Gordon Stables

“A SPLENDID NIGHT’S WORK, TOM!”

“Ah! cruel, hard-hearted, to press him,
And force the dear youth from my arms;
Restore him, that I may caress him,
And shield him from future alarms.”
Dibdin’s Pressgang.

was near to the hour of sunset, on an autumn evening about a week after the cozy dinner-party in the cabin of Captain Jack Mackenzie of the Tonneraire. The tree-clad hills and terra-cotta cliffs around Tor Bay were all ablur with driving mist and rain, borne viciously along on the wings of a north-east gale. Far out beyond the harbour mouth, betwixt Berry Head and Hope’s Nose, the steel-blue waters were flecked and streaked with foam; while high against the rocks of Corbyn’s Head the waves broke in clouds of spray. As night fell, the wind seemed to increase; the sky was filled with storm-riven clouds; and the “white horses” that rode on the bay grew taller and taller.

Surely on such a night as this every fishing-boat would seek shelter, and vessels near to the land would make good their offing for safety’s sake.

There were those who, gazing out upon the storm from the green plateau above Daddy’s Hole, where the coastguard station now is, thought otherwise.

Daddy’s Hole is a sort of inlet or indentation in the rock-wall, which rises so steeply up to the plain above that, though covered with grass, it seems hardly to afford foothold for goats. No man in his senses would venture to descend from above in a straight line, nor even by zigzag, were it not for the fact that here and there through the smooth green surface rocks protrude which would break his fall.

Shading their eyes with their hands in the gathering gloom, with faces seaward, stood two rough-looking men, of the class we might call amphibious—men at home either on the water or on shore.

“It can’t be done,” said one. “No, capting, it can’t.”

“Can’t?” thundered the other; “and I tells yew, Dan, the skipper o’ the Brixham knows no such a word as ‘can’t.’ He’s comin’. Yew’ll see. Hawkins never hauled ’is wind yet where a bit o’ the yellow was tow be made. Us’ll drink wine in France to-morrow, sure’s my name is Scrivings.”

Dan shook his head.

“W’y, yew soft-hearted chap, for tew pins I’d pitch yew ower the cliff.”

But as “Capting” Scrivings laughed while he spoke, and shook his friend roughly by the shoulder, there was little chance of the terrible threat being fulfilled.

“And min’ yew, Dan,” he added, “if us lands this un all right, us’ll be rich, lad—ha! ha! Besides, wot’s Hawkins got tow be afear’d of? The Brixham can cut the winkers from the wind’s eye, that she can. Tack and ’alf tack though buried in green seas, Dan. Never saw a craft tow sail closer tow a wind. Here’s tow bold Hawkins and the brave Brixham!”

The toast was drunk from a black bottle which the “capting” handed to Dan.

“’Ave a pull, chap; yew needs it to brace yewr courage tow the sticking-point.”

Captain Butler prided himself on the seaworthiness and fleetness of his cutter, the saucy little Moonbeam. Not that she had been much to look at, or much to sail either, when he took her over; for in those good old times the Admiralty was not a whit more generous with paint and copper nails than it is now. But One-legged Butler was a man of some means, who might have driven his coach on shore had he not been so fond of the brine and the breeze. So he had the Moonbeam seen to at his own expense—not without asking and receiving permission, of course, for he was a strict-service man. Her bows were lengthened and her rig altered and improved; she was made, in fact, quite a model of.

And Captain Butler was justly proud of the Moonbeam. So highly did he regard her that he would not have marked her smooth and spotless deck with his timber toe to obtain his promotion, and therefore his servant had orders to always keep the end of that useful limb shod with softest leather.

Nothing that ever sailed got the weather-gauge on the Moonbeam.

Except the Brixham.

That smuggling sloop landed many a fine bale of silk, hogshead of wine, and tobacco galore, all along the south coast; but never had been caught. She was a fly-by-night and a veritable phantom. Thrice Butler had chased her. He might as well have attempted to overhaul a gull on the wing.

But to-night One-legged Butler meant to do or die. He knew she was going to venture into Tor Bay, and lie off at anchor under the lee of the cliffs. He could have boarded her in boats perhaps; but that would not have suited Butler’s idea of seamanship. It must be neck or nothing—a fair race and a fair fight.

The Brixham carried a dare-devil crew, however, and Hawkins feared nothing. The Moonbeam would have her work cut out; but then all the more glory to the bold fellows on board of her; for these were the days when adventure was beloved for its own sake alone.

When, on the night previous, twenty brave blue-jackets from the Tonneraire were told off for special service and sent aboard the little Moonbeam, which sailed a few hours after just as the moon was rising over the Hoe, they had no idea what was in the wind. From their armature of cutlasses and pistols, they “daresayed” there was a little bit of fighting to be done, and rejoiced accordingly, for Jack dearly loves a scrimmage. The wind blew high, even then tossing the cutter about like a cork, although she carried but little sail. By next forenoon, however, she had passed Tor Bay, and lay in semi-hiding near Hope’s Nose. There was the risk of the vessel’s presence being discovered and reported to Scrivings and his gang; but there always are risks in warfare.

As soon as it was dusk a portion of the men were landed. Then the Moonbeam, although it blew big guns, set herself to watch for the foe.

Hour after hour flew by, and the moon, glinting now and then through a rift in the clouds, whitened the curling waves, but showed no signs of the Brixham, or of anything else.

It was an anxious time.

At twelve o’clock grog and biscuits were served out. The men never had time to swallow a mouthful—of biscuit, I mean. No doubt they drank the grog, for those were the days of can-tossing, a custom now happily but seldom honoured.

Yes, there she was! It could be none other save daring Hawkins in the Brixham.

Small look-out was being kept to-night, however, on the smuggler.

The Moonbeam swept down on her as hawk swoops down on his prey, and although Tor Bay is wondrous wide, and the Brixham was nearly in the centre of it, the cutter was on her in a surprisingly short time. Fine seamanship, fine steering, to sheer alongside and grapple, despite the fact that the sea had gone down, and the waves were partially under the lee of the hills.

If ever man was surprised, that man was Smuggler Hawkins. But he answered the call to surrender with a shout of defiance.

After this it was all a wild medley of pistols cracking, cutlasses clashing, cries—yes, and, I am sorry to say, a few groans; for blood was shed, and one man at least would never sail the salt seas more. But if blood was shed, the seas washed it off; for the fight took place with the spray driving over both vessels, white in the moonlight.

A prize crew was left on the Brixham, and in less than twenty minutes both craft were safe at anchor in Torquay harbour.

Meanwhile, the party who had been landed near to Hope’s Nose had made their way inland, bearing somewhat to the east to make a detour, both for the purpose of getting well in the rear of the smugglers’ cottage—where Tom Fairlie, who was in command, knew the smugglers were to be found—and because the night was still young.

When Scrivings left the outlook with Dan on watch, he betook himself to this cottage, in order to complete arrangements for landing the cargo, every bale and tub of which they had meant to haul up from Daddy’s Hole to the plains above, then to cart them away inland.

But he found his ten men ready, and even the horses and carts in waiting. They were hired conveyances. The smugglers found no difficulty in getting help to secure their booty in those days, when many even of the resident gentry of England sympathized with contraband trade. So there was nothing to be done but to wait.

It was a lonely enough spot where the little cottage stood among rocks and woodland. Lovely as well as lonely and wild; though I fear its beauties alone did nothing to recommend the place to the favour of “Capting” Scrivings and his merry men.

The night waned. The moon rose higher and higher. The men in the bothy, having eaten and drunk, had got tired at last of card-playing, and nearly all were curled up and asleep.

The sentry had seated himself on a stone outside, and he too was nodding, lulled into dreamland by the sough of the wind among the solemn pines.

The wind favoured Fairlie’s party, who, as stealthily as Indians, crept towards the cottage from the rear.

The sentry was neatly seized and quickly gagged, and next moment the lieutenant, sword in hand, his men behind him, had rushed into the dimly-lit bothy.

“Surrender in the king’s name! The first who stirs is a dead man!”

It was beautifully done. Not a show of resistance was or could be made, and in less than an hour Tom Fairlie, with his crestfallen prisoners, had reached the harbour, where they were welcomed by a hearty cheer, which awakened the echoes of the rocks and a good many of the inhabitants of the village of Torquay.[A]

And now Captain Jack Mackenzie shook hands right heartily with his friend Tom Fairlie.

“Splendid night’s work, Tom,” he said. “A thousand thanks! Now the saucy Tonneraire may be called ready for sea.”

Splendid night’s work was it? Well, we now-a-days would think this impressment cruel—cruel to take men away from their homes and avocations, perhaps never to see their country more. Yet it must be admitted that smugglers like these, who had so long defied the law, richly deserved their fate.