CHAPTER XIX.
MASTER TIM GETS INTO THE HANDS OF SMUGGLERS.
MASTER TIM GETS INTO THE HANDS OF SMUGGLERS.
The position of poor Tim, it must be confessed, was anything but pleasant.
He had fallen into the depths below, but how, he could not tell.
All he recollected, when he recovered consciousness, was, that he had fallen into a miserably dark and loathsome place, and not knowing how or which way to move.
“Oh, lord!” he sighed. “Here’s a fix to be in. I’d give a thousand gold pieces if I were only out of it.”
“Would you?” said a distant voice. “Ha! ha! but, then, you see, youain’tgoing to get out of it, my lad.”
“Who are you?” said Tim, trying to pluck up all the courage he possibly could. “Don’t you know I’ve got a dagger left?”
“Yes, I dare say you have,” the voice replied. “But, if you had a dozen daggers, or a whole arsenal at your back, they would do you no good here.”
At the same moment Tim felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder, and his limbs began to tremble.
“What’s your name, you shivering hound?” said the gruff voice, with a chuckle.
“Tim, sir, if you please.”
“Tim what?”
“Tim Anything—Tim Nothing. I never had but one name; ’tis only rich folks as can afford to have two.”
“Come, come, no larking with me,” said the gruff voice. “Speak honestly, or I’ll brain you.”
“You’re very kind and obliging, I dare say,” said Tim, with chattering jaws. “But, upon my word, I have only one name, and that is Tim.”
“You’re much different, then, to a young chap as we lately collared, and is now in our custody, for he boasts of four names.”
“You don’t say so?”
“But, I do, though; you shall make his acquaintance shortly—you’ll make excellent comrades. Our hanging days are only once a month now, so you may as well make up your mind to ‘swing’ when he does.”
“Thank’ee,” said Tim, gloomily; “you are very kind—very kind, indeed. But, if it’s all the same to you, sir, whoever are you? I’d rather be swung up the next month after him with the four names.”
The unknown laughed gruffly until he made the cavern echo again with his boisterous merriment.
“When were you born?” he asked.
“I wasn’t born at all,” said Tim, innocently.
“Not born at all? Why, the rascal is making fun of me.”
“’Pon my word I ain’t,” said Tim. “I wasn’t born at all; leastways, not as I knows on, for old Sir Richard Warbeck found me in his stables one morning bright and early, and in them there stables I’ve been all my life since.”
“Sir Richard Warbeck, eh?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I should think I do,” said the unknown; “and a nice old fellow he is, too. He has two adopted nephews, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, young Wildfire Ned, and Charley Warbeck, who’s in the East India House in London.”
“Just so.”
“And what brought you up that cypress tree?”
“Why, you see, Master Ned and I attacked the Skeleton Crew, and, as they were too many for us, I hooked it up the tree out of the way, and fell through the hollow trunk, and——”
“Found yourself here, eh? Just so. But who told you there was any secret way into this cavern through that tree?”
“No one.”
“You lie, knave!”
“On my word, no living soul told me.”
“Not old Nettles, the landlord of the public-house?”
“No, he never breathed a word; but fought with the Skeleton Crew like a warrior.”
“That’s just whatyoushould have done, and then I wouldn’t have made up my mind to hang you, as I may do yet. Are you sure that old Nettles never said a word?”
“I’m positive, and will swear it!”
“’Tis well, for if he had done so I should be under the necessity of cutting his throat to-night so as to stop his mouth.”
“What a bloodthirsty villain!” thought Tim.
“As you will, perhaps, be a dead man shortly, and as dead men don’t tell any tales, I don’t mind letting you know a thing or two as to who and what old Nettles is.”
“What is he?”
“Why, a tavern-keeper; and something more at times,” said the unknown. “You have taken notice, of course, what a fine stock of wines, spirits, tobacco, and other things he has?”
“Yes,” said Tim, “it has been the talk of the whole country wide, as long as I can remember.”
“Quite true; but he owes all his prosperity tome, young man,” said the gruff voice. “I could have blown him and his house up into the air many a time if I had thought proper. If he had divulged anything about our secret I would do so even now.”
Tim groaned.
“This place where you are now in is a cave,” said the voice; “a smuggler’s cave, mind you.”
“Oh, lors!”
“And I am chief of the gang. From this spot there is a long, dry passage, which runs out into the beach at low tide.”
“Is the mouth of the cavern filled with water, then, at high tide?”
“Yes, nearly so; but there is sufficient room for an eight-oared boat to float in if the rowers duck their heads.”
“How jolly convenient,” said Tim, who now began to like the chattiness of his unknown captor.
“At night time we go out of the cavern in our long boats, and meet ships which are creeping close to shore; sometimes they are friends who come from France or Spain with smuggled goods, and sometimes they are strange craft. If they be friends we unload the vessel, and run up our boats into the cave again, then the vessel stands off shore until the next night, and so on until we have emptied her; but if she isnota friendly craft we act according to circumstances. Sometimes we seize her goods, if we are very short, and the articles are of any value; they can never find us out.”
“But did you never fall across any of the king’s cruisers?” said Tim.
“Yes, many a time; but, lor’ bless yer simple heart, we don’t mind them, you know.”
“Don’t you, though?”
“No, not in the least.”
“But they carry long guns, and might——”
“Exactly; but that ain’t nothing when you are used to it.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Tim, with a sigh. “A ten pound cannon shot playing nine pins with your legs ain’t nothing when you get used to it; but getting used to it is the thing,” said Tim, very slowly and solemnly; “but I shouldn’t—never.”
“Yes you would.”
“No, I shouldn’t.”
“Lor, man! a broken arm, or a leg or two knocked off, don’t make much difference to any of our gang.”
“Nor a broken head either, I should think,” Tim said to himself, doubtingly.
“We’ve got a famous cook, a bit of a tailor, a good doctor, a gunsmith, and other chaps in our band, so we manage to make a pleasant life of it.”
“I shouldn’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because you might fall foul of such a man as Lieut. Garnet andhiscrew some day; and if you did——”
“And if we did, what then? We should have to fight hard, that’s all.”
“That’s all, eh?” thought Tim; “but that’s a little more thanIshould care about.”
“Why, a fight once in a while is the life and soul of a bold smuggler. You have no notion how it gives one an appetite.”
“I should think that a ten-pound cannon shot in one’s stomach would be a trifle more than even a smuggler could digest,” said Tim; “but, as you very wisely remarked once before, there’s no telling when one gets used to it.”
“Just so, my brave lad,” said the smuggler chief, laughing. “I like to hear you talk in that light-hearted way, for it convinces me that, after all, you’ve got some good stuff in you, and that your heart is of old British oak.... Our boats are going out to-night; we expect a schooner off the shore from France about midnight, just after the moon sets. I’ll take you with me; and, to try you—unless you wish to be hung as a useless knave among us—I’ll give you the honour of mounting the stranger’s decks first.”
“First!” gasped Tim. “The first man to board the stranger’s decks! Why, she might be a revenue cruiser or a well-armed stranger.”
“That’s what she really is, a well-armed stranger, nothing else. She must come within gun-shot of us, for she’s obliged to round the headland in order to get into port.”
“In that case, sir,” said Tim, “if it’s all the same to you, I wouldn’t dare to have the impudence to take the place of honour, and be first to scale the stranger’s sides—it’s too much honour to confer on such a poor good-for-nothing as I am. I would much prefer to belast, if anything.”
The smuggler chief laughed out loudly, saying, “You’re a droll devil, Tim, and no fool, I can very well see; but come this way, I will introduce you to my comrades.”
So speaking, he tumbled over head, and fastened the trap through which Tim had fallen into the cave.
“See, Tim,” said the smuggler chief, as he entered a second cave in which dimly burned a horn lantern, “do you see this?” he said, pointing to a trap-door in the ceiling.
“Yes, I do,” said Tim, scrutinizing for the first time his tall, gaunt, rough-handed companion, and not much liking the looks of his black eyes, shaggy hair and beard, clothed, as he was, in red flannel and an immense pair of water-boots that reached above the knees, at the same time not forgetting to cast his eyes on two pistols and a cutlass that hung in his broad black belt.
“Well,” said the chief, “that trap-door leads into the old tavern. Nettle sells all our goods for us, and a pretty penny he gets by it. He’s very rich, but a good-hearted old cock as ever lived. He’s got a very pretty daughter, too, they call Katie; and if you join us, and prove yourself a brave fellow, as I know you are, why I’ll introduce you; and when you’re tired of smuggling, you can settle down, like many an old sinner does after he’s made heaps of money, and lead a quiet respectable life.”
“You’re very kind,” said Tim, with his head bewildered with all the chieftain said.
From one cavern they passed to another, some of which were artfully ventilated and lighted by holes in the rocks over head.
At last they reached a very large apartment, which had been formed ages ago by the action of the sea, and cut just as cleverly as if done with a chisel.
Round a long table sat smoking and drinking twenty or more rough, hardy-looking fellows, who were card-playing, throwing dice, sleeping, snoring, and the like.
All of them hastily rose as the chief entered, and Tim was introduced to the company in words which conveyed the idea that the stranger would become a valuable member of the band.
Smoking and drinking continued, and soon Master Tim found himself the centre of attraction, and as he was, of course, expected to be a very brave fellow, he favoured the company with a long string of lies, in which he narrated his several encounters with the Skeleton Crew, and against whom he had displayed prodigies of valour.
The chief, however, left the company, and wended his way through the dark caverns towards his own particular abode.
He found standing at his door a special messenger.
“That you, Dolphin?” said the chief. “So soon returned?”
“Yes, worthy Sea-hawk,” was the reply. “And I bring most important news.”
“From whom?”
“The Skeleton Crew and Wildfire Ned—it needs instant attention.”
“It shall be attended to at once. Come this way.”
The Smuggler Chief and his trusty messenger entered the apartment together.