute I thought it was

fear, and another I thought it was daze; and maybe it was both. But all

on a sudden something horrible cunnin' come into it, and ugly too.

'Go to the well, then, since ye've found out _all_ about it,' he says,

'but aw've an hour and a half start o' ye, Lancy Doane.'

'Ye've less than that,' says Lancy back to him, 'if ye go with me to the

sands first.'

At that my uncle stepped in to say a word for peace-makin', but Lancy

would have none of it. 'Take the knife and throw it on the table,' he

said to Faddo once more, and Faddo took it out and threw it down.

'Come on, then,' Faddo says, with a sneerin' laugh; 'we'll see by

daybreak who has the best o' this night's work,' and he steps towards

the door.

'Wait a minute,' says Lancy, gettin' in front of him. 'Now take the

knife from your boot. Take it,' he says again, 'or aw will. That's like

a man, to go to a fist-fight wi' knives. Take it,' he said; 'aw'll gi'

ye till aw count four, and if ye doan't take it, aw'll take it meself.

One!' he says steady and soft. 'Two!' Faddo never moved. 'Three!' The

silence made me sick, and the clock ticked like hammers. 'Four!' he

said, and then he sprang for the boot, but Faddo's hand went down like

lightnin', too. I couldn't tell exactly how they clinched, but once or

twice I saw the light flash on the steel. Then they came down together,

Faddo under, and when I looked again Faddo was lying eyes starin' wide,

and mouth all white with fear, for Lancy was holding the knife-point at

his throat. 'Stir an inch,' says Lancy, 'and aw'll pin ye to the lid o'

hell.'

And three minutes by the clock he knelt there on Faddo's chest, the

knife-point touching the bone in 's throat. Not one of us stirred, but

just stood lookin', and my own heart beat so hard it hurt me, and my

uncle steadyin' himself against the dresser. At last Lancy threw the

knife away into the fire.

'Coward!' he said. 'A man would ha' taken the knife. Did you think aw

was goin' to gie my neck to the noose just to put your knife to proper

use? But don't stir till aw gie you the word, or aw'll choke the breath

o' life out o' ye.'

At that Faddo sprung to clinch Lancy's arms, but Lancy's fingers caught

him in the throat, and I thought surely Faddo was gone, for his tongue

stood out a finger-length, and he was black in the face.

'For God's sake, Lancy,' said my uncle, steppin' forward, 'let him go.'

At that Lancy said, 'He's right enough. It's not the first time aw've

choked a coward. Throw cold water on him and gi' 'im brandy.'

Sure enough, he wasn't dead. Lancy stood there watchin' us while we

fetched Faddo back, and I tell you, that was a narrow squeak for him.

When he got his senses again, and was sittin' there lookin' as if he'd

been hung and brought back to life, Lancy says to him: 'There, Jim

Faddo, aw've done wi' you as a man, and at twelve o'clock aw'll begin

wi' ye as King's officer.' And at that, with a good-night to my uncle

and all of us, he turns on his heels and leaves the Book-in-Hand.

I tell you, Cousin Fanny, though I'd been ripe for quarrel wi' Lancy

Doane myself that night, I could ha' took his hand like a brother, for

I never saw a man deal fairer wi' a scoundrel than he did wi' Jim Faddo.

You see it wasn't what Faddo said about himself that made Lancy wild,

but that about his brother Tom; and a man doesn't like his brother

spoken ill of by dirt like Faddo, be it true or false. And of Lancy's

brother I'm goin' to write further on in this letter, for I doubt that

you know all I know about him, and the rest of what happened that night

and afterwards.

* * * * * * * *

DEAR COUSIN FANNY,--I canna write all I set out to, for word come to me,

just as I wrote the last sentence above, that the ship was to leave port

three days sooner than was fixed for when I began. I have been rare and

busy since then, and I have no time to write more. And so 't will be

another year before you get a word from me; but I hope that when this

letter comes you'll write one back to me by the ship that sails next

summer from London. The summer's short and the winter's long here,

Cousin Fanny, and there's more snow than grass; and there's more flowers

in a week in Mablethorpe than in a whole year here. But, lass, the sun

shines always, and my heart keeps warm in thinkin' of you, and I ask you

to forgive me for any harsh word I ever spoke, not forgettin' that last

night when I left you on the sands, and stole away like a thief across

the sea. I'm going to tell you the whole truth in my next letter, but

I'd like you to forgive me before you know it all, for 't is a right

lonely and distant land, this, and who can tell what may come to pass in

twice a twelvemonth! Maybe a prayer on lips like mine doesn't seem in

place, for I've not lived as parson says man ought to live, but I think

the Lord will have no worse thought o' me when I say, God bless thee,

lass, and keep thee safe as any flower in His garden that He watereth

with His own hand. Write to me, lass: I love thee still, I do love thee.

DICK ORRY.

II

THE BOOK-IN-HAND INN,

MABLETHORPE, LINCOLNSHIRE.

_May-Day, 1749._

DEAR COUSIN DICK,--I think I have not been so glad in many years as when

I got your letter last Guy Fawkes Day. I was coming from the church

where the parson preached on plots and treasons, and obedience to the

King, when I saw the old postman coming down the road. I made quickly to

him, I know not why, for I had not thought to hear from you, and before

I reached him he held up his hand, showing me the stout packet which

brought me news of you. I hurried with it to the inn, and went straight

to my room and sat down by the window, where I used to watch for your

coming with the fishing fleet, down the sea from the Dogger Bank. I was

only a girl, a young girl, then, and the Dogger Bank was, to my mind,

as far off as that place you call York Factory, in Hudson's Bay, is to

me now. And yet I did not know how very far it was until our

schoolmaster showed me on a globe how few days' sail it is to the Dogger

Bank, and how many to York Factory.

But I will tell you of my reading of your letter, and of what I thought.

But first I must go back a little. When you went away that wild, dark

night, with bitter words on your lips to me, Cousin Dick, I thought I

should never feel the same again. You did not know it, but I was bearing

the misery of your trouble and of another's also, and of my own as well;

and so I said over and over again: Oh, why will men be hard on women?

Why do they look for them to be iron like themselves, bearing double

burdens as most women do? But afterwards, I settled to a quietness which

I would not have you think was happiness, for I have given up thought of

that. Nor would I have you think me bearing trouble sweetly, for

sometimes I was most hard and stubborn. But I lived on in a sort of

stillness till that morning when, sitting by my window, I read all you

had written to me. And first of all, I must tell you how my heart was

touched at your words about our childhood together. I had not thought it

lay so deep in your mind, Cousin Dick. It always stays in mine; but

then, women have more memories than men. The story of that night I knew;

but never fully as you have told it to me in your letter. Of what

happened after Lancy Doane left the inn, of which you have not written,

but promised the writing in your next letter, I think I know as well as

yourself. Nay, more, Cousin Dick. There are some matters concerning what

followed that night and after, which I know, and you do not know. But

you have guessed there was something which I did not tell you, and so

there was. And I will tell you of them now. But I will take up the

thread of the story where you dropped it, and reel it out.

You left the inn soon after Lancy Doane, and James Faddo went then, too,

riding hard for Theddlethorpe, for he knew that in less than an hour the

coastguards would be rifling the hiding-places of his smuggled stuff.

You did not take a horse, but, getting a musket, you walked the sands

hard to Theddlethorpe.

I know it all, though you did not tell me, Cousin Dick. You had no

purpose in going, save to see the end of a wretched quarrel and a

smuggler's ill-scheme. You carried a musket for your own safety, not

with any purpose. It was a day of weight in your own life, for on one

side you had an offer from the Earl Fitzwilliam to serve on his estate;

and on the other to take a share in a little fleet of fishing smacks, of

which my father was part owner. I think you know to which side I

inclined, but that now is neither here nor there; and, though you did

not tell me, as you went along the shore you were more intent on

handing back and forth in your mind your own affairs, than of what

should happen at Theddlethorpe. And so you did not hurry as you went,

and, as things happened, you came to Faddo's house almost at the same

moment with Lancy Doane and two other mounted coastguards.

You stood in the shadow while they knocked at Faddo's door. You were so

near, you could see the hateful look in his face. You were surprised he

did not try to stand the coastguards off. You saw him, at their bidding,

take a lantern, and march with them to a shed standing off a little from

the house nearer to the shore. Going a round-about swiftly, you came to

the shed first, and posted yourself at the little window on the

sea-side. You saw them enter with the lantern, saw them shift a cider

press, uncover the floor, and there beneath, in a dry well, were barrels

upon barrels of spirits, and crouched among them was a man whom you all

knew at once,--Lancy's brother, Tom. That, Cousin Dick, was Jim Faddo's

revenge. Tom Doane had got refuge with him till he should reach his

brother, not knowing Lancy was to be coastguard. Faddo, coming back from

Mablethorpe, told Tom the coastguards were to raid him that night; and

he made him hide in this safe place, as he called it, knowing that Lancy

would make for it.

For a minute after Tom was found no man stirred. Tom was quick of brain

and wit--would it had always been put to good purposes!--and saw at once

Faddo's treachery. Like winking he fired at the traitor, who was almost

as quick to return the fire. What made you do it I know not, unless it

was you hated treachery; but, sliding in at the open door behind the

coastguards, you snatched the lantern from the hands of one, threw it

out of the open door, and, thrusting them aside, called for Tom to

follow you. He sprang towards you over Faddo's body, even as you threw

the lantern, and catching his arm, you ran with him towards the dyke.

'Ready for a great jump!' you said; 'your life hangs on it.' He was even

longer of leg than you. 'Is it a dyke?' he whispered, as the shots from

three muskets rang after you. 'A dyke. When I count three, jump,' you

answered. I have read somewhere of the great leap that one Don Alvarado,

a Spaniard, made in Mexico, but surely never was a greater leap than you

two made that night, landing safely on the other side, and making for

the sea-shore. None of the coastguardsmen, not even Lancy, could make

the leap, for he was sick and trembling, though he had fired upon his

own brother. And so they made for the bridge some distance above, just

as the faint moon slipped behind a cloud and hid you from their sight.

That is no country to hide in, as you know well,--no caves, or hills, or

mazy coombes,--just a wide, flat, reedy place, broken by open wolds. The

only refuge for both now was the sea. 'Twas a wild run you two made,

side by side, down that shore, keeping close within the gloom of the

sand-hills, the coastguards coming after, pressing you closer than they

thought at the time, for Tom Doane had been wounded in the leg. But

Lancy sent one back for the horses, he and the other coming on; and so,

there you were, two and two. 'Twas a cruel task for Lancy that night,

enough to turn a man's hair grey. But duty was duty, though those two

lads were more to each other than most men ever are. You know how it

ended. But I want to go all over it just to show you that I understand.

You were within a mile of Mablethorpe, when you saw a little fishing

smack come riding in, and you made straight for it. Who should be in the

smack but Solby, the canting Baptist, who was no friend to you, or my

uncle, or any of us. You had no time for bargaining or coaxing, and so,

at the musket's mouth, you drove him from the boat, and pushed it out

just as Lancy and his men came riding up. Your sail was up, and you

turned the lugger to the wind in as little time as could be, but the

coastguardsmen rode after you, calling you to give in. No man will ever

know the bitter trouble in Lancy's heart when he gave the order to fire

on you, though he did not fire himself. And you,--do I not know, Cousin

Dick, what you did? Tom Doane was not the man to fire at the three dark

figures riding you down, not knowing which was his brother. But you, you

understood that; and you were in, you said to yourself, and you'd play

the game out, come what would. You raised your musket and drew upon a

figure. At that moment a coastguard's musket blazed, and you saw the man

you had drawn on was Lancy Doane. You lowered your musket, and as you

did a ball struck you on the wrist.

[Illustration: _You drove him from the boat._]

Oh, I have thanked God a hundred times, dear Cousin Dick, that you fired

no shot that night, but only helped a hunted, miserable man away, for

you did get free. Just in the nick of time your sail caught the wind

bravely, and you steered for the open sea. Three days from that, Tom

Doane was safe at the Hague, and you were on your way back to

Lincolnshire. You came by a fishing boat to Saltfleet Haven, and made

your way down the coast towards Mablethorpe. Passing Theddlethorpe, you

went up to Faddo's house, and, looking through the window, you saw

Faddo, not dead, but being cared for by his wife. Then you came on to

Mablethorpe, and standing under my window, at the very moment when I was

on my knees praying for the safety of those who travelled by sea, you

whistled, like a quail from the garden below,--the old signal. Oh, how

my heart stood still a moment, and then leaped, for I knew it was you. I

went down to the garden, and there you were. Oh, I _was_ glad to see

you, Cousin Dick!

You remember how I let you take me in your arms for an instant, and then

I asked if _he_ was safe. And when you told me that he was, I burst

into tears, and I asked you many questions about him. And you answered

them quickly, and then would have taken me in your arms again. But I

would not let you, for then I knew--I knew that you loved me, and, oh, a

dreadful feeling came into my heart, and I drew back, and could have

sunk upon the ground in misery, but that there came a thought of your

safety. _He_ was safe, but you,--you were here, where reward was set for

you. I begged you to come into the house, that I might hide you there,

but you would not. You had come for one thing, you said, and only one.

An hour or two, and then you must be gone for London. And so you urged

me to the beach. I was afraid we might be seen, but you led me away from

the cottages near to the little bridge which crosses the dyke. By that

way we came to the sands, as we thought unnoted. But no, who should it

be to see us but that canting Baptist, Solby! And so the alarm was

given. You had come, dear Cousin Dick, to ask me one thing,--if I loved

you? and if, should you ever be free to come back, I would be your wife?

I did not answer you; I could not answer you; and, when you pressed me,

I begged you to have pity on me, and not to speak of it. You thought I

was not brave enough to love a man open to the law. As if--as if I knew

not that what you did came out of a generous, reckless heart! And on my

knees--oh, on my knees--I ought to have thanked you for it. But I knew

not what to say; my lips were closed. And just then shots were fired,

and we saw the coastguards' lights. Then came Lancy Doane stumbling down

the banks, and our parting,--our parting. Your bitter laugh as you left

me has rung in my ears ever since.

Do not think we have been idle here in your cause, for I myself went to

Earl Fitzwilliam and told him the _whole_ story, and how you had come

to help Tom Doane that night. How do I know of it all? Because I have

seen a letter from Tom Doane. Well, the Earl promised to lay your case

before the King himself, and to speak for you with good eager entreaty.

And so, it may be, by next time I write, there will go good news to you,

and--will you then come back, dear Cousin Dick?