We left our heroine, in the last chapter, esteemed of every one who knew her, and looking forward to what was to her the height of human felicity—the reformation and return of her sailor-lover. No less true than strange is the fact, that when we reach the highest pinnacle of this world’s happiness, some giddiness of the head is apt to make us fall. So, at all events, it proved with the female who gives a title to this book. It became matter of deep concern to every member of Mr. Cobbold’s family, to behold in her an alteration which no previous circumstances in her life had prepared them for. There was nothing in reason, and consistent with their own happiness, that her grateful master and mistress would not have granted her. Any situation she wished to attain, either for herself or for her friends, would have commanded every exertion they could have made in her favour. She stood so high in their opinion, and in every one’s else who knew her, that it scarcely seemed possible for her to forfeit it. Apparently she had nothing to complain of; no cause for dissatisfaction; no inducement whatever to alter her disposition. Yet an alteration did take place, and one which became evident to every one.
Where the heart is unsettled, things seldom go on well. There wants that peace and security which can alone make the discharge of our daily duties a daily pleasure. Margaret’s early impressions of religion had been of a very desultory kind, and here was the root of all the evil that afterwards befell her. The want of fixed religious principles early instilled into the young mind has caused many a good disposition to give way to those changes and chances which happen in life, and to create an alteration even in the brightest prospects. In the earliest days of this child of nature, an innate humanity of disposition had been cultivated and increased by her attendance on a sick and afflicted sister and an aged mother, both of whom had constantly required her aid. Her natural qualities were, as the reader has seen, up to this moment of the noblest cast. Still, in the absence of any strong religious sentiment, the best dispositions are at the mercy of violent passions, and are subject to the most dangerous caprices. The reader must have observed that, in the midst of all her good qualities, Margaret Catchpole evinced a pertinacity of attachment to the object of her affections, even in his most unworthy days—an attachment which no circumstances whatever, not even the warning of her sister’s death-bed, could shake. She had built upon a vague hope of Laud’s alteration of life, and his settlement in some quiet occupation. She had been accustomed to very great disappointments and vexations; and, with a spirit above her years, she had borne them all, and had shown an energy of mind and activity worthy of better things. How weak are all qualities without the support of religion! At a time when promises seemed most fair, when an unexpected reconciliation had taken place with her uncle and aunt Leader, when Laud’s return was daily expected, and all the favours of a generous family were heaped upon her for her good conduct,—at such a time an alteration of her disposition took place, which embittered her existence for many years. She became peevish and irritable, discontented and unhappy, moody and melancholy. She thanked nobody for assistance, asked nothing of any one, and gave no reason to any of her fellow-servants for this sudden alteration. Such would not have been the case, had religion taught her, as it now does many in her station of life, how to feel supported in prosperity as well as in adversity. It is a trite saying, that “we seldom know when we are welloff.” We are not content to “let well alone;" but too often foolishly speculate upon the future, and fall into some present snare.
Nothing had been heard of or from Laud, except that a sailor, who had served with him in the glorious battle of the 1st of June, had visited the town, and told Margaret that Laud was appointed to come home in one of the prizes taken by Lord Howe; and that, probably, he was then at Portsmouth, waiting until he should receive his prize-money and his discharge. Margaret occasionally stole down in the evening to the Salutation public-house, where the sailor was staying, to speak with him, and to hear the naval news. She was here occasionally seen by other sailors, who frequented the house, and learned where she lived. They understood the bearings of her history, and some of them used to fabricate tales on purpose to get an introduction into the kitchen at St. Margaret’s Green, where they were sure to be welcomed and well treated by Margaret. She was, at this time, very anxious to hear tidings of her lover, and day after day exhibited symptoms of restlessness, which could not long be passed by without notice. The frequency of sailors’ visits to the kitchen began to be rumoured through the house, and stories injurious to the reputations of the inmates were circulated in the neighbourhood. Moreover, the housekeeper missed various articles; and meat, and bread, and stores, began to be unaccountably diminished. Inquiries were instituted, and it was found that Margaret had certainly given such and such things to sailors; and without doubt, some things were stolen.
Under these circumstances, it became high time for the mistress of the house to take notice of these things; and, in as gentle a manner as the circumstances of the case would permit, she spoke to Margaret alone on the subject. She regretted to hear from all quarters the alteration which had taken place in her manner. She spoke to her most feelingly upon the result of such a change, and with great kindness contrasted thepleasure of the past with the sorrow which her late conduct occasioned.
“I cannot,” she added, “permit sailors of every kind to be incessantly coming to the house at all hours with pretended news of Laud, and so deceiving you by playing upon your disposition, and then robbing you and the house. Reports of a very unpleasant nature have reached my ears injurious to your character and that of my establishment. I cannot submit to these things; and, though I most sincerely regard you, Margaret, yet I must make you sensible of the danger you incur by listening to the artful tales of these men. I strongly recommend you to have nothing to do with them. Your own character is of much more consequence to you than their nonsensical stories. If you wish it, I will write for you to Portsmouth to make inquiries about Laud; and, rather than you should be in doubt and affliction, and in any uncertainty about him, I am sure that your master will send a trustworthy person to search him out and ascertain the cause of his detention.
“Let me see you henceforth what you used to be—cheerful and contented, thankful and happy, and not over-anxious about matters which in the end will all probably come right. You have my entire forgiveness of the past, even though you do not ask it; but let me not be imposed upon for the future. Go, Margaret, go; and let me hear no more of these complaints.”
Margaret heard all that her mistress said in perfect silence. She neither defended herself, nor yet thanked her mistress, as she used to do. She seemed sullen and indifferent. She left the presence of that kind lady and most sincere friend with scarce a curtsy, and with such a pale, downcast countenance, as deeply distressed her benefactress. Then was it the painful reflection occurred, that her servant’s religious principles had been neglected; that her duty as a servant had been done from no higher motive than that of pleasing man; and that when she had failed to do so, and received a rebuke, her spirit would not bear it.These reflections pressed themselves upon the kind lady’s mind, and she resolved to do her best to correct for the future that which appeared so deficient.
Margaret returned to the kitchen unaltered, saving in feature; she was silent, pale, and restless. She did her work mechanically, but something appeared to be working upon her in a very strange way. She could not sit still a moment. Sometimes she put down her work, and sat looking at the fire, as if she was counting the coals upon it. At one time she would rise and appear to go in search of something, without knowing what she went for. At another time she would bite her lips and mutter something, as if she were resolute and determined upon some point which she did not reveal. Her fellow-servants did not lay anything to her, and took as little notice as her strange manner would permit. They all considered that something very unpleasant had occurred between herself and her mistress. Some surmised that warning had been given; others that she would leave of her own accord; but all felt sorry that one who had been so highly esteemed should now be so perverse.
One evening, in the midst of these domestic arrangements of the kitchen, when all the servants were assembled, a knock was heard at the back-kitchen door; the girl who opened it immediately called out, "Another sailor wants to see you, Margaret!”
Without rising from her seat, as she was accustomed to do with alacrity upon such occasions, Margaret petulantly and passionately replied, loud enough for the sailor to hear her through the door of the kitchen, which now stood open, “Tell the fellow to go about his business! I have nothing to do with, or to say to, any more sailors. Tell him to be off!”
The sailor stepped one step forward, and pitched a canvas bag in at the kitchen-door, which fell with a loud chink upon the bricks. He had heard the words of Margaret, and was off in a moment.
The reader will doubtless surmise that this was none other than Will Laud. He it was who, at this unfortunate moment, returned, with all his prize-money, on purpose to give it to Margaret, for whom he had kept it, intending to purchase a shop at Brandiston, or one of the neighbouring villages, where she might like to live. The bag had a label, directed
Had this unfortunate girl been in a different mood, she might have recognized the voice, as she once did on that memorable night when Mr. William’s life was saved. She heard the rap, and the inquiry for her; but knowing her mistress’s commands, and believing the visitor to be one of those whom she had styled impostors and thieves, she had, with considerable energy and irritability, spoken those cutting words, which sent him away in despair.
What agony now struck upon the heart of Margaret! She started at the sound of the bag as it fell at her feet; she looked bewildered for one moment; the truth burst upon her, and she rushed out of the house with such a wild shriek as pierced the heart of every one who heard it. She ran into the street. The night was growing dark; but, on the opposite side of the green, against the garden pales, she saw a sailor standing and looking at the house. She ran to him, seized his arm, and exclaimed, "Laud, is it you?”
He replied, “Yes—hush!”
“Come in, then; come into the house; I am sure you may come in.”
The sailor walked on, with Margaret by his side. He did not speak. This Margaret naturally attributed to her late repulsive words, and she now said, soothingly, by way of apologizing for her harshness—
“I did not intend to send you away. I have lately had several sailors to speak to me about you, and I was only too glad to hear them; but my mistress gave orders to me this day not to have anything more to do with them. I am sure she did not mean to send youaway—neither did I intend it. Come back, come back!”
“Come on, come on!" said the sailor, in as soft accents as he could. And, by this time, they had approached the old granary wall, at the back of the park stables. Opposite to these stables was a cow-keeper’s yard, with the dwelling inside the gates. The gates stood open: they might rather be termed folding-doors, for, when shut, no one could see through any part but the keyhole. The sailor turned in here with Margaret, as if he knew the premises, and immediately closed the gates. A light glanced from a window in the cottage, and fell upon the sailor’s face. In an instant Margaret recognized the hated features of John Luff.
The poor girl was paralysed; she was completely in the tiger’s claws; she could not speak, her heart so swelled with agony. She thought of this monster’s cruelty, and believed him to be capable of any desperate deed. She recovered sufficient presence of mind, however, to be resolved to grapple with him, should he have any evil purpose in view. She retreated a few steps toward the gates. He suspected by this that she had discovered who he was, and he threw off the mask in a moment.
“You know who I am, I see; and I know you. I do not want to harm you; but I want to know something from you, which, if you tell me truly, you shall receive no injury; but, if you do not tell me, I tell you plainly that, as you are now in my power, so you shall never escape me. You spoke just now of Will Laud. Now, no tacking about; bear up at once, and come to the point. Tell me where he can be found.”
“I do not know,” replied Margaret.
“No lies, girl! You do know. You were expecting him from Portsmouth this very night. I knew he was coming home with his prize-money; so did you. I don’t want his money, but I want him. I have sworn to take him, dead or alive, and have him I will. Youhave seen him: I have not. Now tell me where he is, and I will let you go; but if you tell me not, down you shall go headlong into the well at the bottom of this yard!”
The truth burst upon the poor girl’s mind, that this fellow was watching Laud to murder him. She was now convinced that it was Laud who came to the back-kitchen door, and that he must have gone over the garden palings towards the Woodbridge Road, instead of going into the street. With a woman’s heart beating high at the danger of her lover, she inwardly rejoiced, even at this dreadful moment, that her sudden words had perhaps saved Laud’s life. She forgot her own loss, and her spirit rose to reply firmly and boldly to the cowardly rascal who threatened her—
“I do not know where Laud is. I wish I did; and I would let him know that such a villain as you are ought to be hanged.”
The monster seized her, gagged her mouth with a tow-knot, and tried to pull her away from the gate. She had seized hold of the long iron bar, which was fastened to a low post, and fitted into a staple on the door. She thought she heard voices outside the gates, speaking of her. Just as the villain lifted her from the ground to fulfil his determined purpose, she swung the iron against the door with such force, that the servants outside were convinced something was wrong. They called, but received no answer. They heard footsteps receding from the door, and called to Smith, the cowkeeper, to know what was the matter. They did not receive any immediate answer, but a light streamed under the door, and in another moment they heard a scuffle, and Smith’s voice calling for help.
With their united force they burst the gates open, and ran down the yard. The candle was burning on the ground, and Smith prostrate beside it. In a moment after, they heard the bucket of the well descending with rapidity, and then a sudden splash, as if a heavy body had reached the bottom of it.
Smith recovered quickly from his fall, and declared he saw a sailor-looking man, carrying a female in his arms, and he firmly believed that she was thrown down the well. He got his lantern, and directed the men to take down the long church ladder, which was hung up under the roof of the cowhouse, and bring it after him. The ladder was put down the well, and Smith descended with his lantern, and called out that there was a woman in the well.
“Unhank the bucket: tie the rope round her body, and ease her up the ladder; we can help you to get her out so.”
This was done: and when she was drawn up, the servants recognized the features of Margaret Catchpole.
Smith was quite sure the man he saw was in sailor’s dress. It was a providential circumstance that the very act of gagging had prevented the water getting to her lungs, and so saved her from drowning. She breathed hard, and harder still when the gag was removed, and was very black in the face. She had received a severe blow on the head from her fall against the bucket, the iron of which had caught her gown, and was the cause of its descending with her to the water. She might have had a severer blow against the sides of the well but for this circumstance. She was quite insensible, and in this state was carried home, where she was laid between warm blankets, and the doctor sent for. She was quickly bled, and was soon restored to conscious animation.
As she revived, she refused to communicate anything on the subject of the disaster; and it was thought best, at that time, not to say much to her about it. Conjectures were much raised, and the matter was much talked over. The bag, which was opened by her master, was found to contain one hundred and thirty guineas in gold and silver coin. Mr. Cobbold took charge of it, and sealed it with his own seal. From all that could be learned, it seemed that a sailor, whom all now conjectured to be Laud, had thrown the money in at thedoor, and Margaret had rushed out after him; that she had overtaken him; and that some violent altercation had taken place between them, which had led to this most extraordinary act. The whole affair seemed to be fraught with reckless desperation. Could anything be more so than to throw such a sum of money at a person’s foot, and then to throw that person down a well? Why do such a deed? Was he jealous? Had he heard of the many sailors who had lately made Margaret’s acquaintance? It might be, thought some, that he had suddenly returned, and hearing of her conduct, had put the worst construction upon it; and, in a desperate state, had been foolishly generous, but too fatally jealous to hear any explanation. These ideas passed through the minds of more than one of the family.
Margaret slowly recovered from the fever which had settled in her frame, and greatly reduced it. She kept her bed for several weeks; she kept her tongue, too, as still and as free from communication with any one as she possibly could under the circumstances. She did not say anything of her own accord, even to her anxious and beloved mistress.
It was soon circulated about that an atrocious attempt at murder had been made in the parish of St. Margaret’s, and the authorities of the town took it up, and made inquiries into the matter. Understanding that the young female was in too weak a state to have her deposition taken, they did not visit her, but a reward was offered for the apprehension of the man, and his person was described by the cowkeeper.
There was but one person to whom Margaret opened her lips willingly upon the subject, and that was her old friend and medical attendant, Mr. Stebbing. He learned from her, that it was not Laud that had thrown her down the well, but a fellow named Luff, one of his former evil companions. She told the doctor her belief that Laud was the person who had unintentionally been driven away by her on thatunfortunate night; "And I fear,” she added, “that he will be induced by my seeming harshness to return to his old courses. He will never forgive me—I know he never will! Oh, that I could have had one word with him! If I could but get well, I would try and find him. Oh, doctor, I am so anxious to get well! Pray, help me!”
“This is the plain reason, my girl, why you are so slow in recovering. I knew you had something upon your mind that you kept back; and now that you have told me thus much, let me speak to you in my own way. I tell you honestly, Margaret, I never should think a man worth having who took himself off in that kind of way. If, as you say, you refused to see a sailor who did not give his name, the man ought to have been pleased, rather than displeased, if he really loved you. If he was not a fool, he would naturally think it would be the very first thing a girl with any proper feeling would say. Take my word, Margaret, and I am somewhat more experienced than you are, that if Laud is worth your having, he will soon be here again. But don’t you think of running after him. If he comes back in a few days, well; but if not, I wish I might be able to persuade you not to think of him at all. What could induce Luff to attempt to murder you?”
“He threatened, that unless I told him where Laud was, he would throw me down the well. I imagine that Laud having escaped from the gang of smugglers, this villain was sworn either to be revenged upon him for some quarrel, or else he had promised Captain Bargood, his employer, to bring him back again. I was determined not to tell him that Laud had been to the house, and the fellow took this desperate revenge on me. But, thank God, his purpose is frustrated! You know Laud, doctor, as well as I do. I can conceive that my speech took him so completely by surprise, that, after he had been saving up all his money for me, and had been congratulating his mind upon my joy at his change, my words must have cut himto the quick, and have driven him away in desperation.”
“I wish I could think so, Margaret; but my idea is, that if he had been the altered man you picture him, he would never have conducted himself in that way. I tell you plainly, that I should be much more apt to think he liked somebody else better than you; and that he threw down the money merely because his conscience told him he had wronged you; and made him feel that he ought to make you some recompense. If he does not come back in a few days, I shall be confirmed in this opinion.”
The poor girl had never looked at the matter in this light. She felt a strange sensation creeping over her mind, and, in the weak state she then was in, she had a superstitious dread of her sister’s last words—"Margaret, you will never marry William Laud.” The words seemed to tingle in her ears, and to come, at this moment, with redoubled force; she shook her head, sighed, and thanked the doctor for his good advice.
“I shall explain these matters to your mistress, Margaret,” said Mr. Stebbing. “It will remove all erroneous ideas, and may spare you some pain and trouble. You must rouse yourself; the magistrates are daily asking me about you; I have told them that you have too virulent a fever upon you at present to make it safe for them to see you; and, depend upon it, they will not be over-anxious to run any risk.”
“Pray, sir, could not you take down what I have said, as well as having any other person to do it?”
“If I do, Margaret, it must be read to you before two justices of the peace, and you will have to swear to it.”
“Well, sir, so it must be then.”
And the good doctor left his patient, and gladly explained the exact state of the case to her mistress.
It was not very difficult for that lady to form her own conclusions now. She was of Margaret’s opinion, that Laud’s first step would be to rejoin the smugglers.She thought that he would become a more desperate character than ever. Instability of purpose was always Laud’s failing. When Margaret got about again, her mistress, having considered all the circumstances, thought it best that she should go home to her parent’s roof for a time. “As you are so much better,” said she to her one day, "and have been so much shaken lately, and your deposition has been taken before the magistrates, I would strongly recommend a little change for the benefit of your health. The doctor thinks it advisable. You can go and stay a while with your uncle and aunt Leader, or you can go and see your father and younger brother. You may go when you please. Remember that there are one hundred and thirty guineas in your master’s hands, to be appropriated to your use. Your father or your uncle may wish to consult us for your benefit. We shall be happy to see them for such purpose at any time. If you wish to enter into any business, you shall have our best advice and assistance. I think change will do you good. If you do not settle in any way for yourself, and still prefer service, we shall be glad to receive you amongst us again when you have recruited your health and spirits.”
“I do not,” Margaret replied, “want anything beyond my wages. I do not consider that money my own, and shall never appropriate any of it to my own use. It belongs to Will Laud. I feel very much obliged to both my master and yourself for the interest you have always taken in me, and for your offer of future assistance. I will consult with my friends. I certainly do not feel so happy as I used to do.”
Her kind mistress did not choose to remind her of the great alteration of her temper and conduct of late, because she did not wish to revive old grievances. And, as she was about to leave for a time, with a possibility of some chance of settlement without service, she let the matter rest.
Margaret, shortly after this conversation, took leave of as good a mistress as a servant ever had.If she did not feel quite the warmth of attachment to her that she had formerly done, the fault lay in herself, not in that benevolent lady, who at that time and ever after, manifested for her the sincerest kindness.
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 hasreturned 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 ofhim. 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 itwascarried 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, butrather 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 toooften 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 suspectedto 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 securehim 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 todeliver. 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 sawa 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 refuseto 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,’ sayshe,—’ 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 notbe 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 onthe 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 boatbut 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 fromhis 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 wasshort. 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.