Chapter XVI A Run at Sandy Cove
It took Jack much longer in the darkness to return to the Fury than it had taken to reach the cottage, and he found that Babbage was becoming uneasy.
“All safe, men?” he said.
“Ay, ay, sir. And you, sir?”
“Right as a trivet. Heave the anchor, boys; I want to be fifty miles away by the morning.”
He required a little time for thinking out a plan for turning to account his discovery of the signaler’s code, and meanwhile it was desirable to keep out of the smugglers’ reach. Before dawn he dropped anchor at a little fishing village fifty miles west of Luscombe. It was a remote and secluded spot, and there was little chance of the Fury’s presence coming to the ears of the Luscombe folk for some days.
“I’m going ashore again, Babbage. Lie quietly here. I may be away a couple of days.”
Still disguised, he went into the village, hired a gig, and drove thirty miles in the Luscombe direction to the village of Middleton, about ten miles from the sea. He put up at the Pig and Whistle, scribbled a note to the riding-officer and despatched it by a horseman to Wynport.
“SIR” (he wrote),—
“Be good enough to meet me here this evening. Ask at the inn for Mr. Loveday. The matter is urgent, and the business the king’s.
“Yours truly, “JACK HARDY.”
At six o’clock Mr. Goodman appeared.
“I am here, Mr. Hardy, but ’tis most inconvenient. I take it rather hard that a man of my age—”
“Exactly, Mr. Goodman. I’m not so old as you, and I should have come to you if I hadn’t good reasons for keeping clear of the coast folk. I’ve information that the smugglers intend to make a run to-morrow.”
“Is that all? Why, I often get such information, and nine times out of ten it is false. Besides, what’s the good of knowing that a run is to be made if you don’t know where?”
“I do know where.”
“Oh, in that case leave it to me. I’ll bag the whole gang. There’s a score of rascals at Luscombe I’d like to hang—ay, and will, too. If your news is correct, ’twill be pretty soon, I promise you.”
“Just so, Mr. Goodman. But meanwhile I’ve come to arrange that the run may be made without interference.”
“What! Do I hear ye aright? A king’s officer name such a thing to me! ‘Pon my soul and body, Mr. Hardy, I’m surprised at you. ’Twill be my duty—a painful duty, Mr. Hardy—to report the matter. Never in the whole seventeen years of my service have—”
“Quite so, Mr. Goodman,” Jack interrupted. “But Admiral Horniman thinks that in this case the king’s service requires this little departure from the ordinary course. And ’twill only make the capture of your rascals more certain in the end. We have to meet them with their own weapons—match ruse with ruse; and that’s why, with the admiral’s approval, I want you and your land-guard to help me.”
Jack smiled so pleasantly and spoke with such an air of deference that the riding-officer, taking what he said as a compliment to his own astuteness, thawed.
“A capital idea, Mr. Hardy! Exactly; play their own game. The admiral was always a man of sense. But what do you propose?”
Then followed a long conversation, in which Jack explained as much of his plan as he thought would suffice. Mr. Goodman was captivated with the notion, and left by and by in high good-humor with Jack, himself, and everybody.
Jack did not know the time of the intended run. It would certainly not be before dark, so when he left the inn on the following afternoon he timed his departure so as to arrive near Luscombe just after darkness had fallen. The distance was nearly twenty miles across country. He drove some ten miles directly toward Luscombe, then struck inland for another seven miles, alighted at a cottage recommended by the riding-officer, and left the gig in charge of the owner, a trusty man, saying that he would meet him at the same place at daybreak next morning.
From the cottage to Luscombe the distance was about five miles. He knew the lay of the land, and, following unfrequented paths, came to the edge of Congleton’s Hollow in about an hour and a half. Skirting this cautiously, he made his way along the edge of the stream that had formed the chine he now knew as Sandy Cove.
It was a good mile to the sea. Every now and then he stopped and listened, to make sure that he was not being followed; hereabouts he had come unexpectedly upon Gudgeon and De Fronsac. As he came near Gudgeon’s farm he went with redoubled caution. He heard a sand-piper whistling; a few gulls screeched above his head; save for these there was silence.
He remembered having noticed, in the course of his rambles with Arthur, a large evergreen bush growing on a shelf of rock some distance above the bed of the stream. That seemed to him the very place at which to post himself, for while he could get from it a good view of what was happening on the shore only a few yards below, it was so thick, and so situated in relation to its surroundings, that he would run little danger there of being observed.
With some difficulty he clambered up to the bush. Looking round to make sure that he was not espied, he forced his way into it, and waited. The time passed slowly. It was a black March evening, with a nipping wind, and in spite of his cloak Jack felt bitterly cold. Hour after hour drawled away, and there had been no sound. He wondered whether the run had been abandoned. Or had he, after all, made a mistake?
At last, when, feeling numbed and depressed, he had almost resolved to leave the spot, he heard voices from just above—on the zigzag path from Gudgeon’s farm to the sea.
“Send round the word; she’ll be in in ten minutes. There’s no preventives on the prowl, or we’d have heard afore now from Totley Point or Laxted Cove. Aha! Goodman and his joes have never yet got past Peter Bunce and Jan Derriman. Bill, a’ believe I’ve got some o’ they pellets in my calf yet.”
“More fool ’ee for meddling wi’ old Joe.”
One of the men hurried down the path, while the other returned to the top of the cliff. Listening intently, Jack heard the man’s footsteps sounding ever more faintly as they receded in the direction of the village.
He was right, then! This was Sandy Cove, and here the run was to be made. He felt impatient for the work to begin. The sky was very dark, there was no moon—smugglers avoided moonlit nights—but the air was so clear that he hoped to see well enough for his purpose.
Ah! there were dark figures moving quietly about the beach below. The men had taken off their boots, it appeared, and there—yes! It was the black shape of a vessel slowly approaching the shore. The sails were run down with scarce a sound; the lugger hove to within a few yards of the cove; then, on a gangway invisible to Jack, the smugglers went to and fro, those coming shoreward bent under heavy burdens.
Jack watched eagerly. The carriers brought their loads up the chine, and disappeared along the same path that he himself had followed a few hours before. It seemed but a few minutes; then he heard a voice say “That’s the last;” the lugger stood out to sea, and Sandy Cove was as quiet as though nothing had happened.
Slipping out of his hiding-place, Jack very cautiously followed the last man, who carried no load and seemed to be in some authority over the rest. Jack could never venture near enough to see his features, nor even to get a complete view of his form. He tracked him to Congleton’s Hollow, and there was compelled to pause and dodge some of the carriers who, having finished their work, were making their way homeward across the fields. Waiting a little while until all seemed safe, he crept across the Hollow to the summer-house where he had found the iron steps. It was from this that the carriers had come. Clearly the smuggled goods had been deposited there. He searched as thoroughly as he could in the darkness, but could find no trace of them.
“’Tis a job for daylight,” he said to himself. “Now for my tramp back.”
He was dead tired when he reached the cottage where he had left his gig. The cottager awoke at his knock, put the horse in, and drove him at once to Middleton, where he slept heavily for three or four hours before Mr. Goodman arrived in the morning.
“Well, Mr. Hardy, I hope you spotted the rascals as we arranged.”
“I saw the run,” replied Jack, with an inward chuckle at the riding-officer’s “we,” “and a precious cold night it was. They’ve hidden the stuff somewhere in old Congleton’s summer-house.”
“Have they indeed? I’ll seize it at once.”
“No, no, Mr. Goodman, don’t be in a hurry. You might send a few of your men to Luscombe, telling them nothing, of course. If they’re seen about there for a day or two it will prevent the smugglers from removing their stuff until it is too late. And if you don’t mind, send a messenger to Waddon for me, and tell Babbage to remain where he is till further orders.”
“I will, Mr. Hardy. By George! I hope Admiral Horniman will be pleased with the way we are carrying out his plans.”
Jack smiled as the riding-officer took his leave,—Mr. Goodman knew only half the plan; Admiral Horniman none of it.
The most important part of Jack’s task was still before him. He had determined to be in the turret room of Congleton’s Folly on Wednesday evening; how was he to get there? The removable steps were no doubt being used by the signaler; but it was not likely that they were still hidden in the same place. De Fronsac, of course, would believe Jack to be safe in a French prison; but the last hiding-place having been so easily discovered, he would certainly choose a new one. Yet, if the tower was to be entered, steps of some kind must be had.
Jack spent a quiet Sunday, and early on Monday morning drove a few miles inland to another village, where he entered the smithy and asked the smith if he could make him quickly a dozen iron loops with a tail to them.
“Well, maybe I might,” said the smith, “if you showed me the pattern.”
“Here you are,” replied Jack, drawing a rough sketch of the article he wanted with a piece of charcoal on the side of the forge.
“And what might that be for, measter?” the smith inquired. “A cur’ous looking objeck.”
“Yes, isn’t it? ’Tis for a game I’m going to play—quite a new thing in these parts.”
“Well, to be sure! And how thick do ’ee want ’em?”
Jack could only guess the dimensions. He tried to recall the size of the holes in the wall of the Folly, and gave the smith a thickness which he hoped would turn out within the mark. The steps were easily made when the man had grasped the idea. Getting them wrapped up, Jack drove back to Middleton, and thence to Waddon, where Babbage and the crew of the Fury were unfeignedly glad to see him once more.
“’Tis long waiting when you don’t know, sir,” said Babbage. “As brother Sol used to say: ‘Wait not, want not,’ and true it is, though so plain.”
During the rest of Monday and all Tuesday the Fury cruised down Channel, merely to kill time. The men wondered why their young commander did not sail out to sea and do some scouting work, if nothing else, but Jack did not wish to run any risks; besides, he was busily occupied in drawing up a message in the cipher used by the signaler at the Folly.
On Wednesday morning the Fury put in once more at Waddon, and Jack left again. These mysterious absences were somewhat trying to Babbage’s equanimity.
“But there,” he said, talking the matter over with Turley, “to gentlemen of eddication, I s’pose, our heads—yourn an’ mine, Turley—be only like so many turnips.”
“Mr. Babbage?” Turley’s tone was one of surprise and remonstrance.
“Wot?”
“Not Turnips.”
“Why not?”
“Why, sir, ’cos they have Tops.”
“Not when they’re mashed, Turley, wi’ butter, or dripping for cheapness.”