The failure of their carefully-laid plan afflicted the smugglers with a
numbness of dismay and stupefaction, and robbed them of all power to
appreciate the success of the trick played on the revenue officers.
Tonkin bitterly reproached himself for leaving the shipment of Penwarden
to Doubledick and undertaking the seizure of John Trevanion's guests.
Moreover, honest and simple-minded as he was, a tiny seed of suspicion
was beginning to germinate in his mind. Before John Trevanion came
home, the freighting had been done by Tonkin on a modest scale in
co-operation with Delarousse. Now, however, John Trevanion had taken
the lead. For some reason, which none knew, and only Doubledick
suspected, he had thrown over Delarousse, and did business with a rival
and enemy of his in Roscoff. Having more capital than Tonkin, whose
recent losses had indeed been crippling, he could buy more largely and
employ more men, so that Tonkin found himself in a position of galling
subordination. As Trevanion had said to Doubledick, the big man did not
care to play second fiddle. He was beginning to wonder whether the
jovial master of the Dower House was quite so good a friend as he
seemed.
The escape of Penwarden was a blow, the more crushing because so
mysterious. After church on Sunday, Tonkin and his fellows foregathered
with the tub-carriers in the Five Pilchards, where Mrs. Doubledick
attended to them in her husband's absence. The young farm labourers had
been in complete ignorance of the presence of Penwarden behind the
stacked barrels. His projected deportation was the secret of Tonkin and
a few trusty friends, who knew better than to run the risk of being
betrayed by an informer. They were still anxious to guard their secret,
and being unable to discuss the matter freely in the presence of the
carriers, they made themselves so unpleasant that the latter presently
betook themselves in dudgeon to the Three Jolly Mariners. But even when
the important people had the taproom of the Five Pilchards to
themselves, they were at a loss. In Doubledick's absence no light could
be thrown on the mystery.
"Do 'ee know wheer yer man be, Mistress?" asked Tonkin of the gaunt
woman behind the bar.
"I do not," she replied, "but 'a will come home-along in a day or two,
to be sure. He loves his home, does Doubledick."
"Well, you ought to know, if anybody."
"Hey, my sonnies," said a voice at the door, and Petherick entered. "I
be come to jine ye in yer laughter and merrymakin'."
"Then you be come the wrong road," said Tonkin gloomily. "We be
downcast and dismal."
"Ay, mumchanced and mumblechopped," added Nathan Pendry.
"You do surprise me! Never did I see anything that tickled my ribs so
much as they two King's servants lashed to the holy bell. I don't care
who the man is, 'twas a merry notion. But good now! I know what yer
dark thoughts be. 'T'ud make angels weep and wail, so 'twould. To
think that Cuby's ghost will walk never more!"
"Oh, Cuby's ghost be jowned! If ye do know anything, tell it out
without hawkin' and spettin', constable," said Tonkin.
"Well, neighbour Doubledick be a lost soul this day, that's sartin,"
said Petherick.
"My Billy be dead!" shrieked Mrs. Doubledick, sinking into a chair and
rocking herself to and fro.
"No, no, Mistress," said Petherick. "It bean't gone so far as that.
Dry yer eyes, woman. He bean't a corp, 's far 's I do know, but never
will ye see un again, no, never."
"Name it all, constable, don't spin it out so long," said Nathan Pendry.
"Put the 'ooman out of her misery."
"Well, I will. Neighbour Doubledick be this day in Rusco."
"Dear life!" exclaimed Mrs. Doubledick.
"How do 'ee know that, constable?" asked Tonkin.
"I heerd it all wi' my own ears. Seems as if Joe Penwarden was to go,
but the voyage wer too much for his old aged stummick, so he and young
Trevanion sent neighbour Doubledick instead."
He then repeated what he had overheard at the window of the Parsonage,
his audience listening in wrath and amazement.
"So ye see," he concluded, "he dussn't show his face hereabouts again,
for they two will swear to him afore Sir Bevil, and neither might nor
power can save un. Seems to me as ye've met your match in young
Squire."
This opened the floodgates of rage, and the room rang with execrations
and threats of vengeance. At last Tonkin declared that he would sail to
Roscoff next day, hear Doubledick's version of the matter, and learn
whether the innkeeper himself admitted the impossibility of returning
from his exile. Meanwhile he bound all those present not to disclose
their knowledge of what had happened. He felt that the ignominious
failure of the scheme would make them all a laughing-stock, which was
especially to be avoided now that a score of miners had been imported
into the village by John Trevanion. The men loyally kept the secret,
even Petherick restraining his gossiping tongue, for he had a wholesome
fear of Tonkin.
Next morning, therefore, Tonkin sailed away in his own lugger, beating
out against a stiff breeze. An hour or two later, Mr. Mildmay paid a
visit in the cutter to the scene of the night's events, seized the tubs
still left in the smugglers' den, broke up the windlass, and blocked up
the tunnel leading to the well.
Next afternoon Dick and Sam launched their boat, and sailed out to fish
at some distance from the point of the Beal. Meeting them on the cliff,
Penwarden advised them to keep their eye on the weather. The sky was
threatening, and the boat, while safe enough on a calm sea, had not
proved her capacity to ride out a storm.
Sam appeared to be in low spirits. Usually talkative, he had scarcely
spoken to Dick on the way from the house, and had indeed not been
visible since breakfast time.
"What's the matter, Sam?" said Dick, as he sat at the tiller, noticing
the boy's gloomy face as he rowed to assist the sail.
"Nawthin'," replied Sam curtly.
"But there is. Your face is as long as a fiddle. Something must have
upset you. What is it?"
"Well, if I must tell, I will. My poor heart be broke."
"That's bad. What broke it?"
"The Mistress."
"My mother! What has she done?"
"'Tis not what she does, but what she says. Oh! 'tis terrible hard for
poor folks in this world."
"I agree with you. We are all pretty poor at the Towers."
"That's why I feel it. Some poor folks can have noble raiment, others
can't, and drown me if I can see the why and wherefore."
"Don't talk rubbish."
"'Tis not rubbish. Hevn't Mistress got a fine new sealskin coat?
Didn't she wear it to church yesterday? Didn't she look like a queen,
and make all the women's eyes open as wide as saucers? And there was
Maidy Susan, poor young thing, lookin' as plain as a sparrer beside
her."
"Well, you wouldn't expect to see a servant-maid as fine as the Squire's
wife."
"Iss, I would so, when her might be. I showed they silks and satins to
Mistress, and telled her I had broughted 'em for Maidy Susan. 'No,
indeed,' says she; 'quite unsuitable for a girl in her station o' life.'
'Why for, please 'm?' says I. 'Because I say so,' says she; 'I never
heerd o' sech a thing.' Be-jowned if I can see why. Pretty things be
fitty for pretty females, and I don't care who the man is, Maidy Susan
would look as fine in 'em as Mistress do in her noble sealskin."
"Fine feathers don't make fine birds, they say," remarked Dick with a
smile.
"No, nor fine coats don't make old women young and pretty. They only
make 'em look fatter."
"Sam, don't be impudent."
"Bean't impedence, leastways, not meant for sech, as you know well. It
be truth," insisted Sam. "Can 'ee deny it? I axe 'ee, bean't Susan a
pretty maid?"
"She is, I own."
"Well, then, there you are."
This appeared to Sam a clinching argument. Dick laughed.
"I'll speak to Mother," he said. "Perhaps she will let Susan have a
little silk for high days and holidays. But you know the story of the
jackdaw that dressed up as a peacock and was pecked to death by the
peacocks it went amongst?"
"Never heerd o't, and I don't believe it. Peacocks be sech silly
mortals. Howsomever, if ye'll speak to Mistress I'll say no more, for
she'll do whatever you tell her."
By this time they were far out in the bay. They cast their lines
overboard, and caught one or two flat fish; but sport being very slow,
and the wind increasing in force, after about an hour they decided to
return.
Another boat, meanwhile, had put out for the same purpose. It contained
Jake Tonkin and Ike Pendry. The two boats passed within a few yards of
each other.
"Afeard of a capful o' wind," said Jake with a sneer to his companion,
loud enough to be heard on the other boat.
"Ay, they'll 'eave up afore they get ashore," rejoined Pendry.
Dick paid no attention to them. Running in behind the Beal, which
sheltered him from the wind, he found the sea in Trevanion Bay so calm
that he began to wonder whether he had not been over-hasty in putting
back. They landed, moored the boat, and carried their meagre catch to
the Towers.
"They may jeer," said Dick, as he steadied himself against the wind,
which on the cliff-top blew with the force of half a gale, "but they'll
run in themselves pretty soon, you'll see."
Having handed the fish to Reuben, they left the house again, and made
their way along the Beal, somewhat curious to see how the two
fisher-lads were faring. Jake's boat, an old tub, as crazy as that of
Dick's which had been destroyed, was tossing and rolling in a way that
must have rendered fishing a very uncomfortable occupation.
"They're a couple of jackasses," said Dick. "The wind is getting up
every minute. Look at that! That gust nearly capsized them."
"I reckon they be showing off," said Sam. "Ah! they're putting back
arter all, and 'twas time."
The boat's head was turned for home. Dick and Sam walked to the end of
the promontory, whence the sea on both sides was in full view.
"'Twill be a noble sight to see 'em cross the reef," said Sam.
"Oh, they won't try that," said Dick. "The tide is too low. You can
see the rocks every now and again through the breakers. They will make
for the fairway."
The wind was now blowing with terrific force, the gusts smiting the
boys, exposed as they were, like the fists of some unseen gigantic
boxer. They kept their feet with difficulty. Sam's hat was whirled
away, and rolled and bounded along the Beal at the speed of a hare. The
surface of the sea was broken by innumerable little white ridges, and at
intervals one of these was seen to be the crest of a huge wave, which
reared itself, and before it fell was torn into shreds of spindrift.
Jake Tonkin's boat ran clear of the headland towards the harbour, and,
having got what he apparently considered to be sufficient sea-room, he
hoisted his lug-sail, and steered direct for the fairway. It seemed to
the two watchers on the Beal that the wind had been maliciously awaiting
this opportunity of mischief. A more than usually fierce gust ripped
the sail loose; the boat staggered, spun round, and drifted broadside to
the sea. The two lads in her seized their oars, and after great
exertion brought her head once more towards the shore. But in a few
moments one of them started baling, then resumed the oars, only to ship
them almost instantly afterwards and bale out again.
When the sail was carried away, the boat was about a third of a mile
from the spot on which Dick and Sam stood. Her progress towards the
harbour had been extraordinarily slow, though the wind was behind her.
Dick guessed that she had sprung a leak, and when the baling became
continuous, he realised the extreme peril of her occupants. Every
moment she was in danger of being swamped. He watched with excitement,
not unmixed with anxiety. She drew gradually nearer, but with a sluggish
heaviness of movement that bespoke her water-logged condition. Another
twenty or thirty yards would bring her within the shelter of the reef,
in which case the danger of being swamped would be over, unless the leak
gained upon the lad energetically baling.
A shout from the left drew Dick's attention towards the jetty. The
lads' plight had been perceived, and a large boat, manned by a crew of
four, was pulling off to their assistance. If they could hold their own
for five more minutes they would be taken off. But just as Dick, thus
calculating the chances, turned from this momentary glance shorewards to
watch the labouring boat again, a great wave broke over her, she
disappeared, and the lads with her.
A quick look round, then Dick dropped to the ground, unlaced his boots,
drew them off, and flung off his coat.
"Go to our den, Sam," he cried, "and fling over the two barrels we use
for chairs."
"You be never going to----"
But Sam's protest was unheeded and almost unheard. Dick was clambering
down the steep face of the cliff. The fisher-lads could not swim;
scarcely a man in Polkerran was more skilled than they; and it was plain
that unless assistance came to them at once they must be drowned, for
the boat, pulling out against wind and wave, could not reach them in
time.
Thirty feet above the sea, and almost exactly over the spot where the
boat had capsized, there was a narrow ledge. As a swimmer Dick was
self-taught. He usually plunged into the sea from a rock a few feet
above the surface; the dive he now prepared to take was at least five
times as great as he had ever attempted before. Fortunately the fairway
was clear of rocks, although the waves beat roughly against the almost
perpendicular cliff. A momentary hesitation, then Dick dived off. He
took the water cleanly, but, somewhat dazed by the violence of the
shock, he went far deeper than a practised diver would have done. To
himself, as to Sam, gazing at him horror-stricken from above, it seemed
a terribly long time before he shot up to the surface.
But he emerged at last. Shaking the water from his eyes, he looked
round for signs of the fisher-lads. Within twelve yards of him he saw
the boat, bottom upwards, and a boy clinging to the rudder. A gust of
wind whipped the spindrift into Dick's eyes; for some moments he could
see nothing more. But then, five or six yards away, between the boat and
the cliff, he caught sight of an arm rising from the sea, only to
disappear instantly. He struck out for the spot. In a few seconds a
dark mass surged up almost beside him. Another stroke or two enabled
him to get a grip upon it before it could sink again. Fortunately both
for the drowning lad and his rescuer, the former was by this time
unconscious. In the rough sea that tumbled about him Dick could scarcely
have fought against the struggles of a frantic man. In a trice he
turned the lad face upward, and, firmly grasping his collar with one
hand, swam on his back with his legs and one free arm. Surely he could
hold out until the boat came up! He heard the shouts of the men and the
splash of the oars; it could not be far away.
There was a danger that he might be swept by the waves against the
frowning cliff, and knocked senseless. To avoid this, he struck out
furiously towards the middle of the fairway, where the empty barrels
thrown down by Sam were floating. In a calm sea his strength might
easily have endured the fatigue of supporting a dead weight, but he knew
that he was being conquered by the tumbling waves, and the blinding,
choking spray that swept over him, it seemed without intermission.
Again and again he felt that he could never regain his breath. The
struggle to do so weakened him far more than the muscular exertion. The
dreadful conviction seized him that he, too, was drowning. But his grip
never relaxed; even when a dazed and helpless feeling came over him, he
kept the lad's collar firmly in his clutch. Then he was dimly conscious
of a quiet restfulness and content; and Sam, in frantic terror above,
saw his movements cease, and felt an agonising certainty that his young
master was lost.
When Dick came to himself, he found himself lying in the bottom of
Nathan Pendry's boat, within a few yards of the jetty. The rescuers had
come up in the nick of time. Dick and the lad he had saved were hauled
into the boat together, and the fingers of the former were so tightly
clenched that for some time it was impossible to separate the two. The
overturned craft had drifted within a few yards of the cliff, and the
other boy still clung to it. He was taken aboard, and meanwhile two of
the men used all the means they knew to restore the others to
consciousness. Without waiting to secure the capsized boat, they pulled
with all speed for the jetty, which was thronged with village folk, whom
the news of the accident had brought in hot haste from their houses.
The dripping lads were taken out and carried to the inn, where Mrs.
Doubledick had made up a roaring fire, and had blankets and hot brandy
awaiting them. Sam, pale as a sheet, forced his way through the crowd
at the door towards his master.
"Oh, 'tis good to see 'ee safe!" he cried, almost hugging Dick. "Hev
'ee swallered much?" he asked anxiously.
Dick was too weak to reply. He began to laugh childishly, for within a
few feet of him, swathed in a steaming blanket, sat his old enemy, Jake
Tonkin, even more feeble than himself.
"'Twas him ye did it for!" cried Sam indignantly. "No one could ha'
blamed 'ee if ye'd let the villain drown."
Dick shook his head.
"Now, young Sam Pollex," cried Mrs. Doubledick, "you be off! Maister
Trevanion don't want 'ee kiddlin' and quaddlin' about when he do feel
bad. Just pick up his clothes out o' that plosh o' water and spread 'em
on this chair-back. Then go. We'll send him home-along in a cart or a
wheelbarrow when he's better."
"Daze me if I go, Mistress!" cried Sam. "Here I bide till Maister be
able to shail along, so I tell 'ee."
"Let the chiel bide," said Nathan Pendry. "They be like two twains in
everything, mischief and all, and they 'm best not parted."
"Iss, fay, my brother Ben was twain to me," said Simon Mail, "and 'a
quenched away when they took un from me."
"Why, dear life now, neighbour Mail," cried Mrs. Doubledick, "bean't it
true, then, that yer brother Ben was shot in the nuddick at some great
battle in Egypt, or other furrin land?"
"True, he was; but he couldn't ha' been if he hadn't been parted from
I."
"A-course not, ye chucklehead!" said Mrs. Doubledick. "If ye hadn't
been parted he would ha' been talkin' foolishness along with 'ee now.
Off ye go now, neighbours all. The lads will do better wi'out ye, and
there bean't no need to send over to Redruth for a doctor."
"I wish 'ee well, Maister Trevanion," said Pendry as he went out. "Us
do hate 'ee like p'ison, that's true; but I don't care who the man is,
'twas a brave deed, and that I'll stand by, so theer!"
The village folk were somewhat divided in their opinion as to their
future attitude towards the inmates of the Towers. The better sort, of
whom Nathan Pendry may be taken as a representative, were so much struck
by Dick's rescue of Jake, that their feelings underwent a change. They
were not at first very ready to show their altered sentiments openly,
but the leaven was beginning to work. If Dick, who had been so much
persecuted, they argued, had the generosity to risk his life on behalf
of one of those who had most injured him, it was hardly credible that he
should really be the spy and informer he was suspected of being.
Others, however, would not agree that the family was less open to
suspicion, so far as smuggling was concerned, because of a single plucky
act. Their view was supported by John Trevanion, who, having heard of
the incident, took care to drop seeds of depreciation in the ears of
such of the fishers as he encountered here and there.
The former party received a notable accession on the evening of the
rescue. Isaac Tonkin returned home. The first person he met when he
set foot on the jetty was Nathan Pendry, who told him what had happened
in his absence. Tonkin was so much surprised at the news that he did
not wait to give an account of his discoveries in Roscoff, but hurried
at once to his house, where, as Pendry had told him, Jake had been put
to bed.
"Be ye feelin' bad, my sonny?" he said with rough tenderness, leaning
over the boy.
"Not so bad as I did in the water, Feyther," Jake replied.
"'Tis good to hear, my son. You be safe as a trippet, right enough.
And 'twas young Squire saved 'ee! Well, there's norra man in the whole
parish could ha' done it. I reckon ye gied un a proper word o' thanks?"
Jack did not reply.
"Did 'ee hear what I axed 'ee? A-course ye gied young Squire a good
word for 's kindness? Did 'ee, or did 'ee not?"
"I didn'."
"Ye didn'! And why not?"
"Never did it come into my head."
"Well, it better come into yer head now, and quick, or I'll have to ding
it in. Pull on your clothes, and go up-along this minute to the Towers,
and say as you be tarrible ashamed o' yerself for forgettin' to say
thank 'ee. Get on with 'ee!"
Jake had to get up there and then, and set off on his errand. He had
not been gone five minutes before his father, who had been walking
restlessly about, suddenly went down into his cellar and brought up a
keg of brandy and a large canister filled with tobacco. Then he rapped
on the wall, and hearing a faint "Hallo!" in answer, he shouted:
"Be that you, Ike Pendry?"
"Iss, 'tis I."
"Come-along in; I want 'ee,"
When the lad entered, Tonkin handed the keg and canister to him, saying:
"Carr' them things up to Towers for me, my son. Axe for Squire, and tell
un they be a present from Zacky Tonkin, go along now."
Ten minutes after Ike started with his load, Tonkin, as restless as
ever, banged the table with his great fist, startling his meek little
wife, and cried:
"Drown me if I don't do it!"
"What, Zacky, my dear?"
"Go up-along myself and thank young Squire. Name it all, hain't he saved
our only boy, Betty? A man can't do less than say thank 'ee, I don't
care who he is."
He thrust on his hat, and set off in haste. At the top of the hill he
overtook Ike, who, laden as he was, had walked slowly.
"Stir your shanks, Ike," said he. "Here now, I'll take keg; you keep
canister."
They went on together. At the Dower House they came up with Jake, who
was shambling along, feeling anything but comfortable at the thought of
the impending interview.
"What, slug-a-stump!" cried his father angrily. "Bean't theer yet?"
"Seeming not," said Jake. "I be tired."
"Well, my son, ye'll just step out a bit quicker, or I'll have to take a
loan of the Squire's whip."
All three now proceeded until they came to the Towers.
"Be Squire to home, neighbour Pollex?" asked Tonkin of Reuben, who
opened the door.
"Iss sure; but I reckon he don't want to see 'ee, Zacky Tonkin," replied
the old man.
"Maybe, but I want to see he, and ye can tell un so."
Reuben departed. In a minute he returned.
"Squire says ye're to step in," he said, sourly. "For me, I'd shet the
door in yer face, and well you know why."
Tonkin and his companions were led to the living room, where sat the
Squire and his wife.
"Well, Tonkin, what can I do for you?" said the Squire pleasantly.
"Nawthin' as I know on, Squire, thank 'ee kindly. My respects, my lady."
He turned his hat awkwardly between his hands. "The truth is, Squire,"
he went on, "I b'lieve I'm the feyther or an ungrateful young feller. I
be real vexed to think he didn' say a word o' thanks to Maister Dick for
what he done for un, and he hev got to say it now, or I'll leather un.
Med I see young Maister?"
"Not to-night, Tonkin. I sent him to bed, and there he'll stay."
"Then maybe ye'll carr' it for me, sir. Now Jake, make yer bob and say
yer say."
Jake touched his forelock, but stood in lubberly silence.
"What, can't 'ee find yer tongue? Now, hearken to me, and say what I
say. If you please, Squire----"
"'If you please, Squire----'"
"I be truly thankful----"
"'I be truly thankful----'"
"As Maister Dick saved me from being drownded."
"'As Maister Dick saved me from being drownded.'"
"Purticler as I didn' deserve it."
"'Purticler as I didn' deserve it.'"
"Good now! I mean it, sir, and so do he. And I've brought 'ee a keg of
cognac and a tin o' bacca--bought with honest money, Squire; and I axe
'ee to take 'em as a little small offering from a man who's a feyther
like as you be."
"Thank you, my man," said the Squire, his face kindling with pleasure.
"I appreciate your thanks, and so will Dick: and I shall appreciate your
gift, I assure you. Jake isn't much the worse for his ducking, I can
see."
"And I hope Maister Dick bean't either," said Tonkin.
"Not a bit. He'll be as well as ever after a night's rest. Jake should
learn to swim, you know."
"And I woll, if Maister Dick'll larn me," said Jake suddenly.
"Well, I don't know about that," said the Squire, with a slight reserve
in his manner. "You see, there has been some feeling lately----"
"See now, Squire," interrupted Tonkin bluntly, "answer me a plain
question, man to man. Did you, or anybody belongin' to 'ee, ever spy or
inform on we honest free-traders?"
"That's a question you ought to be ashamed to put to me," said the
Squire warmly. "Do you think a Trevanion would ever do such a thing?"
"Well, no, I didn' think so till---- Howsomever, I'll say no more o'
that. I axe yer pardon, and I hope ye'll let bygones be bygones, and
that's said honest."
"With all my heart." The Squire extended his hand to the smuggler,
whose grip made him wince.
"That's brave and comf'able," said Tonkin. "And now I wish 'ee well,
sir, and you, ma'am, and if so be as Maister Dick 'll larn Jake to swim,
I'll be proud, and so will he."
The Squire showed the three men out, and they returned home well
satisfied with their interview. Tonkin was soon the centre of a group of
his particular friends in the parlour of the Five Pilchards, to whom,
after announcing that he would believe no more "'nation gammut," as he
put it, about the Squire and his son, proceeded to relate the issue of
his visit to Roscoff.
"I hain't brought Doubledick back wi' me," he said. "For why? 'Cos he
warn't theer!"