Chapter XV Tar and Feathers
“Fust and foremost, sir,” said Gumley, having lit his pipe, “my poor old moke is dead. Ah! he served me well for many a year, and carried tons and tons o’ garden stuff into Wynport. But now he’s gone, and if so be I can do any digging and planting this spring I’ll have no one to carry my vegetables to market.”
“’Twas old age, I suppose. He looked on his last legs when I saw him first on the Luscombe road six months ago.”
“No, sir, ’twarn’t old age. If he had been left alone he’d have lived to be as old as Methusalum. No, ’twarn’t old age, nor overwork neither.”
“What was it, then?”
Gumley hesitated. He looked at the locked door and the shuttered window, got up and went to the back door, bending his head forward as if listening. Then he returned to his chair, and, between two puffs, said, under his breath—
“’Twere p’ison, sir.”
“Poison!”
“Ay, sir. Jerry—so I called him, sir—were sound as a ship’s bell one night, sir; next morning he were dead as mutton.”
“But how do you know ’twas poison?”
“‘Cos that very same day Comely was took bad and well-nigh went to glory, too. Where Comely goes, Gumley follers; my rheumatiz were very bad that day.”
“’Tis plain you’ve got enemies, Gumley. I’m sorry for you. Comely looks all right now, at any rate. We’ll see what we can do to get you a new donkey. But I mustn’t waste time. I’ll tell you what I’ve come for. Do you know where Sandy Cove is?”
Gumley gave a start, and looked round the room again with that uneasy glance which had attracted Jack’s attention before.
“Axing your pardon, sir, would ye say why and wherefore you want to know that?”
“I don’t think I can—at all events, not yet. But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m on the king’s business, and that will be enough for an old king’s man, eh, Gumley?”
“True, sir, God save the king! All the same, I’d rather ye axed your question of some one else.”
“There is no one else. Come, Gumley, out with it. What is the mystery?”
Gumley still hesitated. He scratched his poll, rubbed the dog’s head, stirred an imaginary fire with his wooden leg, and once more glanced uneasily at the window.
“This won’t do,” said Jack. “Joe Gumley, I call upon you, in the king’s name, to answer this question at once. Where is Sandy Cove?”
“If you puts it like that, sir, as a king’s man—leastways, I was afore I got this plaguy leg—I’m bound to make a clean breast of it. Sandy Cove is the name what the smugglers give to that there little chine just below Mr. Gudgeon’s farm.”
“Ah! And how came you to know that?”
“Well, sir, if truth must be told, in the king’s name, I were a smuggler myself once, afore I became a king’s man.”
“I see! And the smugglers are down on you, are they, because you won’t join ’em again?”
“How can I, sir? Once a king’s man, always a king’s man—to say nothing of the wooden leg. I served his Majesty for many a year, sir, and I bean’t a-going to turn agen him. Not but what ’tis main hard, for smuggling’s an uncommon fine trade—if so be I can make bold to speak free afore a king’s officer.”
“I won’t peach,” said Jack, laughing. “Speak freely? Of course you can. And you’d better tell me all about it now. You look as uneasy as if you were sitting on pins.”
“So I be, sir, and that’s the truth. No longer ago than last Wednesday, Mr. Goodman he chanced to come upon a string of carts carrying smuggled goods from Luscombe to Wickham Ferrers. He nabbed the whole lot, sir, horses and all. And my old mates got the notion into their noddles that ’twas me as blabbed—me, sir, what knowed no more about it than that there innocent dog. But they believe it; and there ’tis. They swore they’d make me smart for it, and I dursn’t stir out o’ my door for fear I get a good crack on the nob or something just as awk’ard.”
“I don’t understand why they’re so down on you. You keep yourself to yourself, as you told me. Why should they think ’twas you split on them?”
“I make it out this way, sir. I’m a’ old smuggler, and know all the secrets o’ the trade. I’m a’ old king’s man, too. They don’t square. I won’t jine my old mates, and they, being a bit wooden-headed, thinks I’m agen ’em. I bean’t agen ’em, only I bean’t for ’em. I can’t go agen the king, nor I can’t go back on my old mates; but bless your soul, they don’t see what I mean when I says I keep myself to myself.”
“Well, you can’t run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. But what’s that?”
He sprang up from his chair and went toward the shuttered window. Comely went to the door, growling. From without, muffled by the distance, came the tramp of heavy feet along the road, mingled with the hum of voices.
“’Tis come, sir,” sighed Gumley, leaning back in his chair resignedly. “Here they be at last. I knowed this would be the end of it. They said they’d tar and feather me, and they be come to do it.”
“Two can play at that game, Gumley. I’d sooner not be recognized now, but I’ll not leave you to deal with ’em single-handed.”
“I take it very kind o’ you, sir, but there’s no call for you to be mixed up in it. If they mean to get in, in they’ll get, sure enough; and ye’ll only land yourself in a nasty rumpus, and do no good. Thank ye kindly. I’ll let ye out by the back door afore they come, and me and Comely’ll do what we can, for chok’ it all, it bean’t in human nature to be tarred and feathered without a bit of a scrimmage.”
“No, no. If you’re going to make a fight of it, I’ll lend a hand. We’re well armed. You’ve your blunderbuss and a cutlass; I’ve two pistols and a dirk; and our good friend Comely here has excellent teeth, I’ll be bound.”
At this moment a loud shout was heard from the road, followed by an insistent knocking on the gate. Gumley stumped up the rickety stairs to the floor above, threw open the windows looking on the garden, and shouted:
“Who be you, and what do ’ee want?”
“We want you, Joe Gumley,” came the hoarse answer, “and we’re gwine to have ’ee, too.”
“I bean’t deaf, Tom Berry, so ye needn’t bust your fog-horn. What do ’ee want wi’ me?”
“We’ll show ’ee. You bin peaching, you dirty mean sneaker. Come down along, and we’ll give ’ee a fair trial afore the men as used to be your mates.”
“No, thank ’ee, Tom. Whoever says I bin peaching says a lie, and as for trial, why, I bean’t a fool, I bean’t. If I wants trying I’ll go afore a justice o’ the peace like Squire Bastable, or a judge and jury at the ’sizes, and not afore Tom Berry or Bill Widdicombe or any other mumble-chopped chaw-bacon. See then, I don’t want to use hard words to old ship-mates o’ mine, but—”
Jack heard no more, for Gumley’s words were drowned by a volley of shouts and curses from the men below. He let down the window with a bang.
“They be coming over, sir,” he called to Jack. “’Tis all hands to repel boarders. They’re mounting on balks of wood to ’scape the nails. Now they’re over. And they be split into two parties, half a dozen each; and one’s coming straight for the front door; t’other’s gone round to the back. I be coming, sir, I be coming.”
By the time he reached Jack’s side the men had begun to batter simultaneously at both the doors with the balks of wood which, knowing Gumley, they had brought with them, evidently anticipating resistance. The men at the front door were protected by a narrow porch; those at the back were fully exposed; and Jack saw that unless something were done at once to check them they would soon be able to break a way in, for the doors were not very substantial pieces of timber, and could not long stand the heavy battering to which they were now being subjected.
He stood with Gumley and the dog at the front door.
“What’s your blunderbuss loaded with, Gumley?” he said.
“Small shot, sir.”
“Then I tell you what we’ll do. I’ll fling the door open; you fire at their legs; then we’ll all three charge ’em. We’ve only half a dozen to deal with; the men at the back will stop work when they hear the row. They’ll come rushing round. Be ready to get back and haul the dog off. I’ll keep my pistols in reserve; the less firing the better; we don’t want all Luscombe here. Lend me a muffler, quick!”
He pulled the brim of his hat down over his face, turned up the collar of his cloak, and wrapped the muffler Gumley gave him closely round his chin. All the time the men were hammering at the door, and Comely was moving restlessly about, uttering deep growls.
“Standby, Gumley!”
Jack quickly slipped the bolts, threw the door open, and dodged back. There was a blinding flash, a roar, and yells of pain and rage from the smugglers, who, crouching in the porch around their battering-ram, received the crammed charge of the blunderbuss about their legs. They dropped the timber, and gave back a little. Before they had recovered from their surprise, the bulldog, snarling with fury, was among them, and behind him came Jack and Gumley, who laid about them doughtily with cutlass and dirk—using, however, the flat, for neither wished to do any serious hurt unless they were hard-pressed.
Amazement was now turned to confusion and fright. The intruders had no thought but to hobble out of the way of these furious combatants. But as they pushed one another toward the garden they were met by their comrades from the rear, whom the shout and the cries had interrupted, as Jack expected. Their arrival only doubled the confusion. Amid the babel of shouts they could hear nothing of what had happened. Some of the men were still yelling under the blows of the dirk and cutlass; and when one howled “Ho! Hi! Help! The dog’s got me!” they were seized with uncontrollable panic; and with one consent bolted down the garden and scrambled over the fence, with no small damage to their nether garments from the nails, never pausing until they perceived that no pursuit was attempted.
One man, however, was left on the field. In the entrance to the porch lay a big fellow groaning. Comely held him fast by the leg. Gumley hastened to him and tried to release him from the dog’s teeth, but, finding that impossible, he dragged dog and man bodily into the cottage, slammed the door, and bolted it. Jack was already inside.
“Let go, Comely, old boy,” said his master, stooping to release the man, who, half dead with fright, lay groaning where Gumley had dropped him. “Why, what are ye bellowing like a sea-serpent for?” he added. “His teeth never went further than your leggings! Who be ye for a chicken-hearted—why, dash my buttons, ’tis Bill Gudgeon! Oh, Billy, what a’ example to set your good feyther! Oh, my goodness, won’t he be took bad with the flutters when he hears this! Ahoy, Mr.——! Avast there, Joe Gumley, blowed if you wasn’t just a-going to put your foot in it. Billy, my son, you come along o’ me.”
He hauled the trembling youth into the kitchen, and pushed him into a chair, where he sat immovable, in mortal terror of the bulldog, which stood by, fixing him with his thirsty eyes.
Meanwhile Jack had gone to the upper window to see what had become of the enemy. They were out of sight, but when he opened the window he guessed by their voices that they were in conference just beyond the fence.
“Ay, and more’n Gumley!”
In the still air of the frosty March evening the hoarse whisper came clearly to Jack’s ears:
“In course; there was his dog.”
“I knows that. But I seed another man, all in black, with his hat over his eyes and his face all swaddled up: Goodman hisself, maybe.”
“Well, I be gwine home along. I’ve got a score o’ pellets somewhere about my legs, and they’ll p’ison my blood less I pick ’em out soon.”
“Ay true, and we’ll go lame for a month or more. Chok’ it all! Who’d ha’ thowt old Joe would ha’ bin so fierce!”
As they were moving away, a gig rattled up and stopped.
“’Tis Mr. Gudgeon, so ’tis,” Jack heard a rough voice say.
“Not so loud!” was the hasty answer. “What luck, lads?”
“None at all, and be hanged to it. We’ve not got nowt but a trouncing, Mr. Gudgeon.”
“Lower, speak lower, man. What happened?”
“Blunderbuss and cutlass and dog’s teeth; that’s what happened, Mr. Gudgeon, as your boy Bill could tell ’ee. Why, where be the lad?”
“Been and creeped home along, by the look o’t,” said another man. “He bean’t here. There’s blood for ’ee! There’s spirit! What a bold-hearted first-born you have got, to be sure, Mr. Gudgeon!”
“Hush, man! Here, come along. I can take four or five of ’ee in the gig, and you can tell me the whole story as we go.”
The gig rattled away; the men for whom there was not room shambled after; and Jack smiled as he returned to the kitchen.
“There, Comely, watch him!” Gumley was saying. “I be gwine to look around the garden, sir, to make sure none on ’em be left.”
Jack made no reply, but stood at the door while Gumley stumped round the inclosure. He came back by and by grinning.
“They be all gone, sir, all but this.” He held up a pail out of which the handle of a brush was sticking, and a bundle of feathers. “’Twas by the back door, sir.”
“Ah! I’ve a notion. Shut the door and come along, Gumley.”
Keeping his feathers well covered, and deepening his voice to the lowest pitch possible, Jack addressed the prisoner, who sat in shivering stillness, his eyes fixed on the vigilant dog.
“Now, Bill Gudgeon, you shall choose. Spend the night with the dog, and go before Squire Bastable to-morrow; or use this brush you came to use—on yourself. ’Twould be a pity to waste such excellent tar.”
“And the feathers be uncommon soft,” added Gumley.
The victim lifted his eyes for one moment, but said never a word.
“Come, come, make up your mind. The dog—or the tar brush.”
Still the lad hesitated. Fright seemed to have tied his tongue.
“Very well, the dog, then. If he goes for you in the night you’d better sing out.”
“Watch him, Comely!”
The dog acknowledged the order with a growl of satisfaction, and Jack and Gumley moved toward the door.
“Stop, measter! Stop, Joe Gumley!” cried the unhappy youth, finding his voice at last. “Not the dog! For gracious goodness’ sake, not the dog.”
“Off with your coat then,” said Jack, finding some difficulty in keeping his voice at the proper profundity.
“Ay, or your good feyther’ll have the flutters worse’n ever,” said Gumley. “Such a good coat, too good to spoil.”
Bill Gudgeon removed his coat, always eying the dog, which stood watching with intelligent appreciation. Then Gumley handed him the brush.
“A little on the nose to begin with,” said Jack.
Forthwith Bill’s nose was black.
“Now the cheeks; no—a little more, if you please—yes, that’s right. Now a dab across the forehead: don’t spare the tar, there’s plenty more in the pail—yes, that’s capital! Now a few feathers, Gumley.”
The trembling lad stuck the feathers, as they were handed to him, on the glistening tar. He groaned once, but Comely’s echoing growl silenced him and made him hurry.
“Now I think he’ll do,” said Jack at last.
“Beautiful, sir! Whoever seed a better job this side of the line?”
“Listen, Bill Gudgeon! You’ll tell your father that if Mr. Gumley is molested again, you and your mates will be hauled up before Squire Bastable and sent to cool your heels in the lock-up. You can go!”
Bill took his coat, rose from the chair, and sidled to the door, his eyes never leaving the dog. He was gone!
Jack sat down and laughed quietly.
“I think he’s had enough, Gumley. Now I must go. I’ll see you again soon.”