Strong hands seized the box and lifted it on to a cart, the rough
springs of which shook alarmingly as they felt the weighty load.
Then came a hurried discussion as to the destination of the booty, some,
including the parish clerk, Fallowfield, who had gained the upper
regions by means of the tackle, urging that it had best be taken and
placed in the tower of Worth Church, the others insisting that it would
be best to make one journey do, and convey it as close to Wareham as
possible, where their accomplices could make arrangements for its
distribution.
The latter argument prevailed; a heavy tarpaulin was thrown over the
cart, a whip cracked, and we were off. I could hear the sound of the
brushwood being replaced and the rough farewell greetings of the
smugglers, and, by the jolting of the cart and the muffled noise of the
wheels, I knew that the route lay across a grassy down.
Presently I became emboldened sufficiently to clear away the material
that prevented an outlook through the hole in the woodwork of the box.
But my task was unavailing, for it was night, and the darkness so
intense that nothing could be distinguished.
For quite half an hour the cart jolted over the sward, then the wheels
struck the hard surface of a road, and the pace became quicker but more
even.
There were but two men with the cart, and their conversation was carried
on in a series of short sentences spoken in the broadest Dorset dialect.
Presently a low oath came from one of the men, and the cart was dragged
off the roadway and hidden in a hollow, or such I thought it to be.
Wondering at the cause of this, I heard the sound of horse's hoofs
coming nearer and nearer; then, with a deafening clatter on the stony
road, the animal passed by, and the sounds died away in the distance.
"It be 'e, sure enow," muttered one of the men.
"Yes, it be. Howsoever 'e bain't seen we, so let's get the cart back to
t' roaad."
Who the mysterious "'e" might be I could not discover; one of the king's
officers, perchance, though in this lawless district they rarely ride
alone.
The task of getting the cart back to the roadway was longer than the men
had reckoned upon, and when at length they succeeded, one remarked in a
breathless voice that dawn was breaking.
Soon the light was sufficient for me to see out of my spyhole. We were
descending a steep hill, and on one side towered a lofty down, round
which the white mists of morning still hung like fleecy clouds.
"'Tis no use to go to Wareham," remarked one of the men. "We'd be
stopped, sure as faate."
"That's so," replied the other. "There's but one thing to do."
"What's that?"
"Leave the stuff at Carfe and take caart home."
"Where?"
"Where! Why, in the castle, ye dolt!"
Soon the cart was being driven through a village street. I could see
the houses distinctly. They were all built of stone, and most of them
were roofed with stone as well. This, then, was Corfe, or Carfe, as the
inhabitants call it.
Here a thought occurred to me to spring from my hiding place and make a
dash for freedom, but the weight of the tarpaulin, which was securely
lashed down, prevented me; so I was perforce obliged to remain, though
firmly resolved to free myself at the first favourable opportunity.
The cart proceeded on its way, and passed through a wide marketplace in
the centre of which stood a cross. Then it rumbled over a stone bridge
and entered the courtyard of the castle.
Corfe Castle was well known by reason of its stubborn defence against
the malignants during the Great Rebellion, Lady Banks having all but
successfully withstood a lengthy siege when rank treachery did its fell
work.
On the fall of the fortress it was "slighted" by order of Old Noll
himself, and the keep and walls were blown up with powder. So strong
was the construction of the masonry that the work of destruction was
only partially done, though the keep was riven from base to summit, and
several of the smaller towers were thrown bodily out of plumb.
This much I had heard from report, and now, in spite of my cramped
position, and faintness from want of food, I could not help looking with
interest on the shattered walls, which still showed the black marks of
the powder, though now, after a lapse of twenty years, their barrenness
was beginning to be hidden by a kindly garb of ivy.
The fear of sorcery and witchcraft was firmly fixed in the minds of the
Dorset peasantry, and in consequence few would venture amid the grim
ruins by day, still less by night, so the smugglers' hiding place was
practically free from interruption.
The cart came to a sudden stop in an archway under the keep, and, with a
hurried warning: "Look alive; the sun's nearly up", the men proceeded to
unfasten the tarpaulin. This was done, the canvas fell in a heap on the
ground, and the men began to unload the straw.
The time for action had arrived. With a bound I sprang from the cart,
nearly overthrowing the astonished men, who yelled with terror, as if
his Satanic Majesty had suddenly appeared.
I did not stop to think in which direction I should run, but started off
towards a gap in the walls. Passing through this, I found myself on a
steep bank, at the bottom of which a white chalky road led towards a
town some miles away, the towers of whose churches were plainly visible
in the morning light, while away to the right was a large expanse of
water which I guessed correctly was the harbour of Poole.
Descending the steep, grassy mound at a breakneck pace, I gained the
road and headed northwards, keeping the sun on my right hand. After
running a quarter of a mile or so, and finding no signs of pursuit, I
slackened my pace and walked, the effect of my prolonged fast being very
evident.
An hour later I was crossing a long causeway close to the town. Here I
met a cowherd, who looked at me in astonishment, my clothes being in
rags and covered with wisps of straw, while my face, blackened with
dirt, was surmounted by a crop of ruffled hair that did duty for a hat.
In answer to my question he told me that I was in Wareham, and a few
minutes afterwards I was sitting in a bakery, eagerly devouring a
half-loaf and a cup of milk that a kindly baker provided for me.
Seeing that I was utterly exhausted, he allowed me to lie down in front
of his oven, and, in spite of the hardness of my couch, I slept soundly
till midday, when I was aroused by Greville Drake and some of the late
crew of the _Gannet_, who were being entertained in the town till they
could be conveyed to their homes.
I was, however, too ill to be moved; so the kindly baker, hearing my
story, and being informed of my rank, had me put to bed in his own
house, where later in the day a magistrate attended to take down my
depositions as to the gang of smugglers.
That night I got worse, and for three weeks I lay betwixt life and death
with an ague brought about by the cold and exposure.
Then one morning I awoke to find my Uncle George sitting by my bedside.
The kindly little man had heard of my being ill at Wareham, and had
immediately travelled posthaste to my side.
From that day my recovery became rapid, and in less than a fortnight I
could sit up.
One afternoon, as the late autumnal sun was sinking in the west, I heard
the tramping of feet and the clanking of fetters. My uncle helped me to
the window, and on looking out I saw the whole gang of smugglers, save
two who had preferred death to capture, being led through the town on
the way to Dorchester Jail.
Fortunately I was spared the ordeal of attending the trial, but I heard
that the gallows or transportation to the West Indies accounted for the
whole of the rascally crew, against whom the barbaric crime of wrecking,
as well as smuggling, was proved right up to the hilt.
It was late in December, in clear, frosty weather, that we started on
our homeward journey, proceeding by easy stages through Wimborne,
Ringwood, and the New Forest to Southampton, and on the last day of
December of the year 1663 I arrived at Portsmouth again, after an
absence of over three years.