Chapter XIV A Discovery
About nine o’clock the next morning the Fury ran into Falmouth Harbor. Sending a boat’s crew ashore to get fresh provisions, Jack closeted himself in the cabin, and, leaning his head on his hands, pored over the paper on which he had made the strange jottings the night before.
The numbers represented the flashes which had followed at intervals of a second; the short dashes represented intervals of five seconds, the long dashes intervals of twenty seconds. What was the explanation? It was clear that the signalers had a code; the flashes in some way spelt out words, and Jack guessed from the long time the message had taken that the words were spelt in full. How was he to set about finding out what they were? He had never in his life read a cipher, and for some minutes he was at a loss how to begin.
At last it struck him that the highest number he had written was 20. There were twenty-six letters in the alphabet, and some of the letters, such as Q, X, Z, were very seldom used. It was not unlikely that in a comparatively short message they would not be used at all. Each letter might be represented by a number. He wrote down the twenty-six letters of the alphabet, placing a number under each, from 1 to 26. Then he substituted the letters for the numbers on the paper, thus:
QCRB——AQQCTB——P——K——OATCQB
This was nonsense; the fact that most of the letters were consonants, and the one that most frequently occurred, Q, showed that he was on the wrong tack. He must try again. He was sure the long dashes represented the intervals between the words; what did the numbers stand for?
“I wonder what letter is most often used?” he thought. He wrote down the first thing that occurred to him, the first line of the song, Heart of Oak—
“Come, cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer.”
“’Tis E!” he said to himself. “It occurs in four words out of ten. Now there are three words in the stuff that have 3 and 2 in them; depend upon it either 3 or 2 stands for E. Which is it? Why, E is the second vowel, and I is the third. Every word has one or two vowels in it, and two of these words have I in them. Perhaps the five vowels are numbered 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Let’s try that.”
Recopying the alphabet, he found that on this system the message read—
PIQE——APPISE——N——H——MASIPE
“It looks a little more pronounceable, but hanged if I can make any sense of it. There’s a French look about it. Why, what a dolt I am! If it’s Fronsac who’s signaling from the Folly, of course the message will be in French. Not that that helps matters!” he thought dolefully. “The French alphabet’s the same as the English till you get to W, and W is number 23, which doesn’t come in. Confound the thing!”
It was not until he had pondered and puzzled for more than an hour that Jack got any fresh light. Then it occurred to him that some of the less-used of the letters might have been dropped. After some thought, he left out K, Q, and all the letters after V, and renumbered those that were left. The first result of this change gave him a thrill. He spelt out the word “RISE.”
“Now I’m on the scent!” he said to himself.
Next came the word “ARRIVE,” then two initials—P, H, after them the word “NAVIRE.”
“I can’t make any sense of it at present. Let’s go on.”
At length the complete message was deciphered. It ran as follows—
RISE ARRIVE P H NAVIRE SOUS CONVOI E FREGATE PARTENT VENDREDI POUR JAMAIQUE SANDI COVE SAMEDI.
This was certainly clearer; it was decidedly French for the most part; but what did “RISE,” “P,” “H” and “E” mean? In a few minutes Jack jumped to the meaning of H and E; they were to be taken as numbers, not as letters; eleven merchant ships under convoy of two frigates were leaving on Friday for Jamaica. What about “RISE?” He remembered by and by that he had not begun to write until the signaling had been in progress for some time. “RISE” was probably the end of a word. What French word ended so? He put other letters in turn before the perplexing syllable: brise, crise, grise, prise. PRISE! Captured! He saw it at last. The signaler was informing the men of the lugger that a captured ship had arrived; P stood for Portsmouth; and Jack had no doubt that the ship meant was the Glorieuse.
All that was left of the message were the last three words: “SANDI COVE SAMEDI.” These suggested that Sandy Cove was to be the scene of a cargo run on Saturday; but Jack had never heard of Sandy Cove. For the moment he gave no more thought to it; the first part of the message was of much greater importance than any smuggling business.
The mystery was becoming clear at last. No wonder the French showed a disconcerting knowledge of the movement of English ships! De Fronsac was a spy! So far from detesting the Monstair, he was actually in the Monstair’s pay. His business was to supply the Monstair with information. And his cunning had found a means to avoid the perils that otherwise might have beset his task. He had made friends of the Luscombe smugglers, ostensibly cast in his lot with them, so that he might have opportunities of signaling information to the French. Jack saw through the scheme in a flash.
It was Wednesday. Obviously there was no time to be lost if the ships to sail on Friday were to be saved. The lugger would convey the message to one of the western ports of France, and the enemy’s cruisers would come out in sufficiently large force to cut off the merchantmen and convoy. They could indeed afford to wait a few days, for even if the wind proved favorable for the sailing of the English vessels, they would make such slow progress that a French fleet in pursuit could overhaul them speedily, and, knowing their destination, would probably have little difficulty in finding them. Admiral Horniman must be at once informed of the discovery.
The men having by this time returned from their errand on shore, Jack at once hoisted sail and ran back to Portsmouth, keeping well out in the Channel off Luscombe to avoid recognition. The admiral spent five minutes in blowing off a considerable amount of warm language when he heard the story.
“The merchantmen shall sail if the wind favors,” he said, when he had recovered. “But I’ll increase their escort, and the French shall get an unpleasant surprise, I promise ’em, if they act on the information they’ve got. And that Frenchman at Luscombe, I’ll string him up to the yard-arm. I’ll stop his signaling. I’ll give orders for the tower to be occupied, and every one found there put in irons and clapped under hatches.”
“I don’t think you’ll find any one there, sir,” Jack ventured to suggest. “Fronsac’s hand in glove with the smugglers, that’s the meaning of ‘Sandy Cove Saturday.’ If any of our men are seen making a move in Luscombe direction the news will be signaled along the coast. They’d all clear out. Couldn’t we play their own game, sir?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I don’t exactly see all the way, sir; but what occurred to me was that we might do a little signaling and catch ’em in their own net.”
“A capital notion! By gad, we’ll do it! We’ll have to let ’em make their run on Saturday?”
“Yes, sir, and arrange to signal from the tower next Wednesday.”
“Very well. I leave it to you. You seem to have got some brains. Come to me if you want any assistance.”
Before he returned to the Fury Jack scribbled a note to his mother announcing his safe return, and begging her on no account to let the news travel to Bastable Grange. It was better that for the present his cousins should be ignorant of his whereabouts.
On reaching the cutter he started on a run up the coast. He wished to keep away from Luscombe until Saturday. Though he had no intention of interfering with the smugglers’ run on that day, he was anxious to witness it. For one thing, it would prove whether he had read the intercepted message aright; moreover, he particularly desired to find out who was engaged in the business. Knowing what a close watch was kept by the smugglers, he recognized that it would not be easy to learn what he wished; but his successes in France had tended to dim the memory of certain less fortunate incidents at Luscombe.
He now took Babbage and Turley into his confidence. When he mentioned Sandy Cove he met with an unexpected check.
“There ain’t no such place, sir—leastways, not on this coast,” said Turley.
“Are you sure?” Jack insisted.
“Sartin, sir.”
“That’s strange. I don’t think I read the word wrongly. I could be sure it was Sandi, the way a Frenchman would spell it. We’ll have to go back to Portsmouth and get a chart of the coast; we may find something that looks like it.”
But when he got a chart from the admiral he searched it in vain. There was no such name as Sandy Cove. He was convinced that he had not mistaken the signal; all that could be done now was to inquire in the neighborhood of Luscombe whether any of the inlets was locally known by that name. But with the exception of the Bastables he knew of no one whom he could trust, and he had a strong reason for avoiding the squire’s house; nothing must be done that might put De Fronsac on his guard.
Then a thought of Gumley came to him—Joe Gumley, the one-legged sailor. He was Luscombe born; though he kept himself to himself, he would probably know the whereabouts of Sandy Cove. And he might safely be asked the question, for, never a friend to the smugglers, he had a distinct grudge against them since that day when his garden was ransacked, and he was the least likely of men to give them any information.
“Yes, I’ll ask Gumley,” thought Jack. “It can’t do any harm.”
It was afternoon when he steered the Fury into a sheltered cove some six miles west of Luscombe. He had chosen the spot because the coast there was rugged, and the shore uninhabited, and the cutter might lie safe from wind and wave, and from observation by too inquisitive people.
“Now, Babbage,” said Jack as he stepped ashore, “I leave you in charge. Keep quiet, and be on your guard.”
“Ay, ay, sir. And what if you don’t come back, sir, like as ’twas six months ago t’other side of Luscombe?”
“Run back to Portsmouth and report to the admiral. But I’ll be back, never fear.”
He had exchanged his midshipman’s hat for a wide-brimmed beaver, and wore a long cloak which made him look more like a magistrate’s clerk than a sailor. Thus disguised, he walked over the beach, climbed the cliff, and struck into a path which would lead by a roundabout way into the Luscombe road. It was very unlikely that he would meet any of the Luscombe people in this direction; but Babbage’s question reminded him of the unlucky end of a similar errand in the previous autumn, and he smiled somewhat grimly as he remembered his resolve to get even with his captors.
A white mist lay over the land, striking very cold against his face. But it favored his chances of escaping notice if any one should meet him, and he was indeed glad of the obscurity when, in the driver of a gig that passed him, he thought he recognized the bulky form of Mr. Gudgeon. Save for this solitary traveler, the road was quite deserted, and he arrived without adventure at Gumley’s cottage.
He looked over the fence. No one was to be seen. Though it was already almost dark, owing to the mist, no light appeared in the cottage window.
“Ahoy O!” he called, without raising his voice, making a trumpet of his hands so that the sound would carry. There was no answer.
He rapped on the fence, calling “Ahoy O!” again. Still there was no reply.
“Here goes!” he said to himself. Stripping off his cloak he folded it and laid it on the nails, then clambered over and hastened to the door.
“I say, Gumley, let me in,” he said, rapping.
“Who be ’ee? This bean’t no inn.”
“It’s me, Gumley—Jack Hardy, you know.”
“Tell that to the marines. Mr. Hardy’s far away. Get along with ’ee.”
“Don’t be a jackass, Gumley. Open the door. Comely will know me if you don’t.”
“‘Ware dog, then, and if his teeth jine in your legs ’tis your own doing, whoever ye be!”
There was a rattling of the bolts. The door was opened. The bulldog rushed out, and with a growl of pleasure began to rub his nose against Jack’s trousers.
“There you are, you see,” he said, stepping into the cottage, to find Gumley standing on guard with a blunderbuss.
“Well, sir, this is a rare surprise. I seemed to know your voice, but thought for sure it must be your ghost. Never did I expect to see you no more in this world, sir, and right glad I be.”
“So am I, Gumley. But fasten up again, and light your lamp. I want to talk to you.”
“But how did ye escape, sir?” asked Gumley, as he shot the bolt and led the way to his kitchen.
“’Tis too long a story to tell you now. Another time. But why, man, what’s the matter with you? You look very down in the mouth.”
“Ay, and so I feels, sir. What with worry and the rheumatics I feel I be not long for this world. I’ve bin twisted up with it all winter, sir. Since I sold they artichokes to Squire Bastable I’ve bin as useless as an old hulk. In course, some folks might think me lucky having only one leg to get the rheumatics in; but chok’ it all, sir, the pain’s just as bad in the wooden leg as ’tis in t’other; ay, and worse, ’cos I can doctor my natural leg, whereas not all the surgeons of King Jarge hisself could do this old stump any good.”
“’Tis hard lines, indeed. But what’s been worrying you?”
“Sit ye down, sir, and I’ll tell ’ee about it.”